Moti on the Water

by Leylah Attar

  “I found it buried at the bottom of my mother’s trunk,” the woman sitting across from me said. “It’s been a few years since she passed away, but I still get the occasional call from her clients. Mãi kept notes on all her readings, but no one’s ever asked to see them.” Her bright, blackbird eyes shone with excitement. “When your naani said you were coming all the way from America, I searched everywhere for them.”

  “I can’t believe I’m holding Ma Anga’s notebook in my hands,” I said.

  “I knew I had to meet you the moment your grandmother told me your name. Your mother must have been Mãi’s biggest fan.”

  “Dolly certainly took Ma Anga’s advice to heart.” I paused as the waiter placed small round pieces of bread, wrapped in newspaper, on our table.

  “From the gentleman there.” He gestured toward the serving hatch separating the kitchen from the rest of the tea shack. Alex grinned back at me, his face peeping through the opening with an expression of pure delight.

  “It’s crusty on the outside and fluffy on the inside,” he called. “You have to dip it in your tea. Go on.” He made a dunking gesture. “So good.”

  “Don’t mind him, Shilpa,” I said. “He’s like this whenever we’re on a vacation. Every restaurant we go to, he ends up poking around in the kitchen.”

  “Well, he’s right.” Shilpa laughed and picked up her bread. “It’s made for soaking up sweet, hot tea.” She held one hand under her chin as she bit into it. “Would you like me to translate the entries in the book? They’re in Konkani.”

  “That would be great.”

  Shilpa wiped her hands and searched the ink-speckled pages. “Ah, here we are. Dolly. You want me to start at the beginning?”

  “Just the phone call Dolly made from Chicago after I was born, when she asked Ma Anga to interpret my natal chart.”

  Shilpa scrolled down the page before moving on to the next one.

  “Hm.” She frowned, a few pages later. “It’s the last entry for Dolly, but…” She pulled out a faded envelope stored between the pages and continued reading. “It says Mãi canceled the session. Her dog died and she was too distraught to give a reading.”

  “That can’t be right,” I said. “Dolly repeated their conversation many times, ever since I was a kid, so I’m sure they talked.”

  “They talked, but just long enough for Mãi to make this entry.” Shilpa scanned Ma Anga’s writing, line by line. “We didn’t have a landline at home back then, so Mãi went to the post office to take Dolly’s call. She waited there for three hours because of a mix-up. When the call came, the connection was bad. She stayed on the line long enough to explain the situation. Then she went home.”

  “That’s it?” I couldn’t keep the disappointment out of my voice. I was in Goa to visit Naani. It had been three years since she moved to India to be with PPP. Telling her that Alex and I were getting married had been the highlight of my trip, but I also wanted to learn about the event that shaped so many years of my life.

  “Not exactly,” Shilpa said. “Mãi added it was a hot day. She drank three bottles of cola while waiting for Dolly’s call and walked home with a full bladder. The envelope…” She peered inside before handing it to me. “It’s the money your mother wired for the reading.”

  There were a few bills and a handwritten note inside.

  “What does it say?” I passed it on to Shilpa.

  “It’s a reminder she owes Dolly a reading, minus the three Thums Up.”

  “The three what?”

  “Thums Up. It’s a cola drink. Mãi had three Thums Up at the post office while she waited for Dolly’s call.”

  “Three Thums Up.” My ears perked. “Did Ma Anga say anything about the three Thums Up to Dolly?”

  Shilpa glanced at the notes. “No, but Mãi was meticulous about her bookkeeping, so if she was going to charge Dolly for the Thums Up, she might have.”

  “It doesn’t add up.” I sat back. “Even if Dolly misinterpreted part of their conversation.”

  “Hey.” Alex joined us, reclaiming his chair. “What’s with that look? Is there more to the reading than you bargained for?”

  “The opposite,” I said. “There’s nothing at all. Not even the part where Ma Anga told Dolly to name me Moti.”

