Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Four

KIRAN

The next day in India, unaware of Nash’s efforts and after a night filled with an additional trip to bring her mom food—and to try and convince her to swap shifts, to no avail—Kiran awoke in her old bed. The sun had barely come up, and the sky was turning the indigo hue before dawn. But the birds always woke earlier than that. They cooed loudly to one another from outside in the trees, and while Kiran had never figured out which species was loud enough to wake the neighborhood, they always made their presence known. This was the coolest time of day, when the pollution of Delhi’s traffic hadn’t hit the air yet and the earth’s damp mustiness reminded her of rain. Bharat ka darti. India’s dirt. The words in English would never capture the essence of what the smell reminded her of when she awoke to it.

Disoriented and blank, she rolled over on her soft, cotton-stuffed mattress only supported by a wood frame built far before she was born.

There was an old quote she’d read somewhere that she wanted to believe she’d found in a book but had likely seen on Pinterest. It talked about when someone wanted to know where their heart was, they should look to where their mind went when it wandered. Another clichéd old verse had spoken of the first thought that crossed someone’s mind in the morning being their reason for waking up.

She imagined Kirti waking up with her husband’s name on her mind. Akash would think his oldest sister’s moniker because she was his favorite. Sonam would use her brother’s image to propel her day forward. Payal would probably think of herself, because she was unattached, free, and happy.

For the last month, Kiran had woken up with the same name on her mind the moment she opened her eyes.

Now, in India, she woke to a different tune.

Baba. Then her stomach sank, hearing the last words they’d said to each other and picturing the hospital where he still lay.

Ma. She’d be hit with another punch, which would knock the wind out of her. Even if Ma was fine physically, Kiran could sense her growing further away with Baba’s surgery only two days away. Ma’s proclamation that this was Kiran’s fault carved a hole in her, and she wrapped her arms around herself as if the grip would hold her broken insides together.

Then…Nash. Kiran curled into a ball on her side, willing herself to breathe and to brace for the ache slowly seeping into the void the thoughts of Ma and Baba left. She heaved once, though nothing was there to wrench out of her body. Not even tears.

Get up, Kiran. Come on. Baba needs you. Ma can’t do this alone. You have to find Kirti.

Sitting up took Herculean effort. With every centimeter her limbs shifted, she talked herself into another task. Wash your face. Brush your teeth—your toiletries are in your suitcase. Fill a bucket. Put the immersion heater in the water. Wait five minutes. Pour it over yourself to shower. Pack a bag for the hospital. Turn on the gas stove with a lighter. Ma keeps the flour in a pink bin—where is it? Find it. Make chapatis.

Step by step, direction by direction, Kiran found herself at the hospital again.

The monotone made it difficult for Kiran to tell whether Ma was impressed or stating the obvious as she took a bite of the homemade curry and chapatis.

Kiran kept herself from taking the bait—or perhaps it wasn’t bait at all, just the truth. Either way, she said nothing.

The sound of Baba’s breathing got louder again.

Kiran gave up the fight.

A few hours later, Rakesh Mama came to relieve her of her vigil by Baba’s bedside.

She giggled, knowing he would stay for three days and three nights without complaining if they asked. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

When she stepped into the setting sun, she flinched at the way the light hit her eyes. The hospital was dank and darker than she would have liked, and she stood outside, breathing in the air for a moment.

Baba had been sleeping an awful lot. At times, he would open his eyes into a lucid gaze around the room before falling asleep again. Kiran wondered if it was his meds or whether his body had decided to take a break.

The surgery was in two more days. Kiran wondered if anyone kept in touch with Kirti—whether she knew their father was suffering.

Kiran pulled out her phone. She searched for the nearest detective and directed an auto driver to take her there.

If she had two days before Baba went into his operation, she would find her sister and reunite the family before it was too late.

Twenty-four hours later, she was standing in an unfamiliar area a couple of hours outside Delhi, with her balled-up fists trying to loosen up and failing.

105 Gandhi Road, near the rail tracks crossroads.

The torn piece of paper shook in Kiran’s hands. Ahead of her, two rusted tracks ran across a street that formed an X. Litter and broken plastic were scattered on both sides of the road. A sign on the house on her right read 103 in hand-painted blue numbers, looping to form numbers in dripping script. Two houses farther was 105.

