The Things We Leave Unsaid
Ritika Bali
Tina waves at me from the porch of her Dubai Marina bungalow. The kids are already yanking at the door handles, eager to leap out of the taxi. I tell them to wait, but they tumble out to meet their aunt and uncle, leaving me behind to wrestle with the suitcases.
‘Hello, my beautiful sister!’ Tina’s arms fling wide towards me. ‘So good to see you!’
I jerk back like a marionette on strings before finally surrendering. For weeks, I’d rehearsed this moment: meeting Tina and her husband, Vikram. So, why the nerves now? I tug at my sleeves, smoothing invisible wrinkles and stalling.
Her perfume reaches me first. Of course, it’s expensive. Tina has always known how to wear luxury the way other people wear skin. She folds me into her embrace and her hair brushes my cheek. I let her hold me, though a part of me floats, not fully in the hug or in the moment.
‘Good to see you.’ I coax my lips to curve. Sweat clings to my arms despite the morning breeze.
Tina smiles her old, easy smile. For a moment, my shoulders loosen, and I sense a familiarity with my sister. But something in us has shifted during the years apart.
From the moment I see it, I know this house would feature in Condé Nast: sleek white walls and oversized glass doors framed by tall palms, bougainvillea cascading over the stone fence, pinks and purples spilling against sun-warmed brick. Inside, it smells citrusy. Everything gleams—polished floors, curated artwork, minimalist furniture. Cushions on the couch are fluffed into perfection; the rugs appear to have been hand-picked from a Persian atelier. The kitchen, with its green marble counters and copper lights, is pristine, as though scrubbed spotless just before our arrival. The bedrooms are immaculate. Nothing feels out of place or where it shouldn’t be. It’s almost too neat and untouched.
The kids are already orbiting the swimming pool with Vikram, their voices bubbling over. ‘This view is unbelievable!’ they shout. ‘There’s a hot tub, too? Why can’t we live here forever?’
At home, I can barely drag a word out of them, their faces swallowed by phone screens. Now their eyes sparkle like they’re living their teenage dream.
‘Of course!’ Tina laughs. ‘We wish you were all staying longer.’ She turns, squeezes my arm and blurts, ‘I miss Ma. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it. It hurts me so much. I’ve been meaning to tell you—’
Not the excuses again.
‘A beautiful house indeed,’ I cut in. ‘Different from what I glimpsed on our video call. Spectacular, though. You and Vikram have done very well for yourselves.’
Tina exhales. I scowl.
As plans for the evening swim continue, their voices muffled by the pummelling in my chest, I catch my reflection in the glass door. Oily, gummed-up hair, faded T-shirt, claret lipstick feathering at the corners of my mouth. And beside me is Tina frolicking in her mansion, five times the size of the cramped apartment my husband left me—his parting gift after the affair—along with two boys to raise alone at forty-five.
And until six months ago, I was the one caring for our ailing mother, a responsibility Tina had conveniently shifted onto me because she was living abroad. When Ma’s asthmatic lungs rattled through the nights, when the bills stacked higher than I could count, it was me who shouldered it all. I brought her to live with me, bathed her, fed her and stayed up past midnight, filling out job applications with higher pay to keep us afloat.
Tina had visited once in between. For two weeks. She brought flowers and a cheque and fluttered around with all the right words of concern. Then she left, citing some urgent business matter that ‘absolutely couldn’t be pushed back.’ Ma’s health worsened. The hospital bills kept mounting, and Tina’s cheque was long spent. The day Ma passed, I was the one who sent out the message to family and friends. Vikram called soon after. Tina was in the hospital, apparently, for a horrid stomachache. Bedridden, he said. I didn’t ask more. If she were awake, talking and crying into the phone, it couldn’t have been that serious. But it was convenient. Not that I had the energy to care. I was drowning in grief, arrangements, and endless faces offering condolences.
