Flash Fiction 3rd Place: Mango Lassi by Sudha Balagopal

Soni, my granddaughter, yanks a petal off the rose in the bud vase. “Rahul loves me not.” She buries the pinkness in her fist.

 “Why do you say that?” I kiss her forehead.

 “He should love me the way everyone says Tata loved you.” Her voice quivers.

 “How about some mango lassi?” I ask, as if the drink is solution to heartache.

 “The recipe you made for Tata?”

I fetch yogurt, an overripe mango and ice cubes from the fridge, tell her my husband, her Tata, bought himself me crates of hay-packed Alphonso mangoes from Ratnagiri. The first time I made the lassi he said it was awful wonderful. He also declared I was wrong right when I mentioned that the sweetest mangoes are not the best-looking ones.

Soni plucks three more petals, crushes them. 

 “Just the other day, Rahul got angry because I complained he has no time for us. He said he’s already made reservations for my birthday next week.” The petals land on her skirt. “What does that prove?” 

I cup her soft cheek. “He wants to focus on you that day?”

I peel and slice the mango, describe how her Tata always focused on the family. He was unyielding  principled, lived stringently,  didn’t tell me where he invested our money, and saved-saved-saved: for a house, for our children’s college education, for their weddings. He also disliked liked a sprinkle of jaggery on his lassi, refused insisted on a dash of cinnamon and protested welcomed a pinch of cardamon in his drink.

Soni pinches off another petal, tears it into strips.

 “Rahul’s twenty-five. He knows I need more than grand gestures.” She flings petal shreds. “He loves me, but not enough.”

I place mango, yogurt, ice, jaggery, cardamom, cinammon and a hint of salt into the blender jar, whir until the drink froths. “Thing is, actions communicate a lot.”

I pat her hunched shoulders, tell her that my husband bought me the electric mixer after he got one for his mother first  when it was new on the market. That he was good to his family―his parents,  his brothers―and without consulting me,  often invited them to dinner. That he was dutiful, but didn’t tell me how much he sent them, and supported his parents financially.

Soni grabs the last petal off the rose.

 “Rahul didn’t call all day yesterday from his conference.” She squishes the silkiness between thumb and index finger. “No messages this morning.”

I caress her back. “Why wait? Send him a text.”

I tell her my husband accepted enjoyed lassi after a hard day’s work, was annoyed tickled by the frothiness. He also commented it never always turned out like his mother’s.

Soni takes a sip of the mango drink, runs her tongue over her foamy lassi-mustache. “I want a husband like Tata,” she says.

I lift the petal-less stem from the vase, twirl. “It’s most important to marry someone who values you.”

I toss the baldness out of the window.