Chapter 40 #2
And when the corporate catering event for TM Legal Services arrives, it is a hazy tumult of sweat, panic, almost-spilled-but-rescued-last-minute-salad, biryani-huge-hit, broad smiles, this-is-happening-finally, and I-can’t-believe-it elated drags of euphoria and exhaustion.
In one event, my soul is monopolized by chaos and fed relief by every lawyer who tells me this is the best food their office has ever supplied them.
The HR manager and Prabjot tell my team (a fancy term for the temporary grouping of me, Noor, Kiren and an assistant I’ve hired for the day) that they have ten other events they want me to do.
Though at that time there was a lettuce on my forehead, I’ve never shone so brightly over their confidence in me.
Of course, there are lessons this day has taught me.
Prep is king, queen and every prince and princess out there.
I need to do even more of it the night before.
Portion control is another. We have far too many cups of chutney leftover that are going to be wasted.
And the first thing I am spending my profits on is another bratt pan.
The large cooking receptacle designed for producing large-scale meals is my new Messiah.
“This was good,” whispers Noor, cleaning up the last of the pans. “Really good!”
Kiren grins at our hired assistant, Tina. “We did it.”
Prabjot comes over again, brimming with smugness. “My boss hasn’t complimented my choices this much since I landed our biggest criminal case last year. Thank you, Rita!” She swipes the last gluten-free gulab jamun turnover from the plate. “Any chance you’ll give me the recipe to this one?”
“We’ll subscribe you to Rita’s newsletter,” yells Kiren from the background. “The recipe is going to come up in her next issue!”
“Of course!”
Noor leaps forward. “If you want to ask the other lawyers for their emails too, I’ll pass around a piece of paper?”
“Great idea!”
I level my friends an amused look. They are already planning on how to expand. I wonder if we’ve become unofficial business partners. The idea is a minor daydream in my head—only a blink of a thought—but I’m singing to myself as I finish packing everything away and clean up.
After we head to meet Uncle and Dad at Raja’s Dhaba, a food joint necking one of the side streets close to our apartment.
Walking up to it, the surrounding area is an utter mess of clashing vendors where you might find the city’s oldest newsstand, racks of beautiful handcrafted dresses, some of Mumbai’s best and most flavorful jalebis being fried, and a cobbler touting his services with a cardboard sign.
The entryway to Raja’s Dhaba is obscured by a guava stall, but once you circle around that, a surprisingly open yard covered in tables unveils itself, built on as an extension of ages-ago colonial architecture.
Noor and I are engrossed in a conversation about the benefit of doing platters for future events, so I don’t see them immediately. Uncle, Dad, the families in our apartment building, the market stall-keepers I’m on a first-name basis with, my high school teachers, Dr. Managat…
My community is all here .
As soon as I notice them, they throw their hands up and yell, “Surprise!”
I’m jolted back, mouth agape.
“A party in your honor,” says Kiren, dragging me forward so I can be embraced.
“She’s a little shocked and has trouble with large displays of emotion,” Noor tells the crowd. “Give her a second.”
By the fourth hug, I’m resuscitated by an outpouring of love.
Celebratory sweets are passed around, everyone biting into the fresh jalebis brought in from right outside.
I don’t have a chance to eat one myself since my friends pull me to the front of Raja’s Dhaba, pushing me up onto an elevated step.
“Speech,” cries out Uncle.
Cheers fill up the room and I let them wash over me. I’m not even embarrassed or annoyed they’ve planned this secretly or want me to say a few words to everyone. After today, I’ve got so many emotions needing a place to go.
“Thank you.” It’s a punch of two words bursting from my gut.
The crowd of thirty hushes each other so I can be heard.
“You should not go quietly into the night.”
That’s a good line, if the resounding cheers are an indication. But it’s a false one if left alone.
“But I actually wanted to,” I say. “I wanted to stop dreaming. I’m here not because of my own tenacity, but the tenacity of the people around me.
