Then the Varadans ushered us into a dining hall where tables and chairs had been set up around a buffet table with an array of chafing dishes. The aromas coming at me were pure heaven. They’d been driving me nuts since the moment I’d walked into the temple.
“Come, let us eat. You must be hungry,” said Mr. Varadan.
He escorted Roger, Satish, and me to the buffet and pressed plates and forks into our hands. “Please help yourselves, and come back for seconds. The caterers here are famous—they were recently featured in India Abroad newspaper.”
As Satish’s friends we were being given special treatment. Thanking Mr. Varadan for his hospitality, we gleefully helped ourselves to the feast.
The temple cafeteria was indeed well-known for its fare, and it didn’t disappoint me. The sambar—spicy split-pea soup—and the tamarind rice were seasoned just right. The kosumbari or salad and the mixed vegetable curry, which fortunately had plenty of green and red to satisfy my diet, were out of this world. The dessert, too, vermicelli payasam—angel-hair-thin noodles cooked in milk and sugar and flavored with cardamom—was excellent.
And as luck would have it, they were serving my favorite jalebi—deep-fried, pretzel shaped pastries dipped in syrup. Alas, they were saffron-colored and too rich, so I eyed them for a second, drooled privately, then decided to pass.
Some half an hour later, when the crowd had thinned out at the buffet table, Roger and Satish smiled at each other like coconspirators. “Ready for seconds?” Even before the sentence was complete, they were on their feet. Roger glanced at me. “Coming, Soorya?”
I shook my head. “It gets slapped directly on my hips.”
Roger pretended to study my body for a second. “Your hips look good to me. Very good.”
“Get out of here, you big flatterer,” I scolded him, trying not to giggle and blush like a teenager receiving her first compliment from a boy.
Satish tried to talk me into it. “It’s prasadam, Soorya. You’re supposed to eat till you’re stuffed. The more you eat, the more blessed you are.”
I shooed them away. “Any more edible blessings and I’ll cry when I get on the scale next week.” I’d been diligent with my diet and maintained my weight for nearly a year, and I knew I looked good these days. I was proud of myself and wanted to keep it that way, so I watched Roger and Satish make pigs of themselves.
Roger and I thanked our hosts for a lovely evening with more namastes before we left the dining hall.
Satish had planned to go to his uncle’s house for the weekend, so Roger and I were going home on our own. I liked the idea of having some private time with Roger, even if it was just a subway ride.
Chapter 18
After retrieving our coats, shoes, and my umbrella, we stepped outside the temple. It was still raining. But it had turned to a fine drizzle, looking more like a dense fog.
Wet and droopy, the potted yellow and white chrysanthemums on the temple steps exuded their distinctive bitter-sweet scent. I buttoned up my coat and unfurled my umbrella.
Roger turned to me as we descended the steps. “Did you enjoy the evening, Soorya?”
“Yes, very much.” I hadn’t been here in nearly a year, so I needed to come and earn my blessings. Noticing he hadn’t pulled his hood over his head, I moved closer to him so I could share my umbrella with him. “Thanks for inviting me.”
He took the umbrella from me and held it up to protect us both. “Don’t thank me; thank the Varadans and Satish. In fact, Satish was adamant that I invite you.” Roger gave me a lingering look. “Like I said, Satish is drooling.”
“But you’re the one who asked me,” I reminded Roger, and yet I was definitely tickled to have Satish’s continued interest in me confirmed. Roger didn’t look too happy about it, either. I indulged in a mental grin.
“Since you’re being so utterly sweet and charitable tonight, Mizz Giri,” he purred, throwing his arm around my shoulders, “may I invite you to a cup of coffee before we go back to the station?” He hesitated for a moment. “Or would that be too presumptuous on my part?”
“I’d love a cup of coffee,” I said. “I know a little café right around the corner that serves good Indian coffee. Want to try it?”