A few days later, Tina and Vikram floated the idea of the kids and me visiting them. ‘A change of scene,’ they said. But the proposal soon became an insistence. They promised to cover the tickets, and we would stay with them. I resisted at first. I had no desire to walk into their glass palace of a life. But my sons pleaded morning and night, their eyes alight at the thought. And what choice did I have? I wasn’t about to let them travel alone. So I set aside my pride, bit back the taste of humiliation and gave in.
One week, we agreed. Let Tina and Vikram take care of our entire visit, I thought. Let them call it generosity. I would know it for what it was: guilt masquerading as kindness. Part of me had wanted to see for myself what they’d built, the picture-perfect DINK lifestyle that always lit up on the video calls.
And now that I’m witnessing it all, I know coming here was a mistake.
I push down the rising in my throat with the same old refrain: Everything’s fine. Everything’s always fine. Later, when I’m alone in the guest room and the boys are lost in the video games, I press my face into the pillow and scream until my throat splinters into needle pricks and my voice grates down to a rasp.
*
You sit cross-legged on the mosaic floor, knees nearly touching. Between you and her lies the elephant you call Lulu, one button eye missing, the other hanging by a loose thread. She lunges first, snatching it up and holding it tight against her chest. ‘Mine,’ she declares in her implacable voice.
You lean forward, fingertips brushing the frayed edge of the elephant’s ear. ‘I got it for my birthday,’ you say. ‘Play with it after.’
Your mother appears at the doorway, a dishcloth twisted in her hand, sweat across her forehead. ‘What’s happening here? Give it to your sister.’ But you both tug at the toy like dogs, heads snapping side to side, chins thrust forward, knuckles whitening as you clamp down on your grip.
Your mother presses her fingertips to her temple, then pointing at you, she says, ‘You’re older. You should understand. Find something else.’ Your hands drop limply to your lap as tears bubble in your eyes. But they don’t fall. They never fall. Your mother turns away, muttering under her breath: ‘Give me a break. Just … give me a damn break.’
*
For lunch, Tina lays the table with dainty china and silverware. She places the chicken curry on trivets and steps aside, letting Vikram flutter in with a bowl of salad. He takes an exaggerated sniff. ‘Smells incredible. But I’m thinking lunch while we watch the race.’ He swivels toward the boys. ‘Right? You’re in, yeah?’
Their eyes light up instantly. ‘Yes! Team Verstappen!’
‘No, Hamilton!’
‘Vikram,’ Tina calls after her husband, who’s already stacking his plate. ‘The table’s set. Let’s eat properly here?’
‘Relax.’ He waves her off. ‘Let me enjoy with my nephews!’ And just like that, he piles curry on rice, strides to the living room, and drops down with a grin. The boys scramble after him with clattering plates.
I don’t care about the race, so I take the seat at the table, bracing for the awkwardness that will surely settle between Tina and me.
But from the couch, chaos erupts before anyone’s even taken a bite. The tv roars. The boys roar louder. ‘No, no, no!’
There are gasps.
Vikram shoots up from his spot. ‘What the— move! Don’t crash!’ He jerks forward, and in the motion, a glob of hot curry arcs through the air.
Time slows: a streak of orange, then splat. Fireworks of curry across the couch. A perfect bull’s-eye dead centre on the cream carpet.
At first, there’s silence. Then the room detonates.
‘Oh my god!’ Tina shrieks, racing forward.
The boys jolt back, startled, bumping hard into a slim pedestal. The marble bust of some unbothered Greek goddess perched on top tilts once, twice, then wobbles.
Tina steps forward. ‘No wait—’
It’s too late.
With a loud cracking sound, the marble head tumbles, splits at the nose, and rolls onto the hardwood floor.
‘Shit! We’re dead! I told you to eat at the table! What were you even thinking?’ Tina shrieks, her face flushed crimson. ‘Where do they keep the damn washcloths now?’
