The Taste of Ginger(22)

Dipti’s gut-wrenching wail said it all.

I jumped when I heard it, about to rush into the room to help, but my mother put a hand on my shoulder to stop me.

“Let them have time,” she said.

I hesitated, so used to being there for Neel that having him go through this alone was unthinkable. But then I realized my mother was right. Neel wasn’t alone. He had Dipti, and I had to let them deal with this in their own way.

The wails and shrieks felt like they went on for days rather than minutes. Each one felt like a physical blow. I sank to the floor, bringing my legs to my chest and curling into a tight ball. It didn’t seem right to ignore a person in pain, but I had to trust that my mother knew best about this. She could relate to Dipti in a way I could not—as a mother.

Eventually, there was silence, and Neel opened the door. His eyes were red and watery. It broke my heart to see him looking so defeated.

“Is there anything you need me to do? Anyone you need to call back home?” I asked him, desperate to find a way to help them through this.

“Later,” he said, crestfallen. “Right now, she needs people, and I don’t seem to be the one she wants.” He stepped aside to let us filter in with him trailing at the back of the pack.

The already small room felt claustrophobic once we all entered. Dipti lay on the bed, her head propped up by dense pillows like the ones at Lakshmi. There was a chair next to her bed and two others against the wall by a small window that cast the only natural light into the room. The fluorescent lighting overhead hummed gently, audible only when none of us spoke.

Dipti appeared small and frail in the white cotton hospital gown that fell loosely around her. The first thing I noticed was her stomach, now missing the taut bump I’d come to expect. If it broke my heart to see her like that, I could only imagine what she had felt when she awoke from her surgery. The second was that her eyes were vacant, distant. As I stepped closer, I heard her whispering to herself.

“I’m sorry I failed you as a mother.”

“I wasn’t there to protect you when you needed me most.”

“I would have chosen you.”

Neel moved toward her and reached out to comfort her, but she flinched when he touched her shoulder. She glared at him in a way that made clear she blamed him. I cringed when I saw the hurt register on his face. Our parents had raised us to be tough and mask our feelings, regardless of the situation. I’d never seen him need someone in the way he needed her now. He’d lost his baby too. And it seemed there was nothing I could do to help either of them.

“Dipti, I’m so sorry,” I said. “We’re here for you. Whatever you need.”

“You did this,” she seethed at Neel. “You decided. Not me.”

“I couldn’t lose you,” Neel whispered to her.

“Where’s Dad?” she asked, turning away from him.

My father stepped forward, holding both tissues and water, ready to offer both.

“Sorry, Chetan,” she said in a faint but kind voice. It was the first time since she and Neel had married that she’d referred to my dad by his first name. “But I need my dad.”

“He’s trying to get here,” Dad said, trying not to look wounded. “His flight was delayed, so he missed the connecting flight in Europe. He should arrive tomorrow.”

She wasn’t trying to hurt my father, but I could tell she had. It had been just her and her father after her mom passed away when she was nine years old, so they had learned to lean on each other. Her eyes welled up, and I wondered if she felt as alone as she looked, surrounded by people who loved her but who weren’t the family she’d grown up with.

As I stood next to my mother, it was not lost on me that Dipti was probably overwhelmed with missing her own mother right now. Even given my problems with my mother, I imagined she’d be the one I’d look to for guidance if I were ever in this situation. It was easy to dwell on the little things when you didn’t think about there being a time when you no longer could. I wondered if Dipti ever recalled the small things she used to fight about with her mother.

“Uma,” Dipti said softly, her eyes blinking as if she was struggling to keep them open. “That’s her name. It means tranquility, which is what she deserves in her next life.”

There was no need to use the formal convention of letting my mother name the baby the way my grandmother had named me and Dipti’s had named her.

My mother stood in the corner, trying to collect herself, the occasional soft sob escaping. She’d no doubt picked several names for the baby, all of them in line with the traditions based on the alignment of the stars at the exact second of birth. When she’d first found out she would be a grandmother, her face had lit up with pure joy. Neel would have a family, and to her, there was no greater success. But that had all changed when the truck slammed into their ricksha.

Dipti demanded the hospital bring the baby to her.

“She’s not fully formed,” Neel said. “Please don’t do this to yourself.”

“Of course I know that,” she snapped back. “I’m a doctor too. I know just as well as you do that her brain wasn’t fully developed yet, or her eyes, or her . . .” Her face fell, like she would succumb to those inconsolable screams we’d heard through the door, but then she focused on Neel. She choked out her next words. “She was in pain, and she was alone. I couldn’t comfort her then, but I’m sure as hell not going to let you take that chance away from me now.”