Serving Crazy With Curry (4 page)

That afternoon both Avi and Saroj took Devi to task, but they couldn't pry a single word out of her. She just stood there, rooted, in silence. She didn't speak for a week to anyone, and then finally when Vasu called from India at Saroj's insistence, Devi spoke to her on the phone. But she didn't say anything about her little mishap in school.

Things went back to normal, but Saroj and Avi never found out why Devi stole one dollar and twenty-three cents and why she broke Lilly's nose. But they also never heard from any of Devi's teachers again.

Devi's problems didn't end there, though. There were many, many things that went wrong: there was the car accident without insurance, the dumped perfect-husband-material boyfriend (Indian boy from a good family), the kissing some black man in a public place for all to see, the speeding tickets, the layoffs from all her jobs, et cetera, et cetera. And each time something went wrong, Saroj thought how wonderful it would have been if Devi was just a little like Shobha who never seemed to have car accidents, unacceptable liaisons, or job problems.

Vasu once warned Saroj not to compare her daughters. “You will make them resent each other, and compete with each other. That is wrong. They are sisters, they should be friends.”

“I have two children and if I don't compare them with each other, who will I compare them with? And Mummy, don't tell me how to raise my children. It's not like you did such a great job with me that you can tell me what to do,” Saroj replied. A part of her could see sense in what her mother was telling her, but she couldn't bring herself to admit it. How could Vasu, the most irresponsible mother anyone could have, be right?

•••

“Maybe if you had been a better sister …,” Saroj said angrily to Shobha, who was standing in the hallway just outside Devi's hospital room with her husband, Girish.

Shobha had just seen Devi, seen the bandages on her wrists, the paleness of her skin, and it had horrified her. The image still had the ability to constrict her throat, choke her. So she tried to make it fade away, to somehow replace the pain with anger. Anger was easier to deal with, pain was so difficult, almost insurmountable, and Shobha always avoided the difficult.

“What? If I was a better sister she would not have gone and slit her wrists?” Shobha demanded icily. “Did you hear that, Girish? Now I'm to blame for my insane sister's insanity. How about genes, Mama? Maybe she got it from your father. He hung himself, didn't he?”

Saroj's eyes filled, and Shobha shook her head in disgust. “So it's okay when you blame me for Devi's suicide attempt, but when I say something, you have to get all teary-eyed. Don't you ever get tired of the double standard?”

“Stop it, Shobha,” Girish interceded and slowly let out a long breath. “We're all a little stressed, but it doesn't help to gouge each other's eyes out.”

Shobha wanted to respond with something catty, something so Shobha-like, but the image of Devi lying in a bloody bathtub sailed through her mind. And because that imagined image shook her up so much, Shobha decided to give her mother some leeway. She didn't have any children, but she knew that nothing could be as painful as seeing what Saroj had seen.

“I'm sorry, Mama,” Shobha said, which was a first. Shobha never apologized, never second-guessed herself, and never showed any weakness to anyone.

“She could've died. I had no choice but to drag her out ofthat bathtub,” Saroj said, now indulging merrily in large tears. Shobha considered yelling at her again. Saroj just couldn't help milking this for all it was worth. Even at this time, she wanted to make this about her, show how she was affected by it all.

But Shobha didn't believe she had any right to criticize; at least
Saroj saved Devi's life. The last time Shobha spoke to Devi was a week ago at their parents’ house and she'd told Devi that her life was a mess and not really worth living. It was said in the heat of the moment and Devi retorted right back with something about Shobha's useless and loveless marriage to Girish. It wasn't like Devi was washed in sacred milk or anything. She could give as good as she got. But Shobha could feel guilt eat at her insides despite all logical rationalizations.

After Saroj's panic-stricken phone call that morning, Shobha left work hurriedly and drove to Redwood City like an automaton. Parts of her brain simply wouldn't function. She couldn't even remember clearly what Saroj said. Disjointed words flashed in her head.

