Chapter 6 Dina
Dina
‘And then she just handed me the invite, even though the wedding is only two weeks away. Can you believe that? Totally shameless.’ Ma shakes her head, like last-minute wedding invites are some kind of crime against humanity.
‘I thought you didn’t even like Maryam aunty,’ Deen says through a mouthful of rice.
His words would be completely incomprehensible, but Ma and I are too used to him and can understand him even in the worst of circumstances.
Still, Ma frowns at his ill-kept manners, though she doesn’t make a comment on it for now.
‘I just think your Maryam aunty has … a few faults.’ Ma begins to clear the table of the dishes, as a way to veer away from the topic of how much she actually dislikes Maryam aunty.
The whole conversation about her eldest son’s wedding invite has definitely elicited a sour mood from our mother.
At another point in time, she might use a wedding invite to try to cajole Deen and me about our romantic relationships, but Deen has been all hands on deck with the restaurant for the past three years with no room for romance, and I blew up my last serious relationship when I quit my job at the financial firm.
She – Anu – was determined to believe that I was just having some sort of a quarter-life crisis, and refused to entertain it by supporting my decision to quit. So that was that.
It’s a good thing Ma was never a big fan of Anu anyway.
Deen gives me an encouraging glance from across the table, but I know now is not the time to start the conversation about football with Ma. Instead, I stand up quickly and start gathering up the dishes even faster than Ma can.
‘Deen and I can clean up,’ I offer.
Deen shoots me a glare, but quickly pastes on a smile when Ma looks from me to him.
‘I don’t mind,’ Ma says. ‘I like it when you both eat here.’ She says it as if Deen hasn’t been living with her for the past five years and doesn’t eat here every single day.
Or that ever since I quit my job in the city, I haven’t come here twice a week for her cooking – which remains incomparable to anything else.
‘We’ve got it, Ma,’ I say. ‘You want some tea?’
Ma looks at me with a hint of suspicion, which makes me wonder if the offer of tea was a little bit too much.
Deen and I have never been the kind of kids who pamper our parents.
In fact, Deen has a long and storied track record of being the problem child who would require my parents to have meetings with the school principal every couple of months.
It’s kind of a wonder that he grew up to be the person he is today.
‘I can make the tea,’ Deen offers now, standing up too.
If Ma is suspicious, she doesn’t say it. Instead, she smiles and wanders away from the dining room and towards her prized garden. It’s become a bit of an obsession for her over the last few years, but as far as obsessions go, it’s been pretty fruitful.
Last year, she planted tomatoes, which bloomed into small, green-ish red cherry tomatoes that were a little too sour to put into a salad.
But being Bengali, Ma had the perfect solution: she made the tomatoes into achar.
It was perfectly suited with the sour taste, and she even made enough to give away to a few of the aunties around the neighbourhood.
Her home-made achar from her home-grown tomatoes was definitely one of her great sources of pride last year, especially since, as her kids, we hadn’t brought home any accomplishments.
Ever since Deen got his diploma in business three years ago, he’s been whiling away his time maintaining the restaurant.
Meanwhile, I had only brought home disappointment through my hasty decision to quit my job.
Ma has never expressed disapproval about either of our choices, but I know it’s hard for her when her friends boast about their kids’ high-paying careers.
They’ve gone on to become doctors, engineers and lawyers.
And if not that, they’ve at least had the good sense to get married and start families.
Comparatively, Deen and I are failures as children.
I watch as Ma starts tending to some of her plants, unsure of how to approach her, when Deen passes by, elbowing me painfully in the ribs and whispering, ‘Coward,’ into my ear. He starts up the kettle and it hisses loudly as it begins boiling.
I turn to him with a frown. ‘You weren’t jumping to talk to her either.’
‘Yeah, well. Mine is, you know … less concrete,’ Deen says, looking at the boiling kettle instead of at me.
‘Which makes your discussion easier to have,’ I point out.
‘No, it doesn’t,’ Deen says. ‘Yours is more important. I mean, aren’t you supposed to start next week?’
‘Yes …’ The thought of that doesn’t bring me joy.
I’m due to start coaching soon, and the idea of it makes panic slowly creep through me.
But there’s also an electric pulse of excitement when I imagine stepping onto a football pitch again.
It’s been so long since I’ve touched a football, or even gone near a pitch. I never thought that I would again.
