Balance of Fragile Things by Olivia Chadha Page A

set him apart. His face was round; Kamal’s was thin. His nose was large; Kamal’s was a perfect symmetrical slope. His hair was soft; Kamal’s was thick, like a horse’s tail. They were foils. Not to mention the terrible scar that ran up Paul’s body from mid-thigh to his upper arm. He’d been told that when he was two, in a fit of curiosity he’d pulled a pot of boiling oil down onto himself. His torso today still looked as though it had gone through a meat grinder, as the scar stretched across his broadening adult form.
    â€œDarling?” Maija’s voice jarred Paul into the present.
    â€œThis—what is this, broiled beef?—lacks flavor and spice.” Paul spoke angrily through his full mouth.
    â€œDid you hear me? Have you read—?” Maija asked.
    Vic shoved food into his mouth at an alarming speed.
    â€œ Mundá , slow down or you’ll choke.” Paul placed his large hand on Vic’s hand.
    â€œMy head hurts,” Vic said. “May I please be excused?”
    â€œYes, darling, of course.” Maija turned to Vic when she spoke.
    â€œNo, puttar , stay.” Paul dropped his fork on his plate.
    Paul noticed Isabella’s face change from white to green. She put her hands over her mouth and seemed to win the battle with a beast in her stomach, but then lost the war. She ran to the bathroom, and Paul heard the purge
    Maija looked at Vic. “Tell me, Vic, darling, does she have boyfriend?”
    Vic shrugged his shoulders, made a gross-out face, and mouthed, “I don’t know.”
    â€œShe’ll be fine,” Paul said. “It’s probably nerves, the play.”
    â€œDarling, the letters.” Maija sighed.
    Paul growled, stood, pushed the chair behind him to the floor, and walked out of the room. He returned with the tall stack of letters, which he threw on the table, tipping the salt and pepper shakers. He tore open the envelopes one by one, occasionally tearing the letter inside. He read, took large draughts of his beer, grunted, and stabbed his wife with kirpan -sharp glares.
    Then Paul lifted his chair from the ground, sat back down, and asked for the good scotch. Vic brought the bottle to the table with a glass. He asked for two more glasses, poured an inch into each glass, and passed one to his wife and one to his son.
    â€œSardar Harbans Singh is coming. We will need to prepare.”
    No one pressed him for details, and for that Paul was thankful.

On the Wing
    Metamorphosis
    Posted on October 7
    Some people hate the winters here because they expand across six of the twelve months of the year. Others find only the early summer exciting, with the end of school and ignition of fireflies, like fairies, floating through a transformed and magical night. I don’t have a favorite season, but the in-between days when nature prepares for change have a special place in my heart. When seasons change, nature shows us who she really is. She’s vulnerable at the end of summer when the grasses have grown too high and face decay and drought. Things go in reverse—leaves experience vertigo as they fall from their royal seats at the tops of willows, oaks, and other deciduous relatives. Flowers retract their blooms; petals turn mushroom-brown. Nature begins to shut her doors as bears prepare for hibernation, and many late-season butterflies reach their Spartan-esque pupa, which will remain frozen in stasis until the springtime thaw. Autumn is a time of en masse preparation.
    Now, here in Cobalt, New York, the clouds have begun to darken and wrap fog around us like a wool scarf. There’s little left for us to do other than self-soothe with long walks trampling through the fallen leaves. After the sun escapes the day, on a fairly clear night, I climb out my window and lie on the roof under the stars. The return of my friend Orion with his canine companions makes me happy. Every fall I wait for him to appear; throughout