The home was as nondescript as they came in an Indian village. Tan in color, with a front that appeared to be made of stucco but Kiran knew to be cement. Two stories. Windows with scrolling metal screens on them. Stairs on the outside of the house, uneven in their spacing and familiar in height only to those who walked them every day. A walled-in terrace on the roof with a hanging clothesline, draped with colorful saris and, to Kiran’s surprise, a pair of jeans in a size close to hers.

But this home wasn’t nondescript otherwise.

Kirti lived here. She and Jijaji, whose features Kiran could only remember with fuzziness, and their children. Maybe his parents. She had no idea.

The detective, a Mr. Bhatt, had found Kirti within hours. When Kiran had posed her question, he had sat like a policeman in an old Bollywood movie behind a desk, with inquisitive eyes studying her from the other side of black-rimmed glasses. He was unremarkable in his speech, promising to find her as soon as possible and kindly showing Kiran out after he’d gathered the information he needed. She had trusted in his disciplined notes, his thoughtful questions, and his deliberate consideration as he jotted down additional information she provided.

She had received a phone call at 3:00 p.m. the next day. Kirti’s husband, Gautam, was an army colonel, and the family lived at the Delhi Cantonment during the school year. When the kids were off from school—Kiran had no details on whether these children were boys or girls or what ages they were—Kirti stayed at the ancestral home that Gautam’s family had left them on the outskirts of Delhi…a mere hour’s cab ride away. It was religious festival time in India now…and Kiran was taking a wild guess that the family had retreated to their family home.

That was where Kiran stood now, debating whether she should make a move toward her past or stay rooted in the present.

Baba’s surgery was tomorrow.

It was now or never.

How had twenty years passed without contact? Kiran touched her belly, where someday, she hoped a child would grow. She couldn’t imagine being separated for that long from her child—and hers hadn’t even been conceived yet. How had Ma and Baba allowed Kirti to disappear? How had Kirti listened?

So many questions whirled through her mind, and the tornado of emotions swept Kiran away. She turned around suddenly, earning a jingle from a swerving bicycle rider’s bell and a curse word she hadn’t heard in ten years. What was she even doing here?

A younger version of herself gazed back at her, brows furrowed. Long wavy hair, thinner and well-oiled, was plaited down to the girl’s waist. She had long legs and, surprisingly to Kiran, who hadn’t grown up wearing Western clothes at home, was wearing jeans and a stylish white cotton tunic on top. Big, lined eyes peeked out from underneath angular eyebrows, and her square jawline, strong but gentle at the same time, balanced her soft features. She was lean but soft. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen.

Kiran sucked in her breath at the nickname.

Kiran stood frozen on the cement path. The address was clutched in her palm, her fingers wrapped so tightly her nails cut into her palms.

After twenty years, her sister—now, clearly a mother—rushed out of the home clad in a blue sari. Her hair had thinned slightly over the years but still held the wave that she had so longed to preserve when she flipped it over her shoulder as a college student. She had grown softer, as age often allowed, and was still as womanly and beautiful as ever.

Then she stopped. Her eyebrows flew into her forehead as her mouth dropped open. The universe stopped moving. No one existed but the two sisters, staring at each other after twenty years of separation and so many missed milestones. Kirti’s entire pregnancy or, Kiran suspected, two pregnancies judging by how much the older girl looked like her. Kiran’s first period. Her first crush. Her relationship with Nash. Kirti’s move into this home. Countless birthdays, anniversaries, family celebrations, and tragedies. Baba’s heart.

Kiran parted her lips, but no sound came out, not even a squeak.

Kirti’s eyes, the size of full moons, stayed focused on Kiran’s. Then slowly they traveled to her hair, which curled at the ends in the Indian humidity, hanging off her chest. Kirti’s gaze went to her waist, to Kiran’s long legs and the shoes she was wearing—sandals with a bit of a heel—and lingered on her clean, painted nails, her neatly groomed eyebrows, her soft skin. In a flash, she would be able to gauge that Kiran hadn’t seen the same hard labor that their family had toiled at. She had none of Ma’s cracked heels, coarse but loving hands, or sun-soaked skin that Baba wore.

Kiran was unsure and unmoving. The hungry stare Kirti was giving her was one she understood. She was giving her big sister the same savoring gaze, taking in every detail—the burn on her forearm, likely from a hot tava, the strands of gray that struck through the jet black Kiran remembered, and a ring she wore on her right hand—Ma’s old ring—that Kiran could recall Ma lovingly handing Kirti on her wedding day.

