say.
“It’s something cryptic, a big secret.” Mitra waves down the waiter, and we place our orders. “Terribly exciting,” she goes on.
“You’re such a drama queen,” Nisha says. “Always seeing something big and dramatic in everyday happenings. The ring slipped off someone’s finger and fell down the sink, that’s all.” She turns her water glass between her hands in a distracted way.
Mitra snorts. “Who got up grouchy today? You and that husband of yours need a vacation. Drive down to Portland for a romantic weekend. You’re always working!”
“I guess I’m cranky,” Nisha says. “I’ve been working long hours, and Rakesh made partner at the firm. He doesn’t have much time for vacations, but…we’re planning a trip to Baja soon, if he can get away. He’s got a big case that might go to trial.”
The waiter brings our salads and soups, and we dig into our lunches. I am grateful for the distraction, but the knowing is hyperactive, and I catch a glimpse of Nisha running along a narrow alley in darkness, a green sari flapping around her, tears in her eyes. Then the image disappears. What could it mean?
I try to focus on the restaurant, on strangers absorbed in intimate conversations. A gaunt woman sits across from a man who gesticulates in animated movements. She’s wearing a woolen cap decorated with a golden broach, and her eyelashes and eyebrows are missing. Her skin has a pale, brittle appearance, but her eyes shine with life as her companion talks, and then Mitra returns to my thoughts unbidden. She’s the little girl again, dancing, only her father is much older and thinner, bent forward, and then Mitra grows older and suddenly I know what’s happening now, so many years later.
Mitra’s father is dying.
Eight
“H ow are your parents?” I say in the car on the way back to the shop.
“My ma’s great, taking singing and yoga classes.” Mitra drives with unusual caution, staying in her lane.
“Your dad?”
“What about him? He’s a jerk.” Her eyes brighten, and she blinks rapidly.
“I saw him. I think he may be ill.”
She sniffs and turns up the radio to a blaring volume.
I turn it down again. “Talk to me, girl. Don’t keep this from me.”
“I didn’t want to tell you, because, you know.” Her fingers grip the steering wheel, and she slams on the brake, nearly running a red light. Speckles of rain hit the windshield.
“Because my father died? That was a long time ago, Mitra.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” At the green light, she turns left around the lake, not waiting for oncoming traffic. An angry motorist beeps his horn and gives Mitra the finger. She gives him the finger back.
“You haven’t seen him lately, have you?” I say as she parks at the curb in front of the shop. “Not in four years.”
She shakes her head, her hands still gripping the steering wheel. “I talk to Mom. My sister’s staying there now.”
“Why can’t you go and see him?”
She turns to me, her face an open wound. “Don’t you remember? He disowned me. I told him I wasn’t going to medical school, that I was going to teach dance and perform full-time, that I was going to try to make it as an artist, and you know what he said? He said he didn’t have a daughter anymore. He wouldn’t talk to me, return my calls. Nothing!”
I hug her, her strong, wiry body rigid with anger. “Mitra, he can’t help it. He’s just who he is. He loves you. He loves your dancing. I saw it in his eyes. I felt it.”
“No, you don’t know. In Indian families love is conditional, Lakshmi. Kids have been ostracized, kicked out of families, totally disowned for all kinds of reasons.”
“I know, but you have to be brave. You have to trust.”
Tears run down her face now, and her nose is red. “I should’ve expected what I got. That he would hate me.”
“He doesn’t hate you. I think he’s…sad. I think he misses you. I think he wants to put all this
“It’s something cryptic, a big secret.” Mitra waves down the waiter, and we place our orders. “Terribly exciting,” she goes on.
“You’re such a drama queen,” Nisha says. “Always seeing something big and dramatic in everyday happenings. The ring slipped off someone’s finger and fell down the sink, that’s all.” She turns her water glass between her hands in a distracted way.
Mitra snorts. “Who got up grouchy today? You and that husband of yours need a vacation. Drive down to Portland for a romantic weekend. You’re always working!”
“I guess I’m cranky,” Nisha says. “I’ve been working long hours, and Rakesh made partner at the firm. He doesn’t have much time for vacations, but…we’re planning a trip to Baja soon, if he can get away. He’s got a big case that might go to trial.”
The waiter brings our salads and soups, and we dig into our lunches. I am grateful for the distraction, but the knowing is hyperactive, and I catch a glimpse of Nisha running along a narrow alley in darkness, a green sari flapping around her, tears in her eyes. Then the image disappears. What could it mean?
I try to focus on the restaurant, on strangers absorbed in intimate conversations. A gaunt woman sits across from a man who gesticulates in animated movements. She’s wearing a woolen cap decorated with a golden broach, and her eyelashes and eyebrows are missing. Her skin has a pale, brittle appearance, but her eyes shine with life as her companion talks, and then Mitra returns to my thoughts unbidden. She’s the little girl again, dancing, only her father is much older and thinner, bent forward, and then Mitra grows older and suddenly I know what’s happening now, so many years later.
Mitra’s father is dying.
Eight
“H ow are your parents?” I say in the car on the way back to the shop.
“My ma’s great, taking singing and yoga classes.” Mitra drives with unusual caution, staying in her lane.
“Your dad?”
“What about him? He’s a jerk.” Her eyes brighten, and she blinks rapidly.
“I saw him. I think he may be ill.”
She sniffs and turns up the radio to a blaring volume.
I turn it down again. “Talk to me, girl. Don’t keep this from me.”
“I didn’t want to tell you, because, you know.” Her fingers grip the steering wheel, and she slams on the brake, nearly running a red light. Speckles of rain hit the windshield.
“Because my father died? That was a long time ago, Mitra.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” At the green light, she turns left around the lake, not waiting for oncoming traffic. An angry motorist beeps his horn and gives Mitra the finger. She gives him the finger back.
“You haven’t seen him lately, have you?” I say as she parks at the curb in front of the shop. “Not in four years.”
She shakes her head, her hands still gripping the steering wheel. “I talk to Mom. My sister’s staying there now.”
“Why can’t you go and see him?”
She turns to me, her face an open wound. “Don’t you remember? He disowned me. I told him I wasn’t going to medical school, that I was going to teach dance and perform full-time, that I was going to try to make it as an artist, and you know what he said? He said he didn’t have a daughter anymore. He wouldn’t talk to me, return my calls. Nothing!”
I hug her, her strong, wiry body rigid with anger. “Mitra, he can’t help it. He’s just who he is. He loves you. He loves your dancing. I saw it in his eyes. I felt it.”
“No, you don’t know. In Indian families love is conditional, Lakshmi. Kids have been ostracized, kicked out of families, totally disowned for all kinds of reasons.”
“I know, but you have to be brave. You have to trust.”
Tears run down her face now, and her nose is red. “I should’ve expected what I got. That he would hate me.”
“He doesn’t hate you. I think he’s…sad. I think he misses you. I think he wants to put all this
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