“Sounds perfect,” he said as we started in the direction of the café. A minute later, he let go of my shoulder, dug into his jeans pocket, then pulled out a red rose and presented it to me. “A pretty flower for a pretty lady.”
I looked up at him and realized he meant it. “Why, thank you, Roger. I haven’t received flowers in heaven knows how long.” In fact, the last time I’d received flowers as a personal gift was when Dad and Mom had given me a bouquet of pink roses at my graduation from law school.
“That’s not true,” Roger said. “What about the extravagant arrangement you got from your client?”
“That’s business. This is . . . personal, even if the flower came from the temple.” I noticed the outer petals were a little bruised from sitting in his pocket, but I loved the sentiment, anyway. On an impulse I tucked it over my ear, Hawaiian style.
“It was the prettiest rose sitting on the puja tray,” he said. “Since the service was over, I took it.”
“Swiped it off the tray, you mean?”
“It had your name on it.” He stopped for a moment to study my face. “It’s very becoming, too.”
“You stole a flower just for me? That’s so darn thoughtful.”
Roger’s arm looped around me once again, giving me disturbingly pleasant goose bumps. But I tried not to dwell on it. I told myself to enjoy the moment, grab it and hold it in my hands for however long it lasted—just like the rose tucked over my ear. A spontaneous act of friendship—if that’s what it was.
We ambled along the sidewalk, oblivious to the shuttered storefronts, the other pedestrians, and the cold rain falling around us. It might as well have been a leisurely stroll on a sunny afternoon.
The coffee shop was thankfully open despite the late hour. We ordered two old-fashioned Madras coffees at the counter, then sat at one of five small tables. The place was empty, so we had it all to ourselves. It was warm and cozy in here, and it smelled of rich coffee.
Within minutes the stocky young man at the counter brought our cups to our table. “Smells great,” said Roger to the guy with an appreciative smile. “Thank you, Govinda.”
Govinda beamed back at Roger, clearly thrilled at the compliment. “You are very welcome, sir. You tell me if you want extra sugar or anything, okay?”
When the guy returned to the counter, I whispered to Roger, “How do you know his name?”
“Didn’t you see the picture on the wall?”
“What picture?”
“The one where he’s serving coffee to some Indian diplomat. The caption clearly says, ‘Golden Café employee, Govinda, serving the Honorable Mr. somebody or other.’ ”
“How do you do that?” I shook my head in amazement.
“Do what?”
“Notice such trivial details.”
“When you’re a writer like me, you tend to observe things—names, faces, places, objects. It’s remarkable what one can learn from what you call trivial details.” He stirred a heaping spoon of sugar into his coffee. “They’re also a way to make people happy. And when people are happy, they give you outstanding service.”
He was right. Mildred came to mind, the old lady he’d befriended that first day he and I had gone to the movies. Roger had an astounding capacity to make people feel important—and happy. It was a rare gift. Maybe I needed to learn some serious public relations strategies from this guy on how to be a more effective lawyer.
The coffee was piping hot, frothy, and loaded with thick milk. Pure heaven. Coffee was not on my diet, but it was the one thing I indulged in on special occasions—and today was one of those occasions. I took my first delicious sip and looked across at Roger. “Tastes wonderful on a cold, damp night, doesn’t it?”
“Tastes wonderful on any night.” He
blew over the steaming coffee, took a sip, and closed his eyes. “Mmm, reminds me of my last trip to India a couple of years ago. We were traveling through some obscure little town in Andhra, and Dad decided that he had to have a cup of coffee or he’d die of caffeine deprivation. So he had our cab driver take us to this place that was no more than a shack. We sat on wobbly chairs and had coffee similar to this. But there they served it in stainless steel lotas—those steel tumblers that get so damn hot, you can’t even hold them.”
“I know exactly what you mean. Done it a couple of times myself,” I assured him.
“They called the brew cah-pee.”
I cradled my cup in my cold hands to warm them. “So you forgave your dad for dragging you to the shack?”
“Sure. The coffee was worth it.”