At the sweet lullaby of her childhood nickname, Kiran’s eyes filled with tears, and she grinned despite the wetness threatening to run down her cheeks.

Kirti and Kiran bolted toward each other.

Kiran’s arms wrapped around her sister’s shoulders, feeling a warmth on her forearms that she hadn’t felt since she was a child. Her sister’s coconut-oil hair still smelled the same, and Kiran inhaled until her lungs were about to burst.

She repeated the word so many times, over and over and over again, until it sounded like one long sentence of two syllables that ran together like a hum.

Kiran could tell their personalities were probably similar at that age too—that Radha was responsible and quiet.

Kiran startled at the burst of energy and affection from her little niece. “I used to. I’m not very good.”

Kiran was hesitant to barge into their lives, although she’d already entered with a bang. Was she welcome? She tugged gently at her hand, enveloped in Anjali’s, but Kirti was right behind her with a hand on her back to guide her way.

It was that question that washed away the dam and caused Kiran’s tears to fall freely. Where did you go to school? If only Kirti knew how far she’d come since their days in Ramnagar. Her sister didn’t even know she’d moved to the United States. She had no idea about Baba and his current vigil at death’s door.

Kiran followed Kirti to a sofa in the living room and glanced around as she tried to compose herself. A simple mandir sat in the corner of the living room, built into the wall with cement and a pagoda. Off the living room was a small hallway with a kitchen on the left and two bedrooms on the right. A bathroom at the end of the hall. It was a medium-sized home, much grander than they ever could have dreamed when they’d shared the same one. But, as Kiran noted, it had a touch of Kirti to it, with warmth that carried through the years and transcended financial status. A splash of color here. Religious idols there. A photo or two of the girls when they were younger and a picture of Jijaji, still appearing young though his features were different than Kiran remembered as a child.

It seemed an odd summary. A SparkNotes version of her entire life summarized in a few sentences.

Kirti’s eyes were red as she gave a small clap. “I knew you were smart. America. Look at you.”

The elephant in the room went from the size of a Chernobyl mutant to becoming bright pink as well. The quiet that followed filled itself like a balloon with the implication that they’d grown up together but not side by side. The emphasized absence of Ma and Baba in the conversation was suddenly so apparent, it pressed against both of them like an expanding brick wall.

If Kiran talked about why she’d pursued college in the United States, the conversation would turn to her having a better life…which would result in Ma and Baba’s sacrifices.

If she spoke of Nash, it would come back to Ma and Baba not approving and their fear of being ostracized.

If they discussed why Kirti hadn’t been in touch over the years, it would turn to how Ma and Baba had to cut ties.

This was too much. Maybe she shouldn’t have come. Why had she disrupted everyone’s lives by being so impulsive?

Kirti’s eyes rested on Kiran, but she couldn’t meet her big sister’s intent gaze. Instead, she allowed her eyes to wander around the living room again.

There. It was so small she’d missed it the first time. A tiny photograph from years ago of Kiran and Kirti taken before the wedding when they were still a family rested next to the mandir. In a black, simple frame, it was dusted and clean—and Kiran wondered if Kirti thought of her every time she wiped off the photo frame. While some of the idols had collected a sprinkling of dust over the years, this photo looked as though it was diligently kept pure.

Kirti followed her eyes to the photograph.

Kiran looked at her sister in shock, half expecting to have no signs that she ever existed in Kirti’s life and blown away to find that there had been one every day right in front of her…right next to her shrine for God. A million trails of thought sprang from the realization that Kirti had had a reminder of Kiran in front of her every single day, and it ambushed her senses, causing reactions that crashed against one another in a tangle. Her fists clenched as her heart slowed. Her heartbeat raced, and she fought back tears again. The wetness dried immediately as her cheeks grew warm. She half smiled before her brows furrowed themselves again. Making heads or tails of her emotions was impossible.

Instead, the first coherent thought she had escaped her mouth in a tumble.

