She comes in. The smell of expensive perfume wafts in with her silk sari. She looks almost the same as when I last saw her, except she’s thinner. Mummyji’s voice on the phone – so thin, so thin. She hugs everyone, especially me. We both exclaim delightedly, apparently in raptures of joy at seeing each other again. Mummyji looks very happy, calm, collected, in her element now that the room is at it’s full capacity. Come, come, joyous occasion and all. Sit, eat, shout! Loudly ! This is how we celebrate !

Her husband isn’t here. No, no says Mummyji, must be busy with the business. Ver rich, Mummyji has told me, they live right in the centre of things, you know where the price of land in Delhi is the highest. She wears jewellery worth lakhs everytime she steps out of the house. And the kids, those handsome sons of their father ? Two sons, imagine that, says Mummyji, such luck!

I remember her gesticulating with her hands, like she was measuring time, “Like clockwork it was – every nine months these was a bonny baby ! Her saas was thrilled. Treats her like a queen. And then after she had them, she went on a diet ! Uff, what a diet it was, Usha – she would not eat a thing ! Vimla would call me up and say, didi, you speak to her – maybe she’ll listen to you. You know how it is, Usha, how “healthy” she used to be. You know how they worried about her – who would marry a fat girl ? Now, reed-thin she is. As thin as you. Of course when you have your kids . . .” Her voice trails away as she reaches for the top shelf of the wardrobe, where she’s putting the clothes away. Then she turns and looks at me pointedly, shrugs, “And then she was always beautiful ….”

It is late. No one appears to be in a hurry. No schools to attend, no work awaits ? Mummyji is going to bed, but invites everyone to stay the night. We’ll put bedding down in the drawing room, it is hospitality, na ? My home is your home. Yes, Mummyji’s home is indeed everybody’s home. Invite them all in. I head towards my room. Almost everyone, decides to stay, unsuprisingly. The rummy continues.

Mummyji glances at me, “Usha, will you give her a suit of your’s ? She can’t sleep in that beautiful sari. Real gold zari, huhn?” Mummyji fingers the pallu delicately, the way she thinks a “proper” lady would, not like she covets it, but like a connoisseur examining a great piece of art. Mummyji looks impressed,

I assent and she follows me. I pick out a polyester suit, almost new. It fits me like a glove. Mummyji stands by watching, pleased that she’s staying. She heads toward the bathroom to change.

Mummyji has gone to bed, while she’s been changing. She comes to me as I sit on the bed, removing my jewelry, “Thanks, Usha didi, such a lovely suit, and it fits so well.” I smile at her, and she turns to go. And then, averting her head so I cannot see her eyes, as though talking to herself, “It’s loose actually, almost an inch on each side . . .”.