Growing Up Ethnic in America: Contemporary Fiction About Learning to Be American (28 page)

Preeti worried that her mother might suspect, Mira worried that her daughter might think she knew. Mira wanted it to come from Preeti. She couldn’t even begin to deal with the problem without Preeti’s participation. So she kept silent, tormented deep within as she listened to Preeti being sick in the bathroom in the mornings, watched her pull herself together stoically to get dressed for school, carried on outwardly as if nothing were the matter. When Sudhir called from California, she tried to sound as normal as possible, asked questions about the hotel and the conference as though they were of prime importance to her, and even discussed their weekend engagements with neighboring Indian friends. If he seemed nonplussed by her mindless chatter on a long-distance call, he didn’t show it. She must have convinced him that everything was fine at home, Mira thought, because he hadn’t called again last night. So much the better; in her own territory, she was much more in control of things. She would handle Sudhir when the need arose.

The evening before Sudhir s return, Mira went into her room to pray. The atmosphere had been so tense these last few days, Preeti saying nothing, just going up to her room and listening to music or chatting at length to her friends on the telephone. Mira had asked her once or twice, “Preeti, are you all right?” trying to initiate a conversation, but the girl would just say, “Yes, Ma,” and disappear into her room. This evening, Mira resolved to give up trying. Leave it to God. Pray. Then clean the house. Do anything rather than sit in the kitchen, waiting for Preeti’s footsteps on the stairs. To this end, she was assembling her prayer things and had switched on a tape of devotional hymns. As the little diya flames danced before her eyes and the smell of incense filled the bedroom, Mira began praying earnestly. She was so deep in
prayer that she didn’t hear her bedroom door being opened. Preeti entered the room and lay down on Mira’s bed, watching her mother seated cross-legged on the floor, praying silently.

When Mira turned around and saw her daughter waiting for her, she knew that the time had come and quickly prayed that she would know what to say and how to get through this. Whatever happened, she could not lose her daughter. But Preeti made it easy. She came across to her mother and sat down next to her, her bow-shaped lips quivering, then burst into tears. Mira hugged her tight, saying softly, “Preeti, I know something’s wrong. Please let me help you. I love you so much, I would do anything for you. You know that. Why can’t you tell me?”

Preeti was crying so hard she could not speak. Eventually, the tears subsided, and it came out bit by bit: the pressure at school to be part of the “in” crowd, the feeling that if you were inexperienced at fifteen, it was because none of the guys considered you worth their while; the guilt, the sense of shame now that she was pregnant—Mira winced at that, there was a finality about its coming from Preeti that made it harder to bear—since smart people never got pregnant, only dumb people got themselves into that situation, the way her friends were avoiding her now, the intense fear of what Sudhir would do to her, the fear that she’d wrecked her life forever. Preeti had been living with a nightmare, Mira realized. If her child had not already been an out-and-out ABCD, the cruel acronym India-born Indians used for American-Born Confused Desis (“Desi” was a colloquial term for Indians), she was certainly on her way to becoming one now. India would reject her now as surely as she had previously rejected India. So much for Mira’s dreams of taking Preeti back to India as often as she could so that she would meet an Indian boy and settle down there. No one would have her over there now. She would be tainted by scandal; teenage pregnancies
were unheard of among the professional Indian classes. And unwed mothers represented a social disease of the West.

It seemed to Mira as she smoothed her daughter’s hair, just as she used to when Preeti had been a child, that the girl really had nowhere to go. America would never wholeheartedly embrace her now—she had broken an unwritten code, violated a social taboo. An American child might eventually win back social acceptance, but for her child, not ostensibly “American” in the way her friends were, social acceptance had been difficult in the first place. Now it would be impossible. She was an outcast from two societies, belonging to both but welcome in neither.

Mira hugged her daughter tightly, remembering the story of Sita’s abduction by the demon Ravana. When Rama finally won his wife’s freedom by fighting the demon, he rejected her as she walked toward him, citing Hindu religious principles which declared that a woman who has spent time in a male stranger’s house can never be accepted by her husband again; the woman is guilty of misconduct until proved innocent. Rama subjected his wife to a trial by fire, insisting that she literally walk through a blazing fire to prove her innocence in front of huge crowds of people. Sita emerged unscathed. Mira’s daughter would not.

