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  “When did you get in?”

  “Last night.”

  “No one told me.” I looked around for Athena and called out to her.

  “I asked Lakshmi not to disturb you and to keep Athena in her room.”

  “Oh. How was your flight?” Not sure why I was making small talk. This was Naina—the one person, aside from Mumma, who knew about my first crush, kiss, and heartbreak. At thirty-two, she was a lot smarter and unapologetic than I was.

  “Why don’t you clean up and we’ll get some fresh air?” She picked up the picture frame and wiped it with her hands. My tearstains were all over it.

  “Can’t believe Mumma’s pictures are all I have left.”

  Naina sat down next to me.

  I held her tight. “I don’t want to meet anyone. I don’t want to leave my room.”

  She kissed my forehead. “You don’t have to meet anyone. But you don’t have to look like a hobo either. Masi would be so upset.” Naina smiled.

  She opened one of my closets and pulled out a pair of pastel salwar kameez.

  I looked at her. I could barely remember where I’d been the night before, but Naina could recollect where I kept my clothes and personal items. She knew I had five closets in my bedroom and the one closest to the window was where I kept my informal, wear-at-home Indian outfits.

  “Everything is the same. Your study, laptop, clothes, five plants, a place for that pint-sized pooch to sleep and relax, your yoga practice spot…nothing has changed.” She sat next to me.

  I leaned into her. “Mumma is gone. That’s changed.”

  She wrapped me in her arms and rocked me. “Shhh. We’ll get through this together.”

  As soon as Naina said those words today, a dam broke in my eyes. I tugged at her kurta.

  “I know, kiddo. It’s not right.” She pulled out tissues from the box of Kleenex on my nightstand.

  “I don’t understand how this happened,” I sobbed. “Mumma was fine in the morning....”

  “I am so sorry, Ahana.”

  I wiped my face with my hand. “She was asking me to take care of myself. Chutney told me that Mumma had heart troubles. She never told us because she didn’t want us to worry.”

  Naina ran her hands through my hair. “Let it all out.”

  “She was my strength. She helped me leave Dev. I can’t live without Mumma. I don’t know what to do. Who will make me hot chocolate when I am hurting? Who will practice yoga with me? With Mumma gone, who will protect me?” Snot mixed with my tears flooded my face. I started heaving. “Ask the visitors to leave, Naina. They will dilute Mumma’s smell. Ask them not to touch any of the souvenirs—Mumma likes things in order.” I rambled on.

  At one point, I woke up to my own snoring. “Sorry.”

  “What are you sorry for? Take as much rest as you need.” Naina massaged my forehead.

  “Remember how we would hide in this very room when we were kids?” I played with the corner of her kurta.

  Naina laughed loudly. “Yeah, because, dork, you wanted to avoid all the cute guys and read a book on your recliner.”

  For the first time since Mumma’s death, I smiled too.

  “Remember, I wanted to try out all of your chic clothes on our visit, but you had to be a tall, skinny bitch, didn’t ya, sis? And a foot taller than me!” She elbowed me with a smile.

  Naina called out to Lakshmi in her accented, broken Hindi, “Ahana baby hungry. Hot chai and grilled cheese sandwich, can I get? Umm, as in milegaa?”

  “I don’t want to eat anything.”

  “I know. But if you don’t eat or drink something, I can’t feed my pear-shaped body either. So make a small sacrifice and eat for your little sister.” She pulled at my chin.

  When we walked to the lower level of the house where the family room and formal sitting room were located, I noticed there were hundreds of people. Incense. Flowers. Religious music. Strangers weeping and moving in circles like dervishes. I couldn’t breathe, so I started to crawl to go back up to my room when Naina whispered, “It’s okay. I am with you.”

  “Don’t leave me alone.”

  She held my hands tight every time an aunty mentioned Dev’s name in passing. No one from his family showed up or even called to express their condolences.