  “I assumed your mother named you Moti to honor Mãi’s loss,” Shilpa said.

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Here.” Shilpa unzipped her wallet and fished out a photograph. “This is Mãi.”

  Ma Anga was a big woman with a big presence that spilled through the two-dimensional border of the photo. Shilpa pointed to the little white ball of fluff in her mother’s armpit. “This is her dog, Moti.”

  “Her dog?” I said. “I was named after Ma Anga’s dog?” My brows shot up and disappeared somewhere in my hairline.

  “He was Mãi’s beloved companion through life. The pearl of her heart,” Shilpa said.

  “He wasn’t even a she?” My voice was close to shattering the tea glasses. Then again, I just found out I was named after a dead poodle. With a penis.

  “I’m sorry you’re disappointed.” Shilpa sniffed and put the photograph away. “But let me tell you the story. Mãi found Moti by the water, seven days after her mother passed away. He was a stray who’d been adopted by a group of cormorants—fishing birds. He thought he was one of them. He kept diving off the rocks, into the water. He wasn’t a good swimmer, but no matter how many times he went under, he paddled back to the rocks and dove in again. Mãi brought him home to keep him safe. He got her through the loss of her mother. They remained inseparable until he died. Mãi was heartbroken when she lost him. She believed he was her soul mate.”

  Maybe it wasn’t so bad being named after a fluff ball—a confused but venerated little fluff ball.

  “Sounds like they were very close,” I said. “What happened to him?”

  “He drowned,” Shilpa said. “We were on a ferry and he just… He jumped off. We think it was the birds diving into the water that set him off.”

  “Unresolved childhood issues,” Alex said. “They’ll get you every time.” The laughter lurking around the corners of his mouth tipped into a full-blown grin.

  “Let’s see if I have this right,” I said. “Ma Anga meets her canine soul mate, Moti, by the water, seven days after her mother passes away. Moti dies in the water years later. Ma Anga is grieving for him and cancels her long-distance reading with Dolly. She conveys this to Dolly over a bad telephone line. She might’ve also mentioned drinking the three Thums Up.”

  “Exactly what Ma Anga said, we’ll never know, but Dolly came away with an entirely different message,” Alex said. “Like a game of Broken Telephone.”

  “I wish I could give you more,” Shilpa said. “I hope this was helpful. It’s a long way for you to come and see me.” She put Ma Anga’s notebook away and glanced at her watch. “If there’s nothing else, I should get going.”

  She stood and shook our hands.

  Alex regarded me across the table after she was gone.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing.” But his mouth twitched like he was dying to say something.

  “Spit it out,” I said as we left the tea shack and walked under the shady trees to our rental scooter. “You know you want to.”

  He straddled the seat and leaned in, running his finger along my jaw. “Dude, you were named after a dog who thought he was a bird.”

  I folded my arms and counted to five. Sure enough, the indent in his cheek deepened into a full-blown dimple. We’d met eight times over the last three years and each time that damned dimple made an appearance, my heart flipped for him all over again.

  I mounted the scooter and wrapped my arms around his waist. “Dude, you named your restaurant after a girl, who was named after a dog, who thought he was a bird.”

  Alex’s dream had turned into reality, in the same spot he’d taken me swimming for the first time in Folegandros. A hotel was being constructed
across the bay then, but the deal had fallen through. When the property came up for sale, Alex snapped it up and opened his restaurant: Moti On The Water.

  The name was a play on its meaning in Hindi—a pearl on the waters of the Aegean Sea.

  Now it was about a dead poodle.

  Alex’s laughter rippled through the air as we took off, along palm-fringed roads and endless rice paddies, the wind in our hair. Goa in the monsoon was gray and lush. Waterfalls trickled down emerald hills as we passed spice farms and sleepy fishing villages.

  “Look.” Alex pulled over and pointed to the stretch of golden sand by the road. “Are those what I think they are?”

  I squinted, but the sun was low in the horizon and directly in my eyes.

