sight homing in on his hand as it trembles over the laminated menu card.
âThis is why Rory wanted to torch the place. Reckoned it was making fogies out of us. Look at her, twenty years old and speaking like a granny.â
He cannot look at the waitress, past the pasty freckled hand as she grabs the menu post-order, and the sideways glance kitchenwards, alerting the staff that an Asian is on the premises; experience teaches him this, not self-indulged paranoia. He has no time to invest in her comings and goings, the way her back has stiffened, wary of possible complaint, sure of haggling over the bill and a withholding of the service charge. Ordinarily, these nuances would preoccupy him and ruin the snack. Today he is too busy looking at his wife.
She must have been an uncomplicated girl, the master of the universe even then. Other than growing pains she has had nothing to worry about. Her family has no history of serious illness. They have been good with their money. Her grandparents are still alive and living independently. The household pets, two overfed cats, were spared a descent into the indignity of old age after both were catnapped over two successive months. There has been no uncertainty in her life, nothing that has forced her to reflect. Try asking an Indian family what they have been spared and prepare for your ears to sting all the way back to the subcontinent as your jugs are pulled from your head.
He is not trying to rake up the cricket test again, India versus the UK, nor descend into who is better equipped to handle crises, white or brown. He attempts to ignore all that the Indian gene, smart and certain, wishes him to see. He is unable to understand her behaviour, how tears can be stopped so easily, and exploding abbeys discussed so casually. It is only as she talks of her teenage years, scarily textbook in her indie-gothic-fashioned angst, that he realizes how much he needs family around him, just not hers.
He remembers the fireworks between Ma and Puppa, arguments carrying on late into the night whenever he was late coming home from work; her back shaking with anger when meals were missed due to sudden card games orimpromptu offers to fix friendsâ cars. He remembers furniture upturned, and plates being smashed, each struggling to grab hold of the otherâs throat, one to pacify, the other to exterminate. What he and Claud have is all that he wished for â the opposite of his parents; all comfort and no spark. Everything about their life is mild-mannered, even their arguments. Rowing dispensed no differently than their vitamins, succinctly, and at the allotted hour.
When he arrives home in the early hours, acting like Puppa, she understands that it is at the behest of Hari. There is a grunt of recognition that he has returned before she rolls over to continue sleep. No, where have you been, shitty arse, as Ma greeted drunk, befuddled, pleased with himself Puppa.
This is the time to reject simplicity in the face of loss. No more grey, just black and white. Black or White. He wants tears from her, anger, blame. He would rather she laid it all on his door, his taking the eye off the ball, for being so inept in his caring for her, for lacking medical skills and not committing to the required background reading from the moment the test showed positive. He cannot accept all this sitting around and eating cake, even though it was his suggestion. He is ready to hear how he left it all to her.
Instead, he lashes out at the waitress for bringing dry, stale sponge, not as advertised, and the sandwich on a damp plate which has made the bread soggy and inedible.
âIâm sorry, but youâre having a laugh if you think this is professional catering. Both these plates are an absolute joke. Your next attempt needs to be better than this if you stand any chance of getting the bill paid.â
The waitressâs shoulders finally relax, enjoying the marked rise in his tone, which is making
âThis is why Rory wanted to torch the place. Reckoned it was making fogies out of us. Look at her, twenty years old and speaking like a granny.â
He cannot look at the waitress, past the pasty freckled hand as she grabs the menu post-order, and the sideways glance kitchenwards, alerting the staff that an Asian is on the premises; experience teaches him this, not self-indulged paranoia. He has no time to invest in her comings and goings, the way her back has stiffened, wary of possible complaint, sure of haggling over the bill and a withholding of the service charge. Ordinarily, these nuances would preoccupy him and ruin the snack. Today he is too busy looking at his wife.
She must have been an uncomplicated girl, the master of the universe even then. Other than growing pains she has had nothing to worry about. Her family has no history of serious illness. They have been good with their money. Her grandparents are still alive and living independently. The household pets, two overfed cats, were spared a descent into the indignity of old age after both were catnapped over two successive months. There has been no uncertainty in her life, nothing that has forced her to reflect. Try asking an Indian family what they have been spared and prepare for your ears to sting all the way back to the subcontinent as your jugs are pulled from your head.
He is not trying to rake up the cricket test again, India versus the UK, nor descend into who is better equipped to handle crises, white or brown. He attempts to ignore all that the Indian gene, smart and certain, wishes him to see. He is unable to understand her behaviour, how tears can be stopped so easily, and exploding abbeys discussed so casually. It is only as she talks of her teenage years, scarily textbook in her indie-gothic-fashioned angst, that he realizes how much he needs family around him, just not hers.
He remembers the fireworks between Ma and Puppa, arguments carrying on late into the night whenever he was late coming home from work; her back shaking with anger when meals were missed due to sudden card games orimpromptu offers to fix friendsâ cars. He remembers furniture upturned, and plates being smashed, each struggling to grab hold of the otherâs throat, one to pacify, the other to exterminate. What he and Claud have is all that he wished for â the opposite of his parents; all comfort and no spark. Everything about their life is mild-mannered, even their arguments. Rowing dispensed no differently than their vitamins, succinctly, and at the allotted hour.
When he arrives home in the early hours, acting like Puppa, she understands that it is at the behest of Hari. There is a grunt of recognition that he has returned before she rolls over to continue sleep. No, where have you been, shitty arse, as Ma greeted drunk, befuddled, pleased with himself Puppa.
This is the time to reject simplicity in the face of loss. No more grey, just black and white. Black or White. He wants tears from her, anger, blame. He would rather she laid it all on his door, his taking the eye off the ball, for being so inept in his caring for her, for lacking medical skills and not committing to the required background reading from the moment the test showed positive. He cannot accept all this sitting around and eating cake, even though it was his suggestion. He is ready to hear how he left it all to her.
Instead, he lashes out at the waitress for bringing dry, stale sponge, not as advertised, and the sandwich on a damp plate which has made the bread soggy and inedible.
âIâm sorry, but youâre having a laugh if you think this is professional catering. Both these plates are an absolute joke. Your next attempt needs to be better than this if you stand any chance of getting the bill paid.â
The waitressâs shoulders finally relax, enjoying the marked rise in his tone, which is making
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