Conditional Love

Six - exact number of skips for the stone to cross to the other side. All these years, I never could break that record.

I laid back on the grass as the mild buzzing of summer wafted around me. Mindlessly pulling at the glass blades, wondering why I suddenly remembered that memory of my father trying to teach me how to skip stones across the lake. Ten year old me hated standing out in the heat as much as I did right now, making a face that hopefully feigned interest at what my dad was saying - trying to not hurt his feelings. Well, that part hasn’t changed much.

“Ritu, let’s go. Chalo, everyone is waiting.” I pushed myself onto my feet brushing the grass stains and walked towards my mother’s voice.

My mother came into focus across the garden holding her usual bags of random belongings for everyone she was around, brows furrowed impatiently. She motioned for me to hurry up once she saw me to make sure we made the schedule she had made up in her mind to the minute. I waved and slightly sped up to give her a peace of mind, shaking my head to myself. She was a beautiful woman, my mother. The familiarity of her black hair neatly tied into a plait as it swished across the back of her printed salwar. The gold bangles that lay upon veined hands clinking, as she searched her purse for her phone.

“Let’s go” She says as I finally reach her and we make our way to the car where her friend, Ranji aunty sat in front next to her husband. He was lightly tapping the steering wheel to whatever he had played on his stereo. Ganesh uncle’s playlist was stubbornly stuck to the 80s or the last decade of good music written, as he often declared.

“There is a good lunch place nearby.” my mother directs as we wriggle into the backseat. Ganesh uncle nods and drives towards the vague directions my mother parrots off her memory. Director in a huge tech firm for the last two decades but I still believe uncle’s biggest talent was deciphering Ranji aunty and mother’s conversations. My father used to joke how he was the adult version of the overachieving cousin we all grew up being compared to. “It was definitely down this road- make a right - it was near that movie theatre. Ranji, you remember? Last time we went, that space movie?”

Ganesh uncle takes a small left to drive towards the movie theatre and winked at me from the mirror. I smile back marvelling at his patience. I pointed something to my mother on the road and she was too distracted to notice.

“Haan what Ritu? Why are you smiling” she demands after we slow down in front of the restaurant. “Never mind” I said as we hopped out. The place was not as busy as I had expected and we found a quiet booth next to the window. Familiarity of the red cushion seats and the laminated menus made an unfamiliar feeling in my stomach.

“Oh the pizza here is so good - I remember Sanjith used to want to go here every time we went to the theatre!” Ranji aunty said, clasping her hands, her eyes still glued to the menu. I quietly look up to see my mother’s expression as her fingers grip the menu tighter, bending the lamination in her grip. Chatter from the tables around us fill the silence as I look out the huge glass overlooking the street.

Eight years since I had set foot in this part of my hometown, quick math in my head very unhelpfully informed me. Ranji aunty orders for all of us as I look at my mom and she absent mindedly smiles at me and then reaches out to fix some strand of my hair. Thirty might be a societal milestone for most but to our mothers we stay frozen as a teenager in their head.

“You okay?” I mutter to her. She nods and then immediately turns to point at the shop display across the road to Ranji aunty.

Frozen, that’s what time feels. Food arrives and I wrap my hair up into my usual bun, my mother, of course, serving a generous helping onto my plate with a stern look to quash any potential protests from me. Uncle finally looked up from his work emails and asked me what was the latest gossip from my university. I roll my eyes affectionately and tell him about some of the hilarious answers I had come across in my student’s papers. Ganesh uncle was a deceptively quiet man who loved gossip more than anyone I knew. He launched into a story about his antics with my dad in college with a grin of youthful mischief and nostalgia morphing his expressions. My dad and Ganesh uncle had known each other since their days roaming the halls of their engineering college and had stayed close to each other since then. In fact, till I was about eight years old I hadn’t the faintest clue that we were not actually related to him and Ranji aunty.

I lean against the window outlooking the sunset basked street, listening to his stories. Vendors packing up their things for the day as the streetlights slowly flicker on. It had been a weird day all around. A mixture of deja vu and grief that made my windpipe work harder every time I heard his name in passing.

It had been Ranji aunty’s idea to get my mother and I out of the house to the park for some fresh air and a change of scenery, as she phrased it. The woman was like a second mother to me, but she was a bulldozer when it came to suggestions or ideas. But I had never been more grateful to her personality trait than the last couple of months. She had not left my mother’s side for a minute since the first visit to the hospital, a year ago. She made sure to update me on everything and Ganesh uncle was promptly waiting for me at the airport arrivals pick up zone with his arms wordlessly wrapping around me.

A month ago, I was living my life as a wonderfully confused Econ professor in NYU - planning my weekends before Wednesday rolled around. I chuckled politely at something Ranji aunty said as I looked at the strained face of my mother. Had she always looked this small? I mentally take a note to pick up vitamins and confirm with uncle about a few forms that still had to be filled out.

The car was still at the shop from last week, I should call that mechanic up to negotiate the price. I picked up my phone and almost texted my dad asking what should be a reasonable amount to ask the mechanic before I catch myself.

“Ritu, one more slice?” my mom asks me, jolting me to the present.

“No, no - I am good.” My voice sounds a little weak. Maybe at some point that lie will start sounding like the truth.