Almost everyone was gathered in the living room, wearing cotton white churidars or kurtas, and if they didn’t have anything white, they opted for another muted color—light yellow, light peach, light seafoam.
It was the in-between day. The funeral hadn’t happened yet, but the body wasn’t home either.
There were a few people gathered in the kitchen making chai, coffee and basic snacks for the people who had arrived to pay their respects. The coffee table had been moved to the corner and there was a huge photo of her.
Priya’s mom.
I’m Priya’s best friend.
I was mostly watching her navigate this and hoping I could show up in whatever way she needed. Listening when she wanted to tell me memories about her mom. Glancing at her when someone said something and we both knew this person had been anything but supportive to her mom while she was alive and was now somehow heaving heavier than Priya and her brother.
I helped pass out food and made eye contact with the aunties who knew me to see if there was anything else that needed to happen.
At some point, Priya’s dad started talking about his wife.
“She always called me to remind me of my medicine. She loved making everyone’s favorite food. She did so much for my mom. She—”
Before he could finish, Priya interrupted him.
“What did Mom like?”
He looked at her.
“What were Mom’s dreams? What was Mom’s favorite show?”
Nothing.
“Okay, fine. What was her favorite color?”
And of course, the aunties came over to calm her down while announcing to every extended family member that she was distressed.
“They were so close. She’s heartbroken.”
Usually, this was when Amit, her brother, would tell her to leave it alone.
Amit had spent years telling Priya not to bother with people. That she didn’t always have to say something. Not everything needed a response. Ignore it. Let it go.
This time, he didn’t.
Maybe because he knew she wasn’t wrong.
Maybe because this was his mom too.
Maybe because he couldn’t deal with the act anymore either.
Priya continued.
“Mom loved bottle green in Indian clothes and sage green in Western clothes. She loved seafoam on linen, but she never bought it because she thought it made her look darker and she didn’t want to hear the commentary around it. Mom loves sunsets more than sunrises. Mom loves fried rice from basically any cuisine, and her weakness is a good Bombay sandwich and sev puri. Mom loves listening to good music early in the morning while she has coffee. And not fucking bhajan. Mom loves nostalgia because it’s the only place she can still see her dad because he died so young. Mom wishes she had traveled more. And she gets bored of beaches after two days.”
Her dad was still sitting in his chair.
“But she sounds better when she’s doing everything for everyone instead of living for herself, right?” Nobody said anything.
Priya continued.
“Mom really loved her smile. She loved that she never had armpit fat despite all her weight fluctuations. Mom loved wearing shorts and sleeveless tops but only felt safe doing it around Amit and me. Mom hated people who didn’t thoroughly clean their dishes. She always said water should glide off them, not look like it splashed on them. Mom loved sitting on a swing every evening as a child and teenager, talking with her best friends. Mom loved documentaries about natural disasters because of how vast it all felt.”
She looked at her father.
“Mom loved so much that you know nothing of.”
Nobody moved.
“Dad, if you died, Mom wouldn’t be able to eat a besan ladoo without thinking about how much you loved them. She would know how to answer every question I just asked. Actually, those questions would be easy. She would even know your childhood stories.”
She looked directly at him.
“Wouldn’t she?”
He didn’t answer.
“So here is what we are not going to do. We are not going to pretend you were a good husband and losing her is breaking you. And we are not going to make your repenting center stage. Amit and I lost our mom. Amit and I lost our best friend. And our mom is finally free from a loveless marriage. Our mom was in a loveless marriage her entire adult life. Amit and I get to talk about her. Not you.”
That was when her dad’s face changed.
The grief disappeared and the anger took over. His chest started heaving, his jaw tightened, and his body shifted forward in the chair.
That was when Amit moved closer to Priya.
He didn’t tell her to stop.
He didn’t tell her this wasn’t the time.
He didn’t tell her to let it go.
He just moved closer.
Priya didn’t take her eyes off her father.
“As for how I’m dressing her tomorrow for the funeral? I’m putting her in extra-wide corduroy pants like the ones her dad bought her when she was sixteen.”
She paused.
“She leaves as his daughter. Not as your wife.”
Amit looked at his father.
“What Priya said. Also, you get to sit in the chair at the funeral. You don’t participate. She leaves with dignity and pride.”
Nobody spoke.
Her mom’s sisters were the first to move.
The same aunties who knew when to tell Priya to calm down. Who knew when something didn’t need to be said. Who knew when to tell her to let something go.
They didn’t say any of those things.
Two of them walked over and held Priya and Amit’s hands.
And one of them said, she really loved those bell-bottom pants. And then Amit looked at Priya, and whispered, do you have those pants?
And Priya looked at me and said, Pooja will get them. I gave her mom’s size. Amit added, “See if you can find a seafoam top.”