‘I’ll check the kitchen,’ Vikram says, already bolting toward it. Drawers slam open and shut as he rummages through them. Tina joins him, mirroring his panic, both of them moving like strangers in their own house. For a moment, they seem to forget we’re even here until Tina’s exasperation falters and she stares at me. ‘It’s the house help. We don’t know where she puts these things,’ she says in a low voice and shrugs.
I sit quietly with the kids, swallowing the bite with a slow sip of water. Later, we spend the evening scrubbing the living room.
*
When Ma tells you the room will no longer belong to you, you laugh first, thinking it’s a joke. Your room can’t just belong to someone else, at least not your younger sister.
‘She’s growing up fast,’ Ma says. ‘She needs a bigger bed. You’ll be away at college anyway.’
You nod because that’s what you always do. But slowly, the change hits you like a punch.
The blue curtains are replaced with yellow stripes. Your posters, your stack of diaries, the tiny chipped mickey mouse mug you used to keep pens in, all stowed in carton boxes under the bed.
You feel displaced and infuriated. Your sister is sprawled on her bed, reading her book. ‘So,’ you say in a voice gruffer than you intend, ‘don’t forget…it was my room first.’
She looks up, surprised, and for a second it seems like she might argue, but then she smiles a soft, easy smile. ‘Look at this!’
She reaches for the photo frame on her steel almirah. It is made from seashells that you both collected on your trip to the beach. Inside, there’s a grainy picture of the two of you, sunburned and laughing, with matching ponytails and your arms thrown around each other.
‘I’ll always keep this,’ she says, running a finger over the frame’s uneven edge. ‘Wherever I go, I’ll put it up.’
You want to stay angry and repeat that the room is still yours, but something inside you melts. The shells catch the sunlight from the window and the laughter in that photo feels like you can almost hear it again.
‘Don’t lose it,’ you tell her.
‘I won’t,’ she promises. ‘I will put it where I can see it every day.’ And you believe her.
*
Throughout the next day, Tina moves about the house, hyper-aware of her linens and floors, watching where she sits and what she touches. Her caution edges into irritability and though she tries to hide it, her face and body give her away. I move lightly across the hardwood floor when no one’s watching, wary that if I press even a little harder, it might cause something to break. Every time the kids grow too loud or careless, I hush them. There’s no way I’ll let them or myself be a bother to my sister and sully her picture-perfect world.
We circle around the subject of our mother, speaking of her health, her last days, her habits and idiosyncrasies, but never once calling out the truth: that Tina didn’t show up when it was time to bid her a final goodbye and that she had called me relentlessly instead, urging me to visit her, even going so far as to rope in my older son, asking him to persuade me and break me down where she could not.
When she asks about my job, I plainly say it’s going great. I keep my voice even, but my boss’s bemused face flashes before my eyes, the way he looked at me when I requested a week’s leave, and I’m reminded just how precarious my position in the new company is. I don’t ask Tina how her retail business is going. I don’t need to.
Rather, I ensure to check in with Tina and Vikram if our visit is keeping them from work. They always shrug and say in unison. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ But I can’t help it. I can’t relax. Even though this trip was meant as an escape from my life back home, being here feels like slipping right back into it. Sometimes, I retreat to the guest room to nap or spend more time than necessary in the bath. No one comes looking for me then, and for a few minutes, I feel something close to peace.
Between our perfunctory conversations, my thoughts take me back home, the dust gathering on the tables and windowpanes, the damp smell rising from the tiles and the decay that still sticks to the walls of the room where Ma used to lie. I dream of returning home to find the calatheas by the window long dead. Their leaves curl inward, brittle as old paper, veined with a white, web-like film. A spider, perhaps mistaking the plant for prey, has spun a cradle around it, threading silk through each shrivelled stem as if coddling its victim before drinking the last of its sweet sap.
Then the kids suddenly appear out of nowhere, shouting as if the house is on fire. I jolt upright and for a split second, I think Ma is in the next room, that she’s stopped breathing again. But when I see their faces, it hits me that the moment belongs to another time. I’m far from it now. They’re only excited. They want me to join them.
