me a really, why? kind of look. He is back in his customary check shirt today, tucked neatly into his jeans, his brown belt tied a little too tight. His hair has been ruthlessly combed so that no stray strands can spring up. He is looking apprehensively at Mum. For someone who has written a book on Indian street theatre called Nautanki and Other North Indian Curiosities, who loves melodrama on the stage and on the page, he shies away from all forms of it in real life. My father, the great pacifier, the one who steps in as soon as he smells a storm brewing. The one who will do anything to keep at bay a painful truth.
My mum has no such hang-ups. ‘Why did you do it? Why, Rilla, why? After everything we do for you, this is how you repay us. It is like a slap in the face.’
‘Yes,’ I start, ‘yes, it is definitely all about you—’
Dad gives me a warning shake of the head. I roll my eyes, and slide down to the floor. Dad pats my mother’s arm.
‘The thing is, it doesn’t matter why she did it.’ Uncle Jat folds his hands together. ‘Let sleeping waters lie, I say. What we want to think about is how to fix it.’
‘We can invite them to dinner.’ Auntie Pinky has her plotting face on. ‘Rilla can cook for them, say sorry to them—’
‘I can offer Simon’s father shares in my company,’ Uncle Jat says.
‘All she needs to do is call Simon.’ My father looks from person to person, nodding his head. ‘He is a sensible boy, it can all be sorted out. If she calls Simon—’
‘If she says it is all her fault, that she is a stupid girl who has no more sense than a newborn sparrow, he will listen.’ Auntie Pinky slowly nods her head.
‘I am here, you know,’ I say mildly.
‘And while we’re at it,’ she looks sternly at me, ‘I’d like to know why you didn’t wear the earrings, bangles and two necklaces I gave you for the wedding. Not one bit of gold – what kind of bride wears bronze hoops? They will think we are paupers. With no respect.’
I close my eyes for a second. The GIF seems to be here to make me feel bad. Well, most of the party is here for that reason. I look over at where my cousin Jharna is sitting. She is definitely only here to be on social media. And when I say here, I don’t mean in my flat, but on this earth. She is eighteen years old. She only ever looks at me with one eye. The other is reading her tweets, darting left and right, gobbling up news bites, 140-character morsels that tell her important items of news, like which one of her favourite celeb-crushes is just chillin’ in their PJs y’all and which is taking their hipster poodle out for a doggie manicure. Still, I can’t forget her text message warning me that the GIF was on its way, cavalry and all, and that I could run if I wanted to; I didn’t even know she cared. She is now stabbing at her phone, sitting on the floor with her knees tucked up under her chin. The position startles me. It reminds me of me, and then it reminds me suddenly and forcefully of my sister Rose. It catches me unawares, and a sharp pain hits me in the chest. Don’t you see, I want to say to everyone, my life has gone completely wrong, doesn’t anyone see? I look around for help, but no one is looking at me. They’re all tucking in to the cupcakes. I slump back against the wall.
‘Can’t you get your ass out of that phone?’ Auntie Pinky complains to her daughter after a while. She stands up, tugs at Jharna’s crop top for a second in a vain effort to make it longer, then starts tidying the flat. She picks up old tissue off the floor, wine glasses from a few days ago from behind the sofa. She tidies cushions (after she gives them a wary sniff), gets the dustpan and brush from the kitchen and starts clearing away wood dust. She drags the model village carefully under the rustic coffee table in the corner. Federico and I look sideways at each other but neither of us tries to stop her. It’s the first clean the living room has had in weeks. He makes a face, I shrug. Does this mean he has forgiven me for what I said to him earlier about his relationships?
‘How will you get a job, beta, if you’re always on your phone?’ Uncle Jat says to Jharna.
‘You didn’t have such a problem with it last week,’ Jharna responds.
‘I was looking for an old school friend from Delhi,’ Auntie Pinky expands, panting a little with the strain of bending and straightening, bending and straightening. ‘Jharna tracked her down. The girl can find a needle in a haystack as long as the haystack is on the WWW.’
‘Whatevs Muvs,’ Jharna says.
Since her vocabulary is better than most people I know, I’m guessing she’s doing the teen lingo just to annoy her parents. She goes back to her phone, works furiously with her thumbs, and blows an enormous bubblegum bubble that nearly smothers her nose ring. She is wearing a crop top that says ‘Everybody Should Be a Feminist’, a pair of loose boyfriend jeans and a military-print hairband knotted in her hair.
‘How can you live like this?’ Auntie Pinky complains. ‘If you take these posters off the wall, Federico, I could give it a proper spring clean. Look at the cobwebs.’
Federico looks like he wants to go and stand in front of his precious posters. Greenpeace, Janis Joplin, yin-and-yang, an X-Files ‘I Want to Believe’, an embossed Om. But he also doesn’t want Auntie Pinky to stop cleaning. I throw a cushion at him.
‘Oye, why are you hitting the poor boy?’ Auntie Pinky demands.
‘Spider,’ I mumble.
‘Where?’ Auntie Pinky shrieks.
‘It’s—’ I clear my throat, ‘disappeared under the sofa.’
Auntie Pinky marches over to the sofa, stares for a second, then goes into a crouching position, armed with a patent leather pump. But she doesn’t stop there. She keeps sliding until she is lying flat on the floor and peering under the sofa, holding her phone in the gap between the sofa and floor for light.
‘Hold your horses,’ Auntie Pinky says. ‘I see it, I see it!’
Federico and I are staring at her. I glance at him. On a normal day, he would be enjoying this pantomime, and also basking in the sight of someone actually cleaning our flat for once. But he is avoiding my eyes. Has he forgiven me?
‘Anyway, why did you dump him?’ Jharna says.
It takes me a few seconds to realize that she is talking to me. I wince. I didn’t dump Simon, that is an ugly word. Dump. Definition: a) Drop heavily or suddenly, b) Knock down in a prize fight, c) Another word for tip – an area for dropping your rubbish, and d) Slang for doing a shit. Clearly none of these apply here.
‘Dump? Is that what Hannah Montana would say?’ I say wickedly.
‘What are you, twelve?’ She gives me a look of disgust before going back to whatever she is doing – probably unfriending me on Facebook.
‘Why did you do it?’ my father asks.
I blow air out of my mouth like a kettle on the boil. ‘We shouldn’t have got engaged in the first place. It was a mistake.’
‘And it took you till the wedding day to figure this out?’ my mother says.
‘I thought I could go through with it. Okay?’ I spread my hands out to emphasize that this should be obvious to everyone. I take a deep breath. ‘I thought – I thought if I could just