Mira felt herself enter a place where none of the values she had grown up with were there to guide her. This situation would, in fact, require her to suspend, if only temporarily, her ideas of right and wrong, blame and innocence, shame and pride, in order to save her daughter from being permanently scarred. And then could one ever be the same again? Having discarded, even temporarily, the values that had been her prop and her stay throughout her time in America, could she go back, as though nothing had ever happened? How would this change her? Would she, too, become an outcast?

Preeti had stopped crying, and Mira asked gently, “Preeti, can you tell me who the father is?”

Preeti burst out crying again. “I can’t, I can’t. Please don’t ask me. It’s not important.”

Mira then asked, “But does he know?”

“Yes, but he can’t help.” Then it wasn’t important to know who the father was, Mira agreed. It was better not to know.

Mira put Preeti to bed, tucking her in carefully. She watched her as she cuddled her ragged teddy bear, like a child, Mira thought. Just like a child, with that frightened expression on her face. How could she not protect her—this was her child. Gone was that hardened expression of a few weeks earlier—that jaunty, devil-may-care attitude she had adopted toward her parents and her grandmother. All Mira could see now was fear, need, and helplessness. It broke her heart. Why was her daughter being taken to task so young, so unprepared for life’s trials?

She went downstairs and switched on the television, wanting to be distracted. But Sudhir’s face kept flitting into her consciousness. For the first time in her married life, she had begun to feel the difference in their ages. Sudhir was approaching sixty, she forty-two. A man of his generation would not know how to handle a situation like this—he would feel it as a deep personal insult. She would have to face him tomorrow evening and she felt sick at the thought. He would condemn, he would blame, he would drag them both through hell with his wrath. Sudhir seldom lost his temper, but when he did, it was cruel and damaging. Mira rested her head on the back of the sofa and shut her eyes, praying for oblivion.

Preeti was so pale the next morning, Mira promptly took her back to her bed and stuck a thermometer in her mouth. A
hundred and two degrees, it read. Mira gave her some aspirin, brought her some lentil soup for lunch, and watched her carefully as she became almost delirious. “When is Papa coming home? He’ll kill me, Ma. Where will I go? Will you come with me? Janet’s parents threw her out when she got pregnant. I wish I knew where she was, because the same thing’s going to happen to me….” Mira just listened, knowing that nothing she said would really make a difference.

She herself had spent a sleepless night worrying about how they would all get through the next evening. She would have to tell Sudhir as soon as possible. He was Preeti’s father; he had the right to know that his daughter was in trouble. And he might understand. After all, he was a doctor. Doctors knew that accidents happened sometimes. They dealt routinely with unwanted, unplanned pregnancies. He might even know exactly what to do. So she got through the day, trying to rationalize her worries away.

Still, when she heard the car crunching the gravel in the driveway, she got up from the sofa nervously, her voice threatening to desert her, terrified at the thought of telling him anything about Preeti. It had begun raining earlier in the evening and she could hear the thick rain, like her thumping heart, drumming on the car.

“Mira!” he called as soon as he entered. “Mira!”

“Yes, yes, I’m here.” She rushed out of the drawing room. “Shh, Preeti’s not well. The flu, I think. I’ve given her an aspirin and put her to bed. She’s sleeping.”

“Why she refuses to have that vaccine every year, I don’t know. Surely it’s better than coming down with it so often. Anyway, how are you?” He gave Mira a surprised look. She was wearing fresh lipstick and had put her hair up. He kissed her, then started toward the staircase.

“Let me unpack this right away. I’m sure the suit’s crushed anyway, but I’ll take it out now.”

Mira followed him up the stairs.

“You don’t have to come. Why don’t you relax downstairs. I’ll be down soon.”

“No, I’ll sit with you while you unpack.”

It was good to have him back, Mira thought. She wasn’t alone. Sudhir would help her through this. She watched his strong back as he hung up his clothes.

“How was the conference?” Mira asked.

“All right. The usual stuff. It was good to see some of those guys I went to school with. Brennan was there—remember him, when we lived in Ohio?”

