The Taste of Ginger(23)

I knew Dipti was in pain but couldn’t believe she was saying such hurtful things to him! Neel became robotic, his eyes registering defeat. It seemed impossible to weather the barrage of insults being hurled at him while avoiding saying something he would regret. Instead of fighting, Neel motioned for the nurse to bring the baby.

“In a covered cloth,” he said sternly.

With tears streaming down her cheeks, Dipti took the small package wrapped in a thick white cloth from the nurse and rocked a lifeless Uma in her arms. When Neel signaled to the nurse to take the baby away, Dipti stretched out her hands trying to reclaim her child, murmuring the name over and over.

“Uma, Uma, Uma.” Dipti wailed for hours after the baby was gone.



That evening, my parents, Virag Mama, Indira Mami, Bharat, Hari, Monali Auntie, Neel, and I all crammed into Dipti’s hospital room to listen to the Brahman who had come to advise us about plans for Uma’s funeral. This was the only infant death our family had experienced, so we were unfamiliar with the customs, and the Hindu tradition had a custom for everything, no matter how obscure.

Dressed in a simple white cloth covering his frail body and adorned with a large vermilion dot between his eyebrows, the Brahman said, “Because she was younger than twenty-seven months, Uma should be dressed in red and buried.”

“No,” Dipti said.

Everyone turned to her, shocked she had spoken with such force in the presence of so many elders and a priest.

“No,” she repeated after she had our attention.

The Brahman spoke in a soft, soothing, yet still authoritative voice. “It is the right way.”

“No.”

My mother sat on the edge of her bed. “I know this is hard . . .”

“I’m not burying my baby. Her remains will not be left to rot in the earth.” She shuddered. She turned toward Neel, her eyes begging for his support. He came to her side, and she let him take her hand for the first time since she’d woken after the surgery. “Uma will be cremated. It’s the only type of funeral I have ever seen, and the only way I know how to say goodbye. It’s how I let my mother go and is what I want for my daughter.”

The Brahman tried again. “Cremation is what we use for those who are older, less pure than Uma. It burns the body of the life’s sins before we move to the next life. But she is pure.”

My mother shifted her gaze to the side, collecting herself. Placing a hand on Dipti’s forearm, she said, “This is our trad—”

“None of us even knew this custom until five minutes ago,” Dipti said sharply.

She stared down the elders in the room, who seemed horrified at the thought of breaking time-honored rules, even if we were now learning of them for the first time. Dipti was traditional in many ways, but I was proud of my sister-in-law for fighting against it in this instance, for standing up for herself and Uma.

“She will be cremated, and she will wear white.” Dipti folded her arms across her chest.

A mother had decided what was best for her child. Nothing would change her mind.



While my parents, Neel, and Dipti finalized the funeral plans, I retreated to the waiting room with Monali Auntie. Several other relatives and friends had gathered there already. People carried on quiet conversations about work and family and took turns offering me their sympathies for our family.

Monali Auntie put her arm across my shoulders and gave me a quick squeeze. “Everyone will get through this.”

A tall, skinny elderly man with thinning white hair and glasses that were too large for his face made his way toward us.

“Kem cho, Anandbhai?” Monali Auntie asked him how he was.

He put his hands together and bowed. “Namaste. Very sorry for your loss.”

She returned the greeting, and I followed suit.

He smiled at me, a caring, open expression. “She’s grown now.” He nodded his approval to Monali Auntie. “I remember when you were just a little girl, Preeti.” He held his hand by his side, indicating how tall I had been back then. “I hear you are a lawyer now.”

I nodded but didn’t feel the same sense of pride he seemed to have in my profession. How could I when despite the tragedy going on with my family, my boss kept checking in to see if I’d had a chance to input his notes into a brief or find some additional case law? And all those emails ended with him asking when I’d be returning to work. My law firm life seemed so insignificant and far away from what mattered now.

Monali Auntie turned to me. “You may not remember, but this is Anand Uncle. He’s Biren’s father.”

“Oh! I see the resemblance now,” I said, thinking back to the tall boy with the Australian accent whom I’d met earlier. His father had the same large, kind eyes as Biren, a lighter tint of brown than most people in India had.

Someone across the room motioned for Monali Auntie, so she excused herself and left me with Anand Uncle.

“I saw Biren yesterday.” Not recalling too much about Anand Uncle but knowing that jobs were a safe topic of conversation in India, I started there. “He said he’s doing pharmacy now. It must be busy for you to run the family business on your own. And Monali Auntie said you are doing so much charity work as well.”

Anand Uncle slowly bobbled his head from side to side. “We are lucky the business is doing well, and we are in a fortunate position to help those in need. But now is not the time to discuss those types of matters. Is there anything I can do to be of service to you or your family?”