Devi slit her wrists.
In her bathtub.
Died.
Blood.

Even as she drove to Devi's house, Shobha knew that something was wrong. The rational Shobha was telling her that she had to go to the ER at Sequoia Hospital but she found herself stepping into Devi's town house all the same. The front door was open, and Shobha felt the first lick of fear race through her. What if she'd heard wrong? What if Devi was dead, lying in her bathtub here?

She sprinted up the stairs as panic set in. But before she could enter Devi's bedroom, a policewoman stopped her. “Ma'am, can I help you?”

Shobha looked past the policewoman. She could see blood streaming on the white-tiled bathroom floor from where she stood in the hallway. She couldn't see the bathtub, but bloody water was everywhere on the tiles.

“My sister,” she whispered, her throat hoarse, her eyes blank. “My sister lives here,” she finished shakily.

“Your sister's fine, she's stable. She's in the ER at Sequoia Hospital.” The policewoman led her downstairs, gently, putting a firm hand on Shobha's elbow. “Would you like a patrol car to take you there?”

Shobha was too stunned to register anything. There was acid in her throat, a rancid taste in her mouth, and she rushed to the kitchen and vomited her breakfast of Noah's bagel and cream cheese into the sink.

The policewoman gave her a few paper towels from the roll in Devi's kitchen and Shobha turned on the faucet to wet the towels.

“I'm okay,” Shobha said after she cleaned up and threw the paper towels in the trash. “I'm fine, thanks.”

“Are you sure?” the policewoman asked. “I can drop you off at the ER. It's close by. And your sister is doing just fine.”

“I can drive,” Shobha said, taking charge of her emotions again. “I can fucking drive,” she repeated but she was crying. “I can drive,” she said again as tears streamed down her face. She hadn't cried this openly in such a long time and because she hadn't, the intensity of it shook her into doing something she'd never done before. For the first time in her life, Shobha turned to someone for comfort. The policewoman held her for almost ten minutes while Shobha sobbed for her sister who could've died.

But when she stood in front of her mother and her husband, there was no trace of the Shobha who'd cried in the arms of a stranger. It was vital to her that she not lose control, not show a chink in the armor. Her sister was alive and well, there was no need for melodrama or tears.

“If everything is A-okay, then I'll head back to work. It's the end of the quarter. We have numbers to meet,” Shobha said casually.

“What?” Girish all but gasped, shock written on his face. It satisfied Shobha immensely that something she did finally needled him into a response.

Girish quickly replaced the visible temper and shock with his usual stoic, almost careless, calm. “Go,” he said easily, quietly. “Do you want anyone to call you if something happens?”

“What could happen?” Shobha shrugged. “It isn't like she's going to find another blade to do any damage. But please, do call if something does happen. And I'll see you all at dinner?”

Shobha didn't want to be the hard-ass all the time, but with Devi perpetually screwing up, the onus fell on Shobha to lead the exemplary
life. It was Shobha's job to be the better daughter, while Devi was busy playing the role of the prodigal one. No matter what Shobha did, her father always favored Devi.

Most children believed their parents loved them all equally, but Shobha knew the truth. Avi cared more for Devi than he did her. She was well aware of it and spent many years trying to change that truth before giving up. But just because she wasn't in the race anymore didn't mean she liked to lose.

Avi never said or did anything to blatantly show he loved Devi more, but Shobha could feel it in his different attitudes toward them. He held Devi's hand all the time, through all her troubles, while assuming Shobha could take care of herself. And Shobha was proud that she could take care of herself, but would it kill her father to show her some attention as well?

Even now when she was married, living the successful life, her father turned to Devi, gave her support. Shobha once told Girish how she felt but he didn't see things her way.

“She's not strong like you, Shobha. That doesn't mean he loves her more, just that she needs him more,” Girish reasoned.

I need him, too,
Shobha wanted to cry out.
I want my daddy, too. Just because I'm strong doesn't mean I don't need a father.

