When Shyam returns from work, he’s drawn into the debate even before he can kick off his boots.
– Shilpa, it’s time you stopped going to work, he says.
– It’s you who insisted I take up a job.
– Yeah, we’ve a big mortgage to pay off. You wouldn’t listen when I said this place was too big for us.
–This isn’t the time to argue. Shilpa’s health is the first priority, says Prema.
Shilpa begin to sob, and Shyam rushes to console her. Prema goes into kitchen to make her son a cup of coffee.
On the night before Christmas, Prema looks out of her window: there are coloured lights hanging outside some houses. A few stubborn daubs of ice remain on the rooftops but the street is bereft of snow. A bedraggled patch of grass is plainly visible under the street lamps.
– Well, it’s going to be a green Christmas, she says to herself.
Prema has a dream in her sleep: It was Shyam’s wedding: Shilpa made an entrance wearing a red bridal sari, while the band played a traditional tune. The very next moment, Shilpa was seen in jeans and a T-shirt. Outraged, Prema turned to look at Shyam. But the man seated in front of the sacred fire was not Shyam but Joe. The musicians beat loudly on the drums.
Prema’s jolted out of her dream; there’s someone knocking on her door.
– Mom, I think Shilpa’s in labour. I’ll have to take her to the hospital.
– Do you want me to come with you? asks Prema, opening the door.
– No, Mom. If we need anything, I’ll call you.
Carrying an infant car seat, and a small duffel bag packed with Shilpa’s belongings, Shyam and Shilpa leave for the hospital.
Prema goes back to bed, but sleep eludes her. She makes herself a cup of strong south Indian coffee, and watches TV with indifference. She dozes off into sleep and shakes herself awake alternately.
At around 10 am the phone rings.
– Mom, it’s a boy! says Shyam.
– Congratulations! I’m so happy for you.
Later, Shyam takes Prema to see the newborn. The baby is in a bassinet beside Shilpa’s bed. Shilpa looks pale and tired.
– How are you feeling, my child? says Prema.
– I’m fine.
Prema picks up the child, uttering sweet nothings in Telugu.
The baby is pink and roly-poly, with brown, downy hair. Even as she’s cradling him in her arms, the baby opens his eyes. For a fleeting moment, a pair of sapphire-blue eyes stares back at her.
Prema hands over the baby to Shilpa, as if they are playing hot potatoes.
– Anything wrong, Mom? asks Shyam.
Prema looks at Shilpa. But her daughter-in-law’s face is turned away. They sit for sometime in awkward silence. A puzzled Shyam offers to take Prema home.
On the way back, Shyam puts on the radio. A gabbling DJ offers to play one of Irving Berlin’s best pieces.
– Please switch off the radio! says Prema.
– Why, it’s the White Christmas! Don’t you want to listen to it?
– No! You must make the reservation for me to return to India.
– You can’t go back now, Mom!
– Shyam, don’t argue with me. Please do as I say.
– Shilpa will be disappointed, I’m sure.
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