I pull myself up, still shaken, and follow them into the living room. The evening light slants through the glass door. Tina and Vikram walk toward us, both grinning, carrying glossy shopping bags with luxury logos.
‘We got you all some presents!’ Tina announces, her voice lilting with pride.
The kids nearly fall off their chairs with anticipation. I can’t remember the last time I saw that kind of light in their eyes. I try, god knows I try to give them everything I can.
Tina reaches into the bags, pulling out the gifts one by one like Santa. ‘Alright! For my favourite nephews in the whole world, these are for you!’
The kids dive forward, tearing through paper. Their faces bloom with delight as they pull out sleek smartwatches and headphones. Accessories that must cost more than my month’s grocery bill.
‘Thank you! Awesome stuff,’ they yell in unison.
Tina and Vikram beam, pleased with themselves. But I am not. All this money that could’ve been used to cover our mother’s hospital bills when Tina was gone, or a live-in nurse when I was drowning in the work of keeping her alive. Look how it’s being poured into shiny distractions. No, stop. Don’t think like that, Maya. I berate myself. You’ll ruin everything.
I wasn’t always like this. I was the sister with the plan, the one who made it to the top management program, who married for love, who had two beautiful boys. And then I became the sister who gave up her job to raise them, who got left behind for someone younger, who now lives in her ex-husband’s discarded apartment.
‘And for our dearest Maya!’ Tina says, turning to me with a theatrical flourish. She waves a bag in front of me. ‘Guess what it is?’
‘Surprise me!’ I shrug and pull out a makeup kit and a new phone in a gleaming white box. ‘This makeup brand is all the rage in Dubai!’ she says eagerly. ‘And of course, you recently mentioned your phone was giving you a hard time.’
My face goes warm. I’m holding up the makeup kit. ‘To all the pretend parties I get invited to every week,’ then I run my hand over the case, feigning to admire the phone. ‘I can already picture myself using it at work, coming off as a rich bishh—’ I say, looking at the kids, hoping they didn’t hear me and then laugh at my own absurdity. ‘Thank you. It’s…very thoughtful.’
But I don’t stop there. ‘Maybe,’ I continue, pushing myself up from the couch. ‘You should’ve gifted this to me earlier, when you last visited. I could’ve called you on this expensive phone for help when Ma was choking on her pills. Maybe then you would’ve listened and stayed longer?’ The words escape before I can stop them.
And then, as if some invisible hand has seized my strings again, I grab the makeup box, flip it open, and plunge my fingers into the eyeshadows. I smear the colours across my eyelids, furious. I twist the lipstick and drag it across my lips in a jagged line. ‘I look good, don’t I?’
The room goes still. The kids shrink back. Tina and Vikram’s mouths open, but nobody speaks a word.
I feel like someone’s pounding their fists on my chest. The heat radiates from my face. ‘A new phone!’ I laugh hysterically, repulsed by all of them and their nonsense gifts and idiotic feelings that can no longer contain the torrent swirling within.
I fling the phone across the room as hard as I can. It careens through the air like a missile before crashing into the far wall. Gasps follow in the stunned silence. Vikram slaps his hand over his mouth as if he never imagined this side of the otherwise calm sister-in-law.
But it’s not over. I feel my body move towards the fallen phone and my feet descend on it, each blow heftier than before. When I finally stop my grunting and stomping, my laboured breathing is the only sound in the room. Everyone is staring at me, tense and breathless, dreading another round of fits.
But instead, I look down at the phone, so they too look down at the phone, and none of them can believe that it is still in one piece.
My older picks it up and turns it over in his hand. ‘Not even a scratch.’
‘And that is damn impressive!’ exclaims Vikram. ‘Can you believe it’s a knock-off?’ His head stops bobbing when he realises what he’s done. Tina’s gaze intensifies. The kids glance at their gadgets. ‘I mean, they’re just as good,’ he sputters. ‘You won’t even know the difference—’
‘Okay, Vikram! They get it,’ Tina interrupts her husband, smiling. It isn’t really a smile. She gently beckons the kids to go to the room and watch tv, then pulls me carefully by the arm and hands me a glass of water. The cool rush of the liquid seems to soak into the madness that has filled the room. She sits beside me. ‘You never say what needs to be said. Let it out,’ she says, poking the left side of my chest. ‘Keeping all that inside you?’
