Fiction: The Supporting Cast

Amrita Singh

Amrita Singh

 

A woman should know how to wear a saree.

 

Pallavi gasped. A short, dark woman yanked the string of her petticoat tight around her waist, jerking the air out of her stomach.

 

“Please aunty, little bit loose,” she requested.

 

The woman didn’t look up or stop tying the knot. She mumbled through a mouthful of safety pins, “Saree is banarasi silk. Heavy. Petticoat will slip down.”

 

“And so what?” Pallavi wanted to ask. “Will people die of shock if they see my chaddi?”

 

But she kept quiet. Sarees had to be worn in a certain way—pallu over the left shoulder and falling to your knees, pleats crisp and evenly spaced, skirts hiding your ankles and almost reaching the floor. That’s why you had to put on your heels before you started draping. To get the ‘correct’ length. One day she would like to show up to a function wearing a saree in the pre-colonial style: without a blouse.

 

“It’s traditional,” she imagined telling people with a grin.

 

But Pranav and his wedding guests didn’t deserve such treatment. They were all being very nice to her, thanking her for coming after everything that had happened.

 

The woman hired to help the ladies get dressed for the evening finished draping the saree, and Pallavi shuffled over to a mirror to look. She had tried to drape it herself earlier, and the woman had taken one look and said “Remove everything.”

 

Seething at her condescending tone, but trusting her judgement, Pallavi had complied. The wine-coloured saree had been her mother’s favourite and she couldn’t bear for it to be draped less than perfectly. If Meena maushi had come for the wedding, Pallavi would have asked her to do it, instead of this self-important parlour aunty. But at the last minute, maushi had said she had some urgent work and couldn’t attend—Pallavi suspected she was making it up—and so she was at the mercy of the hired help.

 

She had to admit that parlour aunty’s drape looked much better than her own attempt. She forced out a thank you.

 

“A woman should know how to wear a saree,” Aai used to say.

 

***

 

Pranav was a confident groom. Pallavi, seated a few rows away from the stage, noticed that he kept catching the bride’s eye and winking during the rituals. When he leaned over to put sindoor on her forehead, he gave her a deft kiss on her cheek. Someone in the crowd wolf whistled, and Pallavi felt her cheeks growing warm.

 

Pranav had always been self-assured—graceful, even—in his movements. As children, he and Pallavi were best friends. They had copied each other’s homework and played badminton in the society’s court. He would hit perfect smashes and drop shots, while she struggled to make contact with the shuttle. Once in a while she would manage to send the shuttle somewhere he wasn’t expecting it to go, and then he would say “Oho!” and smile with one side of his mouth. She kept playing because of those smiles, and because she didn’t want to admit that she was embarrassed.

 

Then Pranav’s mother had died, and they had stopped playing badminton. Pallavi’s mother had become a substitute mother to Pranav, inviting him for dinner twice a week and asking how his father was. Pranav always said “Fine” without making eye contact, but Aai didn’t stop asking.

 

They lost touch when Pallavi moved to the U.S. for college. She would get occasional updates from Aai—Pranav is doing a master’s, Pranav got a job in Bengaluru, Pranav is getting married.

 

“What? Really?”

 

“Yeah, see no!” Aai sounded like she was smiling. “He has grown up, our Pranav.”

 

“When is the wedding?”

 

“In December. You’ll come no?”

 

“Let’s see, Aai. I have to get a visa appointment first.”

 

“Shya. You NRIs and your visa appointments. Can’t come home also without America’s permission.”

 

“Come on yaar, Aai. I have to make sure I will be able to come back to the U.S. I think Phillip is going to give me a promotion. How will it look if I get stuck there for two months or something? And that too for some random wedding?”

 

“Arre? What random. Pranav’s wedding it is,” Aai said. She didn’t seem to be smiling now. “He has invited Meena maushi also, you know?”

 

“Oh yeah? Why?”

 

“Aga? What why. She knows him since he was a baby! For your wedding you won’t invite her or what?”

 

That was Pallavi’s cue to cut the call—these days, her mother had started using any and all excuses to mention marriage. She was not ready to mention Tom yet. Aai would be even more desperate for Pallavi to get married once she found out there was a boyfriend in the picture.

 

“Chal Aai, I have to go. I have a meeting.”

 

“Okay beta. Good luck.”

