The Taste of Ginger(20)

I crept down the cold marble stairs and found my parents, Virag Mama, and Indira Mami sitting at the dining table with steaming mugs in front of them. The white-and-blue Corelle dishware had been a gift that my family had brought to India over twenty years ago. My parents used the same set at home.

“Are you hungry?” Dad asked.

“Starved.” I plopped down into a chair at the table, using jet lag as an excuse to eat in the middle of the night.

Indira Mami shuffled to her feet to pour me a cup of tea. She was wearing a full-length, zippered pink robe, another item I recognized. My mother wore a similar one in white with paisleys on it. Both were from the Sears outlet store. I imagined Indira Mami had mended hers several times over the years, just as I had seen my mother do to hers. My parents believed that their relatives in India should have the same American comforts we had, so whenever they purchased something for themselves, they would purchase a second to bring to India.

“What time is it?” I asked, scanning the room for a clock. “Why is everyone awake?”

“Four fifteen,” Dad said.

“Neel called from the hospital,” Virag Mama said. “We should go there soon.”

I sipped the tea, basking in the warmth as it traveled from my mouth to my stomach. I broke off a piece of a khari biscuit, and the warm, salty, buttery flakes clung to my fingertips until I licked them off. There was something about the texture of khari biscuits in India that had never been replicated back home. It instantly brought me back to my early childhood in this house.



It was eerily quiet when we arrived at the hospital. The dimly lit hallways had only a few nurses shuffling back and forth, checking on patients. Those who passed us nodded, seeming to know that our family had special permission to be in the hospital beyond the standard hours. Virag Mama knew the hospital director, so we could come and go without question.

Neel was angrily gesturing to the doctor outside Dipti’s room. We stood back to give them privacy. After he finished, Neel marched toward us. He combed his fingers through his messy hair. As expected, he hadn’t slept well.

“It was a rough night,” he said, shoulders slumped. “But she’s fighting.”

“Dipti’s tough,” I said.

“Yeah, she is. But I meant the baby.” There was a small glimmer in the back of Neel’s eyes: pride. His mouth curled into a rueful smile. “It’s a girl.”

A girl. Neel’s daughter. My niece. Dipti had been adamant about the gender being a surprise, so none of us had known. Hearing that made the situation more real. It was no longer about a baby we couldn’t picture. It was about a little girl who would twirl around in frilly dresses until she made herself so dizzy she tumbled over. It was about a teenager who would beg to wear makeup and go on a first date. A perfect angel whose every milestone I would capture through my lens so none of us would forget.

“Girls are strong,” our mother said, taking a step forward. She took Neel by the elbow and guided him to the waiting room. “Come and sit. You need some rest.”

Once in the waiting room, Neel took a deep breath and continued, “Dipti’s had a severe placental abruption.” He leaned forward and placed his head in his hands.

We waited until he was ready to continue. Dad rubbed his back, like he had the day before. This time Neel didn’t flinch at the contact.

Eventually Neel spoke again. “The accident caused a large amount of her placenta to separate from the uterus. The baby is losing oxygen, and Dipti doesn’t have enough blood or strength to sustain her and the baby.” His chair creaked as he leaned back. “All of her energy is going toward keeping the baby alive . . . the doctors think the best way to save Dipti is to”—he choked on the next words—“deliver the baby, which would effectively terminate the pregnancy.”

No one spoke as we processed the news. I clutched the armrests of my chair, afraid to move. A clock ticked in the background, the sound seeming to get louder and louder. My stomach swirled with nausea. I looked at our mother, and her expression was as disconsolate as I felt. I could only imagine Neel’s pain.

“Is there nothing else that can be done?” Dad asked.

Neel shook his head. “If it were a little later in the pregnancy, she would be viable, and we could try to keep her alive in the NICU. They’ll do what they can, but I know it’s too early for that. And I could lose them both if we wait much longer. They can keep Dipti hooked up to the ventilator and keep giving her blood transfusions until the baby is strong enough to be removed in a few weeks . . . but by that point, Dipti won’t survive on her own.” He choked back a sob, swallowing hard. “I can’t lose her.” He looked at me, eyes glistening with pain and fear.

I didn’t know which “her” he meant. I looked at the painting of Bhagwan that hung in the room and gritted my teeth. So much for hearing our prayers. I felt like Bhagwan was taunting us.

I knelt on the floor in front of Neel. “How much time until you have to decide?”

His gaze had never looked so hollow. “Not long.”

“Remember, we are a team. No matter what,” I said.

Neel looked helpless, like a small child. His eyes seemed to plead that someone else make this decision for him. Seeing the desperation on his face made my heart ache.

We couldn’t both fall apart, so I summoned the courage he would have shown me had our situations been reversed. With a steady, confident voice, I said, “We’ll support whatever choice you make.”