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
‘Okay, I’ll go first,’ Tina says quietly. She takes a deep breath. ‘Our business is failing. It seems nobody wants to buy anything from the store now.’
My head jerks up. ‘We are in debt and we lost our house last week.’ She glances around. ‘This house isn’t ours. It’s a rented property. An acquaintance offered it until we can figure things out. But I think you already knew. Right after the curry incident.’ Her words come out in a rush now. ‘And selfish of me, in the midst of all the chaos, I wanted you and the kids to still visit us. I forced Vikram to keep up the act. Plus, I didn’t want you to think we failed, after all that drama when we said we were moving to Dubai for better prospects.’
I look at her and want to tell her I would never think of her as a failure. I want to say it but she presses her hand against my mouth. ‘You next,’ she says softly.
I hesitate, then force myself to speak. ‘I’ve resented you for a long time for leaving me behind. My life these past few years has been...hard. You were always caught up in your life, and I was caught up in Ma. I lost a part of myself taking care of her.’
‘I’m sorry for being inconsiderate,’ Tina whispers, tears spilling. Vikram, who’s been silent all this while, nods. ‘I am sorry too. I should’ve been more present.’
‘Then why,’ I ask, my voice snapping, ‘did you never come when Ma died? I waited for you.’
Tina looks down and her eyes flicker with pain. She places a hand on her belly and sobs. ‘I wanted to tell you about the baby, but Ma was so sick. And then I lost—I lost her the same day Ma—’ She collapses into tears. ‘I’ll never forgive myself for not being there.’
The air leaves my body. Without a word, I lower myself beside her. I guide her head to my shoulder. Her arm curls around me, and together, we cry the way sisters do when holding it in becomes unbearable. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper between breaths.
‘I’m glad you came. I’ve missed you.’ Tina lifts her head and tucks a plastered strand of hair from my forehead. After a long pause, she says, ‘How about I cook Ma’s recipe for mutton soup tonight? I know you love it.’
I let out a shaky smile. Looking around, I say, ‘And it wasn’t really the curry incident that gave you away. It was the seashell photo frame. I couldn’t find it anywhere. You’ve always kept it in your house where you can see it every day.’
Tina laughs softly. ‘How did I not think of that?’
I glance at her. ‘So, what’s next?’
She looks thoughtful. ‘I think our time here is done. This place no longer feels like home. Maybe it never was.’
I purse my lips and take her hand in mine. Outside, the tangerine light squashes through the window. For the first time in years, I don’t feel like I’m the only one holding everything together. And for now, that’s enough.
*
You lie curled on the couch with an ache in your head. The smell of onions sizzling in ghee drifts toward you. Ma is making mutton soup, the kind she always makes when you’re sick. You can hear the ladle clanging against the pot and the splutter as she adds water to it.
Tina sits cross-legged next to you, refusing to leave your side even for a minute, pressing a damp cloth to your forehead. ‘You should rest,’ you murmur in a hoarse voice.
‘So should you,’ she replies, folding her arms.
You want to roll your eyes but don’t have the strength.
From the kitchen, Ma calls out, ‘Almost done. Just five more minutes!’
Tina adjusts the blanket around you and draws circles on your arm with her finger. You manage a weak laugh that turns into a cough. Instantly, her hand is on your back, rubbing gently.
Ma finally appears with the soup, steam rising in curls. She places it carefully on the coffee table. ‘Drink while it’s hot.’
You sit up slowly, the blanket sliding off your shoulders, and Tina grabs the bowl before you can. She tests the heat with her breath, then holds the spoon to your lips.
Ma stands nearby, pretending to tidy up, but really just watching the two of you.
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