The Taste of Ginger(25)
“We must be strong,” my mother said to her, barely moving her lips.
I wondered why. Why was my mother so insistent that we always be strong? If there was ever a time to lose control and be emotional, this had to be it. Dipti did not respond, but she did manage to stay erect by leaning against her father, his arm firmly around her waist, while the fire consumed the body of the baby whose cry she would never hear. Not knowing what to say and suspecting no words could provide any comfort, I gently placed my hand on Neel’s shoulder. Another tear slid down my cheek. I brushed it away, the moisture warm on my fingertip. We stood very still as the fire raged on. The crackling of the branches as they broke under the pressure of the flames pierced the silence before being swallowed by the wind.
When it was over, the ashes were scattered into the river, engulfed by the flowing waters. Each ember now on a journey separate and apart from the others.
“We should go back. It’s getting dark.” Dad put an arm around Neel’s shoulders.
Neel nodded and turned to Dipti. Her eyes were shiny and glistening. When Neel looked at her, his face revealed that he had lost more than his daughter.
“Virag Mama, I wish this wasn’t happening during a time that should be happy for your family,” Neel said.
“Such is life, Neel. We cannot plan it.” Virag Mama patted him gently on the back. “Right now, you must focus on your family.”
As we walked toward our cars, I saw an elderly woman begging to passersby near the riverbanks. A dalit. The lowest rung of Indian society—people who did not even have a ranking in the Indian caste system. As we approached with our somber faces and flowing white clothing, she stared at us, hunched over, using a large stick to support her weight. She began to back away.
But as we neared her, she hobbled forward, one hand open, and began crowing to Virag Mama in a low and raspy voice. I couldn’t understand the dialect she was speaking, but she kept repeating the same message over and over to him while he shooed her away.
“Bhen, we have lost a family member. Leave us in peace,” he said.
The woman persisted but could not keep up with his long strides.
My mother and I were walking behind Neel, Dipti, her father, and mine. Neel used Dad’s handkerchief to dab at his eyes. The beggar shuffled toward him.
“Oh, Sahib. Oh, Sahib,” she said over and over, her wrinkled hand extended before Neel.
His eyes welled again at the sight of her, and since arriving in India, I had now seen my brother cry for the third time, two more times than I had ever seen him cry before this trip.
I wanted to protect Neel and not have this stranger disturb him, but before I could utter a word, a hand rested on my shoulder, and I spun around to face my dad. His eyes were soft, looking at me like all he wanted to do was protect me. “Beta, it’s not her fault.”
“I know,” I said, my voice flat.
I moved past the woman, telling myself that her circumstances were such that she had no choice but to approach a funeral procession.
When I looked back toward her, I saw Dipti hand her some crisp, colorful rupees. The woman put her dirt-crusted palms together in the prayer position and bowed before backing away.
“It’s rude to stare,” my mother whispered as she grabbed my arm. My mother glanced at the old woman hobbling away with the rupees clutched to her chest. “Any good we do today will give Uma peace in her next life.”
As we drove away from the river, I saw the woman squatting by the riverbank, gliding a stick over the sand, her movements somehow both casual and with purpose. I caught my mother glancing back at the area where the pyre had been. Smoke still rose from the burnt logs. She swiped her cheek, as I had done earlier.
Virag Mama’s words rang in my ears. Such is life.
That simple sentence resounded in my mind as we drove home, me in the back seat with Dipti and Neel.
“I’m so sorry,” I said to them, wishing words could somehow change how they felt.
Dipti stared out the window, lost in thought. Neel tried to take her hand. Dipti pulled it away.
12
After the funeral, many people came by Lakshmi to give us their condolences. Dipti had retired to the bedroom upstairs, but Neel stayed on the main floor with the guests.
In the past week, I’d stopped looking at Neel as my nerdy older brother, the guy who played video games in the basement or chased me around the house if I changed the channel when he was watching television. He was an adult. I saw the man he’d become. He was a father who’d lost his daughter. A man who had to control his grief because his wife couldn’t manage hers, and he knew one of them had to hold things together. He and Dipti were a team. They had to balance each other, and it was his unspoken responsibility to carry more weight right now.
For the first time, I considered that his relationship with Dipti might be the type I wanted for myself. Watching them go through this experience made me realize they worked together in a way Alex and I never had. We had supported each other, but we were both focused on our careers. So focused that we didn’t realize those careers were taking us in different directions, ones that didn’t overlap. We never managed to put us before ourselves. Watching Neel and Dipti, I realized why love wasn’t enough to make a relationship work and how much more was needed. I still wasn’t convinced the other extreme of arranged marriages was the answer, but I did feel I could understand better why so many cultures were based on them.