 

Pallavi rolled her eyes. “It’s just a meeting, Aai.”

 

“Ho ho, okay. Start seeing visa slots today only.”

 

It was cruel, Pallavi thought, that in the end, Aai was the one who had missed Pranav’s wedding. In October, a haemorrhage had sent her to the hospital and brought Pallavi rushing back to Mumbai, visa be damned. She sat next to Aai’s bed for days, telling her stories of life in the U.S. and asking if she needed anything. Mostly she said no. Then one morning, she asked for beer.

 

“Aai! What?”

 

Aai just smiled. Pallavi didn’t know what to say and a smile crept onto her own face even as she shook her head.

 

“What re? Old lady wants to try beer once before she goes. What’s so wrong in that?”

 

“Aai, don’t say that.”

 

Her trembling hand touched Pallavi’s cheek.

 

“It’s okay, babu,” she said. “I am happy.”

 

Pranav had come that day, and when she told him what Aai wanted, he had smuggled beer into the hospital in a lassi bottle. They waited for the nurse to leave Aai’s room; then she took a sip and declared that it tasted disgusting, and she had not missed out on anything in life. They both laughed. Pallavi tried to catch Pranav’s eye, but he was looking at Aai.

 

Later, in the hospital waiting room, Pallavi asked Pranav if he would stay for a few days, but he said he had to return to Bangalore. All his vacation days were going to be used up for the wedding.

 

“I really need to return to New York,” she explained. “As soon as I get my visa. It would be good to have someone here for Aai.”

 

“Pallavi, I—” Pranav coughed. “Look, I don’t know what your, um, reasons are, but—” he stopped.

 

“But what?”

 

He looked into her eyes. “You should stay.”

 

“Are you saying…”

 

“Yeah.”

 

She looked down at her hands. “The doctors said there is some chance she will recover. And I’m going to get a promotion.. I might get a really good bonus this year. Also I just started dating this guy, so I don’t want to be away for too long, like, we’re not exclusive yet, you know? And Meena maushi can do the night shifts—”

 

“Are you serious?”

 

“What? I said I would pay her extra, and anyway she’s better at taking care—”

“Pallavi, this might be the last…” Pranav covered his face with his hands and exhaled. Then he looked at her again, and repeated, “You should stay.”

 

Pallavi felt tears welling in her eyes, and tried to blink them away, but this only made one of them fall down her nose. She wiped it away.

 

Pranav didn’t say anything. She stared at the floor, willing herself not to cry, and watched a pair of feet walk past. Then Pranav put his arm around her. She looked up. Meena maushi was somewhere around—she had come to give Aai a sponge bath, and she would definitely be talking to the nurses. If one of them saw him holding her like this, they would no doubt start some rumour and she didn’t want Aai to hear something like that. These people had nothing better to do than gossip. Thankfully, nobody was watching them.

 

Pranav’s arm felt light on her shoulders, as if he was hesitating to let it rest fully on her. She realised she had stopped breathing, and started again.

 

“I have to catch a flight,” he said. She nodded.

 

“I—you should call me,” he said. He was stiff and awkward sitting next to her, and she didn’t know what to say.

 

He removed his arm. “Will you come for my wedding?”

 

She shrugged. “It’s in Bangalore, no? Why not in Bombay?”

 

“Simran’s whole family is there… It’s just easier.” He got up. “And… please bring Meena maushi also.”

 

So he is serious about that, she thought. “Sure,” she said. “I’ll try.”

 

***

 

From: Pallavi Deshpande

To: Phillip Lewy 

Subject: Return delayed by a month                                                        

 

Friday, 10th January 2025 at 4:17 am

 

Dear Phillip,

 

Unfortunately, things in India have taken a turn for the worse - I seem to have misplaced my passport. I’ve left no stone unturned in trying to find it, but to no avail. It seems my only option is to apply for a new passport, and then for a fresh visa.

 

I expect my return to be delayed by at least a month. I’m really sorry for the inconvenience this causes the team. Once again, thank you so much for allowing me to take time off after my mother’s passing; I really appreciate it.

 

Please let me know if you need anything.

 

Best,

Pallavi

 

***

 

Goregaon police station was a surprisingly pleasant place. Large ceiling fans created a light breeze, and it carried the comforting scent of phenyl.

