The idea of any of this touching her son made her want to scream.
God, she hated men.
Great, now she sounded like the new generation. Casual in their use of powerful words.
I hate broccoli, Cullie used to say.
No, Cullie, you don’t like the taste of broccoli. That’s not hate.
I hate my computer science teacher.
No, Cullie, your computer science teacher is jealous of you and wants to prove his superiority, and his behavior hurts you. That’s not hate.
Hatred was when you felt no pain when madness and death came for your mother.
Hatred was telling your daughter that she deserved to be sold at a brothel down in Baina Beach.
Hatred was what you felt for yourself for not knowing who your son’s father was. And for hiding that from him his entire life.
Stop it. She rubbed her arms and tried to find her armor again. This was not the time to lay it down.
There were two other emails, one from Ashish and one from Jane with Connie cc’d. Pickleball tonight?
Bindu had been avoiding her Sunny Widows. She didn’t want to talk about Richard. Didn’t want to be on the courts with judgment being lobbed at her along with the damn ball. But they hadn’t been judgmental. They’d given her space, reached out without being intrusive.
She sent off a reply saying she’d see them tonight and then opened Ashish’s email.
Richard Langley’s children just put out a statement. He’d attached a link to the Miami Herald.
“Leave me alone,” Bindu said to the phone and got out of bed without clicking the link.
It was still dark outside. Bindu found her way to the living room by the light of her phone so she wouldn’t wake Ashish. He was fast asleep on the couch, long hair obscuring most of his beloved face. The quilt had slid off him, and she tucked it back around him. He’d been working late into the night, headphones pulled over his ears, fingers flying on his laptop.
Something fundamental in him seemed to have changed. He was thoughtful about what he said. He helped around the house. He’d even stopped looking like she was embarrassing him when she put on her dresses.
Bindu had a nagging suspicion he was regretting his recklessness with the divorce. As though marriage were playing house and divorce a tantrum.
Making chai would be too noisy, so she grabbed a glass of water and studied the fridge full of fish and meat that she’d bought yesterday. A smile nudged at her. Could there be anything more heartwarming than the fact that Cullie was bringing a friend home, and he loved Goan food?
Today Bindu was going to forget about everything else and cook for her granddaughter. She had it all planned out. Mutton xacuti, prawns kissmoor, and fried fish. And of course made-from-scratch bebinca.
Helping raise Cullie had been the happiest part of Bindu’s life, so uncomplicated and pure it had reset her. Cullie’s birth swallowed up the insidious emptiness that had crept in after Rajendra didn’t wake up one morning. There was something about being a grandparent that freed you from the mistakes of being a parent.
For some reason one got to be much more intentional about it, much less driven by emotion. Much more gentle and driven by love, which constituted wisdom, she supposed. Taking long naps with baby Cullie snuggled next to her when Alisha and Ashish went to work, delighting in her brilliant mind when she started to pick up the world around her, even soothing her when she struggled. All of it had come with not a flicker of doubt or stress.
Raising Ashish had been fraught with second-guessing herself. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized how much energy it had taken to navigate Rajendra’s silent scrutiny of her parenting. But it had been proof of his love for his son, and she’d held that tight.
When she’d moved to America, she left all that behind. For twenty-three years, their family had rambled through the hike that was life, but the rise and fall had been gentle. Mostly because of Alisha’s limitless ability for love. Until Ashish put his decision to “return home” above his family, Bindu had never had the courage to poke at the complicated thing her own marriage had been. There were things about how her son had behaved in his marriage that threw a spotlight on the dark corners of her own marriage that she’d tried so hard to block out.
“Ma?” Ashish said from the couch. “What time is it?”
It was barely five a.m. She should go back to bed and let Ashish get some sleep. But she wanted to get her day started.
“Why don’t you go into my bedroom and sleep. The noise won’t disturb you there.”
He rose, blanket trailing, hair in his eyes, face creased on his sleeping side. Instead of going to the room, he wrapped his arms around her and dropped a kiss on her head. “I love you, Ma.”
She had no idea where that had come from, but she soaked him up, finding her own smell, Cullie’s smell, Rajendra’s lost smell, all of it wrapped up in him. “I love you too, beta.”
He blinked the sleep from his eyes. “I have to drive to Miami today to see Radha and Pran. They’re looking at some contracts for me. I might as well get an early start and beat traffic.” With that he started to make chai.
The urge to stop him was strong, to do it herself, to take care of him. But she stopped herself and sat down at the breakfast bar, watching him with the strangest feeling in her heart. The ritual of making chai was so ingrained in him, it was like watching herself.
The chai too was exactly the way she made it. They chatted about Cullie’s mystery man as they dunked Marie biscuits into their tea. He’d always dipped the crisp arrowroot cookies into her chai because he didn’t like his own picking up the flavor. He did it now, and she didn’t stop him. Not all ways of taking someone for granted were hurtful. Everyone deserved someone whose chai they could dip their biscuits into without thought.
“Did you look at the article I sent?” he asked as a soggy blob dropped into her tea. He fished it out with a spoon and a sheepish apology.
She hadn’t, but they did together. Richard’s children had not named Bindu, because Lee hadn’t divulged that information. But they had called the woman who had “entrapped” their father several things, including a thief. Her face heated, the feeling of shame she’d wrestled to keep at bay for forty-seven years almost knocking her down.
Her son touched her hand. “Ma, it’s okay. They’re assholes. The world is full of those.”
She swallowed. “I didn’t even know he had money.” She hated that her voice was a whisper. “I barely knew him.”
He threw a glance around her condo, with its ocean view and designer color palette. She waited for him to ask how she was able to afford it. For a moment she forgot that she’d told her family that Oscar’s money had come from a wealthy, reclusive aunt. Her shame nudged into panic.
Ashish wrapped an arm around her. “Richard Langley made his own money. Not a cent of it was inherited. It was his talent. Something he suffered for. He can give it to anyone he wants.” Her Ashish, on her side. “I’m going to talk to Radha about it today. Maybe we can sue the assholes for slander if they find out it’s you and name you.”
“No!” Her voice came out firm, and he blinked. “We are not suing anyone. And I’m not taking his money.”