  Naina stayed by my side when we brought Mumma’s ashes home, through all the rituals and prayers, my meltdowns, and even after everyone had left. I shook up the urn with Mumma’s ashes close to my ear before we released them in the Yamuna River, but I couldn’t hear a thing. I looked at Naina—the idea of being motherless on this vast earth was so lonely and strange to me—some things only a sister can understand.

  * * *

  Even after a few months of Mumma passing away, I couldn’t cope. The sofa in the family room and patio furniture no longer carried my mother’s scent—J’ADORE mixed with lavender oil blended with jasmine. All of the summer of 2013, I went through life pretending to be a stranger inside my own body. I made myself forget everything about Mumma that I couldn’t bear to remember like hiding in her sari as a little girl, twirling in the backyard, gripping her hand and walking together. I tried to bury those memories. I made myself forget, I thought of every meal, vacation, argument, festival, or unimportant time spent together. But by trying not to remember Mumma, I only remembered her more. I pretended not to feel the pain, but the only thing I felt was pain. I was consumed with how suddenly she was taken away from us. I grew dark on the inside. I had no desire or appetite for anything. I became two women—one who pretended to be OK in front of the world, and the other who cried at night because she missed her mother’s voice. My life became all about before and after Mumma’s death.

  I preferred weekdays to weekends because time didn’t stand still then. I spent all my time at work and nagged my boss to put me on more projects. Besides that, I was now spearheading the upcoming Annual Women’s Conference in New Orleans. The conference had started as a small idea but escalated into a major event over the months. I was grateful that my suggested theme, No Excuse, was receiving global recognition from speakers, anthropologists, nonprofits, feminists, activists, authors, leaders, and female survivors of violence refusing to accept any excuse for rape, woman hitting, acid throwing, and bride burning for dowry.

  Mumma was so proud I was trying to help other women, standing up for what I believed in.

  After her death, I also volunteered to travel for work. Whatever little time I had between coming back home from work and leaving for it, I spent either running or practicing yoga at the studio close to home. Even though Mumma and I often took yoga classes together, I found solace in returning to the studio alone. The space allowed me to escape the mess of my life.

  It was September 2013—monsoons were receding, but Delhi was still hot. Scheduled power outages and a water shortage were still crippling the city. I decided to go for an evening run to avoid the seething temperatures. Running allowed me to blend physical pain with the pain in my heart without any suspicion or apprehension.

  I was just about to leave when Mumma’s younger sister, Chutney, stopped me in the kitchen, “Ahana, I need to tell you something.”

  “What, Chutney?” I drank a few sips of water.

  “Your mother’s last words.” Chutney sat on the barstool next to the island table in the kitchen. Mumma, though not the best cook in the world, liked beautiful and big kitchens with modern interiors and bright colors. The kitchen was connected to the patio in our backyard. This was the spot where we often got together as a family or for cocktail parties.

  “Why didn’t you tell me anything sooner?” I sat next to her.

  “Because you weren’t ready, beta.”

  “What do you mean?” I untied my ponytail and tied it in a bun.

  Chutney took a sip of my water. “I am not trying to guilt-trip you. But you are the only one your dad has left.”

  “What are you saying?” I didn’t move.

  She bit her lower lip. “You need to get help for
yourself.”

  My eyes filled up, but I didn’t cry. I pushed the island table. “Why, did Dad say something?”

  She threw her hands in the air. “No, that’s the thing with both you and him. You guys like to internalize everything. You bury yourself in your work.”

  I stood up abruptly. I didn’t even realize when I raised my voice. It was loud enough that Lakshmi, who was in the adjoining room—an extension of the kitchen where the big dishes were hand-washed and dried—came running. She asked whether I was OK. I was so upset that I waved at Lakshmi and asked her to continue with her work.

  “Are you blaming me for being depressed?” I wiped my tear-stained cheeks with the back of my hand.

  Chutney caught me by my wrists. “Ahana, my child.” She kissed my forehead. “How can you even think like that?”

  “It’s because you…” I tried to interrupt.

