Read Online The Weight of Heaven by Thrity Umrigar - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Thrity Umrigar
Tags: Fiction, General, Bereavement, Family & Relationships, Americans, Psychological, Psychological fiction, Crime, Death; Grief; Bereavement, Family Life, Murder, Adoption, Married People, India, Americans - India
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way. But she knew that if
Frank were here right now, he would raise his eyebrows, ask both of
them if they weren’t sentimentalizing the poor, and wasn’t it possible
that the poor were adaptive, that they had learned the art of smiling
and bowing even while plotting murder against the likes of them?
What happened? she asked herself. India was supposed to humanize
us. Instead, it has made Frank cynical and bitter.
“Okay,” Nandita said. “Enough of this depressing talk.” She got
up and headed for the fridge. “What has that Prakash cooked? I’m
starving.”
Ellie leapt to her feet. “Would you like a chicken roll? Prakash
just made some more of his mayonnaise.”
They assembled the sandwich together. Nandita reached on top
of the fridge for a bag of potato chips. She took a big bite of the roll
and spoke with her mouth full. “Why the long face, darling? Are
you feeling down?”
Ellie nodded. “I think I am.”
“Well, the best antidote to depression is activity,” Nandita said.
“You need to be engaged in the world again.”
Ellie smiled ruefully. “That’s exactly what I would’ve said to
a client.” She cocked her head as she looked at the woman sitting
across from her. “Are you sure you’re not really a therapist?”
“Oh, God, I don’t have the temperament to sit still and listen to
the miseries of the bourgeoisie. I’d be bored out of my mind.” Nandita laughed. “No, you know what I am—a muck-raking, no-good
Th e We i g h t o f H e av e n
5 3
journalist before I became a”—here Nandita made a doleful face—
“a hausfrau.”
Despite her light tone, Ellie could hear the regret in Nandita’s
voice. Armed with a master’s in journalism from Columbia University, Nandita had returned to Bombay and taken the world of journalism by storm, with numerous exposés of political corruption and
police brutality and bribery scandals. Although she was fêted by
human rights groups and some Bollywood movie stars, she began
to acquire a list of powerful enemies. Drummed-up charges by her
opponents had landed her in jail for three months before all accusations were dropped. She had walked out of jail triumphant, but the
damage was done—she suffered a breakdown a few months later.
She had known Shashi, the only son of a man who had made his
fortune making ball bearings, for many years but had never taken
seriously his occasional marriage proposals. For many years she
teased him for being the Son of Mr. Ball Bearings, conferred upon
him the mocking nickname Balls. She teased him for being wealthy,
for being a businessman, for having no social conscience. But while
she was recovering from the breakdown, it was Shashi more than
any of her other, progressive friends who stood by her. The next
time he proposed, she said yes. And seven years ago, when he and
his partners decided to build the Hotel Shalimar on the shores of
the Arabian Sea, she did not hesitate when he asked whether she
would consider relocating from Bombay to the small, sleepy village of Kanbar. Now she divided her time between working at the
clinic and school she had built in Girbaug and helping her husband
manage the forty-five-room resort.
Ellie leaned forward. “Can I ask you something, Nan? Are you
happy with Shashi? Are you still in love with him?”
Nandita clicked her tongue dismissively. “Shashi? Who knows?
Who cares? You Americans expect so much more from your romantic relationships, Ellie. All this talk of soul mates and all that
bullshit.” Seeing the look on Ellie’s face, she laughed. “Oh, God.
5 4 Th r i t y U m r i g a r
Forgive the blasphemy. You look, like, totally scandalized. No, but
seriously? I’m happy with Shashi. He’s an honorable man. I respect
him, and I guess, in my own fashion, I love him. But am I headover-heels with him? I’m not sure.”
“Were you ever madly in love with him? Or with anyone?”
For a second, something flickered in
Frank were here right now, he would raise his eyebrows, ask both of
them if they weren’t sentimentalizing the poor, and wasn’t it possible
that the poor were adaptive, that they had learned the art of smiling
and bowing even while plotting murder against the likes of them?
What happened? she asked herself. India was supposed to humanize
us. Instead, it has made Frank cynical and bitter.
“Okay,” Nandita said. “Enough of this depressing talk.” She got
up and headed for the fridge. “What has that Prakash cooked? I’m
starving.”
Ellie leapt to her feet. “Would you like a chicken roll? Prakash
just made some more of his mayonnaise.”
They assembled the sandwich together. Nandita reached on top
of the fridge for a bag of potato chips. She took a big bite of the roll
and spoke with her mouth full. “Why the long face, darling? Are
you feeling down?”
Ellie nodded. “I think I am.”
“Well, the best antidote to depression is activity,” Nandita said.
“You need to be engaged in the world again.”
Ellie smiled ruefully. “That’s exactly what I would’ve said to
a client.” She cocked her head as she looked at the woman sitting
across from her. “Are you sure you’re not really a therapist?”
“Oh, God, I don’t have the temperament to sit still and listen to
the miseries of the bourgeoisie. I’d be bored out of my mind.” Nandita laughed. “No, you know what I am—a muck-raking, no-good
Th e We i g h t o f H e av e n
5 3
journalist before I became a”—here Nandita made a doleful face—
“a hausfrau.”
Despite her light tone, Ellie could hear the regret in Nandita’s
voice. Armed with a master’s in journalism from Columbia University, Nandita had returned to Bombay and taken the world of journalism by storm, with numerous exposés of political corruption and
police brutality and bribery scandals. Although she was fêted by
human rights groups and some Bollywood movie stars, she began
to acquire a list of powerful enemies. Drummed-up charges by her
opponents had landed her in jail for three months before all accusations were dropped. She had walked out of jail triumphant, but the
damage was done—she suffered a breakdown a few months later.
She had known Shashi, the only son of a man who had made his
fortune making ball bearings, for many years but had never taken
seriously his occasional marriage proposals. For many years she
teased him for being the Son of Mr. Ball Bearings, conferred upon
him the mocking nickname Balls. She teased him for being wealthy,
for being a businessman, for having no social conscience. But while
she was recovering from the breakdown, it was Shashi more than
any of her other, progressive friends who stood by her. The next
time he proposed, she said yes. And seven years ago, when he and
his partners decided to build the Hotel Shalimar on the shores of
the Arabian Sea, she did not hesitate when he asked whether she
would consider relocating from Bombay to the small, sleepy village of Kanbar. Now she divided her time between working at the
clinic and school she had built in Girbaug and helping her husband
manage the forty-five-room resort.
Ellie leaned forward. “Can I ask you something, Nan? Are you
happy with Shashi? Are you still in love with him?”
Nandita clicked her tongue dismissively. “Shashi? Who knows?
Who cares? You Americans expect so much more from your romantic relationships, Ellie. All this talk of soul mates and all that
bullshit.” Seeing the look on Ellie’s face, she laughed. “Oh, God.
5 4 Th r i t y U m r i g a r
Forgive the blasphemy. You look, like, totally scandalized. No, but
seriously? I’m happy with Shashi. He’s an honorable man. I respect
him, and I guess, in my own fashion, I love him. But am I headover-heels with him? I’m not sure.”
“Were you ever madly in love with him? Or with anyone?”
For a second, something flickered in
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