The Taste of Ginger(14)

While I saw improvements to the house and garden area, I was relieved that the bench swing itself, the hichko, was untouched. It was the same one I had spent countless hours on and had seen in photos of my mother as a little girl. It held generations of stories hidden among the rusting metal and splintered wood.

The inside of the house was just as I remembered, except for the new upholstery on the living room furniture; it used to be a soft coral but was now a pale green. As I glanced around, every corner of the house harbored memories. The dining table where we’d had countless family dinners was covered with red and gold wedding decorations. The same small, old-fashioned television set with antennae sticking out at odd angles still rested on the wooden table where I had skinned my elbow when Neel and I were fighting over the channel, as we always had. The glass top of the coffee table had a chip from when I had seen a gecko lizard creeping along the wall and dropped a mug of hot rose milk. I thought I hadn’t missed India at all, but the nostalgia of being in this house again washed over me, and for a second, it felt like home again.

On the main floor, the smell of fresh roses, jasmine, and marigolds filled the air. On the couch was a large steel thali holding flowers that Indira Mami was using to thread garlands for her son’s wedding. She beamed when she saw me and then rushed to greet me, nearly knocking over the thali. Virag Mama and she had always made a funny pair because she was as curvy and plump as Virag Mama was narrow and lean.

“Kem cho, Indira Mami,” I said, bending to touch her feet, just as I had done with Virag Mama at the airport. She guided me to the place on the couch where I used to sit as a little girl, the space right across from the window that looked onto the garden swing. She remembered so much about me even though it had been so many years since I had set foot in this house.

After going through the general pleasantries of whether I was hungry or thirsty, we got to the subject of my visit.

“If you are not too tired, you can go to the hospital. Neel and your parents are there,” Virag Mama said.

I seized at hearing I’d have to confront my mother, but no amount of jet lag or apprehension would keep me from going to the hospital and seeing Neel.

“I’m ready now,” I said, heading back toward the door.

“Good. It is best if you go,” Indira Mami said in English. Her accent was strong, but her message was clear. Dipti was not good.

I wanted to ask them for more details but bit my tongue, remembering I wasn’t in America anymore. An elder had given me a suggestion, which in this country was tantamount to an order, and that was not to be questioned.



The ancient fluorescent bulbs cast an eerie yellow light in the hallway, tinting everything with a jaundiced glow. I hated hospitals. I’d never understood how Neel and Dipti could work in them. To me, they reeked of despair and sadness.

Indian hospitals were especially bad. The smell of antiseptic was overwhelming, but it could not mask the lingering stench of stale urine. The uniforms of the nurses and doctors were drab. There was no sign of the pretty pastel scrubs and sterile white walls from the hospitals Neel and Dipti worked in back in Chicago. Neel was probably distraught knowing that these were the best conditions he could give his wife right now.

When Virag Mama and I entered Dipti’s room, she was lying on a flimsy bed with her eyes closed. An IV kept her hydrated, and two machines beeped steadily—one monitoring Dipti’s heart rate, and the other, the baby’s. Neel kept vigil in a green plastic chair. I crossed the room and put my hand on his shoulder. He bolted upright. His eyes were bloodshot, his face gaunt. His cheeks and chin were scratchy with stubble.

He gave me a fierce hug. Without me asking, Neel answered, “I don’t know. She’s been in and out of consciousness. Mostly out for the past half day or so. She lost a lot of blood.”

“She’s going to be okay. Both of them are.” I tried to sound reassuring but didn’t know if I’d been successful.

“I don’t know, Pree—it’s bad.” As he shook his head, the premature gray hairs that had once made him look distinguished caught the light. In this setting, they made him look old.

“Don’t think about that.” I touched the edge of Dipti’s bed. “Can she hear us?” Her eyeballs twitched underneath her closed eyelids. The movement was unsettling.

“She can’t respond,” Neel said.

I nodded. “What do you need from me? I can sit with her while you get some food or take a walk.”

“The way people drive here . . . there was . . . a truck.” Neel shook his head. “It slammed into the side of our ricksha. Not even an accident. It just kept honking and going against the traffic like all the other cars do but . . . dammit. Those stupid rickshas fold like accordions. If I had switched seats with her . . .” His eyes misted.

The last time I’d seen my brother cry was the day those kids in school had beaten him up when we first immigrated. We’d come a long way from that day, but seeing him so unglued again worried me.

After some persuading, Neel agreed to leave Dipti’s side but only to go find the doctor to discuss the next steps. Not being in charge was killing him. Virag Mama put his arm around Neel’s shoulders and led him out of the room. I sat in the chair Neel had vacated, the plastic still warm.

Dipti’s body was still. Her hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, exposing her expressionless face. The familiar mound protruded from her stomach. I wondered if she could sense the people around her. I had no idea what to say to her. She and I had never been close. I’d never understood how she could be born and raised in America and still cling to dated Indian customs, like eating only after her husband had finished his meal to make sure he had piping hot rotlis. We came from two completely different worldviews. I wouldn’t know what to say if mine was the first face she saw.