I knew Mummy meant what she said. How could I forget the garba party at Nimita’s wedding?

I was glad that Mummy didn’t come to the pool with us. If she found out that I was smiling at a stranger and thinking about him, she would scold me. But it would do no good. If I didn’t have any control over my heart, how could Mummy?

four

NOW THAT NIMITA was married, Mummy expected me to help her and Mohini with the cooking. Sometimes I did, but most afternoons I played cards or carrom with Chiraj and Vivek. I never offered to make afternoon tea, and that didn’t suit Mummy at all. “Playing with Chiraj and Vivek will never teach you a thing. Make good tea, learn to be a good cook; otherwise you’ll ruin your pappa’s name when you get married,” she would say to me.

“How can I ruin Pappa’s name? He’s never in the kitchen and doesn’t care if I’m in there or not. I’ll ruin your name.”

Mohini cringed.

“Did you hear her, Mohini? Every day Jeeta’s tongue wags more and more, and I don’t know what to do with her. She’s so different from you and Nimita.” Looking at me, Mummy warned, “Don’t behave like Pappa’s spoiled potato. Learn to be polite and don’t argue with your elders. If you can’t do that—if you can’t keep your long, unruly tongue in control—I’ll pull it out.”

Mummy felt that Pappa had spoiled me so much that there was nothing she could do to bring me back to her ways. It was true that Pappa and I had a special relationship. When I was little, I ran to Pappa if I was unhappy. He always lifted me up on his lap, listened to my complaints, stroked my hair, wiped my tears, kissed my cheeks, and brought a smile back to my face.

One of my earliest memories was from when I was four years old. Mummy had had a miscarriage late in her pregnancy, and I remember her lying on the bed in our bedroom. Many women came, and I heard some of them whisper as they left our house that whenever a family had a threesome, either three boys or three girls in a row, then something bad always happened.

I don’t know who, but someone in a brown sari who smelled like a ripe, mushy banana, pointed at me and said, “This is the third one.” She looked at me with such contempt that I ran to Mummy. Mummy was sitting up in bed, still surrounded by other women. I did not know any of those women by name, only by the smell of their saris: sour like three-day-old yogurt, sweet like talcum powder, nasty like used rags, starchy like overcooked rice.