  “You have been through hell this past year.” She ran her hands through my hair. “You are stronger than most people I know, beta. But it’s not fair to you to put so much pressure on your own self. You go for late night runs in a place like Delhi. You either leave for work by 6 a.m. or end up taking late night yoga classes. It seems like you don’t care about yourself any longer.”

  “What kind of help?” I moved her hands.

  She hesitated, “Just talk to someone,” and looked nervously at me.

  I pretended not to understand. “I do talk to you, a few of my friends, and Naina.”

  Cupping my face in her hands, she whispered, “We all love you, but none of us are truly qualified to help you. We are biased. None of us can see you in pain, so we agree with whatever you say or want to do.”

  I asked Lakshmi to bring my running shoes. I wanted to get out of the house and pound my stress on the streets of New Delhi.

  Chutney followed behind. “This can’t be how you live.”

  I said nothing and tied my shoelaces.

  She was stubborn. “It’s been a few months since your mother passed away.”

  I blurted out, “I’ll think about it.” I am not sure why I said that because I had no concrete intention of seeing a therapist or joining a counseling group. But also, I didn’t want to take Chutney for granted. She had left her own house and moved into my parents’ place to help us settle into a world without Mumma. She had taken a sabbatical from her high-profile job so she could help us heal from the big mess in our lives.

  “Good.” She kissed my forehead. “If not for anyone else, do this for your mumma. For your dad, who has already lost his wife and can’t see his daughter suffer.”

  “What were Mumma’s last words?” I washed my hands and tugged at Chutney’s dupatta.

  Chutney gently massaged my head, “I worry about Ahana. When will that child of mine be happy again?”

  I ran five extra miles that evening and pounded the streets hard. Chutney’s words kept playing inside my head. At the seven-mile mark, I stopped. Something inside of me shifted. I told myself that I needed to stop continuously fixing my feelings and my problems. I had to step up and take charge of my life. I had to get out of New Delhi. No, India. In India, people knew my family and my history.

  * * *

  When I reached my office the next day, I walked straight to my boss, Ms. Shelly Roy. “I know I said I didn’t want to go, but I am interested in representing Freedom Movement at the conference next autumn in New Orleans, after all.”

  Ms. Roy pulled off her glasses. “I am happy to hear that you changed your mind. Let me see what I can do.”

  “Please,” I begged her.

  “I will talk to the board of directors at our quarterly meeting next week and get the OK on the budget.” Ms. Roy smiled at me. “This conference is important to women all over the world. It was a shame thinking you were the one organizing but not attending the event. The conference is turning out to be bigger than we had anticipated, Ahana.”

  After Mumma’s death, I’d told Ms. Roy that I didn’t want to travel to New Orleans. When Ms. Roy had tried to coax me, I remained adamant. “I don’t want to leave my father alone in India.” Being Indian, she understood my sense of familial responsibility.

  But, in truth, a big part of me was scared to be in New Orleans again—Mumma and I had planned to take this journey together. I didn’t have the strength to go through with it alone, and open raw wounds. I had such fond memories of spending my summer vacation at Naina’s place in the Garden District of New Orleans. The oak tree in the garden: I read the Nancy Drew series in its shade while Naina wrote notes to her boyfriend. There was a long porch from the main gate to the entrance of the house where Naina and I ran endlessly. Because there were tall fences built all around the house, our mothers never had to fear for our safety, so they let us be. There was a swimming pool in the backyard where Mumma served us lemonade right after we got out of the water. I had never seen so many trees in anyone’s house. Masi would cook her saffron-layered chicken and rice biryani, kebabs, and local NOLA specialties like Jambalaya and shrimp étouffée for us. Mumma would always joke that Masi got the cooking skills while Mumma got the whiskey skills. I loved sitting in horse carriages and taking a tour of the French Quarter when we were kids. Naina and I ran around the sculptures in Jackson Square. Palm readers, artists, musicians, and fortunetellers would line the park outside Jackson Square. Me dragging Naina to the historical and cultural sites as we got older. And Naina conning me into going to clubs and bars in exchange for her time spent at museums.

