Chapter 4 #2
Hem slapped him on the shoulder before he kicked off his shoes in the grand foyer.
He walked past the dual staircase with curved mahogany banisters, through the great hall, and into the kitchen.
His mother stood in front of the oven, humming along with the Punjabi folk songs playing softly in the wall speakers.
The smell of melting ghee and the soft sizzle of stuffed bread on a hot griddle filled the air.
“Muma,” he said.
His mother turned, her face marked by the faintest lines of age, brightened with joy. Hem rounded the island and touched her feet, accepting the blessings she always gave him, even when she was mad. Then he snatched her up and spun her in circles like he’d done since he was a teenager.
“Oy, bewakoof!” She smacked him on the shoulder, even as she laughed and her long black braid whipped around. “My puttar,” she said when he finally dropped her to her feet. Her eyes glowed with unshed tears and Hem leaned down so that she could cup his face in her hands.
“Missed you, Muma.” The words came easily even though he’d been so sure seeing her after so long would be difficult. But no, not with her. Not with this woman who had always loved him in her own, complicated way.
The hole in his heart that had gaped and bled for the last year slowly began to heal.
“Of course you missed me,” she said, sniffling. “My idiot son with his pride. Can’t even come home to say hello to his mother.”
“But I didn’t go a day without thinking of you, so that has to count for something.”
She sniffled again, and waved a hand in the air as if she was swatting a fly. “Tu rehnde. I don’t believe your pretty words.”
God, she was such a strong woman. She supported her husband when he’d had nothing to his name but a dream. She’d stood by his side and raised a family with an iron fist. Hem lifted her hands and pressed them against his cheeks just so he could feel her for a little bit longer.
“Eat and drink some masala chai, Hemdeep,” she said in Punjabi. “Then go see your father upstairs.”
Hem sat at the island and watched as she picked up a parantha and slid it onto his plate.
She added mango pickle, a tab of fresh butter, and two heaps of homemade dahi.
The yogurt was tart and cool, the mango pickle fragrant and tangy.
The silver kara he wore on his left wrist clinked against the plate as he tore a piece of the bread and felt the flavors explode in his mouth.
He looked up to see her watching him, holding a teacup that matched the one sitting at his elbow. “Mom? How’s Dad doing?”
“His heart is broken,” she said quietly.
“Is that what the doctor said? Because if he needs a stent or open- heart surgery, I know a few great specialists that can help.”
His mother shot him a look before she turned and rolled out the dough for the second parantha. “My oldest baby. So responsible and so literal all the time. No, he has the depression. He feels like he is losing all he’s worked for before it passed to you.”
“To Ajay, you mean.”
She sighed. “To all of you, Hem.”
He nodded. “Are you worried about the company?”
“I worry about our . . . reputation. Bharat was our first success. It’s our legacy. All the other businesses mean nothing if we cannot keep Bharat.”
“That’s not true, Mom. We won’t lose Bharat, but you can’t put that kind of pressure on yourself to believe that Bharat is worth more than anything else we’ve accomplished.”
She shot him an annoyed look over her shoulder as she flipped the parantha.
“One a lawyer, one an accountant, and one a software engineer. All of you are executives and among the three of you, no one can figure out why family, legacy, honor, and tradition are the most important parts of your life. Maybe it’s because none of you are married and all three in your thirties.
Bharat goes, then we’ll truly lose respect for any family success. ”
“Christ, Mom?— ”
She slammed the rolling pin onto the counter.
“We didn’t send you to religious studies at the gurdwara for years so you can come in here saying ‘Christ’ or ‘Jesus!’ Show some respect, Hem.
All I’m saying is that I saw your brother Zail in a magazine with some girl at a Hollywood fund- raiser party.
When I asked him about her, what does he say?
That he forgot her name already. So shameless.
Your cousins are younger than you and already have children! ”
“Yeah, that’s because they live in farmhouses in Punjab, Mom. What else is there to do out there besides ride tractors, eat sugarcane, and make babies?”
“Hem, I’m being serious. When are you going to settle down with a nice girl? Lisa was so long ago.”
His mother was picking at a scab, and he knew sooner or later he would bleed. And how did they end up talking about marriage, anyway? They were discussing the buyout offer. The rumblings of a hostile takeover. “I don’t want to talk about Lisa,” he said.
“Lisa was not right for you. She ran because she couldn’t handle a little pressure.”
“A little pressure? Mom, Dad offered her money to leave me. To sign an NDA and go.”
“And she took it, didn’t she?”
Hem bit the inside of his cheek to stop from saying something vicious, to blame her and his father for interfering and costing him so much pain.
They’d hated Lisa on site. He thought it was because she wasn’t Punjabi at first, but he’d come to learn that it was all of the different ways she was independent.
How she didn’t think of community first. How she was so career focused and supportive of Hem to be the same.
He should’ve known that she wouldn’t be able to resist a ten-million-dollar check. She wanted to start her own firm, and ten million would set her up in the most spectacular way.
“You and Dad have always been able to get your way,” Hem said.
His mother turned around, and her hardened expression crumbled.
“Your sadness is never something we want. But it’s in the past, and time for you and your father to let it go.
You need someone who can handle the pressure you’re under and stand by your side.
You need a woman who can interpret both sides of you. ”
Both sides. The Punjabi and the American side. The traditional and religious part of him that he cherished, versus the corporate business owner.
Was his mother right? Had Lisa ever truly understood all of him?
