Tushar, a mild-mannered man around my age, ran Happy Snaps. Tushar was only a few inches taller than me, maybe five feet seven, and was skinny in a way that American models aspired to be. His hair was short but kept in place with castor oil—a cheaper option than the almond oil my relatives used. Its potent smell lingered after him as he moved around the store.
As he guided Virag Mama and me toward the back, he said, “You see, the room has become mostly used for storage, madam. When we changed—”
“Hold on.” I stopped to make sure I had his attention. “This ‘madam’ business needs to stop. I’m not your ba!” I said.
Virag Mama was standing next to me and put a hand on my shoulder. “If Tushar wishes to treat you with respect, then it shows he was raised by a good family.”
Something about the careful way my uncle spoke made me uncomfortable. When I turned back toward Tushar, I realized what it was. Even in the dim light at the back of the shop, it was evident that Tushar’s skin was darker than mine. He was from a lower caste. So even though we were around the same age, he was treating me with the same respect and deference he would have paid to one of his elders.
These caste formalities seemed so unnecessary to me, especially when dealing with peers. “Ignore him. Seriously, call me Preeti.”
Virag Mama forced a cough to show his displeasure at my comment. Before I could respond, Tushar’s cell phone began belting out a tune from a recent Bollywood movie.
Tushar bobbled his head in that familiar side-to-side way and said, “Yes, Ba,” in a voice low enough that Virag Mama couldn’t hear him. He then moved to the front of the shop to take the call.
When he called me Ba, I knew there was more to Tushar than I had initially thought.
He returned a moment later, apologizing for the interruption, and swung open the door to a small darkroom. I couldn’t help but notice his calloused palms and the lean muscles on his thin arms. He was no stranger to manual labor. I liked the contrast with the preppy lawyers at my firm in California with their manicured fingers.
Inside, boxes and crates were piled in a corner. Stained developing trays were stacked near a sink. A single light bulb emitting a yellow glow dangled in the center with a red bulb next to it. The familiar metallic smell of solvent hung in the air. I felt the tension that had permeated through me ever since I’d gotten the call from Neel that Dipti was in the hospital start to dissipate, and a hint of calm took its place.
“You see, it may not be what you are used to,” Tushar said, wringing his hands together.
Even though the space was much smaller than what I had used in college, I grinned when I realized I’d be spending time here. The room was a far cry from the splendor of my old law firm, but that was the best part.
“It’s perfect,” I said, already knowing this place would be my Ahmedabad oasis.
We sat down to dinner that night as a family: Neel, Mom, Virag Mama, Indira Mami, Bharat, and me. Usually Bharat or Virag Mama was stuck late at the office, so it was a nice change to have everyone together.
After spending a day in the darkroom, I felt more animated than I had in years. And for the first time in the months since Alex and I had broken up, I felt alive again. It felt good. Even though I felt guilty finding some pockets of joy while there was still so much pain around me, I allowed myself that tiny indulgence. An easing of the heaviness even if only for a day.
Before each of us, Gautam had placed a steel thali of dal, bhat, rotli, and shaak. It was our standard weeknight meal, and tonight’s shaak was eggplant and potato. I hated eggplant but ate it without making any fuss. Today, it tasted delicious.
Mom asked, “How was the photo shop?”
Clapping my hands together, I said, “It was great! Tushar is going to teach me what he knows about photography. He uses digital cameras now, but he started on film, and he can show me the basics, so I have a refresher course. Hopefully I’ll remember the tricks from college too.” I smiled in Indira Mami’s direction. “I’m going to try and finish the album before Hari and Laila return from their honeymoon, but it just depends on how many good shots I have.”
Mom nodded. “That sounds good.”
Virag Mama stopped slurping his dal and cleared his throat. “Have you spoken to her?” he asked my mother.
Mom shifted in her chair. “Hamna nai.” Not now.
The way she said the words to her younger brother was the way Neel addressed me when we were in public and I was broaching a private subject he didn’t want to share. I was anxious to know what they were talking about, but Gautam had returned to the room with fresh rotlis hot from the stove. They’d never discuss a personal topic in front of him.