Shobi pressed a hand to her forehead, mirroring Ashna’s action. “Winning the Padma Shri was never my goal. Helping people was.”
“Wow, so that’s the part you decided to address in what I said?” Every single time her mother showed her where Ashna fell on her list of priorities it hurt as though it were the first time. How could she be so weak?
Her mother sighed. “Don’t you at least want to try to understand what my life’s been like?”
“I do understand. I was there, remember? Watching from eight thousand miles away.” Because you left me. Over and over again.
“I was forced into a marriage with your father.”
Not this again. “Thanks for sharing that. After overhearing your fights my entire childhood, you think I didn’t figure that out myself?” She had heard those words innumerable times. “You didn’t want Baba, you didn’t want me. I know. You got stuck with us, and you did what you had to do to make sure you didn’t lose yourself, to break the chains, to find your voice. All the things. Now look, Padma Shri! Boom! It all worked out. I’m proud of you and everything, but I’m not the ‘Economic Status of Rural Women.’ You can’t fix me by putting the right systems in place.” It was a little late for that.
Shobi just stared at her. Two women, strangers almost, separated by an expanse of black granite.
“You’re right,” Shobi said finally. “You’re not a problem. And I am most certainly not trying to fix you. Really, beta, I am not. But—” Of course there was a but, and this would be over faster if Ashna just let Shobi get it out.
“But I see how sad you are and I see that it’s my fault and I want to help. Is that so wrong?”
Ashna lined up the washed teacups. “First, I’m not sad. I have a good life. I like my work. It’s not ‘uplifting millions of lives,’ but it is mine. If you’re afraid that I’ll say something to the media—someone from the Times of India already sent me an email asking if she could talk to me about you—don’t worry. I know the drill. I won’t say anything that makes you look bad.”
Shobi rubbed her temples. Something like hurt flared in her eyes. “Thank you. But that’s not what this is about. You have the right to not just like your work. You have the right to know what it feels like to—”
“No! You don’t get to walk in here and stir shit up because you need some sort of closure or redemption or whatever one needs when all of one’s dreams are fulfilled.”
“Ashna, I’m trying to do the right thing here.”
“No, you aren’t. You’re trying to ease your guilt. And you want me to fall in line the way I always have. And I’m refusing to do that.”
Shobi turned away from her, temper flashing in her eyes even as she suppressed it, and grabbed another cup from a cabinet. She poured tea out of the kettle. Had she used one of Ashna’s blends without asking her?
The amber liquid splashed into the cup, half of it spilling onto the granite.
Shobi grabbed a paper towel and patted the mess like someone who hadn’t cleaned a thing in her life. “We’re done with this foolishness.”
Ashna tore another paper towel and wiped the tea clean. She couldn’t agree more; whatever plan Shobi had come here with was foolishness and Ashna was done with it too.
Shobi took a sip. “You know that I’m the owner of Curried Dreams, right? I inherited it as his wife.” Her parents had never gotten divorced. Ashna remembered how guilty she had felt every time she prayed that they would. “I think it’s time to sell it.”
Ashna dumped the paper towels in the garbage, hands shaking. The urge to press down, crush the garbage until it shrank to the bottom of the bin pushed inside her. “That’s a new low, even for you.” She gave in and jammed her hand into the garbage, pressing it down until it crushed and folded and smashed.
“You already hate me. I might as well do what’s right for you and risk you hating me more.”
“How is forcing me to give up my livelihood right for me?” She washed her hands to keep from shoving the garbage again.
“If it weren’t for Curried Dreams you would actually be looking for and doing something you enjoyed. You’d get out from that dark place your father thrust you into.”
Ashna was shaking now. All she wanted was to walk away. To crawl into bed. To get away from Shobi.
The habit of walking away from things must be a hard one to break.
Go to hell, Frederico Silva!
“Curried Dreams is not a dark place. I can turn it around. I’m close to doing it.”
“You’re not going to win that show. You don’t even like being a chef! You can’t win without passion.”
“Thanks, Mom. And not all of us are selfish enough to put ourselves and our damn passion before everything else!”
Shobi gasped and Ashna sucked in her lips.
All the fight seemed to leak out of Shobi. She sank onto a barstool. But the hurt didn’t last. Within moments Ashna could see the cogs in Shobi’s brain turning again. This was probably how she looked when she was trying to sort through the mess of laws and corruption and centuries-old traditions to come up with a way for her foundation to solve problems. Why hadn’t Ashna inherited that ruthlessness, even just a little bit of it?
Shobi took a sip of tea. “This tea is great, by the way. I have to take some back with me. Where do you buy it?”
Ashna poured herself some and sat down across from her mother. “I’ll get you some.” This probably meant Shobi was getting ready to leave.
Try to show estranged daughter you care: check.
Leave when it doesn’t work out: check.
For a while they drank in silence, both shaken after their outburst. But at least they’d be rid of each other soon.
“We don’t have to end up here every time we try to talk,” Shobi said quietly. It was her pretending-to-be-nonconfrontational voice.
Ashna rolled her eyes. “You just threatened to sell my work. How can we not end up here?”
“Okay, that was a . . . how do you young people say it? Something to do with acting like a penis?” Shobi didn’t blush at the use of the word or show any awkwardness, but something told Ashna that it took effort. How had Ashna never seen how hard her mother worked to never come across as silly, to always be taken seriously?
“Dick move,” she said. “We call it a dick move, and yes it was.” All Shobi’s moves were.
This was the first time ever that Shobi was owning up to one of them.
Ashna braced herself for the inevitable deeply impassioned lecture about a woman with agency being labeled with such a masculine insult.
Instead, another inscrutable silence followed. “I really want a chance, beta.” Ashna had no idea what that meant. “Can we at least make a deal?”
Another wave of exhaustion swept through Ashna. The first part of what Shobi had said danced enticingly in front of her, but she knew Shobi well enough to know the second part was key. “What kind of deal would you like to make?”
Shobi got up and took her cup to the sink. She didn’t wash it, but she did place it inside the sink. “How about this: If you win this show, I’ll admit you were right. I’ll sign over ownership of Curried Dreams. I’ll even help you with money to renovate it. But if this show doesn’t go the way you want it to, we sell the restaurant, and you find something you really . . . well, we sell it.”