Mama      When I remember the year I lived in India with my mother and Soni I am still twelve years old with fat dimples standing on tip toes to look down at the street from the balcony. My mother is Mummy and my father is Papa again and they are still married. When I remember I still think the bad things all started because the yellow sari Seema Mami gave me to play with was too long. I wrapped it around my waist once, the way Mummy did, but the sash over my left shoulder still sank to the ground.      "You’re too young to be wearing saris, Mira!" Mummy said. "Only grown-up women who want to get married wear saris and you’re just a little girl." But that wasn’t true because I was tall for my age.      I wanted to wear it for Papa at the airport, I told her, and Mummy began to cry then and Seema Mami came to take me away. Mummy thought Papa would never find a job in America. She went to temple every day to pray for us and sang bhajans at night before bed. Mummy cried because Papa never called. Mummy was always crying.      I wanted to see Papa too but I liked living with Devan Mama and Seema Mami. Seema Mami bought me sweets from the peddlers and took me with her to the jewelry bazaars. While she bought diamonds and gold I picked through the rubies and emeralds in the showcase for the ones I liked best. I thought diamonds were ugly and plain and gold was too gaudy. Mummy always said that red and silver didn’t match and that silver looked cheap, but I wore them anyway.      Still, I liked Devan Mama best. He talked to me all the time and took Soni and me to Hindi movies and boardwalk carnivals. That evening he took us to Juhu Beach for camel rides. Soni was just a baby so the camel couldn’t go very fast, but Devan Mama liked me best so he got me a camel of my own to ride. My camel went so fast that the wind felt cool against my face and arms and I didn’t want to get off.      We rode a rickshaw home, and Soni cried the whole way. She didn’t like the sound of the motor clicking. The rickshaw was only meant for two and Devan Mama put his arm around me, his hand on my thigh.      When we got home Soni went right to sleep. She was tired from crying. The apartment was dark and quiet, and Mummy and Seema Mami were still out. I sat on the living room couch with Devan Mama, playing with the sari. He pulled me towards him and said, "Here, let me help."      "But you’re a boy, Devan Mama! What do you know about saris?" I teased.      "Ere yaar, boys can wear saris too," he said, looking astonished.      "Don’t be silly! Of course not!" I giggled and let him wind the cloth around me.      The first time I don’t remember what I was thinking, but I remember how large his eyes looked, magnified behind his glasses. He wasn’t tall but that afternoon he seemed gigantic. The scruff under his chin left small white scratches on my skin. That first time, I sat very still while he tangled my hair and Soni slept. Other times the scratches bled and I clawed at the table and couch leaving mark no one found. The balcony shutters were always closed, though I could hear the hawkers on Marine Drive "Hot channa- cold coconut milk." I never screamed. Even the last time, the day before Papa called to say it’s time to come home, I was silent. Anyway, the only one who would have heard was Soni.      Now, eight years later, I’m here again and Soni is older and tall for her age and our mother doesn’t wait for phone calls anymore but the memory refuses to change.             *            *            *      We arrive in India early Tuesday morning, and my ears finally pop clear. Mom and Soni are the last ones off the plane, my mother’s lipstick shining under the white lights. Though Soni is only ten she’s almost as tall as our mother, just like I was when I was her age. We could’ve been twins with the same pale olive skin and dark curly hair, same almond eyes, brown and speckled gray that seem watery all the time. We both suffer from gangliness and have dark birthmarks on our right middle fingers too. Mom says we have "un-Indian features". We aren’t petite or straight-haired, and our eyes are too light.      Mom walks quickly ahead. She moves swiftly, more swiftly than I’ve seen her in years. Here her movements are natural, her face is young. The lines that framed her mouth a day ago are now softer, smoother. Her eyes are clearer and I can see that she’s happy, the happiest I’ve seen her since my father left.             *            *            *      Our last argument was a week ago, my first day home for Christmas. After my freshman year at school, I came home less and less often and soon it was only for major holidays. But we still argued, and still about the same things.      "You’re having sex, aren’t you?" my mother asked. "You’re dating some American boy aren’t you?" Her eyes grew large and her voice trembled. We were standing in the kitchen, our voices cutting the soft sounds of the dripping faucet and humming refrigerator.      "Mom, please," I answered quietly.      "U shu karu? What can I do? They’ll take advantage of you one day, I tell you, though you don’t believe me. They have no respect for Indian girls and then you’ll know," she said. I took a deep breath and thought of my father.      "And Indians don’t get divorced either," I said. Mom slapped me. She turned away and leaned over the sink, crying into the dirty pan, her tears mixing with the faucet water. I regretted saying it, knowing that really it wasn’t her fault. Suddenly she straightened up and faced me, still leaning on the sink. "This trip will be good for you, Mira. Good for all of us," she said. "I haven’t seen my brother since he fell ill." I looked away and nodded.             *            *            *      The drive from the airport is long and as we near Marine Drive the scent of channa and coconut milk becomes stronger until finally the long, stale flight is forgotten. Mom is laughing and talking with Seema in the front seat.      "Why did you come alone?" Mom asks.      "Siva has someone coming today," Seema says, her accent thick. Her English has improved since last time. She even drives, if only out of necessity.      "The boy is from a good family?"      "Oh yes, they are very rich. They have two flats in Bombay! I told Siva this would be a good match but these days they’re very picky. She’s said no to one doctor and two engineers already. Mummy/Papa are worried."      "You should come to America," Mom mutters. "And Devan Bhai? Why didn’t he come with you?"      Seema looks at me, smiling hesitantly, "He wasn’t feeling up to it. He worked late last night. And how are you Soni?" Perhaps she knows. But she would never show it, always smiling with large kind eyes, like there are no secrets at all.      "You have grown so tall, Mira! Such good height for a girl. We’ll have to find you a six-footer! How are your studies?"      "Ere, I never see her anymore she studies so much. But in America you never know what they’re doing if they’re not at home. She studies philosophy. Tell me what she’ll do with that!" Mom says.      "They’re going well, Seema. I’ll be graduating next year," I lie. I’m taking a semester off and Mom is about to protest but Seema jumps in.      "And so smart too! Really, Mira, you will be able to afford saying ‘no’ a few times!" Seema says in mock oblivion. She was once pretty. Traces are still left in her manner, her hair, her hands, her voice. But her face looks like an empty fountain, the prettiness drained out of it. Though even this she chooses to ignore.      Mom and Seema have too much to talk about to care about me anymore. Soni listens attentively trying to catch gossip about people she’s never known. As we drive along the coast Bombay begins to take shape for me again, the baby-blue and white buildings, the sun dancing white light on the Arabian sea, the betel leaf vendors. The heat rises and spreads through the air like oil. My mouth tastes dry and bitter, my skin feels slick, a soft buzzing sound lines my ears, and the odor is thick with sweet sweat. There is no avoiding the heat.             *            *            *      The apartment smells of incense, the walls so long exposed to the scent that they’ve absorbed the odor. Soni holds her nose and runs to the balcony.      Devan is in the bedroom. I hear the rhythm of his wheels coming down the hallway. Before I can decide whether or not to call him ‘mama’ he is in the doorway. Mom begins to cry. I tie my hair into webs and knots that will hurt later when I try to comb through them. Seema has gone to the kitchen to make chai. Unlike Seema, he looks the same except for his legs. They have shrunk and his bare feet show the eczema that probably runs up his knees. They look lifeless even though Seema swears he feels sensation in his left ankle. I shudder involuntarily as he hugs Soni.      I stand strategically out of the light and his eyes don’t fall on me until now and only for a moment. I look away.      "The chai is ready. Come, let’s go sit in the living room," he says and forces me out of the shadows. The light outside is harsh. Seema silently fills the tea cups, pouring for herself last in case there’s not enough. The room hasn’t changed. The place is still sparsely furnished, the couch is still uncomfortable, and the black and white photos of my grandparents still hang on the walls.      "You must be tired, Mira, since you’re so quiet. Or have you suddenly become shy?" he says to me. His gaze is steady now and my breath catches in my lungs.      "Mira’s just a shy girl, Mira’s just a shy girl," Soni chants. He smiles and Mom nudges me to touch his feet.      "Oh Laxmi, don’t be silly. Mira’s much too old for that sort of thing with her mamas anymore," he says, still smiling. I say nothing and sit with my hands trapped under my thighs, feeling his smile swell to fill the whole room.      This is not how it was supposed to be. In reality the roles should be reversed. I am the calm, resolute one and he’s fidgeting in the corner, awkward and wary. Staring at the ground I try to pretend it’s that way, my way. I stare out through the open balcony facing the sea but I don’t see the water. Instead I see the minuscule space between the water and the sky and I concentrate on it, a hole in the world to climb out of, believing it exists.             *            *            *      The days pass, Soni playing cards and dice with Devan, and Mom meeting old friends and cousins to find out who married whom and who’s still available. Seema flits about from one chore to another, preparing Devan’s bath, massaging his legs with oil, taking his calls, regulating his medication with the faithfulness of a servant or a domestic animal, sometimes I can’t tell which. During the day, Soni and I are always out.      