 

Pallavi had to wait less than half an hour before a khaki-clad policeman called “Deshpande?”. She followed him to the air-conditioned office of a senior officer who said, “Yes. Tell me,” without looking up.

 

“Sir, I have come for passport police verification.”

 

The officer sighed. “That will happen at your house, madam,” he said, still not looking at her. “We will send someone. Why you have come here?”

 

Be calm, she told herself.

 

“Sir, actually on the phone they told me that someone came to my house day before yesterday. But I was not at home and they went back. They said come to the station to sort it out.”

 

“Ranade,” the officer addressed his subordinate. “Who had gone to her house?”

 

“I had only gone, sir,” he responded. His paunch was about to break through his shirt buttons.

 

“One woman was there,” Ranade continued. “She said with Deshpande name no one is there.”

 

“Tell the address.”

 

“Yes sir. Hariniketan society, house number 18 B.”

 

The officer looked at Pallavi. “Address is same as old passport?”

 

“Yes sir,” she rushed to get it out, “But I lost my old passport. And maybe Sir went to the wrong flat. My maid said nobody came—”

 

“Ranade,” the chief interrupted her, “Describe the woman who was there.”

 

“Saree was worn,” he said, “and quite short. White hair in a bun. Glasses with a chain hanging from it. No tikli, no mangalsutra.”

 

“This is only your maid, madam?” the chief asked Pallavi.

 

“Yes, but—”

 

“One more time we will come, madam. If old passport is lost it takes time. Please stay at home.”

 

What a ridiculous system, she thought. I’m just supposed to stay at home? What if I have to go somewhere? She had brought five thousand rupees, but how to indicate that she was willing to pay?

 

“Sir,” she started feebly, “Is there anything I can do—”

 

“No. Next!” he was writing in his register again. Ridiculous, she thought.

 

“Sir when will you come? How many days?”

 

He gestured to indicate that she should leave. “Four-five days.”

 

“Madam, please,” Ranade said and when she stayed put, “Please madam. Tomorrow only I will come. Now let’s go.”

 

She followed him out.

 

***

 

It was a rare, blue-sky day and the air did not smell of smoke. Pallavi stood on the balcony of her childhood home, holding a cup of chai that had cooled just enough to drink. She closed her eyes to savour the moment.

 

The bell rang.

 

Pallavi sighed. Her new cook had a habit of coming whenever she pleased. The tyranny of the house help, she thought. In the U.S., one had to do all the chores oneself, but at least one could have a quiet morning. Here, there were interruptions every half hour. Chaos, like pollution, was in the air.

 

I have to be firm, Pallavi told herself with her hand on the doorknob.

 

“So early you have come?” she said, trying to sound annoyed.

 

“I finished early in the other house, didi.”

 

“So? You will come here at any time? I have things to do—”

 

But the girl was already walking past Pallavi into the kitchen. “What should I make?” she asked.

 

“I ordered fresh chicken to make that kala masala. It will come in some time.”

 

The girl tsked, opening the fridge. “In fridge nothing is there, didi? Any vegetable?”

 

“No.”

 

“I’ll make khichadi?”

 

“No. Guests are coming today. Please wait for the chicken.”

 

“Didi call and ask no, when will it deliver.”

 

“It will come,” Pallavi said. She would not be bullied by this waif. “You have to wait.”

 

The girl saw she wasn’t going to budge, sat on the floor and took out her phone. Pallavi stepped around her to heat her chai in the microwave. Khichadi, it seems. Pranav and his wife were coming for lunch. She would not serve them khichadi.

 

***

 

Pranav was agitated. They had almost reached Pallavi’s house; the cab ride from the airport had been a lot faster than he remembered. He was returning to his childhood society after almost five years. It was going to be strange seeing Deshpande maushi’s house, with all her things in it.

 

“Are you okay?” Simran asked, putting her hand on his.

 

“Yeah,” he said. “Just a bit anxious.”

 

“Arre? Why?” She laced her fingers through his, and he squeezed them. “She’s your childhood friend, no?” she cajoled. “What’s there to be anxious?”

 

“She’s just… I don’t know, she’s changed a lot.”

 

“But still. She’s Deshpande aunty’s daughter!”

 

“Yeah. That's why I agreed to come. But she’s not like her mom. She’s very… I don’t know. And I don’t understand why Meena maushi didn’t come for our wedding. I think Pallavi might have refused to buy her flight ticket,” he looked at Simran, wanting her to understand.

