Tushar raced to open the door to the shop while I was still unfolding colorful rupees to pay the ricksha driver. Tushar wore a purple button-down shirt tucked into his black slacks. His pants hung loosely on his thin frame; it seemed the thin cloth belt was the only thing keeping them above his hips. His hair was greased into place with castor oil, the scent more pronounced than usual.
I wondered if I should have dressed up more for the occasion. Because we were just staying in the shop, I had worn my favorite pair of jeans and a long-sleeved red tunic. My family thought I was working, so anything fancier might have aroused suspicion.
We didn’t have a wine opener, so I used the handle of a spoon to push the cork into the bottle.
He made a sour face as he sipped from the mug he normally used for chai. “You actually find this taste pleasing?”
I laughed. “Not at first, but you get used to it. Eventually, you can’t live without it.”
“Your parents know you drink this?”
“Yeah. When I was younger, I was too scared to tell them, but what are they going to do now?” I hadn’t had any alcohol since arriving in India, so it affected me quickly. My cheeks began to warm before I finished my first mug.
“Do your parents drink?” he asked.
I had been taking a sip and nearly choked when he asked the question. I wiped my mouth with my forearm before answering. “My parents may have left Gujarat, but Gujarat didn’t leave them! We didn’t keep a drop of alcohol in our house. They wouldn’t even eat food that was cooked with alcohol!”
Tushar raised his eyebrow. “People in America put alcohol in food?”
“Sure. Most of the alcohol burns off.” I leaned in closer and lowered my voice in conspiracy. “In fact, I’ve never told my parents that the mushroom risotto I once made for them had white wine in it. They loved it, so I figured some things were better left unknown.”
He shook his head at me—something he did at least once whenever we spent time together. Our lives were so different. He often commented that I was much more outspoken than anyone he had met before.
This was his first taste of alcohol, so, not surprisingly, Tushar was a lightweight. After half a mug of the Jacob’s Creek Shiraz, he was back to the friendly banter we’d had that day at the ice cream shop.
“Tell me what you normally do for New Year’s Eve,” I said.
“We do typical things. Go to dinner parties.”
“And what happens at midnight?”
His cheeks reddened, but I wasn’t sure if it was from embarrassment or the alcohol. Either way, it was endearing.
“Everyone just says congratulations or ‘Happy New Year,’” he said.
I poured more of the cherished wine into my mug. The smell of tangy, spicy grapes warmed me. I breathed in deeply to savor the aroma, unsure when I would have the chance to taste wine again.
“My parents think I’m at a dinner party with my friends,” he confessed after he set his empty mug on the wooden table. We had spent many hours sitting around that table examining prints or talking about the books he was reading. Tushar reached for the bottle.
“You’ve started lying to your parents? How very American of you,” I said with a wink.
“Would you rather I go see my friends?” he shot back.
I grabbed his forearm even though he didn’t make any move to leave. “It’s eleven forty-five. With the Ahmedabad traffic, you’re stuck here with me unless you want to be in a ricksha when the clock strikes midnight.”
He shrugged. “Western New Year’s Eve isn’t a big deal to me. It’s not like I’d be missing the real one,” he said with a wink.
We began to tell each other stories about past New Year’s Eves on both the Indian and American calendars and dissolved into fits of wine-induced laughter. Neither of us kept an eye on the clock, so we missed counting down to midnight. We didn’t care. It was enough to be with someone and enjoy the company. When I stood to leave around one in the morning, I was emboldened by the wine, so I went to Tushar and hugged him.
“It may not be the Indian way to say Happy New Year, but we Americans have to at least give each other a hug,” I said.
Tushar stood stiffly at first but eventually relaxed and squeezed me back. I sank into him before he began to pull away. Our eyes locked, arms still loosely around each other, neither fully letting go. My lips parted. I willed him to bend to meet my mouth. His eyes searched mine before he finally released me.
“It’s late. Your family may worry,” he said.