Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A rjun’s new outfit itched.
His mother had bought it for him, all the way from India by way of one of her cousins in Ahmedabad. It was a dark blue kurta with golden embroidery: swirling patterns began on the chest and worked their way down the front. Even though the garment was made of fine silk, it was inexplicably heavy, and the stiff collar scratched at Arjun’s neck. He walked over to the bathroom mirror and looked for a rash.
It was June thirteenth, the day of his roka ceremony, and he was back in Iowa. Originally, his engagement ceremony was set to take place at the Sri Datta Sai Mandir in San Ramon, but his mother had called him and Sophia a week ago insisting that she’d seen something in a dream, which told her that the ceremony should take place at the Hindu Temple of Iowa, instead. That was not enough to convince Arjun (after all, this wasn’t the first conveniently timed dream that Sarita had had)—but when his mother offered to pay for the whole ceremony, Sophia had jumped at the opportunity.
Arjun sat on the couch in his old living room and thumbed through the book on the coffee table, a thick tome filled with black-and-white photos of Des Moines. Sarita was in the kitchen. “You know, one of my friends sent me an article about you,” she said. “Some magazine called Edible San Francisco ?”
“That’s right,” he said. It had been nearly two weeks since Nisha’s original article in the San Francisco Current , and a reporter from Edible had called a few days ago to profile him and Raja’s Kitchen . Book sales had grown exponentially, and the customer reviews that had rolled in were highly positive. Arjun had already ordered a second printing of his book, and he’d sold copies to nearly one hundred bookstores across northern California. In fact, just three days previously, Arjun had taken a call from a New York City publishing house; the publisher wanted the rights to distribute Raja’s Kitchen, promising to put Arjun into Barnes and Noble nationwide. “I tried a few recipes myself,” the publisher said. “Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if Raja’s Kitchen was in every home in America.”
Sarita returned to the living room, a bottle of pomegranate-flavored sparkling water in hand. “How are you feeling?” she asked.
“About what?” replied Arjun, staring absentmindedly at a picture of the stars outside First Avenue.
“About your roka , beta ,” she sighed, shaking her head. “Honestly, sometimes I think you’re not even paying attention to your own life.”
He nodded. “Right,” he said. “That.”
The truth was, he was nervous. His Great Love Story was thirty years in the making—and today, it would be over. Sophia was the One.
Part of him felt relieved. Another part of him was incredibly nervous. What if you’re making a mistake? he wondered, not for the first time that day.
Of course, he couldn’t say any of that to his mother. Instead, he said: “I’m feeling fine. Sophia is perfect.”
Sarita gave him a knowing look. “I’m happy for you,” she said. “And, remember: once you’re officially married, I expect grandchildren within the year. I’ve been waiting for far too long for that.”
Arjun chuckled.
“I almost forgot,” she said. “I have something for you.” She walked over to the bookcase and found a thick, black-spined photo album weathered by age. She opened the book and pulled a thin envelope from one of the clear folders within.
“This is for you,” she said, handing Arjun the envelope. It felt flimsy in his hands, as though he might crumple it up just by staring at it. “Be careful,” she warned, reading his thoughts as usual. “That piece of paper in your hand is one of my most valuable possessions.”
“What is it?” he asked. Gingerly, he lifted the flap of the envelope and drew out a yellowed piece of paper. His eyes fell upon the text: small, messy handwriting in black fountain pen.
His heart thumped against his ribs. “Dad wrote this?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper.
Sarita nodded. “Ever since he died, you’ve had to be the elder in this family. Yes, you have me, and your aunts—but none of us could ever understand you the way he could.” She paused, her voice thick with emotion. “I wish your father were here today. And, in a way, he is. I told you that he used to write me love letters, didn’t I?”
She placed her hand on his shoulder, and Arjun felt the weight of her, this small woman who, for years, had been the axis of his entire universe. He rested his hand atop hers and was surprised to feel that hers was not a young hand anymore. The skin was thinner and rougher, and he could feel the veins beneath the surface like the roots of trees.
His mother cleared her throat. “I’d better get going,” she said. “The pujari will have work for me to do, surely.”
“Let me go with you,” said Arjun, and, for the first time since he was a child, he did not want to let go of his mother’s hand.