“Will you ever forgive him for the way he denigrates your choice of careers, Roger? He seems very harsh in his criticism of you.”
Roger toyed with his spoon for a while, looking pensive. “I know, but he’s not really a bad guy. He’s a good father in other ways.”
“I’m sure he is.”
“Like most dads who belong to the old school, he wants me to have a decent career that’ll pay my bills and then some.” He lifted his cup and took a thoughtful sip. “You know what? I noticed something strange about Dad—he’s been softening up on me lately. He’s even sounding supportive to some degree.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know what’s come over him, but I suspect it might have something to do with his cousin in India dying of stomach cancer recently. He was about the same age as Dad. Maybe that’s making Dad question his own mortality . . . or something.”
“Interesting.” His father didn’t seem like the kind to be influenced by some cousin dying in India.
“I also have a feeling my sister and mother might be lecturing Dad on his attitude. He’s even been calling and asking me how the play is coming along. And listen to this shocker—he sent me money to cover my living expenses for an entire year.”
“Wow! What brought that on? He was livid about your career just a few weeks ago.”
“I don’t know. Whatever or whoever it is that’s influencing him has my gratitude. My dad’s approval means a lot to me. He’s even talking about all of us taking a trip to India next year. I don’t know if I can go, though. I’m going to be busy.” He paused. “I’m hoping I’ll be busy.”
“Do you generally enjoy your trips to Andhra?”
“Oh yes.” He licked the coffee off his lips, drawing my attention to his remarkable mouth. “I love visiting the extended family. Since we’re considered special guests from America, they pamper us. They treat me like a prince over there.”
“I bet you love playing the role, Roger. And I’m sure you eat all your relatives out of house and home.”
His eyes danced with mischief. “All the old ladies pinch my cheeks and call me cute names like puttu, meaning little boy.”
“I know what it means.”
“They insist on feeding me by the truckload.”
“And you have no problem eating all that and keeping your digestive system in order?”
“What’s the point in going all the way to India if you can’t eat and suffer a little Montezuma’s Revenge? Or should it be called Gandhi’s Revenge?”
I couldn’t help chuckling. “You’re incorrigible, Vadepalli.”
“That’s what they tell me,” he said with a cocky grin. Swirling the coffee around in his cup, he sobered, then changed the subject. “So, what did you think of that wedding we observed?”
I felt a tiny stab in my side. Had he noticed my wistful expression earlier? “What about it?”
“Wasn’t that nice, watching two young people tie the knot?”
Oh dear, he had read my mind. “My goodness, Vadepalli,” I said, trying to make light of it, “don’t tell me you’re getting sentimental all of a sudden.”
“I am a sentimental guy, Soorya. I may not look like it, but I am.”
“This is me you’re talking to, Roger,” I reminded him.
“I mean it. I want to get married just like those two people someday and have a couple of kids that climb all over me and put their sticky fingers on my face and call me Daddy.”
The stab in my side suddenly felt like an all-out assault on my body. I could clearly picture a couple of cherub-faced kids with their dad’s captivating cinnamon eyes and silky hair. With his laid-back attitude and capacity for fun and laughter, Roger would probably make a marvelous dad, too. “I didn’t realize you felt that way. I thought marriage was just a convenient arrangement to you—a way to have someone finance your project.”
He downed the last of his coffee and sat back in his seat with his arms folded over his chest. “Nothing wrong in combining the practical with the sentimental, is there? That’s exactly how Indian marriages work most of the time. Haven’t you noticed? My parents have an excellent marriage and apparently so do yours. They were matched up for very pragmatic reasons and yet they’ve found love and long-term happiness.”
“The romance is missing, though,” I argued, although privately I agreed with his views.
“Believe me, they have their own kind of romance. They take good care of each other and stick together through the rough times. To me that’s more romantic than flowers, champagne, and candlelight.” He smiled. “Although I must confess I have a weakness for all those trappings myself. They can be fun.”
