Rrrrinnnng! Rrrrinnng!
“Who’s phone is that?!” the teacher snaps, whipping around from his board. His eyes narrowed, and he scanned the classroom like a hawk, searching for the source of the interruption.
I fumble with my phone, almost dropping it several times in my panic. I make the mistake of looking up and I see him. I get so startled, that my phone slips from my hand, and lands on the floor with a thud. Whoops.
“Anushka Sai Reddy!” Mr. Fencer bellows, face red with anger. I cringe inwardly, not only because I was in trouble, but because he mispronounced my name. I can hear the boys in the background snickering.
“How many tim一” he starts only to be interrupted by another incoming call from my phone. He grumbles, “Well pick it up. It has to be important if they’re calling more than once.”
I tap the receive button on my phone and press it to my ear when Fencer speaks again. “On speaker mode, please.” My eyes go wide with horror as I press the speaker button with a trembling finger. Silence settles around me like the quiet before a storm.
My Amma’s rich voice fills the room, “Beta! I’ve been calling you for so long and now you pick up! How is college? How are your dormmates doing? Did they like the Biryani I sent you last week? Oh, talking of food, have you been eating well? You were so hungry for my food last time I saw you. You know what, next time you come over I’m going to make your favorites. Oh! Did you see the list of suitors I sent you? I really liked the Akshat guy, he looked so handsome in the pho一”
“I’m great Mom!” I say, completely flustered, “Listen, I’m in a class right now. I’ll talk to you later, bye.” I hung up before she could embarrass me any longer.
Mr. Fencer goes right back to his lecture, but I can’t pay attention anymore. I am aware of every whisper and giggle around me. They’re all talking about me, I’m sure of it. My mom completely embarrassed me.
Oh how wrong I was.
Hours later, I lie on my bed, completely done with my homework. My phone sits on the corner and I reach out to grab it. My fingers fly across the screen dialing up my mom on Facetime. I watch as her face fills my phone screen. She’s smiling, making me feel bad for what I’m about to do. But… it’s important.
Don’t do it.
“Beta how are you? Your friends did like the Biryani, right? I knew it! I should cook for them more. I miss you beta. Anyways, how did you like the list I sent you? Did you like anyone?” Her words flow into the room, melodious and with a slight accent.
But I don’t think about her words. I think about the people laughing around me. I remember the way the people laugh and whisper when they see her in her Indian clothing. I can see my dorm member’s reluctance to try my Amma’s Biryani. I ponder about how people always giggle whenever they hear my mom’s strange accent. She just doesn’t fit in and that’s not helping me.
But what I don’t realize is that she doesn’t need fixing.
And finally. And finally, I snap. I let her know about how her calls are so annoying. She’d call me whenever I was doing something important. Always interrupting me. Always distracting me. Always embarrassing me. I told her how frustrated I was. How much her interruptions distract me. How much she embarrasses me. How I need her to just STOP.
A long silence falls and she just stares at me. Her black eyes brimming with tears. That’s when I realized I’d gone too far. “Amma…” I begin, my voice trailing off.
She puts her hand up, her voice heavy with tears she says, “I’m sorry, Anushka. So sorry.”
The screen goes black as she cuts the call. I sit there, shocked to the bones. I’d expected her to yell. To be mad at me. Instead, she seemed… sad. No, heartbroken. And with a jolt, I realized that it was because of me.
I dial her number again. And again. And again. But she doesn’t pick up. She doesn’t pick up for several weeks after that either.
Too late now.
Everything I did reminded me of her:
My mundane salad is pale in comparison to her lavish meals full of spices I can taste on my tongue if I try hard enough.
My shirt and jeans look colorless and sad compared to her beautiful kurtas of several colors and textures.
My English is flat without an accent, and I miss her Hind-English combo language that always made me smile.
Most of all, I miss her.
It’s been 4 weeks since I last talked to my mom, and that makes me realize how much I leaned on her. How much her words mean to me. How much she cares.
I cannot focus. Mr. Fencer keeps going on and on about important things I should be paying attention to, but my eye remains on the time. Counting down the minutes until I can go and see her again.
Rrrrinnnng! Rrrrinnng! Rrrrinnng!
My phone rings again and I grab at it eagerly. There was only one person who always called me during this period. Amma.
I check who it is but it isn’t her. I press the phone to my ear. A lady talks and talks. She tells me how she’s so sorry. About how it was so sudden they couldn’t do anything until it was too late. She talks and talks, but I’m not listening.
Because she’s not there anymore.
My mother is gone.
My heart splinters inside of my chest. The people around me are non-existent as one thought races through my mind. She didn’t get to know how much I loved her.
I’m sorry, Amma. I am.