Faerie by Eisha Marjara Read Free Book Online

thigh. It was Monika. I hadn’t seen her for so long, and now she seemed so different. Firm, sure-footed.
    She walked up and embraced me. “Look at you! You’re so grown up now, Lila.”
    The door burst open and Mother emerged, wiping her hands with a dishtowel, trailing a gust of acrid garlic from her Saturday cooking. She squinted at us, then gasped when she recognized Monika.
    â€œI was in town, so I thought I’d drop by,” Monika offered.
    Mother lowered her face into her garlicky towel and sobbed with happiness.
    In the living room, Mother served tea from a tray using our best china cups and a plate of Peak Freans, the kind with a red glob of jelly in the centre that made them look like Christmas tree decorations. This formality only seemed to make the reunion more tense. Small talk skipped between the unusually humid weather, the latest episodes of Oprah , and Indian celebrity gossip. Mother safely dodged the topic uppermost on our minds, but she hadn’t stopped grinning. I observed her glow as she spoke to Monika, alternating between Punjabi and English, engaging in the hybrid tongue she usually only shared with Dad. Now she spoke to Monika as one adult janani to another. The room got hotter and the tea darkened as the afternoon wore on. Dad would soon walk through the door. Would his eyes fill with anger? Sadness? Or just restrained surprise?
    It was a sweltering summer day when I had last seen Monika. I watched from my bedroom window as Dad paced back and forth on the front lawn, screaming at her. I had never witnessed Dad in such a rage. Within half an hour, Monika had packed and was swallowed into a cab and driven away from our home. Monika, the straight-A student, studious and hard-working, helpful at home, the perfect babysitter to her young cousins. A good girl. What had she done that had been so terrible? What shameful, hideous thing? She did what many children do to their parents: she deviated from his expectations of her. Six months before that front yard drama, Monika had announced to my dumbstruck parents that she was going to marry her lover.
    â€œWho is this? Who is he—this, this ‘lover’ of yours?” my father demanded. Monika had told them that she was datinga man more than twice her age, a divorced truck driver from Shawinigan.
    â€œHow did you meet this man?” was his next question. She admitted that he’d given her a lift as she was hitchhiking alone one weekend night after a party. He wasn’t just a truck driver, she insisted; he was an engineer.
    Dad stared at her as though she was a stranger who had hijacked his niece. “Have you forgotten your heritage, your honour, and your duty to your family?” He reminded her that he and Mother had planned a different future for her: she was to get a university degree in pharmacology, then marry a professional—and a Punjabi boy. There was no other way.
    Monika said she would not leave Jacques. The argument volleyed back and forth, but Monika reminded him that in a few days, when she turned eighteen, Dad would have no authority over her. So he gave her an ultimatum. If she left with this “Mr Lorry Driver,” she would not be welcomed back. Despite her adult call to arms, Monika broke down in tears and agreed to break off the engagement. Everything seemed to return to almost “normal” for a few weeks.
    We had just finished our usual Sunday lunch and Monika had gone outside to water the lawn when the phone rang. Mother answered and raised the receiver for Dad. He became unusually silent after taking the phone, and I turned to look at him. His expression went from a perplexed frown to fury.
    â€œAttend what? I’m sorry, I am not following … What are you talking about? … Are you sure? No, she is not. This is impossible. There must be a mistake.”
    Without a goodbye, he hung up the phone and stared in shock. He said something quietly to Mother and headed