The smell of roasting squids bothered Mrs. Sen. She loved seafood, especially the sweet flesh of the river fish from Bengal, but squids were a different breed. They smelt of brine and a sort of rubbery inedibility. It was amazing that they even survived in the same water as salmon.

Unfortunately, today was the welcome back barbeque at the Holland International School in Amsterdam and squids sizzled everywhere on the low flames around the open courtyard. The Brazilian community was hosting the barbeque this year and samba beats throbbed through the smoky air. A group of tipsy mothers of various nationalities, wine goblets in hand, tottered and shimmied.

Sometimes these international buffets literally made her nauseous, but as Mr. Sen reminded her, this was the best school on the planet. They knew this from the admission officers of universities such as Oxford and Harvard, and after all, their daughter Naina had made it to Cornell two years ago. Their son, Atul, would graduate from this school in another five years, and surely get into, at least, Dartmouth.

Mrs. Sen flung herself into the air-conditioned canteen and closed the door behind her. She now faced the table hosted by the American community, which was festooned with red white and blue ribbons, a part of which had broken free and now dangled like a limp sword of Damocles over the band of children playing Yankee Doodle. She could see the Indian mothers at the usual place at the canteen, next to the vending machines which doled out bitter coffee. She meandered to the Korean stall so she could approach them from another angle — she certainly did not want to sit next to Malti if she could help it — and wedged herself into the tiny space between Lila and the wall.

Lila was from Hyderabad and spoke very bad English. She cooked rich biryanis which could be served at any five-star restaurant in Delhi, but whenever she opened her mouth it was easy to tell that she had gone to vernacular schools all her life. Her Hindi too, unfortunately, had a touch of not only the streets, but also of the gutter.

"Koena!" Lila tittered. Then she raised herself on her elbows and air kissed three times, a practice that Mrs. Sen detested. Her low cleavage exposed a hint of pink lace. How cheap, thought Mrs. Sen.

Malti looked up from the other side of the long trestle table. "Koena!" she waved her fingers languorously, "You made it!"

Mrs. Sen smiled weakly. Malti reached across the table and shoved a piece of cake at her. "From the Africans. For you," she indicated with an incline of her head where the ladies of the African community were gathering up the remnants of their stall. "They were packing up already, so I had to run to get this."

Mrs. Sen regarded the offering with suspicion. Did Malti know?

How would Malti, of all people, know that Naina Sen, the brilliant daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Sen was now living with an African-American man? That Naina had dropped out of Cornell and moved to Atlanta to be with this man and had borne a daughter five months ago? Even Atul, had not been told about this. He had stayed in Amsterdam with an Austrian schoolfriend while his parents supposedly visited his sister in Cornell for two weeks.

The man may be a Cornell graduate, with a business degree, but he had no intention of ever marrying Naina. Mrs. Sen could see that, even though Naina did not seem to care, not even now that they had a daughter. Mr. and Mrs. Sen had flown down to Atlanta to see this grandchild of theirs and despite herself, Mrs. Sen had fallen in love with this being so dark and yet so beautiful. She had called the child Kajal, for dark can be auspicious too, although Naina named the child Keira.

Since the child was five months old, she and Mr. Sen had insisted on the rice-feeding ceremony. The invitees had been curious Americans, eager for the details of this exotic ritual. Mrs. Sen had dressed Kajal in a frilly sari made from material bought hurriedly at Hobby Lobby, but Naina had refused to wear anything Indian. Instead, she had worn a blouse so revealing that Mr. Sen had been unable to take any pictures; every time Naina bent low to feed the baby from the silver bowl filled with rice pudding, he had turned away, embarrassed.

But Naina had looked happy. Her friends had cooed over the baby and her African-American family passed her around, bouncing her on uncovered knees. As Naina walked among the crowd Mrs. Sen saw how easily Naina blended in, with her choice of clothing and her hair as dark as theirs.

Mrs. Sen had dreamed of her first grandchild's rice-ceremony among bright alpona drawn on the floor, with sari-clad women milling around like floral blooms. Instead there was a beige carpet on the floor, stained with the effluvial of the tenants who had lived there before.

Only Mr. and Mrs. Sen knew of their shame. Malti could not possibly know anything. Mrs. Sen picked up Malti's offering, wrapped in a bright orange and yellow streaked serviette and bit into the moist cake. "Thank you, Malti," she said, wiping her lips delicately with a fresh tissue from her bag.

Malti's eyes twinkled. "I thought you might like it."

Why was Malti trying so hard? Mrs. Sen suddenly felt exhausted. She clenched her teeth and said, "Good, yes. But a little, burnt, like them, don't you think?"

Mrs. Sen felt the disapproving eyes on her as she slowly stood up. She should get used to it; Naina and Kajal could not possibly be her secret forever. She would have to tell her family in India, then these gossiping women here. But first, they would have to let Atul know.

At least Naina did not marry a Pakistani Muslim. It could have been worse.

 

Dipika Mukherjee is the editor of two collections of short stories from Malaysia and Singapore; The Merlion and Hibiscus in 2002, and Silverfish New Writing in 2006. Her poems have been published in Hong Kong, the United States and the United Kingdom, as well as broadcast over Singapore Public Radio. She currently teaches Creative Writing in Amsterdam.