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By Root 501 0

shelves of the refrigerator, and the labor had left her exhausted. When she cooked Indian food for Adam she could afford to be lazy. She could do away with making dal or served salad instead of a chorchori. “Is that all?” her mother sometimes exclaimed in disbelief on the phone, asking Ruma what she was making for dinner, and it was in such moments that Ruma recognized how different her experience of being a wife was. Her mother had never cut corners; even in Pennsylvania she had run her household as if to satisfy a mother-in-law’s fastidious eye. Though her mother had been an excellent cook, her father never praised her for it. It was only when they went to the homes of others, and he would complain about the food on the way home, that it became clear how much he appreciated his wife’s talent. Ruma’s cooking didn’t come close, the vegetables sliced too thickly, the rice overdone, but as her father worked his way through the things she’d made, he repeatedly told her how delicious it was.

She ate with her fingers, as her father did, for the first time in months, for the first time in this new house in Seattle. Akash sat between them in his booster seat, wanting to eat with his fingers, too, but this was something Ruma had not taught him to do. They did not talk about her mother, or about Romi, the brother with whom she had always felt so little in common, in spite of their absurdly matching names. They did not discuss her pregnancy, how she was feeling compared to last time, as she and her mother surely would have. They did not talk very much at all, her father never one to be conversant during meals. His reticence was one of the things her mother would complain about, one of the ways Ruma had tried to fill in for her father.

“It is still so light outside,” he said eventually, though he had not lifted his eyes from his plate since he’d started eating, had seemed, as he so often did to Ruma, oblivious to his surroundings.

“The sun doesn’t set until after nine in the summer,” she said. “Sorry the begunis broke apart,” she added. “I didn’t let the oil get hot enough.”

“It doesn’t matter. Try it,” he told Akash, who for the past four months refused to eat anything other than macaroni and cheese for dinner. To Ruma he added, pointing to Akash’s plate, “Why do you buy those things? They are filled with chemicals.” When Akash was younger she had followed her mother’s advice to get him used to the taste of Indian food and made the effort to poach chicken and vegetables with cinnamon and cardamom and clove. Now he ate from boxes.

“I hate that food,” Akash retorted, frowning at her father’s plate.

“Akash, don’t talk that way.” In spite of her efforts he was turning into the sort of American child she was always careful not to be, the sort that horrified and intimidated her mother: imperious, afraid of eating things. When he was younger, he’d eaten whatever her mother made for him. “You used to eat Dida’s cooking,” she said. “She used to make all these things.”

“I don’t remember Dida,” Akash said. He shook his head from side to side, as if denying the very fact that she was ever alive. “I don’t remember it. She died.”

She was reading stories to Akash before his bedtime when her father knocked softly on the door, handing her the receiver of the cordless phone. He was holding up his right hand awkwardly in front of his chest, and she saw that it was soapy from dishwater. “Adam is on the phone.”

“Baba, I would have done those. Go to sleep.”

“It is only a few things.” Her father had always done the dishes after the family had eaten; he claimed that standing upright for fifteen minutes after a meal helped him to digest. Unlike Ruma, unlike her mother, unlike anyone Ruma had ever known, her father never ran the water while he soaped everything. He waited until the plates and pans were ready to be rinsed, and until then it was only the quiet, persistent sound of the sponge that could be heard.

She took the phone. “Rum,” she heard Adam say. That was what he’d begun to call her, soon after they met. The first time he wrote her a