“Well, who asked you to go?” Ma would have demanded. “Did somebody tie your hands behind your back and say ‘Go-go to that Calgary North Pole place?’” So instead I said, “Ma, there are mountains in the distance, all covered with snow. I can see them gleaming like silver cones in the sunlight when I go outside my apartment.” “You sound like a travel brochure,” said Ma. “I hope you wear that sweater your Aunty Lalli knit for you, you catch cold so easily.” “These mountains are almost as tall as the Eastern Ghats. Do you remember that trip with Dadda in his inspection saloon?” “The Western Ghats.” “We never went up the Western Ghats, Ma. You are talking about the Eastern Ghats.” “Don’t tell me what I am talking about,” snapped Ma. “We went up Bhore Ghat and you started crying when the engine had to reverse downhill because you thought we were going to crash off the cliffs. Roopa had an asthmatic attack—your father left us nothing but a legacy of sickness—and that foolish office peon we had then, what was his name?”