“Speaking from experience?” How many women had he wined and dined and seduced by candlelight? I wondered.
“Yes,” he replied, leaning forward to look in my eyes, making my nerves jump. “How many couples our parents’ age can you find in that blissfully married state these days?”
“Not very many,” I admitted.
“Our parents have it pretty good. I couldn’t wish for better myself.”
“Hmm.” Good thing he wasn’t a lawyer I’d have to go against at any point. He’d wear me down within minutes.
“If you ask me, it’s the best kind of marriage there is,” he continued, “where you go in with eyes wide open—there’s not much chance of surprises and disillusionment later. It prevents unnecessary bickering and ending up in the divorce courts.”
“You may have a point,” I conceded.
He drew several dollar bills from his pocket and put them on the table, making Govinda’s tip very generous. “I see a lot of couples building their marriages purely on sexual attraction, and a year or two later, boom, they’re drifting apart. All the romance goes out the door.”
My eyes went wide. “You, of all people, lecturing me on the practical aspects of life, Roger? You’re the guy who gave up the chance for med school and every other sensible profession to become a playwright with a dubious future.”
“I know I’m a dreamer in many ways, but I’ll give it my best shot. If it doesn’t work, I’ll go join my dad’s business.” He shrugged. “I know my limits. By the same logic, I know a good marriage is based on both the sentimental as well as the humdrum.”
I gave his words some thought. Damn, but he was right, and once again his ideas seemed to coincide with mine. “What about your sister, Roger? How did she meet her husband?”
“Semi-arranged,” he replied. “Uday’s parents and mine arranged for them to meet, just like you and I met—an old-fashioned Telugu bride viewing. Theirs turned into a success story. Uday and Renu went out a few times.” His lips curved fondly as he recalled something from his sister’s past. “Uday put the moves on my sister pretty quickly. Four or five dates and Renu was in love with the guy.”
“No kidding?” I liked to hear sweetly romantic stories like that. It reaffirmed my faith in arranged love.
“Why would I kid you? They’ve been married for six years and they still hold hands and kiss when they think no one’s looking. They don’t have any babies yet, much to my mom’s disappointment, but that’s because Renu is too damn busy with her career. Mom�
�s been on her case about the biological clock and all that female stuff.”
“Are you and your sister close?”
“Sure. We sort of grew apart when we were teenagers. You know how it is—different interests, different universities. But as adults I think we’ve gotten closer than we ever were. You could even say we’re friends.”
I envied him for having a sibling who was also a friend. I’d always wanted a sister or brother. “How old is your sister?” I asked.
“Thirty-three. Two years older than I am.”
I wondered if he’d thrown that last part in just so I’d know how old he was. But it was heartening to know that such arranged marriages still worked, in this day and age, and in this liberated American culture. “So, you think you’ll find that kind of relationship for yourself someday?” I waited with my hands clasped under the table.
He nodded. “I do—if I go about it the right way and take things slowly, one step at a time.” He gazed at me, his eyes turning darker. “I’m an optimist, Soorya. Haven’t you noticed?”
I exhaled the breath I’d been holding in. The intense expression in his eyes made me look away. When we stood up, wished Govinda good night, and walked out of the café, I had this uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. It seemed like Roger was talking about us in some circuitous way.
I wanted to believe Roger, but then he hadn’t mentioned the two of us specifically. Most likely he’d given up on me. I deserved it, of course, since I’d been prickly and self-righteous from the beginning. It was true that we now got along well, but that still didn’t make him an ideal husband. Did one step at a time mean he was going to try and prove himself to me, or to some other woman?
As we started to walk toward the subway station, once again sharing the umbrella, but this time without Roger’s arm around me, I wished I could accept things as they were. What did it matter that Roger wasn’t going to make money for a long, long time? I earned a substantial income and my parents were wealthy. Besides, as their only child I stood to inherit their estate when they were gone. And Roger was the only son of even wealthier parents. He was rich in his own right.
The Full Moon Bride Page 17
