My mother scrubs the grease-stained pot with coconut coir and tamarind pulp. On a shelf next to the sink, sit the two large bottles of Palmolive dish detergent I brought for her on my last visit.

I want to ask why she’s saving them. Instead, voice pitched above the clatter, I shout, “Can you stop washing dishes, Amma?” 

She drops the pot, turns off the faucet and the clangor ceases. In the abrupt quiet, I hear the creaky hum of the wobbly ceiling fan and the cacophony of frogs croaking outside.

“I might be sixty-five but I’m not hard of hearing.” She laughs as if to soften the hint of censure.

She’s been escaping into busy-ness since I arrived yesterday: shopping for vegetables I might be missing in the US—bitter, snake and ivy gourds—sourcing treats like jangri, and cooking nonstop.

“How long are you going to avoid discussing the sale?” I ask.

She shifts foot to foot. Her anklets clink.

In the living room, she sits across from me on the wicker chair with raggedy cushions. I imagine she’s taking in my pallid complexion, gray thumb prints under my brown eyes, frizzy, ill-nourished hair hanging over my shoulders.

I straighten my spine, repeat the words my brother, Ram, has instructed me to say. “As we’ve discussed, the builder is purchasing this house.”

She rubs her feet as if to relieve an itch. Her anklets ting. 

 I remember bristling when the priest asked her to remove her taali—the chain and pendant representing marriage—after Appa died. That was five years ago. The priest didn’t notice the anklets. If he had, I suspect he’d have expected her, a widow, to remove those embellishments as well. She’s worn the anklets since she received them as a gift on her sixteenth birthday.

“Discussed is not the right word, kanna.” She wipes her still-wet hands on her sari’s talapu, smiles to cushion the rebuke.

“Why have I come all the way from Phoenix to India?” I ask.

“To see me?”

“Come on, Amma. The builder contacted Ram because they’re friends. The offer’s more than generous.” 

 Our house is seventy years old. Damp patches have created maps on the ceiling. Cracked lines snake through the stairway’s railing. Tiles have fallen off in the moldy bathrooms. The kitchen is dark and dank. The once-white, now-gray walls have absorbed years and years of hot oil and spices. The builder will raze the little dwelling to the ground, erect a multi-storied apartment building.  

“This place is falling apart,” I say. “And, Ram . . . he’ll take good care of you.”

“He’s definitely your father’s son.” She stands, cradles my cheek with her cool palm. “You should sleep,” she says. “It’s late and you’re jet-lagged.”

I lean into her palm, close my eyes, inhale the familiar aroma: an amalgam of her talcum powder and coconut oil in her hair. She retires to her room and turns on the television. I hear characters in a Tamil soap opera argue with deafening words and screeching sobs. In our home, disagreements tended to be quiet, like a pot on slow simmer, the heat contained without overflowing, yet capable of charring the bottom of the pan.

The gush of the kitchen faucet wakes me. I throw off the musty-smelling sheet to peep at my phone: 5:00 am. This early in the morning, the air feels thick, sticky.

Amma’s bustling. Perhaps I’ve convinced her it’s best to sell, move to where her children live.

A mosquito whines in my ear, mocking me.

Tomorrow Kailash, the builder, is scheduled to take us to the office where Amma must hand over papers. I am to ensure the sale goes through and the proceeds are deposited. We’ll have a month to vacate and hand over the keys.

I think of the mammoth task ahead, pull the sheet over my head. Amma has known this moment was coming, yet she’s made no attempt to clear the house.

“Call a junk removal company. Kailash will know someone,” Ram said. “All Amma needs is her clothes and important papers, throw everything else. Then, bring Amma to the US and that will be that.”

He made it sound simple.

At 6:00 am, I stumble into the kitchen. Nothing’s changed since my last visit. A shelf with glass jars adorns the back wall. In one container, whole lemons float in murky brine—Amma’s cure for an upset stomach. There’s another with tiny, baby mangoes, preserved in salt, oil and red chili powder. Yet another large receptacle is filled with sun-dried vadams to be fried with festive meals. Dals, rice and spices are stored in stainless steel dabbas lined up height-wise.

I remember the citrus-y allure of the lemons. I remember the taste of the mangoes, tart-sharp,  the shriveled-mango flavor concentrated enough to wake a sleeping brain. I remember her famous vadams that’d go swish in the hot oil and puff up.

I remember the hours and hours she’d spend to produce such deliciousness.

A month ago, Ram said I should travel to India, take care of the sale. “I have a new baby and you’re free.”

He used the word “free.” He meant single. He meant divorced. He meant I have no career. He meant I’ve been let go from my last job. He meant I have no children. He meant I must make myself useful, bring Amma and deliver her to his big house.

Years ago, Appa wanted me to attend Elite Academy, a highly-ranked school farther away, to ensure I got into an engineering program—his career choice for me. After dinner, as if Amma believed a happy belly made one less contentious, she suggested a school closer to home. “Our daughter will do well at Elite,” Appa said. The next morning, Amma made Appa his breakfast upma, ladled melted ghee over his bowl, ironed his clothes, packed his lunch. Before he left, he gave her some bills from his wallet. She took the housekeeping money and handed him a page of statistics from the school of her choice; they produced just as many engineers and scientists. I went to Elite.

Appa drove her to the market on Sundays. He took her Diwali clothes shopping—salwar kameezes for me, saris for her, shirts for my brother. He accompanied her to our grandparents’ place. He did the taxes, instructed her on where and how she must sign. He paid the electricity bill, he paid the water bill. He picked my wedding caterer. He took care of all matters, financial and otherwise. He said he didn’t want to burden her.

My brother, older by five years, often declared, “Appa takes good care of Amma.”

