Free Happy Birthday!: And Other Stories by Meghna Pant Page A

meet the price tag of her expectations. Already, my life has been spent on giving Dipti its best chunk, driven by her sense of entitlement and my nurturing of it. The dredges of this, that sifted down to Sheila, were received with a smile from my wife, who only once, very shyly, asked me for a gold chain on her birthday.
    â€˜Surprise! Look what I got you, Choti,’ I say loudly now, and wait, seeking Choti’s thrilled expression to catch another glimpse of Sheila.
    Choti tugs open the box I didn’t know how to giftwrap and pulls out a plastic kitchen set. Her expression, devoid of emotion, tells me that she doesn’t like it.
    â€˜It’s lovely,’ Dipti says, picking up a pink teacup. ‘Say “Thank you Nanu”.’
    â€˜Thank you, Nanu,’ Choti parrots.
    I speak, quickly, before our disappointments become a guilty silence. ‘Your mother, when she was as little as you, used to love these, Choti.’ Choti picks up a yellow ladle and stirs an imaginary pot with it, cooing. My granddaughter has learnt to feel apologetic about her feelings.
    â€˜I thought I’d get a doll but …’
    â€˜She has too many dolls, Dad. Really, this is good. Something I’d never have thought to get her.’
    â€˜I also got you something that your Nani used to love,’ I say to the girl, still hoping. I unwrap a green leaf bundle that reveals white steamed milk pudding. ‘This kharwas is from the best street vendor in Bombay. It is sweet and soft, better than your American cupcakes.’
    Choti looks at her mother, as if for help. The Bisleri water bottle peeking out from Dipti’s purse reminds me that they drink only mineral water and eat only homecooked food when in India. This is laughable, really, for Dipti spent twenty-six years here eating pani puri on the streets and drinking tap water.
    I fold back the leaf when Dipti says—with a sigh that contains compromise, something my daughter has never done with me—‘Go on, try it, honey. It is delicious.’
    Choti takes a tentative bite of the pudding. A small hint of satisfaction skirts her lips before she gorges it down. I smile. A part of Sheila has lived on.
    Dipti is looking at me closely, watching my reaction.
    â€˜Hmm …’ I grunt, not knowing what more to say. Sheila gave us the semblance of a father–daughter relationship, the glue without which the true nature of our relationship threatens to reveal itself. I need to postpone this.
    â€˜You must be tired,’ I start, and become quiet, crumbling under my attempt to play host. But Dipti starts lobbing bombs into our minefield of emptiness. She asks me which room I sleep in, if I still eat chicken tikka every Friday or visit the Shiv mandir on the last Thursday of every month. We’ve never had a relationship partial to conversation, so I conclude, sadly, that perhaps Dipti is trying to reconstruct her lost relationship with her mother, even though relationships are not buildings that can replace annihilation.
    Something about her troubles me. She has changed in a way that I’m unable to place. So I study her; her garrulousness allowing me this one liberty. Her face has become round and large, like a globe. Black kohl crinkles around the rims of her weary eyes, as her thin lips move against the strain of newly formed lines. Seeing my daughter age makes me feel older than my seventy-one. Yet, even now, although people say she looks like me, I am unable to find myself in her, and she probably prefers this too. I struggle to focus on her words, but my silence, my faithful companion, stands beside me, nudging me to give it attention. I point out that Choti has fallen asleep on the couch, she’ll be more comfortable on the bed, and as soon as they enter the guest room, I turn off all the lights in the house.
    ~
    The next morning, after butter-toast and tea, Dipti tells me that she’s meeting an old friend from her hotel