Page 64 of If I Loved You Less
“Sorry, I should have asked,” she says, covering her mouth with an acrylic-nailed hand. “I have another one in here somewhere. Do you want?”
First of all, I would rather die of thirst than drink a liquid procured from this woman’s bra. Second of all?—
“Is that ... alcohol?” I ask, still overcoming my shock. She nods, then takes in our expressions. She laughs.
“Don’t tell me,” she says, looking at us as if we are aliens. “You don’t drink?”
I slowly shake my head. I mean, to each their own, of course, but again – stashing location aside – maybe don’t bring alcohol into a house that has never seen it before? Terrible form.
“How sad,” she says, tone pitying.
Things do not improve much with Jasmine, nor do they improve anywhere else, for the rest of the month.
In fact, things seem to get worse. Shanzay’s eyes are constantly puffy, and it pains me to see her so distressed. I try my best to cheer her up, taking her out shopping and for cute lunches, but she is in a terrible funk.
On top of that, Papa seems to be getting clingier. Emad was the last unmarried cousin before me, and I think he’s starting to receive pressure from my phuppos and the aunties to get me married.
Sometimes, I will be sitting in my room, trying to enjoy a book, or in the kitchen, trying to bake, and he will just call my name, as if on instinct, and he will call and call until I come, and then it will be something silly, like handing him the television remote, or getting him a glass of water.
It’s as if he is checking I am still here and needs constant reassurance of it. While ordinarily I would not mind, recently it has begun grating on my nerves. He used to do the same to Mama, from what I recall, and she used to get annoyed, too.
“Your father,” Mama said once with a heavy sigh, pausing dramatically. “Kuch garbar hai; there’s something wrong. I think he’s getting old.”
“Kyun?” I asked in response, genuinely concerned. “What happened?”
Mama sighed again, shaking her head.
“The other day,” she said. “He got upset with me. Because I said I would watch a movie with him, but I fell asleep. He’s getting so ... clingy.”
Me and Naadia exchanged an amused glance.
“Mama,” I said calmly. “You need to see a psychiatrist if you think your husband wanting to spend time with you is a sign of old age.”
Mama was genuinely insulted by this.
“It’s strange!” she said. “He wasn’t like this before!”
“Mama!” Naadia cried, laughing.
“I don’t like it!”
But she was his wife, so she could keep him in check. I cannot scold Papa or it will break his heart.
At least tax season keeps him relatively busy. I have him deal with mine as well. I know I am twenty-three and a verifiable adult and should do my own taxes, but who am I to decline when Papa says he will have the accountant handle it?
It is give and take, after all. If I had to, I am sure I could handle it, just like Papa could make his own coffee, if he had to, but as long as there is mutual respect and care, there is nothing wrong with doing certain tasks for one another, just as long as you are capable of being independent should the need arise.
Unfortunately, it seems Naadia is getting too independent.
“I’m sure you’ll hear it from Papa soon enough, since he just lectured me about it,” Naadia says on the phone one day, “but here it is: I’ve been interviewing at residencies outside of New York.”
“What? Why? Papa won’t be able to cope.” I don’t mention that I won’t be able to cope. Even having her in Brooklyn is too far away. Another state would be awful.
“Because there are some great hospitals and opportunities,” she replies, defensive already.
“And there aren’t any in New York?”
“I’ve been in New York my entire life. Maybe I want to spend time elsewhere!”
