Pride, Prejudice, and Other Flavors (The Rajes #1)(113)

“Will you let your mother in? Or do I have to call ahead like some stranger?”

Trisha’s mouth fell open. What was Ma doing here?

“Depends on what you want, Ma,” she said, but of course she buzzed her in immediately.

Ma walked in imperiously, handed Trisha coffee and chocolate-blueberry muffins, and surveyed the condo while patting her perfectly fitted top tucked into her perfectly fitted white linen pants. “You’ve done a good job with the place.”

“Well, Nisha has.” Nisha had helped Trisha with the furnishing, but Trisha had bought all the art herself. She, in fact, might need to stop buying art soon. Five new Emma Caines had been delivered last week. She was running out of wall space to put things up.

“What is wrong with you, Trisha?” her mother said staring at the massive canvas over the fireplace.

“You don’t like it?” Trisha said dryly, knowing full well that Ma was not talking about the painting.

Ma went on as though Trisha had not spoken. “What do you mean by planning a trip to Malawi when Yash has his fund-raiser?”

So HRH had not told her about the banishment. And Vansh had told Ma about her upcoming trip, because he was the only one Trisha had told. She was going to have to box his snitch ears.

“They needed someone to run workshops on one of our procedures.”

“And you’re the only one who can teach this workshop?”

Actually, she’d had to beg Entoff to let her go instead of him. “Yes.”

Her mother gave her the original version of the Glare of Elegance and took a sip of her coffee.

“Also, I’m not invited to the fund-raiser. His Royal Highness Shree Hari Raje disowned me. I’m not welcome at the Anchorage anymore, which I guess means I’m not welcome at family dos anymore either.” She sat down on a barstool and gave the muffin her mother had put in front of her the stink eye.

Ma’s hand went to her mouth. “What did you do now?”

Was Ma serious? Trisha almost didn’t respond. But she was too tired of holding in things she wanted to say. “Other than treat a patient who needed my care? I’m not sure. Why don’t you ask him? You’ll only ever believe him anyway.”

“What is that supposed to mean? Of course I’ll talk to him.”

“Sure. And that should set everything straight. Because he always listens to you, right?”

Ma looked outraged. As though she couldn’t imagine what Trisha meant.

“Come on, Ma. Why do you have to act like you’re always on the exact same page as him? Would it be so bad to admit that you differ on things? Shouldn’t that be okay in a marriage?”

“Differ? Whatever on?”

“Well, for starters on things like having to raise us as though our Indian heritage was something to hide. Like always following his lead on everything.”

Ma walked to the iPod dock and turned it off. The tranquil rhythms of Zakir Hussain’s tabla stopped, creating a vacuum of silence. She turned around and looked at the painting over the fireplace—a circle of women doing the ghoomar in the sands of Rajasthan. “Need I open the fridge to find the stash of Ashi’s kababs and bhajis?”

Trisha stared at her, feeling like a bit of an idiot.

“You spent every summer while you were growing up in Sripore. You work at Stanford. Your ancestors were maharajas. Your brother is running for governor of California. Which of those two identities is you? Only one of them? We didn’t want our children to pick just one. We wanted you to own both. That’s how we raised you, to honor everything, to choose what felt right for you. To not conform to stereotypes anyone else assigned to you.”

Trisha took a grudging bite of her muffin, unable to respond to that.

How can you act so white?

When DJ had asked her that, she had wondered why being comfortable in your skin was “acting white.” But of course she knew why. Of course she understood the norms of her country, and his, and perceptions and privilege. But Ma was right, Trisha’s comfort in her identity came from the fact that Ma and HRH had consciously owned both their identities and insisted on their children owning theirs.

“Your father is the most fair man in the world.”

Trisha choked on her muffin, which gave her the opportunity to spit the vile thing out into a napkin and throw it in the garbage. Ma might have had a point just now, but this was pushing it.

Her mother was not amused. “You know the stress of this campaign is killing him. Why can’t you be a little more understanding?”

“Understanding? He disowned me, Ma! It’s that easy for him. To throw me out. And, honestly, he threw me out fifteen years ago, when Julia made that video. For fifteen years he’s barely tolerated me. Now finally he gets what he wants.” She took another bite of the muffin because she was determined to make it taste good.

Ma placed the coffee on the breakfast bar and crossed her arms, her raised eyebrows trapping all her substantial disappointment. “This is your father you’re talking about, beta.”

“My father who wants to control everything. Who’s lost his head to this campaign.” Because sure, she’d made a mistake, but she’d been seventeen. Seventeen! “I was a child, Ma. A sociopath took advantage of me. How was I supposed to predict what she did? Why didn’t you see that? Why didn’t you see what Julia did was not on me?” She had so badly needed someone to say that to her. Just once.