by Gargi Mehra
It wasn’t the blueness of the package that Nidhi found objectionable, but the insinuation that came wrapped in it.
Her mother knelt on the floor—suitcases splayed out on the carpet, their innards spewing out—while Nidhi stood by, her regret at throwing on a frumpy old nightgown swelling by the minute.
Even a twenty-hour flight had done little to ruffle Mummy’s outfit and hair. She wore black slim-fit jeans and a sky-blue shirt, her hair ramrod-straight. Nidhi envied her alluring trimness, but Mummy always declared that she lived forever in the realm between slim and “you need to lose a little weight.”
“Do you like it? I chose the colour just for him.”
“It’s wonderful.” Nidhi had picked out pink bodysuits and peach onesies to fill up her son’s wardrobe, but slamming Mummy’s colour choices, so soon after she’d flown across the Atlantic to meet […]