Nobody's Child

Chapter Two

Kamini. NOW. 2018

T is calling me again.

Being a mother is like nursing a migraine. A nagging dull throb that never goes away. You just teach yourself how to manage it, how to live with it.

I've told T a million times not to disturb my only hour of peace in the morning. I like to be by myself, collect my thoughts, sip my adrak chai and prepare myself for the day ahead. But my words to her are like water off a duck's back. She always thunders her way through, disturbing and throwing my plans asunder. She arrived into this world pretty much the same way – much before the expected date, ruining my Parisian outfit and rabbit-leather shoes. Pratap had wrapped the shahtoosh shawl around me; the bloodstains couldn't be removed. What a waste! I've never quite forgiven her for that.

Tanya has remained consistent; always barging in, demanding to be heard and attended to with scant regard for anything else.

But I'm surprised that she's calling me at seven in the morning. How did she manage to wake up this early to make a call? Though 7 a.m. is hardly early, in her world it is. So if she's calling at this hour, it's either to complain, nag or negotiate. She wants something desperately. I know my T.

Of late, her constant whining and the nasal 'What the ...' has been getting on my nerves, and I have resisted the urge to scream the sentence complete.

What the fuck, Tanya! Can you ever shut the fuck up and not complain all the time?

But I don't. I'm a mother – a fact I have to keep reminding myself. The seed of my womb – now twenty-two years old with long, sinewy legs, her father's sharp nose and my thin lips and wavy hair cascading over her thin shoulders – won't stop trying my patience.

In the last twenty-four hours, she has called six times to say the same thing. 'Why the ... do I have to sing all day?' She knows better than to utter the expletive in front of me. She pauses instead of using the F-word but I know she's saying it in her head. There's a line which she dare not cross but I do at will. I never hesitate to use the expletives openly with others and silently in my head with Tanya.

I have a busy morning ahead. An important meeting at the party office. I can't afford to be late and she'll have to be dealt with. I have to take her call. I think of ignoring it, but I just can't. I guess I have become the part I set out to play. After twenty-five years of playing the doting wife and happy mother, some of it might've seeped under my skin. Though I could never be accused of the former – I never pretended to be a doting wife and Pratap never wanted me to be one. Am I a happy mother? Let's save that for another day.

I swipe right to take thecall – 'Good morning, T.' I'vefinished fifty surya namaskars and would have liked to finish the remaining fifty-seven, but if I don't deal with T right now, she will keep calling all day. I don't want that.

With my other hand, I fiddle with the cup of chai that was made for me earlier by the staff. I allow myself to sink into the large cane chair and put my feet up on the white railing, which is in stark contrast to my dark skin. Toenails trimmed short, clean and buffed. Gone are the days of blood-red nail-paint. Nowadays, it's clean and clear. Over the years, I've left behind every habit and preference of yore to fit the new cast.

'Mom! I can't do this anymore.' Her trademark nasal falsetto sounds like the scratching of nails on a blackboard. I grit my teeth. She continues, 'You promised that I wouldn't have to sing after one year and it's been almost two! My life's ruined, Mom. Ruined! My friends are going to the Bahamas and I'm stuck in this smelly, stuffy studio, belting out numbers for some dumb-shit movie. Mom! What the ...' I hear her out like I always do, while checking my fingernails – also trimmed short, U-shaped and with no paint. I miss the long nails I used to flaunt and the insane colours I painted them. Dirty yellow. Orange with purple flecks. I miss the wild days sometimes. I run my fingers through my hair. I pull out the band that held them in place while I did yoga. It tumbles over my shoulder, letting the early-morning air caress it lightly. I know I'm tuning out what T is animatedly saying in my ear.