Work Text:
you do not think you were made to be a mother.
mohan, mohan was made to be a father, and you remember that the first thought you had upon meeting him was that you hoped his smile would shine through in your children (there was no question about that, the question of children. you would have them, whether you wanted them or not).
mohan was made to be a father, bright smiles and encouraging words, a hand on the back of a bicycle and a low, comforting voice.
you, you are the sharp glass of broken bottles and sleepless nights, the hurricane of pent up emotion hidden behind the specter of calmness. gale force winds rage within you and you are—too much for a child.
it is no surprise where your daughter got her temper from. you are a hurricane, and she is an inferno, and without mohan, the bright, bright sun, you wonder who will tire first.
there is a shard of broken glass that sticks out of your stomach when you turn to an empty bed in the middle of the night, when you breathe in the hollow where mohan used to be.
you and devi, you are a chasm, and mohan was your bridge.
you do not show weakness. you have endured being sneered at in the grocery store, endured strange looks when you speak tamil, the scoffs, the whispers, the shame. you do not let your cheeks burn. you hold your head high and do not cry.
when mohan died, you screamed and shrieked in front of devi’s whole school, but you did not cry at his funeral. you did not cry the night you went to an empty bed and sat on it, cross legged. you did not cry.
you do not cry.
but here is the thing: just because you were not made to be a mother does not mean you are not a mother. you have a child, have the other half of your heart. mohan, mohan was the great love of your life, but devi, devi is your soulmate.
when she lost her legs the grief threatened to consume you, to overwhelm you, but you have always held your head up and been strong. tsunami waves cannot knock you over. you have one thing left in your life; and if you let this go, you will shatter apart.
patchwork seams scatter your heart, where you have hastily tied your life together. you have lost everything; your country, when you moved here; your husband, when he died; your daughter, when she ran.
(all three of those things were your fault, weren’t they?)
you are a doctor. you know the names of every single bone in mohan’s body and of all the muscles that make up devi’s smile, you know her genes better than anyone else—you carried her below (and in) your heart for nine months (forever). you are a doctor, and you could not save your husband.
it is in the dead of night that you blame yourself, and you do wonder why devi doesn’t blame you. you could not save him, you could not save him, and you still think about how you would have saved him. you need him, like you need air to breathe, like a compass needs a north pole, and now that mohan is gone, you are the compass point, spinning in circles, looking for something to ground yourself to.
you wake up in a cold, empty bed, and reach for his hand. you never stop hoping it will appear.
(perhaps this whole time, you have been reaching for the wrong hand)
your hands shake as you pick up the urn. the ashes of your husband inside of them. it scares you that everything mohan was, everything he ever will be, can be distilled into a shiny silver piece of pottery.
(this is not true. he lives on in her and you)
devi thinks you are hard on her because she is like her father, but this is not the truth.
(you are hard on her because she is like you, and you want her to be better)
you tried to bring her back, and you failed.
mohan would have succeeded.
the patchwork seams on your heart open up as you step onto the beach, and you breathe in salty, sickly sweet ocean air.
i wish you were the one who had died!
you cannot think of any truer words that have been spoken. your daughter, you have turned her from a bright, shining stone into a broken piece of glass. mohan would have made her shine brighter.
kamala says you can do this without devi, and in your heart, you know the words are true. you are unbending, you are hard, brittle, and you can do this without your daughter. but you know you cannot, at the same time.
she is the only thing you have left, your only child, and you cannot give that up.
you have broken too many things in your life, but you will not, will not break your daughter. you refuse to.
when you see devi running towards you, the patchwork seams on your heart split open, and you cry.
sometimes i also wish i was the one who had died.
you know mohan would have done better. you know devi would not have been nearly as broken after your death, you know the two of them would have been ok.
(this is where you are wrong. in another world, where you are the one who dies, they do not handle it any better. you are her mother, and there is strength in this. you cannot forget that)
but you cannot think about what could have been, what would have been. your husband is gone. you cannot bring him back, but your daughter, your daughter, she has come back, and that is the only thing that matters.
when she hugs you, the patchwork seams on your heart start to fade away, and the wound aches a little less.
you smooth away tears, salty like the sea (and oh, how appropriate you are here, in mohan’s favorite place in the world, the malibu sea) and clutch her tightly again.
(you will never let her go)
you’re my whole family.
step back. take a breath. cry.
grief laps at your heart like the sea laps at stones, and it will never go away, not truly, but you look at your daughter, tears painting tracks down her face, and you know you will be able to weather the storm.
you; a hurricane. gale force winds swirl in you.
devi; an inferno. she lights the way for you out of your grief.
here is the truth: no one is made to be anything. mohan was not made to be a father anymore than you.
you were not made to be a mother. devi made you into one.