LITMIR.BIZ

       TIFFIN

      Jaya watched his mother fill each of the four stainless steel compartments of the tiffin with the classic components of a Gujarati meal—shaak, dal, bhat, and rotli.

      Jayshree scooped pickles into the compartment with the rotli, the finishing touch to the elaborate meal. Her downturned lips and dead eyes made Jaya feel as if his insides were being scooped out like the pickles. He pictured a penny falling in his hollow torso, plinking on its way down the empty frame of his bones and skin.

      Jayshree stacked each fragrant compartment in the carrying frame. She sealed the top one with a tight-fitting lid and secured the frame’s clasp.

      Jaya recalled how different this lunch ritual had been in Niu Valley. Back then Jayshree whistled and flitted about as she stirred, chopped, and measured everything. It was like watching an Indian version of Disney’s Snow White—she’d clean up the messy home of the seven dwarves, for sure, but then go above and beyond to fix a sumptuous Gujarati meal.

      Not so in Kahala. Here she rarely cooked Gujarati food. At the most it was once or twice a year. And always after Kusum foi, Sanjay’s older sister, called. Jaya figured it had something to do with his mother feeling guilted into making tiffins by nosy Kusum, who had no idea what an ass her brother was. At least those were the kinds of things he’d overheard his mother mutter to herself after phone calls with Kusum foi.

      Kusum foi had called this morning to congratulate them on Sanjay’s new luxury condo project in Kahuku.

      So today, Sanjay-the-ass would get a guilt-inspired tiffin from his wife.

      Jaya followed his mother’s slow, automatic movements. He tried to say something nice. “Mom, it smells so good.”

      Jayshree didn’t look up.

      Would things have been different if they lived in India? Jaya’s imagination of a life in Gujarat was some form of what he’d seen in Bollywood films. Each morning before work and school, Jayshree would happily prepare tiffins for Sanjay and him. She’d fawn over them. She’d hover over him when he did his homework. As for Sanjay, he’d dutifully balance work and home life. No other shenanigans. His parents would tease each other but only because they got along so well. A loving, perfect family.

      Just the thought made Jaya feel like he did when he drank a big cup of steamy chai.

      In this pretend life in India, things might’ve been ideal. Except that even there his parents wouldn’t have accepted him as their son. In their Gujarati circle, the pressure to conform to gender norms would have been more intense. He guessed roles and expectations were more defined and ingrained in Gujarat.

      At least in America he got to express his gender the way he wanted, even if his parents and most of his classmates refused to acknowledge it.

      The warmth in Jaya’s body turned into an arctic chill.

      “Jaya,” Jayshree said.

      “Yeah.”

      “Don’t let the tiffin tip over in the car or the dal might leak.”

      “But I thought you—” In the past his mother would deliver the meal to his father.

      “No, Jaya. Not anymore. I made it. You put it in his two-timing hands,” she said. She didn’t blink.

      So that’s how it was. Sanjay’s cheating was an ordinary part of their life. Like showering. Or brushing your teeth. His mother despised Sanjay just enough to not want to deliver the tiffin but not enough to refuse to make it in the first place. Also not enough to leave him.

      Jaya scratched his head. So now he was the tiffin wallah?

      “Get going, Jaya,” Jayshree said.

      Jaya nodded. “Yeah, ok.”

      He set the tiffin in a small open cooler in the trunk so it wouldn’t tip.

      The weather was perfect—sunny and cloudless with just the right amount of breeze. He selected Nirvana’s In Utero CD and turned it up. He drove and the music and the scenery relaxed him. By the time he reached the long gravelly road leading to the construction site, he’d reached his own nirvana.

      When he stepped out of the car, the trade winds welcomed him. It occurred to him that maybe his father would want to share the tiffin with him. After all he wasn’t a random tiffin wallah like in Mumbai. He was the son. Jaya flinched.

      He was still a daughter to them.

      The scent of cumin wafting from the tiffin took Jaya’s senses on a trip. He reminisced about his family’s last visit to Mumbai. Barely eight years old, Jaya had marvelled at the countless tiffin wallahs riding their bicycles through the crowded streets, maneuvering between trucks, cars, pedestrians, and the occasional cow, carrying multiple tiffins to ravenous workers throughout the huge city.

      He smiled, surprising himself.

      This is how Mom’s supposed to feel, right?

      The sun suddenly felt hotter. Stronger. The trades had disappeared. It was too quiet. He looked around. There weren’t any people. No construction workers doing their thing. No engineers or architects in hard hats. Didn’t the workers usually eat lunch on site?

      Jaya opened the door of the trailer office. There at the far end of the trailer was Sanjay kissing someone.

      Jaya froze. The tiffin slipped and crashed onto the floor. Dal leaked onto his Reeboks.

      His father and the woman looked up.

      Jaya was gone before they saw him. He jumped in his car and peeled out. He drove back to town shaking the steering wheel and making way-too-sharp turns.

      Should he go back and call Sanjay out? Should he go home and tell Jayshree? Should he pretend like he didn’t see anything?

      In the end, he decided to keep quiet. The same as always.

      Better to stuff it all down. Way, way down.