Negative Space: Stories of Migration, Marriage, and Meaning: Degrees of Freedom, #2

By Ranjani Rao

The eleven stories in this book feature individuals of Indian origin living in the United States. Each story explores a challenge or dilemma that is both particular and universal. A wife who is unexpectedly pregnant. A woman who finally understands the nuances of her aunt's conservative views. Loss of a cherished friendship. Reclaiming long-forgotten dreams. Keeping up appearances at all costs.

Each story draws an unforgettable portrait of the person next door. With insight and luminous prose, Ranjani Rao has created characters that are unique while also being universal.

Readers looking for authentic narratives will not want to miss this ebook.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Story Artisan Press
• Release date: Mar 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393557319

Book preview

NEGATIVE SPACE

Stories of

Migration, Marriage, and Meaning

Ranjani Rao

Negative Space Copyright © 2019 by Ranjani Rao. All Rights Reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. 

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. 

Ranjani Rao

Visit my website at www.RanjaniRao.com 

Printed in the United States of America 

Story Artisan Press (http://storyartisan.com) 

In Memory Of My Parents

CONTENTS

Preface

Negative Space

Uncoupling

Lotus

Rhythms that Linger

Nature of Clouds

Sweet Sixty

Sprinklers in the Rain

Good Karma

Downturn

Easier This Way

A Mynah Issue

Request

Preface

I

listened to stories before I could read. My grandmother narrated tales of kings and princesses, but also of her childhood, which seemed as much of a fairy tale as any, set in a time and place very different from the one I was growing up in. 

Stories, made up of words that are spoken or written, offer us a way to connect. 

Rebecca Solnit says A book is a heart that only beats in the chest of another, in The Faraway Nearby. A story told by an author comes alive when the reader participates in tending to this gently beating heart. 

Stories connect reader and writers, people across generations and cultures, and those separated by geographic boundaries. Stories serve as a means of breaking the invisible walls we tend to build because of our limited understanding. 

This book of short stories marks a departure from my preference for writing personal essays. But I wrote these fictional stories before I began writing essays of a deeply personal nature. Perhaps writing fiction gave me a mask, a make-believe persona to practice the craft, before I could shrug it off and write boldly without that filter.

Writing short stories gave me a chance to escape the limitations of being ‘me’ and become embodied into a character very different from me, whose circumstances, back story and personality were often at odds with mine. 

I pose the question to myself – how would I choose given the hypothetical situation that arises in the story? Then I pose the question again to the character – what would she choose, knowing very well that my character may make a radically different choice. 

My experiment in trying my hand at fiction brought me a greater understanding of how and why people take certain actions which may not be in their best interests, confounding the linear, logical thinker in me. The point of writing, unlike the scientific experiments that I conduct in the lab, is to not arrive at the same conclusion, but to arrive at an original insight.

These stories have been written over several years and are inspired by the places I have lived in and the people I have met. I hope that through the characters you meet in the following pages, you are able to remember, visualize and understand them and perhaps, even yourself, as I did.

Every story matters.

Negative Space

T

here is an eerie calm in the doctor’s office. I have been waiting for fifteen minutes. The nurses bustle about quietly at this early hour with a muted sense of urgency. They seem to share the knowledge of a secret emergency. Sandy had mentioned the possibility of a long wait when I requested this urgent appointment. Dr. Shah is on call on Wednesday, she had said. I don’t mind waiting. I have my journal for company. I wonder how many babies Dr. Shah has delivered in her twenty years of practice. I open the pine green cover of my hard-bound journal to the first page, ignoring the silky bookmark that invites me to write. Today I feel the need to read. I start at the beginning.

March 12, 2001

Shankar called to say they have reached Mumbai safely. Nandu behaved like a perfect angel. Why did he say behaved like an angel? Nandu is an angel, my very own six-month-old angel. An unfortunate angel separated from his mother. I can’t believe I let Shankar take my son away from me. Actually, it’s not Shankar’s fault. There are practical reasons for taking this step, to take Nandu to India to be raised by his grandparents. I understand the logic but it still doesn’t feel right.

What else could I do? I had no choice but to return to work three weeks after giving birth to Nandu, to slog at this lousy post-doc job in order to support the three of us. Why can’t Shankar watch Nandu? He is the father, after all. He uses the excuse of completing his thesis. There is no funding for him since his advisor has left the school.

Meena Aunty used to take care of Nandu very lovingly. But since she moved away, poor Nandu had been shuttling from one day-care to another. He had not had a single week of good health in the last three months. The paediatrician said we should consider surgery to insert tubes in his ears if he gets another infection.

Shankar’s parents had offered to take Nandu right from the beginning but I could not even consider that option then.

Now here I am, all alone, while Shankar drops Nandu off with his parents in India. I think I made the right decision for Nandu. I tell myself that it is for only a few months.

I know Shankar’s parents will be doting grand-parents. He is their first grandson, after all. But I can’t help wishing it was Amma who was taking care of Nandu. I hope Amma is watching him from her heavenly perch, sending the same comforting waves to soothe him as she still does to me. Did I do the right thing, Amma?

March 30, 2001

It is just Shankar and me now. The apartment, although still as cramped as ever, feels empty. How can the absence of a baby who joined us only six months ago create such a hole in our lives? All day I think about him, wondering what he is doing at each moment. He is sleeping, says Shankar, It is night in India. He is technically correct, of course. But, I mean it figuratively. Can’t a mother wonder?

April 30, 2001

They tell us Nandu has become used to the heat and humidity. He is sitting up now. It is amazing, my tiny little Nandu who could barely hold up his head, is now viewing the world from an upright position. He likes to chew on hard things, spoons and keys, practically everything he can get his hands on! I hope they don’t let him put unclean objects in his mouth. They probably don’t sterilize anything. What if he falls sick?

May 3, 2001

It is two months since Nandu last saw me. Does he even remember me? I torture myself with the question, even though I know that it was I who agreed to this arrangement. He is eating soft rice these days and trying to crawl. I wish I had a picture to visualize his activities. His favorite adult is my father-in-law who makes funny faces and gets toothless belly laughs in return. I wish I was his favorite person. Am I not entitled? I am his mother after all. Or am I?

May 28, 2001

Shankar was supposed to complete his lab work by now. Done by Memorial Day, he had said. But now he says his results don’t make sense. When will he finish his experiments? It will take him at least three months to write up his findings. After that he will have to defend his dissertation. At this rate, I may have to slave in this laboratory forever. I can deal with it. But, what about Nandu?

June 20, 2001

I met Nora for lunch today. We were seeing each other after two long months. We wanted to celebrate her successful thesis defense. We used to be practically inseparable until little Angela’s birth last year. Angela’s arrival during Nora’s research was unplanned. I don’t have any choice, she had said. I have to send her to China till I finish. And that’s what she did. I admire her for being so focused. She was so happy to claim her daughter back last week. I hope I will be lucky enough to get Nandu back before he turns one. How should I cope till then?

July 4, 2001

We just came back from a picnic at the lake. The usual crowd of Indian graduate students, some single, some newlywed, almost all without kids. I am not sure about the group to which I belong. It is clear that I am