“Enough, Mama,” he said. “Finding the right woman is not my priority right now.” He had a fleeting thought of Mina but brushed it aside.
“Hem, you have so much love to give.”
“I’ll give it to you and my brothers,” he said as she slipped another parantha onto his plate. “Marriage isn’t the answer. Not right now. However, I think I have an idea as to how we can protect the company . . .”
She stood on the other side of the island, spatula in hand. “Tell me.”
He gave her the full recap of the day’s events. Ajay would take the lead, Hem would act as legal, and Zail would be increasing his trips back East.
He could tell that his mother’s hope blossomed as he continued to tell her details of the plan. Of how they were going to block shareholder sales as best as they could, while digging into WTA’s interest.
“Fight them,” she said in Punjabi. “Fight WTA and give them back what they did to shake the support we’d earned over the years.”
“We will, Mom.”
Hem’s mother nodded, taking the empty plate away. “Your father has been dealing with so much. Not only with you and the business, but also back home.”
“What else is going on?” Hem asked.
“He thinks your uncle Gopal has been gambling.”
Hem’s jaw dropped. “What? I didn’t know there were issues.”
“I told your father to bring him out here, get him away from the things that tempt him, but he never got the chance. And now with his heart attack . . .”
“Do you want me to deal with Gopal?”
She patted his cheek. “No, my bacha. Not now. You have more important things to take care of. Go upstairs and see your father. Find out how he’s doing and tell him your news. Then we’ll figure out everything else. Sometimes heeling takes time, and sometimes, all you need to do is be there.”
Hem kissed his mom’s temple before passing her his empty plate and washing his hands at the marble sink.
He had to brace himself before walking up the wide staircase to the east wing of the house.
A year. It had been a year since he’d seen his father.
He felt every muscle in his body tense as he prepared himself for the first confrontation in the longest separation they’d had in their relationship.
He didn’t want to fight. He didn’t want to be defensive and argue and devolve into a man who continuously shouted to try to get his point across and to cover up hurt feelings.
But the last time they communicated, that was exactly what happened.
It wasn’t going to be like that again.
He opened the last door at the end of the hall and peeked inside. The majestic four poster bed was empty, which made Hem open the door wider in alarm.
He turned toward the floor- to- ceiling windows and saw the older man sitting in a rocking chair facing the gardens outside. A mud- colored shawl was draped around his shoulders and his head was tipped back. He stared blankly at the view of the back of the estate.
“Papa?” Hem said quietly. His heart pounded. This was not how he’d expected his first meeting with his father to go. The paranthas sat heavy in his stomach. The sour words that had passed between them echoed in his brain.
His father’s head cocked to the left indicating that he was awake.
Hem stepped into the room, his bare feet silent on the plush carpet.
When he stood in front of his father, taking in the listless expression, the unfocused eyes, his own heart felt like it was breaking.
This brilliant, vibrant man was a shell of himself.
In one year, he’d changed so much that it made Hem want to turn back the clock, to take back their lost time.
What had he done? What had he done to lose precious moments with this man?
His heart constricted almost painfully.
Hem would give anything to see him burning with fire again, even if that meant he’d be hurt in the process.
“You came to see me,” a whispered voice said in Punjabi.
“Of course,” Hem said. “Always getting yourself into trouble, right, Papa?”
There was a hint of a smile, and Hem could feel the tears well his throat. “Your mother thinks it’s the mango pickle.”
“She could be right.”
“Don’t you know by now? Your mother is always right.”
Hem laughed, and the sound was a little watery. He hitched up his jeans and sat on the floor at the base of his father’s feet.
“How is my papa?” he said as he rested his elbows on his knees and looked up at the sullen, gray face. He reached out and gripped his father’s large hand in his.
“Vadiya. My oldest son has come home.”
Tears pricked Hem’s eyes. “Yes. And I’m working with Ajay and Zail to help you with this WTA nuisance that’s come to our door.”
“You’re working for Bharat?”
“Consulting. But yes. Focus on your health. Everyone thinks you’re designing software so you have time to heal while we take care of things.”
“Are you c- coming b- back?”
Hem debated telling his father a lie. There was too much hope in his face, just like his mother’s. “I don’t think so, Papa.”
They sat in silence for a long time. The muffled steps of staff in the halls periodically interrupted their thoughts.
“Shall I tell you something interesting that your oldest discovered?” Hem said in Punjabi.
That earned a sideways glance, the way it always used to as a child when he promised his father interesting news.
“Sanjeev sent his niece, Mina Kohli, to the meeting today.” Hem wasn’t sure why he was telling his father this.
The last time they’d talked about his love life, they had a fight that resulted in going no contact for a year.
And yet, he wanted to tell his father about Mina.
It was almost as if it was a compulsion.
“The last time I saw her was at a fundraiser a few years back,” he said, slowly. “I think. Those events run together.”
Had he noticed her? Really noticed her? He was sure that he had. How could he not? But he’d been dating someone else, and his orbit had centered the woman he’d planned on marrying.
Hem cleared his throat. “There was something about Mina today sitting at that boardroom table. She’s blossomed into a beautiful Sardarni.
Long hair, very tall. I think she’s always been tall.
It was my mistake for never really thinking about her sooner.
She’s managing the compensation committee that’s supposed to deliberate on this dumb offer. ”
His father turned now to look at him, the haziness cleared for a moment from his eyes. “Are you going to see her again?” he said, his voice heavy with exhaustion.
“Yes, we’ll be working together.”
The corner of his mouth turned up in the barest hint of a rare, precious smile. “Good.”