  While I never enjoyed cooking, I did appreciate gourmet food. I fell in love with shrimp po’boys, andouille gumbo, shrimp étouffée, jambalaya, and the Southern hospitality. Mumma, Masi, Naina, and I would participate in walking food tours in the French Quarter. Naina and I would stuff ourselves with beignets and hot chocolate at Cafe Du Monde. Naina once took a picture, with powdered sugar on the tip of her nose, and at the back of the printed copy, she wrote, “Sugar. Gimme sugar.”

  Another gem in the French Quarter—my literary shrine where I spent many days—was Faulkner House Books on Pirates Alley. Mumma, an avid reader and traveler, had introduced me to it. I remember her dragging me to Faulkner House Books and telling me that it was the former home of William Faulkner, which now served as a shop selling classic and local interest books. Friendly staff, great selection of local authors and historical books; I always found an excuse to spend time in this place where novelist William Faulkner wrote his first novel.

  The music, the history, the food, the books, the culture, they all spoke to me. I felt like I belonged in New Orleans.

  Mumma and Masi would tease me when I was in high school, “Apply to colleges in New Orleans and find a Louisiana boy, beta.” But I didn’t, and those early memories felt more and more distant, as if they’d happened to someone else. I looked at the old pictures and tried hard to be excited about going back to those old streets, but I couldn’t feel any exhilaration. I was an adult with no mother to show her around.

  * * *

  After talking to Ms. Roy and spending the day at work, I went for a yoga class in the evening. On my way back, as my driver Baburao was pulling the car from the parking lot, my phone rang. It was Naina.

  “Howdy!” Naina chirped in a Southern accent.

  “Hi, sis.” I untied my ponytail.

  “Whatchya doing?” Though born and raised in New Orleans, Naina had moved to New York City when she started college, went to medical school, did a four-year residency, got board certified, and eventually started her private practice.

  “Just got done with yoga class.”

  “Whoa! 9:30 p.m. on a Friday? Dude, that’s messed up.”

  “I am too old for late night partying.” I readjusted my glasses.

  “Sheesh, you are thirty-three, not eighty-two, Grandma. When you are in NOLA, I’ve got to take you out, girl.”

  I laughed with a little dishonesty, but it was because I knew where this conversation was headed.

  “How are you? How is Masi? And what n
ews of Josh?”

  “Mom is busy preparing a menu of all the things she wants to feed you next year when you visit.” Naina let out a sinister laugh. “As for Josh Rossi, he’s doing well. His friends are busy planning his bachelor party a year ahead of time.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  “No, ma’am. I am hiring a stripper for mine, so how can I be a hypocrite?” She spoke with such ease and honesty. “How are you? Don’t give me the shitty version that you tell others, Ahana.”

  “I am OK. Waiting for Baburao to bring the car. Dad was supposed to pick me up.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Dad and I had dinner plans. But, once again, he forgot.”

  “Did you call him?”

  “What’s the point? He’ll apologize, but nothing will change. I wonder if he doesn’t like to hang out with me.”

  Speaking with the authority of a psychiatrist, Naina said, “Your dad loves you.”

  “I know that. But I need him to be a little more present.” I thought about my conversation with Chutney and confessed to Naina, “I am worried that my dad doesn’t want to hang out with me because I am a reminder of how small our family has suddenly become.”

  She remained patient with me.

  I sighed. “It’s like I’ve lost both my parents after Mumma’s death.”

  “I am listening.”

  Perhaps it was the clarity post yoga and meditation class that caused my emotions to unfurl. “I want to run away from everything, Naina. From people who know too much about my life and ones who carefully inspect my face in the hope that it’ll reveal unshared details of my experiences.” Somewhere along the line, in being a wife and a daughter focused on keeping everyone happy, I had forgotten what I liked. I felt as if it was too late for me even to ask myself what I wanted.

  “Stop being so responsible all the time.” She spoke softly. “This isn’t healthy. You are doing yoga too often, not meeting with anyone, and there is a panicked strain in your voice. I am worried about you. And what’s with all the crazy running? I’ve been keeping an eye on your FitBit statistics.”