“Coffee, kanna?” Amma’s tone is placid, as if yesterday’s conversation did not occur. I want her face to tighten, her gaze to narrow. I want some acknowledgment of yesterday. There’s none.

She sets the davara-tumbler before me, coffee frothing over the lip. She pulls the idli stand from the steamer, tells me breakfast is ready.

While I sip my coffee, she squeezes a scant drop of Palmolive into her hands, lets it bubble under the gushing kitchen faucet. I want to tell her she can be generous with the detergent—on more than her hands.

Seated at the kitchen table, I observe as she rinses potatoes, okra, and baby eggplants in a colander, listen as she lists her lunch menu: sambar, potato roast, fried vadams, pal payasam.

She sets the vegetables aside, wipes her hands and informs me she’s going for a walk.

I imagine Ram berating me. “Can’t you do anything right?” I suppose if he were here in my stead, he’d pin her arms to her sides, he’d command her to stay and he’d talk about the matter at hand. 

“Like, walk-walk?” I ask. “Why?”

“Because it’s good exercise, kanna,” she says. “Oh, and later today, I’m teaching a pickle-making class.”

I thread three fingers through my hair, massage my scalp. Amma goes for walks? Amma teaches?

She sticks an arm through the grimy grill on the kitchen window and waves to someone outside. Before she slips on her shoes, she winds her gray hair into a knot at the nape of her neck and adjusts her anklets.

I peek through the window. Swami Uncle, our neighbor, waits outside, a hand gripping the curved handle of his walking stick. Five years ago, Lata Aunty, his wife, was alive. I don’t remember Amma conversing with him, ever.

Amma has always had women friends from the neighborhood. They’d gather for chanting on auspicious days. They’d go to the movies every couple of months. I remember they’d stand at the street corner on their way to the stores, cloth bags hanging from elbows, engaged in their favorite past-time: matchmaking. Never mind that Kavita Aunty’s husband drank, or that Rumya Aunty’s husband couldn’t keep a job, or that Ashwini Aunty’s husband had a years-long relationship with his secretary.

They’ve shown scant interest in finding a match for me, a divorced woman of thirty-five.

Amma didn’t probe to find out what went wrong with my marriage. She didn’t push me to reconcile or forgive; she accepted my explanation that the situation was impossible. The man Appa chose for me to marry, Harish, turned out to be a Jekyll and Hyde. I fell headlong in love with my charming, suave, attentive fiancé, only to have my world splinter when he flipped into a husband who controlled my every move.

Once, before the marriage, Amma asked Appa if he’d checked out Harish’s family. My father reared up, affronted. “Am I not interested in the well-being of our daughter?” During the wedding, I watched tears river down Amma’s cheeks when they performed the Kanyadanam, the ritualistic handing over of a daughter. My heart clenched, caught between the ache of leaving my family, and drowning in the euphoria Harish wrought.

Best to dispose of a few items before Amma returns. I open the cupboard in my room. My ancient school uniforms—beige skirt and white shirt—sit folded and stacked on a shelf. On the right, hang salwar kameezes, batik-print saris, the old kurtas and jeans I wore in college. I find my report cards, from kindergarten onward, tucked inside a box. Ancient issues of Reader’s Digest, framed awards for mathematics and an outdated globe—my name imprinted on the base—decorate my scored, wobbly desk. I push on the orb; it swivels.

Ram’s room looks like it did when he was in college. His handle-less ceramic mug, now a makeshift pen holder, stands atop his economics books. Inside the books, scribbled notes crawl in his spidery handwriting. Faded posters cling to the walls, tape peeling off the edges. I pull the loose tape off his *NSYNC poster, change my mind and press it back into place.

This house is festooned with our stories. Ram is asking me to pull them all down.

My phone rings.

“All set?” Not for the first time, I marvel at how much Ram sounds like Appa.

I bite into my lower lip. “Yes,” I lie.

It’s easier than telling him Amma evades talking about the sale. Easier than telling him about his economics books, about my globe, about the jars of lemon and mango in the kitchen.

When I informed Ram about my divorce, he said, “How could you let your marriage fail? You should have worked on it.” When I told him I’d lost my job, he retorted, “Now what did you do?”

“Amma’s gone out,” I say. “It’ll be late night for you by the time she returns. We’ll call in the morning, your time.” No reason to mention Swami Uncle.

“Where did she go?” His tone is sharp-edged, annoyed. “I want to let Amma know I’ve found her a nice condo.”

“I thought . . .”

“After our house is sold, put me in touch with the bank manager. I want to check on the procedure to transfer money, so I can buy the property.”

My thoughts careen. “You’ve decided to buy that condo with her money?” I yell.

“Stop being dramatic,” he says. “Call as soon as she gets back. I’ll be waiting.”

I throw the phone. It lands on a pillow, slides to the floor. I leave it there.

I step onto the dropping-splattered kitchen balcony. A pigeon, resting on the ledge, panic-flutters and takes flight. She perches on our neighbor’s balcony and sends me a baleful look; I’ve intruded into her space.

I lean over the stained railing, catch a glimpse of Amma and Swami Uncle on the street. Their body language, the animated arms, the nodding heads, indicates an earnest exchange of words—a discussion. I cup a hand over my ear, strain to catch their conversation. This morning, the frogs are so loud, they’re drowning out all other noise. They sound like a cheering squad.

“He’ll Take Good Care of Her” won third place in the Bath Short Story Award (2023) and was originally published in the Bath Short Story Award Anthology 2023.

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Sudha Balagopal is an Indian-American writer whose work appears in Smokelong, swamp pink and Vast Chasm among other journals. Most recently, her novella-in-flash, Nose Ornaments was published by Ad Hoc Fiction, UK. She has had stories included in Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions and the Wigleaf Top 50.

X: @authorsudha

Bluesky: @sudhab.bsky.social

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