Years of pent-up frustration and anger began cascading down Kiran’s cheeks as she shouted. “How could you leave me like that? I was eight years old! I needed my big sister. You weren’t there for any of it—my first A or when I ranked in class. You weren’t there when I gold medaled. Baba dropped me off in Shimla for boarding school alone. Every time Ma made aloo di pyaaz and stopped talking when she’d serve it because she knew it was your favorite. The silent reminders of you on your birthday and wedding anniversary when Ma and Baba would cry in their room. You weren’t there for my graduation from Duke or my first love. I didn’t get to talk to you when I fell in love and had to give him up because of all this! And now…”

Kiran tried to swallow, but she choked as she sobbed out her anger. Her arms closed themselves around her chest as she tried to hold in the heaves, but they forced themselves out of her body anyway, in raspy gulps that could only indicate that she had finally lost all control. Twenty years of being diligent and careful went to pieces. She forced her fists closed as tight as she could, as if the grip would close around her emotions, but her nails dug into her skin, sending pain up her hands that she hardly noticed. She did it again just to try to feel something when Kirti stood, crossed the space between them, and sat next to her.

In silence, Kirti’s arms wrapped around her shoulders and brought Kiran’s face to her bosom like a mother would…like a sister would, who had been there all these years without missing a beat. Kiran grasped her hands as she felt wetness from Kirti’s cheeks fall into her own.

The familiarity Kirti’s scent brought and the warmth she was showing toward a young woman who, essentially, was a stranger finally dammed Kiran’s river of tears. She hiccupped and gasped at the air finally filling her lungs.

Kiran sighed, sitting up and wiping her face with her dupatta. “Don’t apologize. I can’t imagine it was any easier to have your younger sister show up on your doorstep after twenty years.”

Would Baba feel the same way? Would Ma? This brush with death…would it make them reconsider their lives? Kiran desperately wanted to believe it would. Her entire heart yearned to have her sister back in their good graces and to have her family again. To feel like a home existed in the world.

Kiran’s face betrayed her thoughts.

Kiran wished she was able to lie better—just to appease the hopeful look in her sister’s eyes. There was nothing like granting someone’s wish and telling them the greatest news of their lives, and Kirti’s fervent hope that she was requested back would go unfulfilled today. Kiran hated it.

This dialogue reminded her eerily of a Bollywood movie she’d seen—the younger brother had lied. The older brother had called him out.

And Kiran was tired of all the lying.

Kirti recoiled at the blow that her parents didn’t send for her but attempted to recover quickly. “What?”

Kirti said nothing, only blanching at the news.

Kiran wasn’t sure if she was going to ask Kirti to come back today or whether she would wait until a more opportune moment and stay in touch during her week or two in India. But as she explained her father’s condition aloud and saw her sister in person, the fleeting length of life was upon her. She didn’t want her family to face any more tribulations apart. She wanted Baba to hear Kirti’s voice and forgive both his daughters before he entered surgery. He deserved the peace. They all did.

The breath caught in Kiran’s chest. She knew all too well what those words could do to someone. Kirti had carried them around for twenty years. Kiran hadn’t even carried them for twenty days. Her heart softened at the burden her sister bore as she replayed those hurtful words every day, anytime she thought of making contact again.

It would have been funny. This bickering, the back-and-forth of siblings trying to escape the blame of their shortcomings and pin responsibility on the other, should have been a daily occurrence as they grew older. Now, the future wanted to redeem itself. And the past was in no mood for redemption.

Kiran sighed. “I fell in love. He’s American. White. I never meant for it to happen, but it did. I told Ma and Baba, and they told me never to speak to them again. Baba said I was dead to him. The last conversation I had with Ma at the hospital was her blaming me for Baba’s heart attack.”

Kiran paused for a beat. “I feel guilty. Like maybe I did cause it. Then I get angry that I’m taking the blame. Then I feel guilty that I’m angry when Baba could die. It’s an endless cycle, and I can’t escape.”

Kiran could see herself in Kirti’s shoes, and all of a sudden, the anger that had pervaded her for so long evaporated as she began to understand.

Kiran glared at her sister, furious at her pigheadedness. But Radha walked in the front door loaded with enough food to feed an army, and Kiran had to pretend no verbal altercation had taken place, that she hadn’t been shot down from reuniting her family.

Anjali peeked out from the other room. “Are you done yelling, Ma?”

The oddball similarity between generations prompted a laugh from Kirti. Anjali brought the carom board out, and Kiran indulged her in a game or two but couldn’t meet Kirti’s eyes again.

After an hour’s time, Kiran suggested she go.

Kirti shook her head. “I can’t. But I trust you’ll take care of them.”

Kiran nodded and waved as she left the property and walked toward the taxi stand. Despite her elation at the reunion with her sister, she couldn’t help but feel she had failed at her mission.