Read Online Naming Maya by Uma Krishnaswami - Free Book Online

the real estate agent, Prasad, brings new people to see the house. He takes off his shoes at the door, where people coming into the house are expected to. You can tell who has company in any house up and down the road by the rows of shoes and sandals at the door. He is dressed like one of the billboards that advertise men’s clothing, pants ironed to a sharp crease, tie held in place with a little fussy pin.
    â€œHow do you like India?” Prasad asks me. He sets his briefcase down and wipes his forehead with a white handkerchief. “You are here in mango season. You like mangoes?”
    â€œYes,” I say. “Yes. I like mangoes.”
    He and Mom chat about mangoes. They debate politely
over the best variety (Alphonso or Banganapalli). On one point Mom agrees with Prasad—you can’t get a decent mango in the United States.
    The prospective buyers are a husband and wife. They are small and quiet, both of them, matched in size and volume. They talk back and forth to each other, quickly, in undertones, refusing to join in the mango conversation. The wife jots columns of numbers on a floppy notepad and wriggles her toes so her silver toe rings click on the floor.
    Mami brings coffee around. It is milky and sweet and steaming hot, with a lovely bitterness that fills the air. I don’t like the taste of it much but I love that smell. She looks them all up and down. She urges, “Drink before it gets cold. Best blend of peaberry and robusta.” Steam rises from the stainless steel tumblers of coffee, promising they will not cool anytime soon.
    â€œVery good,” says Prasad. He takes an obedient sip of the scalding stuff.
    â€œFrom Narasu’s. I ground it myself.” Mami beams. I stifle a grin, having been with her on a couple of those coffee-grinding trips. Mami’s method is to commandeer the coffee grinder after bullying the owner into admitting he doesn’t know the first thing about truly fine coffee. When she’s got him to the point where he is
begging her to teach him how best to use his own equipment, she then holds up all the other customers till she’s got the stuff done to exactly the right consistency. She passes out samples of it to everyone in the store, admires the texture and scent, declares the price outrageous, and only then counts out the rupees.
    Prasad finishes his coffee, clears his throat, and says, “Hrmm, shall we?” And Mom says, “Please. Go through the house. I’ll be here if you have any questions.” Mami takes off reluctantly with the empty tumblers.
    Reciting a list of the selling points of the house, Prasad leads the couple into the hallway and up the stairs. “Excellent condition. It has been in the same family for three generations. And of course this is a prime location.”
    I think perhaps I’ll tell Mom about my concerns about Mami, but before I can say anything, she mumbles about going to see if Mami has enough milk money. So I don’t get a chance to talk to her. I tell myself that it’s all Mom’s fault. If she’d wanted to hear me even a little, I’d have shared my worries about Mami with her in the first place. Even if they were needless worries.
    That’s right, chimes in the Dad voice in my head.
Why didn’t she listen to you? Why didn’t she tell you there was nothing to worry about?
    What did Sumati say when we were playing hangman? To be left in the lurch. I say it to myself a couple of times. In the lurch.

Two-Gift
    I am still lurching along and feeling aggrieved the next day, but Mom does not seem to notice. She has other things on her mind. The buyers have decided they are not. Not buyers, that is. Not for this house. “They say it is too old,” reports Prasad. “Not enough conveniences. No built-in cupboards, no modern kitchen. Too old and sprawling.”
    After Prasad has delivered the bad news and gone, my mother sighs and says, “We just