The Taste of Ginger(17)

But none of that mattered now, and that moment seemed like a lifetime ago rather than earlier this year. I could not have imagined then that instead of being in New York living a bohemian-chic lifestyle with Alex, I’d be in a hospital in Ahmedabad praying that my sister-in-law and her baby would make a speedy recovery. At this moment, the only thing I should have been focused on was a way to comfort Neel.

After I’d trolled the halls for a couple minutes, it became clear that this was no American hospital, and my search for a vending machine dispensing bottled water had been in vain. I forced myself to return to the waiting room where I’d seen my mother enter a few minutes earlier. When I’d fought with her in Chicago last month, I had not expected to see her again so soon, let alone in a hospital halfway around the world.

Like me, my mother was five feet four, but she seemed shorter with her shoulders hunched forward in the same way she’d scolded me for doing as a child. “A woman must always stand with dignity,” she would say. I guess even she had her limits. Taking a deep breath, I approached her.

The sparse waiting room was full of mismatched chairs made of plastic and wood. The walls were the same faded yellow as the hallways. A few strangers sat clustered among their relatives.

I was surprised my mother was outfitted in a maroon-and-cream panjabi, the top falling to her knees, covering most of the billowy pants that tapered at her ankles. It was the same style she had disapproved of me wearing at Dipti’s baby shower. And now she was one of the only women in the room who wasn’t wearing a sari.

“Hi,” I said.

She spun around. “Preeti.” The bags underneath her eyes carried more weight than usual.

We sat across from each other, avoiding eye contact.

At last, I broke the heavy silence. “Where’s Dad?”

“He’s gone for water.”

Hopefully he’d have better luck than I’d had. I stared at a red-and-white placard that hung on the wall behind her. The words were written in Gujarati. After moving to America, I had had no need to read or write it anymore, so those skills had long since faded, but I tried to sound out the letters in my head the way a child would.

Finally, I said wryly, “This wasn’t what I had in mind for my next trip to India.”

Ignoring my tone, she said, “It is good you are here.”

The forced conversation felt stifling, so I stood and crossed the waiting room. Peering down the hallway, I saw Neel and the doctor heading toward us. The doctor had a chart in his hand, and Neel was gesturing wildly, pointing to things on it. I went back to my chair and waited.

When Neel and the doctor walked in, Virag Mama and other relatives and friends gathered to hear the news. Every chair was taken, and people were standing in clusters along the walls. I was taken aback by the number of people who appeared in an instant. I did not remember them arriving, and although they looked familiar with the characteristic rounded Desai nose and high cheekbones, I could not identify them all. Some were dressed in suits, like they had rushed from their jobs to be here. Word traveled quickly in this city of eight million where, unlike in Los Angeles, everyone seemed to know each other. My parents looked around the room and acknowledged each person with a small nod or modest smile.

“She’s stable, but they don’t know if they can save the baby,” Neel said, an edge to his voice. “I’m going to call a colleague back in Chicago. There has to be something more we can do.” He shot the doctor a cutting look.

The doctor refrained from reacting. “As you wish,” he said.

This country was so damned polite, people never expressing what they really felt.

Virag Mama gave Neel a cell phone. While on the phone, Neel stood more erect and cupped his chin with his left hand—he was shifting into doctor mode. The emotion and vulnerability I’d first seen in him were gone. He looked as though he were having a routine consult with another physician about a random patient. He looked somewhat comfortable for the first time since I had arrived.

But then after conferring with his colleague, Neel sank into the chair next to me. My father handed him a steel cup of water.

In the past couple of years, my father seemed to have aged immensely. My mother used to help him dye his white hair black with a bottle of at-home color treatment. At some point most of his hair had fallen away, only sparse patches remaining. He still dyed those the deep black that was now shockingly dark against the yellowed walls.

No longer looking like a composed physician, Neel bent over, placing his head between his knees as if the room were spinning. Surprisingly, Dad put a hand on his back. Physical affection wasn’t his forte. It was subtle, but I saw Neel flinch for a moment—instinctively. Our parents had never been big on physical contact, so it was an unfamiliar feeling.

“You and Preeti were both born in this hospital,” he said with tenderness that I’d never heard. “Have some faith in Bhagwan.”

Neel’s head jerked up. “Bhagwan isn’t going to help! Only science will, but I’m stuck here with no way of getting my wife and child back to modern medicine in the United States!”

Dad’s hand fell away. Neel rarely lost his cool. And never talked back to our parents. Even I was caught off guard.

I knelt in front of my brother. “This situation fucking sucks. It does,” I said, not worrying about my language. This was about Neel, and I had to be as real and straight with him as I always was. “I’m here. Whatever happens. We are a team,” I said, repeating to him the same words he’d said to me on our first day of school in Chicago.