Unaccustomed Earth - Jhumpa Lahiri [72]
Rahul
She replied immediately, without rereading the letter or bothering to ask Roger if it was all right for Rahul to stay with them. She tore a sheet of paper out of the notebook they kept by the phone, for messages, and wrote:
Dear Rahul,
Yes, it’s me. I’ve had a baby, a boy named Neel. He’s ten months old, and I want you to meet him.
She stopped, then signed the letter. She had nothing more to say.
She had not seen Rahul since her wedding night, a fact that was incredible to her. “Hi, Didi,” he said when she opened the door, still using the traditional term of respect their parents had taught him. She felt no awkwardness, the sight of him after over a year and a half standing under the portico of the house, completing a part of her that had been missing, like the clothes she could wear again now that the weight of her pregnancy was gone.
“Here he is,” she said to Rahul, adjusting Neel in her arms. Neel stuck out a hand, his fingers gripping a digestive biscuit. He babbled softly, taking in the new person in front of him.
“That’s right,” Rahul said, stroking Neel’s cheek with the back of his index finger. “It’s your screwup uncle finally here to see you.” He shook his head in disbelief, acquainting himself with the details of Neel’s face, the nose and eyes and mouth and wisps of hair that Sudha felt she’d known all her life. It was Rahul who’d changed. He’d put on weight, enough so that his once refined features appeared common, his neck and waistline thick. He had acquired the stoop of an older, uncertain man. His hair was combed back from his head, receding above the temples, the sideburns long. His jeans had lost their stiffness, frayed at the hems. The pin-striped blazer looked like it had come from a thrift store and was a little short in the sleeves.
“I can’t believe you were born and I didn’t know it. You’re absolutely perfect,” he said to Neel. He looked at Sudha, then Neel, then back at Sudha. “He’s got your face, totally.”
“You think? I see Roger’s.”
Rahul shook his head. “No way, Didi. This boy is a Mukherjee through and through.”
She gave him a tour of the house: the kitchen and a small toilet in the basement, the parlor above, two bedrooms and a bathroom above that, Roger’s study under the eaves. In spite of all the stories the house was diminutive, and they were constantly going up and down the staircase, which these days Neel was also attempting to climb. The steps were too much for Sudha’s father, who had recently developed bursitis in his knee, and when her parents last visited London they’d stayed with friends in the suburbs. But Roger had agreed to let Rahul sleep on the daybed normally covered with papers in the study.
“Feel free to take a nap,” she told Rahul, but he declined, coaxing Neel into his arms and not letting go as Sudha peeled potatoes and prepared to roast a chicken. He took in the lowceilinged space, with its black-and-white checkerboard floor, a perpetually cluttered dining table, Spode plates and copper molds hung on yellow walls. Roger had painted the walls himself, the final layer applied with a sponge. Rahul stopped in front of some shelves where the cookbooks were, along with photographs in frames. Most of the photos were of Neel: in the hours after his birth, in the arms of Sudha’s parents, sitting in his stroller outside of the house. There were no pictures of Rahul. “When was this taken?” he asked.
“Which?”
“It looks like an annaprasan.”