Page 14 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

I chuckled. Growing up, two minutes used to be her standard reply to all my questions.

How long will you be? Two minutes.

I’m hungry. Is the food ready? Two minutes.

I am bored, Ma. Can we leave? Two minutes.

“What’s funny?” She turned around with a smile.

“Nothing.” I smiled back. “Has he been sleeping in these days?”

“Sometimes.” She returned to the griddle. “Depends on how much he’s had to drink.”

“Do you ever talk about his drinking?”

“No.” She looked back at me with the rolling pin in her hand. “I don’t bother.”

And she resumed rolling. Old habits die hard. Mom had always been hardworking and meticulous. I wondered how she put up with my father’s haphazard habits and dubious scruples. I looked at her and felt a twinge of sorrow for the woman who was compared to a flower in her younger days.

“Come Ma, I want to eat with you. We can talk.”

She removed the last paratha from the griddle and covered the leftover dough and paneer mixture before settling down at the table. “Okay, I’m done.”

“Mmm, this is good,” she said after taking a bite of the paratha dipped generously in the spicy pickle.

“Of course it is. You made it.”

“You’re a sweet talker like your father.” It wasn’t a compliment. It was an instruction to rein it in. “Have you talked to Juhi lately?”

“No.” I chewed.

“Call her sometime. She’s alone there.” My sister Juhi lived in Australia with her loving husband and his family. But since none of us were close to her, she was alone in Mom’s book. But I didn’t argue. “Okay.”

Juhi had married and moved to Melbourne just before the mountain collapsed and buried us alive. She still didn’t know the full extent of what Mom and I had gone through. And she didn’t know the truth about how much money it cost me to keep our past at bay.

“Is there something you want to talk about?” Mom asked.

“No,” I blurted. “Why?”

“You were jumpy all evening.”

My chest tightened. If anyone could understand what I was going through, it would be her, but I couldn’t bring myself to talk about Tara. “It’s about the engagement.”

She looked at me with soft eyes as we continued eating. “Don’t let anyone pressure you, Sameer. Take your time. You shouldn’t rush into marriage if you’re not ready.”

I changed my mind. I could use her advice, but just as I opened my mouth, my father’s heavy voice carried from the living room.

“We’re in the kitchen,” Mom called out. “Join us for breakfast if you want. Durga, can you please make chai?”

Durgaben emerged with a fresh face and put a saucepan on the stove.

And just like that, the moment was gone. I would’ve spilled my heart out to Mom if we’d had a moment more, but things work out the way they’re supposed to. Case in point: Tara’s re-entry into my life. My mind drifted to her as I nursed my coffee. Despite her outright rejection and hurtful accusations, all I wanted was to see her again. I craved that happy feeling. If only I’d had the courage to tell her everything years ago, we wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be faking affection for Aarti while secretly pining for Tara. The familiar feeling in my chest returned as I thought about my impending engagement.

As if on cue, my father walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

I instinctively stood. “I’m off now. Thank you for the paratha, Mom.” I kissed her on the cheek. “And thank you, Durgaben, as always, for everything you do.” I pulled her into a side hug.

“When will I see you next?” Mom asked.

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