“What?” Brent snaps his gaze toward Ranee.
“An auntie at the garba was telling me how beautiful Trisha looked. Her mastery of the steps to the stick dance. She of course takes after your youngest brother, dear.”
The girls wait. They have no other option.
“Marin, Sonya—you are both on my side of the family. But Trisha, you are your father’s daughter.” She takes each step one at a time. With a full belly laugh, she creates a diversion. A smile graces her face. From deep within her, she finds a reason. An illusion for them all.
“My brother named you,” Brent reminisces. Lost in her game, unaware of the play. “He was the first to hold you.”
The girls know the story. It is a tale repeated over the years. Lost in the memories of another time, the only time Brent was happy. “You were in New Delhi, Papa,” Trisha says.
“I was. The monsoon had flooded the streets. The trains could not move.”
“You telegrammed that you had hired a rickshaw. Driving all night you would arrive by morning.” Ranee passes Trisha to move closer to him. “In the middle of labor, and I am calling friends of friends. To keep you from danger.”
“I needed to see my second-born enter this world. Be the first to give her the drink of sugar water.” He reaches Trisha, but she is not afraid. He caresses her hair and pulls her into an embrace.
“Your brother thought of the name you would like best,” Trisha prompts him, sustaining the flow of the story.
“Yes, I listened to your mummy and stayed put. Waiting anxiously for the news.”
“We could not lose you to the floods. What would we do without you?” Ranee asks. “You arrived in Rajkot two weeks later. Your suitcases filled with gifts for Marin and our new child. Trisha, all you cared for was milk from my breast, and your father had spent thousands of rupees on toys for the two of you.”
The memories tease them, reminding them of a different time. Yet, they had left everything behind. Now all that remained was a bastardized mockery of the past.
“They told me.” Brent’s gaze fills with warmth and love. “Your mummy had the servants wire notes daily to the hotel. Your mind—sharp like my father’s. A blessed future . . .” His voice trails off. His face is awash in anger. “It is why I made the sacrifice to come to America. A pauper in this country when I was a raja in my own.”
He releases Trisha, his fists tight. “Opportunities for my daughters, I explained to my mother. An education they cannot receive in India. She begged me to stay, her oldest son.” Brent’s face fills with obvious ache. “I did not listen. I left my family and my life to better my children’s.”
“Your sacrifice can never be repaid.” Ranee exhales and then motions her girls toward their room. “Daughters, never forget your father’s gift to each of you.” She caresses his back, a rare initiated touch. “Soon we will celebrate as never imagined. Our first child’s wedding to a maharaja. An engineer of Brahmin caste. The gods are proud of the sacrifice you have made. We have been rewarded with giving our daughter to an upstanding family of class and value.”
“Trisha will be next,” Brent says quietly, staring at his middle daughter. “Soon, she will leave us.”
“Yes, and she will be even more fortunate than her sister,” Ranee agrees. “What more could we want?”