by Varsha Tiwary
I quickly roll out the dough and stuff the potato filling inside, roll again. I shallow fry the paranthas in desi ghee; chop onions and cucumbers for the raita. He loves dipping the aloo parantha in raita. His favourite. I have been in the kitchen for some time now.
He walks in sullen. Of late I have learnt not to ask him anything. I staunch the questions that hover on the tip of my tongue.
Did you eat? What did you eat? Why didn’t you eat? What did you learn? Did you enjoy the day?
Everything or anything can push his buttons.
‘Are you interrogating me?’ he says with an ironically raised eyebrow.
He left all his friends behind in Delhi. He feels dwarfed by the big, beefy eighth graders in his class in the U.S. He does not play rugby or baseball well enough to be on the team. He has been unable to make friends here. He used to be a great opening batsman back in India. His boy gang in Delhi loved his cool desi jokes and puns. They begged him to come over and play with them, wanted to sit next to him in the school bus. In gringo land, he has overnight transformed from being the most popular kid in class to the loneliest one. And this change has coincided perfectly with his fourteenth birthday.
I slide two well browned paranthas, with a dollop of butter in his plate. I clean the counter, hoping he will say something. When he doesn’t, I start going up to my room.
‘Where are you going?’ He asks in a screechy, whiny, little boy voice.
Yesterday he had said, stop asking questions. ‘Leave me alone.’
Now he says, ’Don’t go.’ A request that is also an order.
’You never sit down with me and have a conversation.’
‘Really?’
I have been loading the dishwasher, kneading dough, chopping vegetables. I don’t need a war of words. I want to be out of here, run back to my books. But maybe the fault is mine. I am too self-absorbed. Must make effort.
‘Ok. Let’s talk. Ask me a question,’ I say, remembering how my questions annoy him.
‘Aise thode hota hai,’ whiny wheedle again. ‘This is not the way. It is a two-way thing.’
‘But you have to start,’ I say smiling.
‘Why can’t you start?’ It becomes a contest immediately.
‘Ok, here is a hint. Please ask me what I did this morning; in the museum and the flower show. About tulips, Picasso and Matisse.’
‘Now what is to be talked about will also be decided by you? I hate flowers and I dislike painters. Ha! You spend an hour to go and look at some stupid flowers, that too only of one kind, and all those boring paintings.’
‘The world does not think so.’
‘I don’t care about the world,’ he shouts. His voice grates at every neuron and ganglion in my brain.
I remind myself I am the adult. He is the child.
I am the adult. He is the child. I repeat like a mantra.
‘Ok, what do you care about then?’ My tone is even, resigned.
‘Waise bhee, you are the mother. Shouldn’t you know what I care about? Why do I need to tell you? You always sit with Ananya when she eats and you talk to her all the time. Just because she is your first born.’
‘Ok, ok. Let us not quarrel. Let me guess. Nerf guns? Video games? Fortnight? Bikes? Nuts and bolts? Survival kits?’
‘Now you are making fun of me. You think I am a baby. You just want to label me.’
‘Ok you tell me, or I am going, you make my head ache.’
‘Leave it. I am sorry. I should not have asked you to talk to me. A very big mistake I made,’ he is shouting again.
I take deep breaths. Be patient. Do Not React.
‘You know there was one artist Steigler or Steigman maybe, who drew and photographed only machinery parts. You would have loved him if you had gone to the museum. He was very cool.’
‘All you and your stupid husband think is any machinery, any tool, Aadi will like it. You think I am a bloody mechanic,’ he yells in a high-pitched boys voice. His fury is man-sized.
‘We say it in a good way, son, we appreciate you. Your skills.’
‘Good to know,’ he mocks me in a mincing tone. ‘Now, why don’t you just go and talk to your daughter?’
I bang down the glass of water and stomp off.
Two minutes later, he calls his sister.
‘Didi, come and talk to me.’
‘What do you want to talk about, bro?’
‘Can you tell me which is the best to make homemade tinder? Paraffin or Vaseline or Beeswax?’
‘What? What for? I don’t know all that nonsense.’
‘Such a dumbo you are, sis. No wonder I can’t talk to you.’