 

“It’s okay,” she said. “We’ll see how it goes. Worst case, I’ll say we have to meet my uncle, and we can leave early.”

 

He nodded. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad with Simran there. He had to do this for Deshpande maushi’s sake. But what was he supposed to say to Meena maushi? He didn’t want to embarrass her by asking why she hadn’t come for the wedding.

 

He wondered how she was doing. He remembered how she had sat at the dining table with him and Pallavi’s mom, after Pallavi had gone abroad for college. The two women had teased him because he couldn’t handle the spice in Meena maushi’s tambda rassa. “What if you get a wife who makes spicy food?” they had asked, and he had tried in vain to convince them that in the modern world, husbands could also cook.

 

Maybe he would ask Meena maushi to come and work for them in Bengaluru, after Pallavi went back to the U.S. He’d get her to teach him tambda rassa.

 

When they arrived, Pallavi gave them both enthusiastic hugs. “Are you hungry?” she asked and when they said yes, “Great! Food is almost ready. I do intermittent fasting no, so I eat at noon. That’s early for Indians.”

 

Pranav let Simran engage in small talk, and made his way to the kitchen to say hi to Meena maushi. Instead of her, he found a thin girl making chapatis.

 

“Um,” he said, and she looked up. “Meena maushi is there?” he asked.

 

“Who?” she asked, flipping one chapati as she spread ghee on a second and rolled out a third.

 

“Um,” he said again and after a moment, went back out into the living room. Simran was helping Pallavi set the table.

 

Pranav couldn’t tell if Pallavi was pretending, or had genuinely recovered from her mother’s death, but she didn’t seem to be visibly upset. Most of the conversation was about the troubles she was having getting back to America. She had lost her passport, which complicated her U.S. visa process, and the new passport was taking forever—and here she lowered her voice—she thought Meena maushi had lost her marbles, because apparently she had told the police that nobody named Deshpande lived in this house. Pranav took his chance.

 

“Where is Meena maushi, by the way?”

 

Pallavi looked at Simran. “I had to let her go, yaar. She was always commenting on my clothes and telling me not to skip breakfast and what not. She even asked if she should find a boy for me! And anyway, I’m going back to the U.S. soon.”

 

Caught off guard, Simran merely nodded.

 

“And she tried to convince me that Aai was paying her twenty thousand per month. Can you imagine?” Pallavi rolled her eyes.

 

Pranav looked at his plate, ears burning. He didn’t think Pallavi wanted an answer, or he would have said yes, he could very much imagine Meena maushi being paid that much after working for thirty years. He held his tongue, and the rest of the afternoon passed without incident.

 

Later that week, Pallavi called to say that the police had found her missing passport, and this should significantly speed up her visa application. If all went well, she would return in two weeks.

 

***

 

From: Pranav Kamble 

To: Pallavi Deshpande 

(no subject)

Wednesday, 26th May 2027, at 11:48 pm

 

Dear Pallavi,

 

How are you doing? It’s been a long time.

 

We’re doing great, just celebrated Avi’s second birthday. Simran sends her love.

 

I’m writing to tell you that Meena maushi passed away last week. Her son called, and said they’re holding a prayer service on 3rd June, in case you can make it. He wants to send you some money. He asked if I could facilitate. It seems your mom had made arrangements for Meena maushi’s medical bills to be paid from her bank account.

 

You should know that Meena maushi loved you a lot. When your Aai was in the hospital, she asked Meena maushi to take care of you, and Meena maushi took that very seriously. The day that Simran and I visited you, I spoke to her on the phone. She confessed to me that she had hidden your passport so that you wouldn’t be able to leave India, and she could continue looking after you. I asked her to turn it in to the police.

 

I also asked her to come work for us in Bengaluru, and she refused because she wanted to stay in Mumbai in case you decided to come back at some point.

 

I hope you can forgive her—she wanted the best for you and thought she could give you that. 

 

Take care,

- Pranav

***

 

Bio: Amrita Singh is a neuroscientist by day, and a writer by later in the day. She grew up in Mumbai, India and moved to the U.S. to do a PhD., and somewhere along the way, realised that all she really wanted to do was write and nothing was stopping her from doing that. She now writes a blog (https://learningtobehappy.substack.com/), short stories and some times, poems.  

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Setu, November 2025