Of course Roopa Das is happy for her two daughters. Of course, of course, of course. Living in America, they enjoy opportunities and freedoms she could not even dream of as a child growing up in a small conservative village outside of Dhaka.
But, then again, Roopa Das is only human. And as a human it is hard not to feel the temptation of revenge tugging at your innards, especially when ungrateful talking-back children scream “Whatever! Gross!” when you kindly ask them to massage your aching feet or clean the toilet. They do not know what you have sacrificed for them. Useless children.
So Roopa Das did what her understandable human tendencies told her to do.
She refused to allow them to thread their tangled unibrows and prominent mustaches.
When cooking her cauldrons of curry, she made sure to open their closets nice and wide so their skinny jeans and neon blouses would soak in the pungent scent.
And everyday, despite their plaintive wails, she slopped channa curry on to two pieces of white bread for their lunch, which inevitably ended up a mashed, sopping wet, inedible ball that stank of spices by the time it was noon.
Das claimed that she does in fact feel better about herself after engaging in these acts, explaining that it brings her a small secret delight when her children collapse onto their beds after school and weep about their feelings of marginalization.
“Why should they have everything?” said Das, “If they get to go to school past 7th class, then they need not be attractive and sweet-smelling like their mother.”