  “I’ll be right back.” Alex took off for the beach and returned with a bright, diamond-shaped kite. “Come on. It’s not going to fly itself.”

  I smiled, falling into step beside him. It was exactly the kind of thing Alex did—stop and take a great big bite out of life.

  The beach was empty, except for a group of kids, with their eyes trained skyward.

  “Did you take one of their kites?” I said.

  “I paid good money for it.” Grinning, he handed me the spool, climbed on a rock, and held the kite up. “Ready?”

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d flown a kite. I took a step back when Alex let go, keeping the line taut between me and the kite. For a moment, it floundered, nose-diving toward the ground. Then the wind caught, and the spool unraveled.

  Laughter floated from my throat as the kite soared upward. I pulled back on the line, keeping the tension and letting it climb until it was flying high. Jubilation engulfed me as I watched it turn and pull and dance.

  I was connected to the sky, the wind, the soft light filtering through the clouds.

  Alex hugged me from behind and I leaned into him, recalling the star-speckled night on his roof.

  What’s your favorite childhood memory? he asked.

  Flying a kite.

  “You remembered,” I said.

  “I’m always listening, Heart-Eyes.”

  I laughed and kicked off my shoes, my heart soaring as high as the kite.

  “Guess what?” I flew barefoot over the sand, letting the string out until the kite was nothing more than a tiny diamond in the sky. “I can swim, and now I can fly.”

  “You and the poodle you were named after,” Alex called, as I ran along the water. “Both freaking delusional.”

  He charged down the beach after me, our footprints melting into the waves as the sun dipped beyond the seam of the horizon.

  THE END

  Mists of the Serengeti

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  53 Letters for My Lover

  From His Lips

  Leylah Attar is an award-winning New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal bestselling author of contemporary romance and women’s fiction. Her novels draw on a colorful tapestry of influences. Currently residing in Toronto, Leylah writes stories about love—shaken, stirred, and served with a twist.

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  To all the readers, bloggers, and countless people who make it possible for me to live this dream—thank you for your love, for your energy, and for pushing me to be better with each novel. None of this would be possible without you. All the heart-eyes in the world for you!

  Thank you to my smart, witty editor, Suanne Laqueur, who is also an extraordinary writer. Having you edit this book was an honor and a privilege.

  Hang Le, you made my cover dreams come true again. You and me forevers, baby!

  Elena @elenasbookblog—your input on the Greek aspects of this story were invaluable. Thank you for lending Moti authenticity, and for doing it with so much love and enthusiasm.

  Cat Porter, Pauline Digaletos, Kate Steritt—my sincere appreciation for your help in perfecting this book before it went out.

  Stacey Blake of Champagne Book Design—you are a gem for going above and beyond the scope of formatting. Eternally grateful for your patience, professionalism, and attention to detail.

  Many thanks to Jenn Watson and the entire team at Social Butterfly PR for loving this book and making sure it got out there.

  Christine Estevez, thank you for giving Moti a final polish, and for your unwavering support and friendship.

  Heather Orgeron, Tracey Jerald, Sydney Parker, and all the early readers—my heartfelt gratitude for taking the time out of your busy schedules and sharing your thoughts.

  Soulla Georgiou, in case it’s not abundantly clear, I’m grateful for you every single day. Your friendship lights my path.

  Nina Gomez, you inspire me with all that you do. Thank you for braving pigeons for me.

  To the incredible tribe of women whose paths I’ve been fortunate enough to cross—Amoa, JoDo, KitKat, Michelle Kannan, Alissa Marino, Miria Ardizzi, Wendy LeGrand…It’s impossible to name you individually. You remind me, time and time again, of how blessed I am to be a part of this incredible community. I adore you!

  A million thanks to all the ladies of Leylaholics Book Nook. Your kindness carries me from start to finish.

  To my husband and son, thank you for understanding when I retreat into my writing cave, and for loving me even when I emerge a zombie. You are my pillars, my sunshine, my resting post.