night and invited us to a beach party. It was a casual invite, one of those “hey, swing by if you can” deals. But when he tossed those carefree words into the air, a feather of excitement tickled my stomach. I liked the idea our paths might cross again.
And they did indeed cross. At the party that night, and for at least a few hours almost every day afterward.
Mostly we walked, for miles along the seashore, leaving our footprints in the sand and watching the tide wash them away.
Too soon to make sense, I felt an uncanny familiarity with him, a connection that grew the more time we spent together. He didn’t feel like a new friend. It was as if we had met a long time ago, in another time, another place, and were just picking up where we’d left off.
“Have we done this before?” I asked one day.
“Yes, we walked here yesterday.”
I shook my head. “Before yesterday. Before I came here. Somewhere else. Sometime else.”
He stopped, crooked his head, held my gaze. “So it’s not just me.”
I shrugged. “I can’t explain it.”
He smiled, his eyes warm on my face. “You don’t have to. Whatever it is, we share the feeling.”
Off the top of his head, he spun countless yarns about our past lives together. Tales that stretched from the pink palaces and desert sands of Rajasthan to the great pyramids of ancient Egypt, full of magic and adventure to rival
The Arabian Nights
.
We didn’t touch, didn’t even hold hands as we walked. Yet I felt him, close to me. I felt his heart.
T he Vikings and Packers are playing at Green Bay, and I’m trying not to cut my finger as I chop vegetables for dinner and peek at the mini-television on the counter. I’m distracted not just by the game, my mind in the past, my knife in the present.
I’m dying to call my mother, to tell her about Arsallan’s book, but I can no more tell her now than I could fifteen years ago. My eyes sting, and I know it’s more than onion vapors.
Just because we choose not to talk about something doesn’t make it go away.
I stir the Goan shrimp curry, stick my nose over the pot and sniff, taste the coconut gravy. Something’s missing, but I can’t figure out what.
Mom would know.
I glance at the phone. Should I? Shouldn’t I? No. Better not. The way I’m feeling, I don’t trust myself not to snap, say something in the heat of the moment and live to regret it. We’ll be there soon enough, the day after Christmas. I take another whiff, another taste, and ponder. The missing ingredient flits on the edge of my senses. An elusive lightning bug,
now you see me, now you don’t. Catch me if you can.
I take up the challenge,
I’ll catch you, little bugger
…
Every other weekend, I cook Indian. At our house, it’s a special treat, even for me, whereas when I was growing up, Tarun and I begged for the rare decadence of Kraft macaroni and cheese. My kids—all three of them—love to eat with their fingers. Any excuse to play with their food.
I dole out golden brown
samosas
onto four plates. I use my mom’s recipe for the potato filling, minus green peas, which none of us like. For convenience, I cheat and substitute store-bought refrigerated dough for the pastry and bake instead of fry.
My mom has conniptions over how I Americanize her recipes. You’ve never seen someone micromanage to the degree my mother does. And in the kitchen especially,
oh baby, watch out!
As she’ll be the first to instruct, there are right and wrong ways to do everything, and I mean
everything
. Chopping, stirring, standing, serving, cleaning. Probably even breathing. “You can’t call
that
a
samosa,
” she says. “It’s a Hot Pocket.”
Whatever. It’s my kitchen. I can do what I want to.
Today I made one spicy batch for the adults to dip in mint-cilantro chutney or tamarind-and-brown-sugar chutney and another mild batch for the kids to dunk in ketchup. From the freezer, I fetch two frosted mugs and pour chilled Taj Mahal
And they did indeed cross. At the party that night, and for at least a few hours almost every day afterward.
Mostly we walked, for miles along the seashore, leaving our footprints in the sand and watching the tide wash them away.
Too soon to make sense, I felt an uncanny familiarity with him, a connection that grew the more time we spent together. He didn’t feel like a new friend. It was as if we had met a long time ago, in another time, another place, and were just picking up where we’d left off.
“Have we done this before?” I asked one day.
“Yes, we walked here yesterday.”
I shook my head. “Before yesterday. Before I came here. Somewhere else. Sometime else.”
He stopped, crooked his head, held my gaze. “So it’s not just me.”
I shrugged. “I can’t explain it.”
He smiled, his eyes warm on my face. “You don’t have to. Whatever it is, we share the feeling.”
Off the top of his head, he spun countless yarns about our past lives together. Tales that stretched from the pink palaces and desert sands of Rajasthan to the great pyramids of ancient Egypt, full of magic and adventure to rival
The Arabian Nights
.
We didn’t touch, didn’t even hold hands as we walked. Yet I felt him, close to me. I felt his heart.
T he Vikings and Packers are playing at Green Bay, and I’m trying not to cut my finger as I chop vegetables for dinner and peek at the mini-television on the counter. I’m distracted not just by the game, my mind in the past, my knife in the present.
I’m dying to call my mother, to tell her about Arsallan’s book, but I can no more tell her now than I could fifteen years ago. My eyes sting, and I know it’s more than onion vapors.
Just because we choose not to talk about something doesn’t make it go away.
I stir the Goan shrimp curry, stick my nose over the pot and sniff, taste the coconut gravy. Something’s missing, but I can’t figure out what.
Mom would know.
I glance at the phone. Should I? Shouldn’t I? No. Better not. The way I’m feeling, I don’t trust myself not to snap, say something in the heat of the moment and live to regret it. We’ll be there soon enough, the day after Christmas. I take another whiff, another taste, and ponder. The missing ingredient flits on the edge of my senses. An elusive lightning bug,
now you see me, now you don’t. Catch me if you can.
I take up the challenge,
I’ll catch you, little bugger
…
Every other weekend, I cook Indian. At our house, it’s a special treat, even for me, whereas when I was growing up, Tarun and I begged for the rare decadence of Kraft macaroni and cheese. My kids—all three of them—love to eat with their fingers. Any excuse to play with their food.
I dole out golden brown
samosas
onto four plates. I use my mom’s recipe for the potato filling, minus green peas, which none of us like. For convenience, I cheat and substitute store-bought refrigerated dough for the pastry and bake instead of fry.
My mom has conniptions over how I Americanize her recipes. You’ve never seen someone micromanage to the degree my mother does. And in the kitchen especially,
oh baby, watch out!
As she’ll be the first to instruct, there are right and wrong ways to do everything, and I mean
everything
. Chopping, stirring, standing, serving, cleaning. Probably even breathing. “You can’t call
that
a
samosa,
” she says. “It’s a Hot Pocket.”
Whatever. It’s my kitchen. I can do what I want to.
Today I made one spicy batch for the adults to dip in mint-cilantro chutney or tamarind-and-brown-sugar chutney and another mild batch for the kids to dunk in ketchup. From the freezer, I fetch two frosted mugs and pour chilled Taj Mahal
Similar Books