“Yes.”

“And Lipset. He sent his regards. Lost his wife last year.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for him. She was young.”

“Yes, poor chap. How have things been over here?”

“Okay. Asha Gupta called. She wants us to come early tomorrow—she’s making bhajjias and tea. Then we’ll hear the singers and then have dinner.”

“Sounds too long for me. I want to plant some bulbs. Haven’t done any gardening for months and it’s already July.”

“You can come later. But I’ll have to go earlier, I think. You know how the women are supposed to help with everything. And I want to see how she makes those bhajjias. That woman is really terrible. She takes our recipes, yet when we ask her for hers, she leaves out some really important steps, I think. Mine never turn out like hers, and I don’t know why.”

“Mira, this is the fifth time in the past week I’ve heard about those damn bhajjias. Even on the phone from L.A. Look, I don’t care if you never make another bhajjia in your life. I just don’t want to hear another word about them. I’m more concerned about Preeti. How’s she been, besides the flu? Any problems?”

“No,” Mira said.

Sudhir wasn’t convinced. Mira was usually much more reassuring. “Come on, let’s go downstairs and have a drink.”

On her way down, Mira remembered the brandy bottle. Had she replaced the cork properly? She couldn’t recollect.

“Mira, this is strange,” Sudhir was saying. “I bought a new bottle of brandy last week just before I left. It was unopened. Now it’s only half full. What’s going on?”

“Oh, that.” Mira laughed nervously. “Shirin Mehta gave me her recipe for her brandy cake. You remember how delicious it was—we had it at her house last Christmas. You must remember; you really liked it.”

“Yes,” Sudhir was staring at her. “But how much brandy would a cake need? Half a bottle?”

“I tried three times, Sudhir. You know I can’t bake cakes. It just kept coming out badly. So I made it again and again till it came out right.”

“I hope you saved me a piece.”

“No. Some of the ladies came for tea the other evening, and it was finished. Don’t worry; now that I know how to do it, I’ll make it again soon.”

Sudhir poured himself a brandy. “What do you want to drink?”

“Nothing.”

He stretched himself out on the sofa next to her. “Sorry for shouting about the brandy, but you know with a teenager around the house, one just has to be very careful.”

“Come on, Sudhir, Preeti isn’t alcoholic at least.”

“No, not yet, but you never know.” He yawned. “It’s good to be back home. We should eat soon. I’m getting hungry.”

“Yes. I’ll get the dinner.”

“No, not just yet. Let’s talk for a little while first.”

“Sudhir,” Mira said, “Preeti told me such a sad story today. I really don’t know how these parents can treat their children
as though they belonged to someone else and were not of their own flesh and blood.”

“What is it?”

“Oh, you know her friend Janet? She got pregnant last month and her father just threw her out of the house.”

“Well, she was stupid to get pregnant. I can’t believe these teenagers. They have counselors and everything at their schools, which is a lot more than you and I had. They’re constantly being warned against these things. In our time, do you remember anyone talking to you about anything like this? People didn’t talk about it, so it was easier to get into trouble. You didn’t know what the consequences would be. Now they know everything, and if they’re still so stupid, then they deserve it.”

“Sudhir, I’m surprised at you. Being a father yourself and from a culture like ours, where your children are your life … I don’t know how you can be so heartless.”

“Mira, I didn’t mean us. I was looking at their culture and their feelings about their children. I was seeing it in context.”

“But what if it were us? I mean, it’s not so impossible, with the way teenagers are these days—”

“But it isn’t us, is it, so why should we worry about it? I don’t have the time to sit around hypothesizing about problems that don’t really exist. Come on, let’s get dinner on the table.”

It was after dinner. Sudhir was about to turn on the television, when Mira stopped him, saying, “Forget the news for one day. I want to talk to you.”

Sudhir looked irritated. “All right, what is it?”

“You know that girl Janet?”

“Oh God, this bloody Janet again. Mira, I don’t have the patience for this.”

“All right, I’ll tell you what the matter is, and I hope you’re going to be helpful and not start raving, as you usually do when there’s a problem with your daughter. Preeti is pregnant.”