She smiled. “Stay here a while. Commune with your father. And, when you’re ready, meet me at the temple.” She kissed him atop the head. “I love you, beta .”
“I love you, too, Mom,” said Arjun, and he watched her amble down the hallway, slip on her sandals, and walk out the front door.
He sat on the couch, unable to summon the strength to open the letter. The last time he’d spoken to his father was almost ten years ago. In the decade since, Arjun had gone through every voicemail, every grainy VHS tape, even his father’s tax ledger. He thought he’d seen it all, that the well had run dry—but, as it turned out, his dad had more to say to him.
He looked up at the portrait on the wall, at those deep-set eyes and that contented smile, which seemed to say: “It’s all right. I’m here now.”
Arjun took a deep, shuddering breath. He lifted the paper from the couch and began to read:
My Beloved Sarita,
It’s raining in Amsterdam, and I am thinking of you. Do you remember the day we met? It was raining then, too. I am embarrassed to admit that I scarcely remember more than that—not because you were not arresting, but because I was as nervous as a leaf caught in a monsoon.
Why was I nervous? I knew so little about you. Of course, from the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew that you were beautiful— But , I wondered, is that anything upon which to base the Great Love Story of my life?
Then, I had a realization. All great love stories begin that way: briefly, unremarkably. All great loves are, at first, strangers. This was the beauty of our arrangement, was it not? Our love built slowly, in the margins, until it lit a fire in my soul—a fire that warms me even on this cold and rainy day.
I miss you, my darling. I miss our son. I hope to be home soon.
Ravi
Arjun read the letter again, and twice more after that. His eyes scanned the page ravenously; he was like a man in the desert dying of thirst, trying to suck the last few drops of water from his pouch. He looked once more at the portrait hung on the wall, stood, and walked over to it. He traced his fingers gently over his father’s face as though he could feel the cheeks and whiskers, the moles and wrinkles, and all the bones underneath. His father’s absence hit him, then, like a gaping void opening right in the center of him, a black hole that threatened to consume him from the inside out. “I wish you were here, Dad,” he said softly. Then, he tucked the letter back into its envelope, found the black-spined book on the shelf, and replaced it once more.
His phone buzzed. He didn’t recognize the number; it was probably Sarita, calling from the temple’s phone to tell him she needed him to pick something up for the roka . He picked up. “Hello?”
The voice on the other end was not his mother’s. “Is this Arjun Chowdhury?” a woman asked.
“Yes, this is Arjun,” he replied. “I’m sorry, who is this?”
“It’s Katie,” said the woman. “From the San Francisco Current .”
Arjun recalled the blonde secretary he’d spoken to a week ago. “Hey, Katie,” he said, wondering why she was calling him now. “What’s up?”
“Well, you told me to call you if I heard from Nisha Nandan.”
He nodded. “Right,” he said, though he knew that this was the absolute worst time to be thinking of Nisha. Still, he hadn’t spoken to her, let alone seen her, since their chance encounter at Buena Vista. Some part of him still desperately needed to know where she was, and that she was okay.
“I just wanted to let you know that she just put in her two weeks’ notice,” Katie said.
Arjun sat down heavily on the couch’s arm. “She’s leaving the Current ?” he replied, feeling like the wind had been knocked out of his lungs. “Did she say why?”
“She told me that she was moving to New York City. Something about getting over her writer’s block. Did you know that she was a novelist?”
“Yeah,” he replied softly. “Yeah, I did.”
“Anyway,” said Katie. “You told me to call, so…”
“Right,” said Arjun, his mind a million miles away. “Thanks, Katie.”
He hung up. Then, he took a deep breath and stood up again. It doesn’t matter, he told himself, even though he knew this wasn’t true. If Nisha really did leave, it would be like losing an organ: an eye, a lung—a heart.
Then again, in a way, it could be a good thing that Nisha was leaving. He knew that he still had unresolved feelings toward her. But it was like his father had said: real love was built slowly, intentionally. That was what he was building with Sophia. That was his real ticket to happiness, to the life he’d always wanted.
He checked his watch. It was time to leave for the ceremony. He examined his reflection in the mirror again, combed his hair, and brushed his teeth again for good measure. “Today is a good day,” he told himself. “You’re getting engaged. You should be very happy.”
