Page 97 of The Rules of Playing with Fire

“I’m alright,” she said, wiping her face with her palms and sitting upright again.

“But why didn’t you tell me all this sooner?” I went back to my seat, facing them. “I’ve been old enough to understand, to come to terms with it. You could’ve told me anytime from teenage to now, but you chose to feed me lies!”

“We never lied to you, Mihir,” Dad said firmly as Mom nodded.

“My life has been a lie, Dad! My entire existence is founded on a lie. Don’t you both see it?” I’d given up trying to modulate the agitation in my voice.

“Arvind wanted to tell you, but I asked him not to,” Mom said, avoiding my gaze.

“Why, Mom?”

“You heard it. I’d lost three children. I wasn’t ready to lose you. What if you decided you didn’t love us anymore? What if you wanted to sever ties with us? The prospect of losing another child was just too onerous for me. What if you went looking for your birth mother, found her, and decided you loved her more than you loved me? I wasn’t ready to lose your love. I’m still not ready.” I thought she would burst into tears, but she sat tall and still.

“But you’re still mourning the loss of your real child, aren’t you? The one you lost in the ninth month?”

She gave a startled look and turned to Dad for reassurance.

I rubbed a weary hand over my brow. “I saw it while driving you back from your anniversary party. Was it around the time you lost him?”

“Her,” Dad said softly. “It was a girl.”

Mom slumped in her chair.

“And the tears every time you listen to Sufi songs?” I added on an epiphany. “Those are for her, your real child.”

“Stop calling her that,” Mom said pointedly. “You’re our real child. She’s a memory. Yes, I love her, but I didn’t get a chance to show her my love. I got that chance with you. You’re my real child, even if you’re bitter about it. This is what I feared, Mihir. I didn’t want to tell you because I was afraid of losing your love and trust.”

“You’ve already lost it, Mom,” I said with intended cruelty, and she burst into tears.

Dad put his arm around her again and avoided looking at me. I knew he was angry with me for bringing her such pain.

“I’m not sure of anything anymore,” I said with my head in my hands. “I’m not sure you aren’t ashamed of me. I’m not sure you didn’t hide it because you didn’t want to tell the world my birth mother was a sex worker. I’m not even sure you love me.”

That jolted Mom’s head up. “What?” she cried through her tears.

“I thought you never disciplined or hit me because you were good, enlightened parents. What if it was only out of pity for me?”

“What are you saying?” She wiped her tears away and took on the avatar of a fierce goddess. A deep, intimidating frown appeared on her face, and her body straightened into warrior mode.

“Everyone I knew growing up got hit at least once. Why did you not hit me, punish me? Was it because I wasn’t yours to hit? I wasn’t yours to exercise that right over? Or was it because you didn’t want to hurt a poor, abandoned child? You always gave me what I wanted, whatever I asked for. Was it because you felt sorry for me? Was it pity, Mom? Was it sympathy, not love?”

Warrior Mom jumped from her chair and advanced toward me. Dad and I stood on instinct.

“You,” she said, pushing a finger in my chest as I took a step back, “were not an abandoned child. Your mother entrusted you to us. You are our son. If you were abandoned, you would have died in a gutter by the streets the day you were born.”

“Sneha…” Dad interrupted.

She silenced him with an angry look, then turned to me and continued, “As far as hitting you is concerned, we didn’t hit you because we don’t believe in exercising tyrannical control over children like they’re chattel. You are our child, our love. But if that’s what it will take to convince you of our love, then here…” She delivered a firm slap across my jaw so hard that my head swiveled from the impact. My hand moved to my cheek.

“Sneha!” Dad gaped, horror-stricken, but remained glued to his place.

She appeared to be a frail, aging woman but packed quite the punch. I was certain that without the beard, I would have sported her palm print on my cheek for hours.

Her chest heaved as she tried to repress her tears and her hurt. “There are two ways children come into being in this world—in the womb and in the heart. If a mother and child are lucky, it’s both. I wasn’t fortunate enough to carry you in my womb, but you came into being in my heart.” She stabbed a finger at her chest. “If you think you can negate that with your cruelty, you are wrong. You can never take that away from me or yourself. You will just have to live with it, even if you don’t like it. Now, get out,” she commanded, looking into my eyes. “You can doubt our intentions for hiding the truth from you. You can mistrust our insecurities, but you do not get to doubt our love for you. Not for a second.”

Dad took a step closer and gently touched her arm.

“Leave,” she roared like an angry lioness.

---