I was tired. Exhausted. Willing to give up because I was scared of failing again.
I’m saying this to normalize it. It’s okay to break.
To rest. To think you’ll never see yourself as you want to be. ”
Memories of that despairing time weave through me, and I can certainly see the effect it has on my community. A crowd rouser I am not, but still, I go on.
“I’m lucky and privileged that the people in my life allowed it. They let me rest and quietly took over believing in me when I couldn’t. I’m here because of them. Stand up, please. Uncle. Kiren. Noor.”
I gesture to each of them. “ Love . If you say it a few times, it feels like a made-up word. One I thought meant spare the people you care about pain. For so long, I’ve kept anything hard locked inside me.
All my difficulties pressurized.” My hand comes up to my chest and becomes a fist. “They sat here, pretending, pretending, pretending even sometimes to myself they didn’t exist.”
“Love,” I say again. “Here. And—in Barcelona I felt it, too.” This part has me sucking a few breaths, but I fumble along, driven to rip off the thin shield left covering my heart.
“I’m home here, but I want to be honest. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think of that city.
Of what was in it. So I know it won’t be heard, but I want to say thank you to the mornings I had there.
The—cakes I made. The laughter I shared, the way it held me safely in its arms, and made it so I could dream…
If—Barcelona—was here. I would want it to know I’m dreaming again.
That I’ve learned to share not just the parts of myself I think are good enough, but every part of me, even the unsure bits, the complicated bits, the scared and nervous bits. I’m open again.”
“Rita.”
Uncle has wrapped an arm around me.
I look around, my vision wet and glossy. “And I’ve gone on for far too long, and turned this space into a therapy session— oops .”
There is laughter, the sound encouraging.
“One last thing. If I have any advice to give, it’s talking to one another. Share yourselves. It’s a wonderful world out there and a much more hopeful one when we connect.”
“Cheers,” yells Noor, lifting her glass. The gesture prompts others to grab their own. The owner of Raja’s Dhaba sticks a pop bottle in any empty hand.
It takes concentrated effort, but I try to meet the eyes of everyone before more, hoping my expression is radiating gratefulness. I want them to know I’m here in some part because of them.
The college kid who lives on our floor usually blasting rock music shoots me a finger gun, the trio of aunties Uncle and I fondly call the Three Musketeers are clapping enough to vibrate their saris, Dr. Mangat has gone over to stand by Dad, Kiren is attempting to start The Wave as if we’re all attending a rambunctious sports event where I’m the lead player.
I avert my eyes with latent embarrassment, as far away as possible, to the fringe of Raja’s Dhaba?—
He’s there.
The hole I thought was inside me, I realize was a chasm. It fills and fills and fills and fills. I’m trembling.
His suit is tailored and lovely even in the dome of Mumbai’s exacting heat.
He lifts his glass to me.
I think I faint.
…I don’t—faint.
That would be alarming.
But it feels as if I almost fainted.
My elbows are used as I push my way and mumble apologies to my people. This apparition must be stopped. It’s improper to taunt a possibility that can’t exist. As if it can be true, a millionaire wanders into an Indian gully.
Huffing, I rush over and face him.
“Rita.”
“Luke?”
I may have given the most verbose speech of my life, but in this second, the English language is inadequate jumbled up symbols painted on a cave. Or perhaps it’s my overburdened throat. There is much to say, and little guidance as to what order I can speak it.
What are you doing here? Did you also suffer in revolving bouts of agony, hope, agony, hope…agony…hope?
What is the purpose of your visit?
To love someone is to let them go, I am told. To love someone is to be tortured by their absence, I was not told. This pain, I thought it would go away. It hasn’t. I’ve resigned myself to surrender to it. Have you, as well?
Did you miss me?
“Rita,” he says again.
“W-what is it?” I ask, solemnly bracing myself.
“Two months, four days, eleven hours, thirteen minutes.”
It takes me a second to understand.
The amount of time we’ve been apart.