His car was parked in the driveway, the old Corolla still marked with the dents and scars of his teenage recklessness. He unlocked the front door and climbed inside. It was a warm day in Iowa, and he rolled down the windows, eager to feel the wind in his face. He turned on the ignition and began to drive.
The route from his house to the temple was one that he knew well. Arjun viewed this kind of driving almost as a meditative activity, and he turned on the radio and let his mind drift into autopilot. Mercifully, the roads were empty, and he drove with ease, the music playing softly in the fringes of his attention.
He thought more about his father’s letter. It was like a cosmic reassurance, his father counseling him even beyond death itself. Arjun’s father had married his mother only a month after meeting her; his letter proved how deeply he’d loved her, how fiercely.
Arjun gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. That’s what I want with Sophia , he told himself. That’s what I will have with Sophia.
He stopped at a red light. A man was walking his dog across the intersection. Arjun heard a song playing faintly on the radio, and he turned the dial up. The song was soft, plaintive—and Arjun knew it immediately.
If you’re going to San Francisco…
He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Why was this song playing here , two thousand miles from California? And why now, just before the most important moment of his life? Arjun’s mind flashed back to that day at Dolores Park, with Nisha stroking chords on the white electric guitar. He remembered the wind in her hair, the way her body moved and swayed in the clear afternoon light.
The light turned green, but he didn’t move. Cars were honking behind him, but that didn’t matter. It was only Arjun, and the song: the past and the present and the future swirling around him like an ocean wave.
The song took on a new dimension, and as Scott McKenzie faded out, Arjun heard music like he’d never heard before, a melody that contained within its notes and measures the world entire: rushing rivers and night winds, the call of sparrows at dawn, the excited chitter of the city. It was San Francisco: the hills and the valleys, the smell of fog and sea, magnolia and pine. It was his first kiss and his last, and it was Dan’s smile and Erica’s embrace. It was his mother, and it was his father, too. It was all of Arjun’s experiences, all of his joys and defeats, all of his love and pleasure and pain, and it plucked him up like a child plucks a flower, and it held him tightly and would not let go.
And suddenly Arjun was driving, and as he drove he heard the symphony: the soaring violins and the earnest cello, the fiery horns and the booming timpani, and the bass so resonant that he felt it in his chest as his own heartbeat. And in the center of it all was Nisha Nandan, flying on the melody, her laughing eyes sparkling with delight.
He could not have said what happened next. He didn’t remember driving to the airport and purchasing a one-way ticket. He didn’t notice the silver clouds wheeling outside the plane windows, the thump of the plane against the tarmac. He didn’t notice the driving rain, the heavens rending apart to drench the world below. All he knew was the music: the thundering, brilliant music, like life itself distilled into notes and chords. He sprinted to the taxi line and gave the driver an address. 307, he remembered, chanting it like a mantra as the taxi sped past the streetlights of San Francisco. He arrived at the apartment building and sprinted inside. He did not have time for the elevator. He leaped up the stairs, two at a time, three at a time, faster and faster, faster until he reached the landing, and he turned and raced down the hallway until he found the door.
The song was coming to a boil now, the violins racing toward the heavens. Arjun knocked on the door, and there was no answer. He knocked again, louder this time, an insistent drumming as unstoppable as the rain outside.
The lock turned.
Nisha Nandan stood in the doorway, a vision in an oversized t-shirt and men’s basketball shorts. She’d been sleeping; her brown hair was unruly, and she wore clunky black glasses instead of her usual contact lenses.
The sight of her made Arjun’s heart skip a beat.
“Arjun?” she asked slowly, as though she was unsure whether she was still dreaming. She crossed her arms. “What are you doing here?”
“I was wrong,” he panted, the rain dripping down his face and puddling on the floor. “My idea of love…it was all wrong. I thought a lightning strike kind of encounter would never work for me. That building a relationship on what I wanted meant that I could never really get to something that I needed .”
He paused, searching her green eyes. “I have wanted so many things in my life, Nisha Nandan. But you’re the first thing I’ve ever needed. You’re the only thing I need.”
He took a breath. “I love you,” he said. “And that’s the only thing that matters.”
He said no more. He stood in her doorway, silently, waiting for her to say something, anything.
She shook her head. “Screw you, Arjun,” she said.
She stepped closer and kissed him.