We walk the boardwalk from one end of the pearl necklace to the other, passing from the high r isers and hotels to the fishing slums and beaches. Girls are walking to school, their uniforms gray and white, hair plaited, arms locked together, giggling at the boys sitting on the benches. The paint is peeling off the buildings betraying the muddy brown underneath. Rickshaws squawk like roosters in the early morning.      The stares bother me. The bhel-poori vendor, the policeman, the street cleaner, the fathers with children. I walk straight ahead, playing with my hair, tying the ends into knots. But I feel their eyes undoing them slowly, and my fingers become clumsy. Soni never n140 otices though, and she scolds me for being "no fun".      One day Soni goes to temple with Seema and I am walking by myself. Two men sitting on a bench are watching me. They are both young, maybe thirty, with thick mustaches and wearing brown sandals, one fat the other thin. I stop to buy chai from a hawker, and the fat man starts calling me. "Come here beautiful," he says in Hindi. I ignore him but the thin one starts too.      "Kya hai, You too shy, baby?"      "Oh Shekar, looks like she’s too good for us, man."      "Come on, come sit here for a while."      I pay the vendor and walk past the men, but the fat man named Shekar grabs my arm. "Won’t you sit down?" Maybe it’s an accident but I drop my chai in his lap and he screams. His face turns red like henna, and, cursing, he lets go of my arm. People stop and watch and the thin man runs to the hawker for water. I walk away, laughing a little. The stares don’t bother me so much anymore.             *            *            *      Soni is playing cards with Devan in the living room. Mom and Seema are out and I’m packing in the guest room. Through the doorway I watch them.      "You beat me so quickly, yaar! Are you sure you didn’t cheat?" he asks.      "Devan Mama! Don’t be such a sore loser!" Soni exclaims.      "We’ll just have to play again."      "Fine." She begins dealing the cards and they play again. Again she wins.      "I give up! You’re just too good." Soni beams with the compliment.      "Let’s play once more." Devan strokes her head.      "No let’s rest," he says and continues to stroke her head. I stop packing.      "Soni!" I shout.      "What?" She shouts back.      "Come help me pack," I say, my voice sounding hollow in my throat.      "But I’m playing!"      "You have to."      "I won’t," She says. I’m standing in the doorway now and I stare at them. There is a long pause as Soni begins shuffling the cards again.      "I’m going to go rest, Soni. Later we’ll play. Go help your sister," Devan says and wheels himself past me to the kitchen. We don’t look at each other. Soni throws the cards on the floor.      "See, you ruin everything!" Soni shouts and I go back to the bedroom, my heart a wild animal in my chest.             *            *            *      It is late on our last night and everyone is asleep. I go out into the hall to get a glass of water. The apartment is dark and the scent of incense is especially strong. The only light comes from the glass door that opens out onto the balcony. As I turn the knob of the door, my back to the living room, I am startled by a voice.      "Hello, Mira," he says. I turn and make out the outline of the shape.      "Hello," I say. My hand is on the doorknob behind me but I wait for him to speak. He says nothing, wheeling himself slightly closer. The room stands still.      "You’ve grown anxious over the years."      "I’ve always been a nervous person."      "You’ve grown tall too. I always thought you would." He comes closer, the wheels squeak. "Soni looks just like you at that age. The similarities are striking."      "We are very different."      "I suppose she’s not so quiet." The floor creaks as he comes closer.      "No, she’s not. She’ll be a lot more outspoken." The words are rusty, like the first words after a long silence. Devan looks at his legs.      "Do you know… do you?" he stammers for the first time and though I can’t see his expression I know he’s not smiling. "I don’t understand what…"      "What?" My voice feels thick.      "These legs. I hate these legs." he says and ventures closer, more hesitantly than before. "I did nothing for these legs."      "But you-"      "I wish, Mira..." he ventures even closer and is within arms length. My back is flat against the door, "I wish," he says, his voice heavy and his hand reaching for my head. He moves slowly and the light from the balcony reveals his face, his eyes large and frantic. I take a deep breath before he touches me.      "I’ll scream." For a moment his hand is still in the air and then suddenly he retreats, like a finger being pricked. No one breathes.      He moves away and waits but I say nothing. He sighs, just barely audible but enough to make me see for the first time how small he has become, split almost in two. He begins to wheel away, squeaking unnaturally across the floor. My body relaxes as he becomes smaller and smaller until he is finally gone.      I turn the knob and go out onto the balcony. I stand motionless and let the heat pass through me, as the pale white morning touch the first waves and I comb through the knots in my hair.