It’s been over a month since Allegra’s twenty-eighth birthday: a day forever marked by the worst flight of her career to date. She had to miss her birthday dinner at her parents’ place and go straight home to her apartment and to bed, and then the next morning she woke up and couldn’t move. Her back felt like it had calcified. She had to crawl on hands and knees to the bathroom, whimpering dramatically, all the while thinking vengeful thoughts about the caftan-wearing passenger with the carry-on bag filled with shoes.
Allegra rang her mother, who came and helped her back to bed, then called one of Allegra’s cousins, an orthopedic surgeon, who probably had better things to do, possibly even surgery to perform, but came straight over and prescribed the painkillers. It was while Allegra floated on a sea of blissful pain relief that she told her mother and cousin all about how a passenger had predicted her death by “self-harm” in the next twelve months.
Her mother took a rational, sympathetic approach. Of course that would be an upsetting thing to hear! But Allegra should not dwell on the words of elderly ladies.
It seems, however, that her mother has been dwelling. She’s always been interested in Allegra’s diet, sleep patterns, and menstrual cycle, but now she has an aggravating new interest in Allegra’s state of mind. How do you feel in yourself? How are your stress levels? Are you calm today? Are you worried about anything? All different ways to ask the same question: Is the family curse coming for you?
Because it was horribly apt that the lady had predicted the particular cause of death she did.
A coincidence, of course, although could the lady have guessed? Seen it? Felt it? Was it just that Allegra was having a terrible day at work so she looked kind of glum?
It’s not a secret that there is a history of depression on both sides of Allegra’s family. There is no shame. Absolutely not. Theirs is a progressive modern Indian family and her parents understand the importance of being open about mental health issues. Yes, of course they can answer any questions, although there’s little to say and there are more interesting things to talk about.
Her mother suffered postnatal depression after both Taj and Allegra were born. It was a challenging time, she got help, she got better, what do you mean why won’t I talk about it, Allegra? I just did talk about it.
Her father has been on antidepressants since he was thirty. His brain chemistry got “out of balance,” that is all, it’s under control now, nothing to worry about, is that all you need to know, because I am quite busy, yes, I am busy, I’m not just sitting here, I’m about to run on the treadmill, would you like to watch me? (Allegra’s father recently acquired a treadmill and is eager for an audience every time he uses it.)
And then there is Allegra’s grandmother, her father’s mother, who “accidentally” took too many headache tablets when she was fifty-six and not herself.
It was an aunt who informed Allegra and Taj that their grandmother had not made a mistake. She chose to end her life and therefore she would not go to heaven or hell, her spirit was stuck in a kind of in-between place, waiting for the day she was meant to have died.
“But is the in-between place nice?” asked Allegra.
“No,” said Allegra’s aunt emphatically. “It is not.”
For months, possibly years, Allegra had nightmares about her grandmother being in a claustrophobic waiting room the size of an old elevator, containing only one chair upon which her grandmother sat, her handbag on her lap, looking straight ahead, as the mustard-yellow walls drew closer and closer, and then it was no longer her grandmother, it was Allegra in the waiting room, and the mustard-yellow walls were coming at her from all sides, her nose pressed flat, her bones crushed to dust, and just before she died, she would wake, gasping for air.
Their parents never forgave that aunt for Allegra’s nightmares. She had never had one before!
Taj took a logical approach. He asked the aunt if they could work out when their grandmother should have died, so they would know how long their grandmother would be stuck, because their grandmother hated waiting. The aunt scoffed that no respectable astrologer would reveal your expected span of life on earth. Taj pondered and then said, “Wait.”
He said if their grandmother’s birth chart predicted she would die at another time, it would be wrong, because that’s not what happened. Therefore, logically, the chart meant nothing. “Don’t be disrespectful, Taj,” said the aunt.
Taj went further. He said he didn’t believe in heaven or hell or an “in-between place.” He slept peacefully and dreamlessly and became entirely secular from that moment on.
Allegra is not religious, but she is happy to go with the flow. She still goes to temple now and then. Why not? It does no harm and it makes her parents happy.
Her grandmother would only be in her seventies now if she were still alive. The ordained date of her death might still be years ahead. She might still be waiting for release from the mustard-colored walls.
Now Allegra says, “I already told you, Mum, my back is good now. I’m back at work. I’ve stopped taking the tablets. No need to discuss my health with Taj.”
“He’s a medical professional, and he’s your brother, Allegra, it’s not like I’m discussing it with a stranger on the street.”
Rationally, Allegra knows her brother must have some expertise. He has a degree, an office, patients. But he’s still just Taj. What would he know?
Her irritation makes her reckless. “I shouldn’t have told you what that passenger said. I will never ‘self-harm.’ I do not have depression, Mum, and I’m not getting it.”
Her mother’s tone is frosty. “Depression is not actually something you choose to suffer, Allegra, any more than you choose to catch a cold.”
Now Allegra feels bad. “Yes, I know, you’re right, I’m just saying—”
“I’m not concerned about what the passenger said.” Her mother’s voice is louder. She probably regrets saying what she said too, because isn’t she therefore implying that depression floats invisibly in the air like cold germs ready to infect Allegra with her genetic susceptibility? Allegra knows her poor mother is walking a delicate line: Don’t worry about this, but don’t be cavalier about this.
“I’m not even thinking about it. I called to make sure you knew when Diwali is this year, so you’re not working, because your cousins—”
“I know, Mum, I’ve got it in my calendar. I promise I won’t be working.”
A glass of wine is handed to her by the man about whom Allegra’s mother knows nothing. Her mother is not old-fashioned about premarital sex, but she would not like the idea of sex for the sake of sex. Sex is meant to be an expression of love. If you know for sure you have no future with this man, Allegra, if you’re not sure you even like him, why waste your time sleeping with him?
He carefully positions himself next to her on the bed, his back up against the headboard. He has smooth tanned calves. He shaves his legs because it “improves his aerodynamics” when he cycles. A surfboard is propped up in the corner of his bedroom. A dumbbell sits on a pile of military-themed books on his bedside table, along with a nasal spray. They could not be less compatible.
“You sound distracted,” says her mother. “Are you in the middle of watching something? Your brother hates it when I call when he’s in the middle of watching something, which, apparently, I always do.”
“I’m just tired,” says Allegra.
“You work too hard. Have you—”
“Eaten? Yes, I have.” She preempts the next question. “I had the brown chicken you gave me the other night.” She’ll have it tomorrow night. “It was good.”
“I will make more for you, meri jaan, sleep well.”
Meri jaan. Her mother reserves this term of endearment for times of genuine illness or heartbreak. The translation is “my life.” The love in her mother’s voice makes Allegra feel terrible for snapping. She will visit tomorrow.
“Bye, Mum,” she says, in a tone of voice that means I’m sorry.
She puts the phone face down on the bed next to her.
“Thank you,” she says to the man with whom she is not compatible.
