alongside my one, two, three. Our home was different than lots of homes in this sense: If you looked through recent family albums it was I, not my father, who was most often missing from the pictures, as I was most often the one snapping away.
To be honest I preferred it that way. The less evidence of my ungraceful plummet into adolescence, the better for posterity, if I ever had one. And my parents were not only closet Christians, they were closet Hollywood stars, too (it was in the genes, India being the number one producer of movies in the world, as my father had told me353 times): As soon as my zoom was on my father would slap on the smile he saved especially for it. It stretched a little too wide across his teeth, his panicked eyes belying the huge grin; he really was a shy man. My mother would turn at some astronomer’s angle to show her good side, which changed from photo to photo depending on her mood, gazing at some invisible object with the vacant spectral intensity of a cat. She always pointed one foot out slightly in front of the other as if about to plunge into a curtsy, and smiled with a bit of her lip curled up.
But once I started treating my SLR like more than just a toy, my folks weren’t so pleased. Looking at the water-wavery coins, I remembered last year, when my father blew out the candles on his birthday and I took a close-up of his face in the moment of wishing, eyes squeezed shut, holding his breath. When I developed it, I was so excited—it was one of the first times there was a coincidence between what I’d hoped to capture and what actually came out: It was as if you could see the wish in his mouth, like it was too big, about to push out his teeth and burst forth, and he glowed like a little walnut Buddha in the blurred fallen halo of all the candles’ light that formed the photo’s bottom frame. But when my father saw it, he wasn’t so impressed.
—What is it you are doing here, Dimple? No cake? The whole point is to be taking the cake—do you know how long your mother spent on it?
—She bought it, Dad.
—But still—the time to go to the baker’s, park the car. And you are making me look like a constipated chipmunk.
—I wanted to get the wish in your mouth.
—The wish in my what? The only wish I have is that you take a nice photo for once!
Then he saw how his own words hung heavily in the air and hefelt bad and clipped his mouth tight and hugged me quickly as if I were going to slip away any second, too.
—I’m sorry, he said.—I’m sorry. I’m just afraid. I don’t understand you anymore, Dimple. You are my own daughter and I don’t understand you.
I knew he was fighting tears because his mouth turned down scowlwards, which it never did except when he was sleeping. My mother said that was where most all the stress of his day came out: in his sleep. He was a very gentle man.
—It’s okay, Daddy, I said.—Even I don’t understand me anymore.
—Chipmunks are sweet, my mother said, rushing to my defense from an unexpected angle.
Later I asked him what he’d really wished for. I had to know—the expression on his face had been so full of hope and so drained of it at the same time, like he’d already had his cake and was still trying to chew.
—Too much, he’d said quietly.—Too much.
When I got to Friendly’s, my father was already seated, looking squashed even though it was a booth for four and he had no bags or boxes with him. My heart sank a little. He didn’t like this Friendly’s too much because the dirty dishes were stacked and burgers flipped in plain view in the middle section (witnessing the behind-the-scenes of restaurants wasn’t exactly his idea of an appetizer). He brightened when he saw me.
—Come, bacchoodi, he said, indicating the seat facing him. He liked having me and my mother across from him so he could look at us.
—Mom’s not here? I said, mildly alarmed. Our father-daughter moments were rare, and I didn’t really know what
To be honest I preferred it that way. The less evidence of my ungraceful plummet into adolescence, the better for posterity, if I ever had one. And my parents were not only closet Christians, they were closet Hollywood stars, too (it was in the genes, India being the number one producer of movies in the world, as my father had told me353 times): As soon as my zoom was on my father would slap on the smile he saved especially for it. It stretched a little too wide across his teeth, his panicked eyes belying the huge grin; he really was a shy man. My mother would turn at some astronomer’s angle to show her good side, which changed from photo to photo depending on her mood, gazing at some invisible object with the vacant spectral intensity of a cat. She always pointed one foot out slightly in front of the other as if about to plunge into a curtsy, and smiled with a bit of her lip curled up.
But once I started treating my SLR like more than just a toy, my folks weren’t so pleased. Looking at the water-wavery coins, I remembered last year, when my father blew out the candles on his birthday and I took a close-up of his face in the moment of wishing, eyes squeezed shut, holding his breath. When I developed it, I was so excited—it was one of the first times there was a coincidence between what I’d hoped to capture and what actually came out: It was as if you could see the wish in his mouth, like it was too big, about to push out his teeth and burst forth, and he glowed like a little walnut Buddha in the blurred fallen halo of all the candles’ light that formed the photo’s bottom frame. But when my father saw it, he wasn’t so impressed.
—What is it you are doing here, Dimple? No cake? The whole point is to be taking the cake—do you know how long your mother spent on it?
—She bought it, Dad.
—But still—the time to go to the baker’s, park the car. And you are making me look like a constipated chipmunk.
—I wanted to get the wish in your mouth.
—The wish in my what? The only wish I have is that you take a nice photo for once!
Then he saw how his own words hung heavily in the air and hefelt bad and clipped his mouth tight and hugged me quickly as if I were going to slip away any second, too.
—I’m sorry, he said.—I’m sorry. I’m just afraid. I don’t understand you anymore, Dimple. You are my own daughter and I don’t understand you.
I knew he was fighting tears because his mouth turned down scowlwards, which it never did except when he was sleeping. My mother said that was where most all the stress of his day came out: in his sleep. He was a very gentle man.
—It’s okay, Daddy, I said.—Even I don’t understand me anymore.
—Chipmunks are sweet, my mother said, rushing to my defense from an unexpected angle.
Later I asked him what he’d really wished for. I had to know—the expression on his face had been so full of hope and so drained of it at the same time, like he’d already had his cake and was still trying to chew.
—Too much, he’d said quietly.—Too much.
When I got to Friendly’s, my father was already seated, looking squashed even though it was a booth for four and he had no bags or boxes with him. My heart sank a little. He didn’t like this Friendly’s too much because the dirty dishes were stacked and burgers flipped in plain view in the middle section (witnessing the behind-the-scenes of restaurants wasn’t exactly his idea of an appetizer). He brightened when he saw me.
—Come, bacchoodi, he said, indicating the seat facing him. He liked having me and my mother across from him so he could look at us.
—Mom’s not here? I said, mildly alarmed. Our father-daughter moments were rare, and I didn’t really know what
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