But sometimes when you wore a mask for a very long time, it became your face. And Shobha had worn the mask of a strong woman for so long, no one, including her, bothered to look beneath it to see the fragile mess she was.

The hospital room reeked of cleaning supplies and the general medicine smell all hospitals emanate. There was a small buzzing sound coming from the outside, probably someone waxing the floor, though Devi wasn't sure ofthat. She could hardly hear anything beyond the voices of her family, which were loud and clear. She pretended she couldn't hear them and tried to concentrate on the buzzing from the outside instead.

There were a few facts she had to deal with despite the fuzz in her brain. The first, a hideous one: she was alive. And the second
fact, worse than the first one, was she had been saved by her crazy mother. The irony ofthat was not lost upon her.

Damn it, if she was lying in her bathtub with her wrists cut to bits, it probably was because she wanted to be lying there the way she was lying there. That was her wish and she had a right to do as she pleased in the privacy of her own bathroom. Anger and resentment congealed within her, and she had half a mind to open her eyes and give her mother a piece of her mind. Death was supposed to have happened. She had chosen to die, but now she was alive, a survivor. What exactly had she survived? How was she supposed to deal with the failure to end her life as well as the failure of not being able to live it with any dignity?

They were whispering for her benefit. Shobha, her sister, had been in the room a while ago, was angry about having to deal with this at the end of the quarter. She had work to do, and the last thing she wanted was to hang around her dotty little sister, but there was a tremor in Shobha's voice and Devi heard her sister's tears even if she couldn't see them. Shobha was angry, but she was also devastated, just as everyone else was.

Her grandmother Vasu was the only one whose feelings Devi couldn't surmise. Vasu hadn't spoken a word, though Devi knew she was there. She could smell the Ponds talcum powder, which only G'ma used. Besides, even if Devi was half dead she'd know the hand holding hers for the past few hours was her grandmother's.

But it was her mother who annoyed her the most at this point. That woman had to use her key again, had to use her key on just the day she wanted to complete the business of living. Of all the shit luck she'd had, this one took the cake and the baker.

“Mummy, I will sit with her,” Devi heard her mother say. Saroj had been in the room almost always, refusing to leave. When Devi heard her father tell Saroj to go home so that she could at least wash the blood off herself, Devi almost threw up. The jagged edge of adrenaline brought bitterness to her throat as she tried to forget yet again how Saroj saved her.

“No.” Devi heard her grandmother for the first time. “You sat here all night. And Saroj, it is okay if someone else takes charge for a little while.”

“This is not about who is in charge, this is about me wanting to be with my daughter,” Saroj said indignantly. There were times when she sounded young, not like a woman over fifty, but like a petulant teenager. This was one of those times. The petulance usually entered her voice when she was speaking with Vasu. It was when Vasu was around that Devi saw Saroj as a daughter instead of a mother.

“Can't you be with your daughter while I am in the room?” Vasu asked patiently.

“Of course I can,” Saroj said peevishly. “I am the one who saved her, you know?”

“And are you going to push that down the poor girl's throat for the rest of her life? If so, you would have done her a favor by letting her die,” Vasu retorted.

“How dare you, Mummy?” Now she really sounded like a little girl, especially the way she said
Mummy.
“Do you have any idea what I have been through? How hard this is for me? There was blood everywhere … all over the …” Saroj's voice hitched and Devi heard a loud sob.

Oh, Mama,
she thought irritably,
can't we do without the histrionics? Blood wasn't everywhere. It was only inside the bathtub.

Devi was neat, tidy to the T. When she settled on the blade as being the best way to end her life she also decided that the bedroom was out of the question. Even if she was dying, the idea of soaking her mattress or the floor with blood was intolerable. The bathtub, teeming with warm water, was the perfect solution. The water would keep her warm and keep the blood from congealing on anything. And at the end of the day, all the landlord would have to do to clean the mess would be to drain the water and use a brush in the tub. He wouldn't even have to use her deposit of two thousand dollars to clean up.