When the sun dropped behind some buildings and the lighting was no longer good for photos, we stopped in a Vadilal shop for ice cream. I still hadn’t gotten used to the iciness of the ice cream in Ahmedabad, so I stuck to fruity flavors. Here, the chocolate that I really craved tasted more like Nestlé Quik powder than the decadent chocolate to which I was now accustomed. I longed for a scoop of creamy, luscious dark chocolate but settled on a cup of lychee. Using a plastic spoon in the shape of a tiny snow shovel, I placed some into my mouth, letting the icy particles melt onto my tongue before swallowing.
I leaned back into my white plastic chair and took in the cool hues filling the sky, dulled by the ever-present haze of pollution.
“You never talk about your work as a lawyer in America.”
“There’s not much to tell. I don’t do it anymore. End of story,” I said, licking more lychee from my spoon. I felt very exposed without a camera covering most of my face. “So, what about you?” I asked.
“Me?” He looked confused.
“Yeah. You talk about your family and the business a lot, but you never talk about yourself.”
“There’s not much to tell.” He threw my words back at me.
“Very funny,” I said. “Seriously, I don’t meet too many men in this town who are your age and not married. I’m surprised your parents haven’t arranged something yet.”
Speaking this openly was not a part of Indian culture, but the moment from earlier in the day had somehow left me feeling braver and more brazen. He squirmed at my comment, but I continued my relentless stare until he answered.
“There was someone long ago. She was beautiful, smart, and an excellent cook. But on the day we were to be wed, she disappeared,” he began, his eyes boring straight into mine.
Captivated, I leaned forward. “What happened?”
“No one knows. She was in her dressing room putting on her sari one minute, and the next, she was gone. The only thing that remained was her sari strewn about the floor as if there had been a struggle. No one ever saw her again.” His tone was somber, and he cast his gaze downward.
“Wow, really?” I was skeptical but tried to keep my voice even.
Tushar laughed. “No, of course not! You Americans will believe any far-fetched Hollywood tale about India!”
“I knew it!” I said, feigning annoyance but unable to mask the smile that overtook my stern expression. I flung lychee ice cream at him with the tiny spoon.
In that moment, I realized how much I needed someone I could laugh with. It was what I missed most about spending time with Carrie, Alex, or Neel before all this. With them, I could spend hours talking about stupid things, and we’d laugh until our bellies were sore. Alex and I had resolved most minor disputes with tickle fights because, with him, it had been easy to feel that carefree. I was still searching for that person in India.
“I’ve never seen you joke around like that.”
I was seeing the lighter and freer side of Tushar, and I liked what I saw.
India had such a serious and formal aura about it, and I craved sarcastic banter.
As he collected himself, his face sobered. “The truth is that I probably would have been married when I was twenty-five, but around that time my father became very ill with cancer. He struggled with the disease for the next four years. I had to focus my energies on the store, and the years escaped from me. Today, I’m an old man.” He winked at the last sentence to lighten the mood again.
I had noticed his father was rather frail. Now, I understood why. I was sure it had been difficult for him to tell me what he had about his father, so I knew not to delve further. I suspected he had shared more with me than he had with anyone else outside of his immediate family.
“Only in India would a thirty-two-year-old man call himself old. In LA, we can’t seem to get the men to settle down until after they’ve passed forty, and even then, it’s a struggle to find someone who isn’t a MAPP,” I said.
He looked at me quizzically.
“Middle-aged Peter Pan,” I said with a chuckle.
He laughed. “California Girl, maybe that means you do not belong in California anymore.”
26
When I returned to the bungalow that evening, Mom, Indira Mami, and Virag Mama were sitting in the living room with serious looks on their faces. Mom’s expression was the same as when I was little and had brought home a grade that wasn’t the highest-possible mark. I dutifully sat across from them and waited for them to speak.
“Preeti, we need to talk to you,” Virag Mama said.