Deen is right – even if he is saying all of this because he doesn’t want to be first up to talk to Ma.
‘Just because I’m talking to her first doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,’ I tell him.
Deen rolls his eyes as he places the familiar Hollywood star of fame mug on the counter, tossing a teabag into it.
Deen and I bought Ma the mug when we were kids, back when she still went to auditions.
Back when she still talked about her dream of becoming an actress. I barely even remember those days now.
Taking a deep breath, I make my way towards Ma in the garden. She looks happy and peaceful, shovelling the dirt around her blueberry bushes.
‘Ma …’ I say.
‘Hmm?’ she answers, though she doesn’t look up.
I crouch down by the blueberry bushes next to her, unsure of how to bring up the topic.
‘You think you’ll make blueberry achar this year?’ I ask.
Ma’s eyes light up at the suggestion. She takes hold of some of the flowers that have bloomed on the leaves of the plant and studies them closely. ‘If I don’t let them ripen, I probably could. Do you think that would taste good?’
I’m definitely the wrong person to ask that question, but I nod happily, trying to keep Ma in this favourable mood. Then, with a deep breath, I dive in. ‘Ma, do you remember … Jen?
‘Your friend with the bad haircut from school?’
I frown, wondering which friend she’s talking about.
I’m not surprised that she doesn’t remember Jen.
It was Baba who dealt with all the football stuff.
He was the one who bought me my first football kit, who used to kick the ball around with me in the back garden while Ma despaired over the state of her plants.
He attended every single match I had and always cheered me on.
He and Jen were basically on a first-name basis.
‘Um, no. She was … well, she used to coach football back in secondary school. You met her a couple of times, at some of my games. Well, she came into the restaurant the other day.’ I pause, waiting for Ma to react, but she doesn’t.
She doesn’t give any indication that she’s even heard what I’ve said, but she must have.
I worry that if I pause, I’ll never get up the courage to tell her again, so I just plough on.
‘She still coaches football. Not at the school anymore, though. She helps run a youth football group for the council, which is obviously very commendable. It helps the kids out, I’m sure.
Anyway, um … well, she told me she was looking for an assistant coach and you know I’ve been feeling lost ever since I quit my job.
And this felt like a good opportunity. So, I thought I would help her out. ’
I pause once more, looking for some kind of a change in Ma’s demeanour.
Something that tells me she’s disappointed or happy, though the latter is unlikely.
She doesn’t say anything, though. Instead, she studies the blooms on her plants with careful scrutiny, cradling them with her hands, feeling them with her fingertips.
‘She’s asked me to start next week. I just …
wanted you to know.’ I stand up, brushing some dirt off my jeans, and trying not to feel too discouraged by Ma’s lack of a response.
Deen was definitely right not to want to talk to Ma – she’s always been this way, shutting down instead of engaging in uncomfortable conversations.
For Ma, it was better to bury everything, especially your feelings.
It’s become worse since Baba passed away.
Sometimes, I wonder if that’s why she’s so hell-bent on not changing anything in the restaurant.
If it’s her way of preserving Baba’s memory.
‘I don’t know why you’re going back to the very thing that broke your heart and spirit.’ Ma’s voice – sharp and clear – surprises me. I may have expected her to be disappointed in my decision to pursue football again, but I didn’t expect her to be disappointed for me.
‘It’s not – it’s going to be different this time,’ I say, but I can’t stop the quiver in my voice.
I hate that I don’t sound convincing, even to myself.
‘It’s not a football team or the chance at a scholarship or anything.
It’s just an assistant coach position, and I can quit any time I want. I won’t get caught up in it.’
I can’t get caught up in it, though I don’t voice that out loud to Ma.
Ma looks up to meet my gaze finally, studying me wordlessly.
She doesn’t believe me, and I don’t blame her.
I’m not sure if I believe me either. Will it be that easy to go back to football?
Will it be that easy if I left it again?
It took so much from me once before, and now I’m walking back to it as if all of that history has been erased, when I know that it hasn’t.
‘You changed after everything, you know.’ Ma stands up, taking off her yellow gardening gloves slowly. ‘I always noticed it in you. It took you so long to move forward, and I just don’t want that to happen again.’
‘It won’t happen again,’ I insist. More for myself than for her.
If last time had left me broken and hollow, I’m not sure I have it in me to go through that heartbreak again.