Unaccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri

father asked if he could borrow some old clothes of Adam’s, and Ruma gave him a pair of khakis and a torn oxford shirt, things Adam had set aside to give to the Salvation Army, and lent him a pair of Adam’s running shoes. The clothes were large on her father, the shoulders of the shirt drooping, the cuffs of the pants rolled up. For the rest of the day, with Akash playing at his side in a growing mountain of soil, her father pushed the shovel into the ground, hacking away at grass with a soft, forceful sound, wearing his baseball cap to protect his head from the sun. He worked steadily, pausing briefly at midday to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich along with Akash, coming in at dusk only because he said the mosquitoes were out.
    The next morning her father drove back to the nursery to get more things: a bale of peat moss, bags of mulch and composted manure. This time, in addition to the gardening supplies, he brought back an inflatable kiddie pool, in the form of a crocodile spouting water from its head, which he set up in the yard and filled with the hose. Akash spent all day outdoors, splashing in the pool and squirting water into the garden, or searching for the worms her father dug up. Again her father worked almost continuously until dusk. With Akash outside all day, Ruma had time to do a few things around the house, small and large things she’d been putting off. She paid the bills that were due at the month’s end, filed away piles of the paperwork her life with Adam generated, and then began to sort through Akash’s clothing, weeding drawers of what he’d outgrown, bringing up larger things from plastic tubs stored in the basement. Depending on whether she had a boy or a girl, she’d have to save the smaller clothes or give them away. It would be another four weeks until the amnio, allowing them to learn the sex. She wasn’t showing significantly, had yet to feel any kicks. But unlike the last time she didn’t doubt the presence of life inside her.
    She dug out her maternity wear, the large-paneled pants and tunics that she would soon require. After sorting through the clothing, she turned to the unfinished bookcase in Akash’s room, which she’d been meaning to paint ever since she bought it, over ten years ago in Boston, to hold her law books. She removed all the toys and books and began to put them in the corner. She would ask her father to help her carry it outside, so that she could paint in the yard. At one point Akash came into the room, surprising her. He was barefoot, his golden legs covered with dirt. She wondered if he would be upset with her for touching his things, but he regarded the pile as if it were perfectly normal and then began picking items out of it.
    “What are you up to?” she asked him.
    “Growing things.”
    “Oh? What are you planting?”
    “All this stuff,” he said, his arms full, walking out of the room. She followed him outside, where she saw that her father had created a small plot for Akash, hardly larger than a spread-open newspaper, with shallow holes dug out at intervals. She watched as Akash buried things into the soil, crouching over the ground just as her father was. Into the soil went a pink rubber ball, a few pieces of Lego stuck together, a wooden block etched with a star.
    “Not too deep,” her father said. “Not more than a finger. Can you touch it still?”
    Akash nodded. He picked up a miniature plastic dinosaur, forcing it into the ground.
    “What color is it?” her father asked.
    “Red.”
    “And in Bengali?”
    “Lal.”
    “Good.”
    “And neel !” Akash cried out, pointing to the sky.
     
     
     
    While her father was in the shower, she made tea. It was a ritual she liked, a formal recognition of the day turning into evening in spite of the sun not setting. When she was on her own, these hours passed arbitrarily. She was grateful for the opportunity to sit on the porch with her father, with the teapot and the bowl of salted cashews