Burnt Sugar

by Avni Doshi
SOURCE A

This extract is taken from section 3 of the novel, Burnt Sugar by

Avni Doshi. In this extract, three characters are having a
conversation, Ma (the mother), Antara (the daughter) and Dilip
(the husband of Antara). The characters are discussing the fact
Ma was recently diagnosed with Alzheimers.

My mother sets an eggplant alight on the stove, and we watch the

flames feed on its purple skin. The beige flesh inside is smoking. She
separates the seeds and throws them in the bin. It’s a marvel her fingers
don’t burn. On a white plastic board, she chops chilies and young
green onions. The board is stained with turmeric, and there is still a little
earth stuck in the rounds of onion stalk, but she tells me not to nitpick
about small things. She fries cumin seeds in oil and pours them on top
of the steaming eggplant, followed by torn leaves of coriander. Oil
splatters on the side of the stove. I cough while mixing the contents of
the bowl. My maid, Ila, straightens her sari and sighs. She begins the
works of cleaning our mess while we bring out the dishes to where Dilip
sits at the dining tables.
Ma doesn’ come to our house often. She says the main hall disturbs her,
especially the mirrors that cover each wall, reflecting everything in
multiple directions. For Dilip, the mirrors were a selling point when he
was house hunting, a sign that he’d made it, and he culmination of
every fanasy he had about mirrors and pornographic films. For my
mother, the room is too alive, with each object and body replicated
four times, with each replication repeated further in reflection. She sits
down at the table and her feet jump nervously, climbing on one
another like mice escaping the midday heat. For myself, I’ve got used
to the mirrors, have even started relying on them when Dilip and I fight
because seeing a reflection shout is similar to watching television.
‘So Mom,’ Dilip says, ‘how are you feeling?’
He calls my mother Mom like he calls his own. I struggled in the
beginning, but it was easy for him, calling two women Mom and calling
two places home.
My mother tries to speak in an American accent when Dilip is around.
She thinks he won’t understand her otherwise and if he tries to speak in
Hindi, she replies in English. Ma attempts his Midwestern vowels and
confident pauses which assume the rest of the world will wait for him to
finish a sentence.
‘Honestly, beta, when the doctor gave me the news, I started to fear
the worst. I even tarted making plans to take my own life – you can ask
her, isn’t it true? Sorry, I’m not trying to upset your meal, eat first, eat
first, we will talk later. How is the aamti? Not too spicy, I hope? Yes, to
answer your question, I was scared at first but now I don’t think I’m really
sick. I feel very fine.”
Dilip nods and looks into the mirror ahead of him. ‘I’m so happy to hear
that.’
‘Ma, the doctor says you’re forgetting.’
‘My scans were normal.’
‘Yes, scans can be normal even though –‘
‘Why are you going on insisting I’m ill?’ She is holding a slice of raw
onion in her hand. It drops back to her plate as she speaks. ‘You’re
forgetting things. You’re forgetting how to do things, basic things, like
using your mobile phone and paying the electricity bill.’
‘Oh, I never really knew how to pay the bill. These online things are too
confusing.’

I put my hands down. She hadn’t said this to the doctor.

‘And what about calling Kali Mata? You asked me to dial the number
of a person who’s been dead for ten years.’
‘Seven years,’ Ma says, and turns to Dilip. ‘She how she lies?’
Dilip looks between us. When he frowns, a scar from an old lacrosse
injury glimmers on his temple.
‘I’m not lying.’
‘You are. That’s what you do. You’re a professional liar.’
We drop Ma home after dinner and Dilip hums to himself quietly. I can’t
make out the tune, so I interrupt him.
‘Can you believe what she was saying?’
He pauses and then answers. ‘Maybe she doesn’t believe she’s sick.’
‘She has to believe it.’
‘You aren’t an authority.’
It stings that my lack is so visible. ‘I didn’t say I was an authority. The
doctor said she’s sick.’
‘I thought the doctor said she had the brain of a young woman.’
‘But she’s forgetting things – important things.’
‘Important to whom? She may want to forget – maybe she doesn’t
want to remember her friend is dead.’
‘Either way, she’s forgetting.’ I hear my tone has turned shrill
‘Voluntarily forgetting is not the same as dementia, Antara.’
‘That doesn’t make any sense. Why would she want to forget me?’
Dilip takes a break and shakes his head. ‘You’re the artist, be open to
possibilities.’
‘She called me a liar.’
‘Well, isn’t that what you make art about? About how people can’t be
trusted?’
His face has dropped. He looks disappointed. I try to match his look
but don’t feel it, so I bite the nail on my middle finger or, more
accurately, the cuticle area. Dilip reaches out his hand and brings my
arm down.

END OF SOURCE