Half Girlfriend

go but, thank God, mothers don't break up with you.
‘You said tomorrow,’ she said. We sat on one of the living-room
sofas, frayed but still elegant.
‘I thought I would surprise you,' I said.
‘That’s nice. But you spoilt our surprise.'
‘How?’.
Savitri tai, one of my mother’s oldest helpers, brought in tea and
sweet litti.
‘Your coronation.You saw the tents outside, right?’
‘What?’ I said, a half-eaten litti ball in my hand.
‘It’s an auspicious day, Ashad Krishna.’
‘Ma, I don’t want this drama.’
‘It isn’t drama. It’s tradition,’ my mother said in a low, emotional
voice, the perfect starting point for female drama.
‘I’ll feel like a joker, being anointed a prince in a democracy.’
My mother stood up and walked to the dining table, her back to
me. She remained silent, her most potent weapon. Standing tall at five
feet, eight inches, in her starched saree, my mother did look royal. She
clenched her fists tight.
I walked up to her.
‘Ma, you shouldn't have sent me to college if you wanted me to
keep following such rituals.'
My mother spoke, her back still towards me.‘Funny, I was thinking
the same thing.’
I went around the dining table to face her. ‘We have an MLA,’ I
said. ‘What’s his name?’
My mother looked at me in defiance.
‘What’s his name, Ma?’
‘Ojha. Useless fellow.’
'Yes, Ojha. We also have an MP in Buxar and a CM in Patna.’
‘The villagers still care for us.You know why?’ she said.
‘Because they are old-fashioned and uneducated?’
My mother looked at me sharply. ‘You’ve become like them.’