12. Aarti #2
The warmth in my heart effervesced as mischief. “Then what way did you mean?” I asked, wondering if he’d take my bait.
The brief pause I had anticipated drew out into an overbearing one.
“Sujit?” I prodded with innocence.
“Yes, sweet girl. I’m here. I’m just wondering how to answer that question without putting my foot in my mouth again.”
I caught myself blushing. “I think you just did,” I said softly into the phone.
“All I can hope for is that it doesn’t put a damper on our plans for this evening. Because I was planning on taking you to a different sort of place.”
“Different how? Like crass and replete with lechery?”
His sweet laughter boomed in my ears. “Not really, but it’s a place cheekily named La Traviata.”
“Like the opera?”
He chuckled. “No, like the subject of the said opera.”
“That sounds intriguing!” I said, as curious as I was excited.
“Wait till you see the menu.”
“Can’t wait.”
“I’ll pick you up around seven. Is that alright?”
“Yes.”
“And hey, I was serious about coming back to mine. Pack a bag.”
It was unsettling how he had made a way into my life and into my heart.
As the oldest child of the family, the eldest daughter, I wasn’t known to take instructions from others.
I was the one who laid down the rules and dispensed directives.
Yet, his bossiness, the appealing assertiveness, didn’t seem to bother me. Was this what trust looked like?
For the first time since we’d met, I stood before my closet, wondering what to wear.
I wanted to wear something flirty, but I couldn’t muster up the courage.
Sujit was so straightforward, it’d be like flaunting candy in a kid’s face, then eating it yourself.
Or like flaunting candy at a kid who thinks sugar is bad for their teeth. Either way, it was a terrible idea.
I chose a knee-length dress with warm leggings and ankle boots. I tried ten different necklaces but finally decided against it and hooked on a pair of mid-length earrings. That was the flirtiest I could imagine getting with Sujit right now.
He was at my door at seven, and I found a glint in his eyes as he looked at my dangly earrings. But he didn’t comment. He had toed that line that afternoon, and awkwardness had ensued.
“Scandal under the skirt?” I raised my brows as I read the menu at La Traviata.
“It’s a chicken pot pie with their super secret recipe.”
“A Bite of Threesome!” I read. “Greek pastitsio with lamb sauce and béchamel.
“That one is really good,” he said, looking at me over the rim of his glasses. Those dark, brilliant eyes successfully managed to jumble my thoughts.
I shifted my gaze to the menu. “I love these names. Do you think they’ll fly in Dallas? First, Lick the Salt off. Truffle Fries!”
He smiled. “I’m glad you are having fun.”
“This is exactly what I needed today. I had a really hectic week. I’m really looking forward to relaxing this weekend. All I need is a comfortable bed and an unlimited supply of coffee.”
“I think that can be arranged.” He closed his menu and looked at me with a somber face. “Aarti, if you’d rather spend a quiet weekend, I can cancel my game night.”
“Of course not,” I protested, more embarrassed than defensive. “I’m not about to disrupt your life. I’d never ask or expect that of you.”
“You’re not asking. I’m offering.”
“No,” I said with a firm shake of my head. “Being with you feels…comfortable because I can be myself. But I am not about to insert myself in your life and upset it,” I argued.
He pushed his glasses up his nose and gave me a glimpse of those dimples that I’d come to cherish. That smile!
“You’ll never upset my life, Aarti. If anything, I’m actually rethinking my own priorities.”
“Oh?” I asked, raising my brows with hope.
“Yes, talking to you has been both insightful and instructive.”
“You shouldn’t say such things. They go straight to my head,” I said with a grin.
“It’s the truth. I like that you don’t mince words. And you see me for who I am. Who I really am.”
“And what’s that?”
He grinned. “A hopeless romantic who is now determined to prioritize his own happiness.”
I didn’t know why it felt good to hear those words from his mouth. He hadn’t remotely alluded to us , to a possibility of us , yet somewhere in his hope, I found a ray of sunshine I could ride all the way to my own happiness.
“What’s next?” he asked, nodding to the menu.
I returned my eyes to the last thing I’d read before this conversation. “Wet, Tender, and Delicious. Guess what that is?”
“I don’t have to guess. I eat here once a month. Mushroom and pea risotto.”
“This is hilarious!” I said.
We chose an unconventional route that evening and ordered martinis.
“You know what the best part about coming here is?” he said when the drinks arrived.
“Watching stuffed shirts with a lot of money and old school morality come in and be appalled at the names of the dishes. This is a three Michelin-star place. Being here is a thing to show off at parties and gatherings. But they can’t make themselves say it, so they end up using the description.
‘I’ll have the mushroom risotto.’ The servers respond with a straight face, ‘Will that be the Wet, Tender, and Delicious, sir?’ It’s priceless.
It’s like a harmless revenge of the have-nots against the have-too-much-of-everything, taking a little joy in their discomfort. It’s highly entertaining.”
“And in all likelihood, they are taking more than their fair share of wet, tender, and delicious behind closed doors,” I said with a gentle shake of my head.
“That too,” he agreed.
“Point to note, we also fall under the have-too-much-of-everything category,” I commented. “We wouldn’t be sitting here spending an indecent amount on food and drink if we weren’t.”
“Yes, but hopefully, we know our place and responsibility in society. Else, it’s a waste.”
“How do we ensure that?” I asked with curiosity.
He sipped his martini and considered me for a beat.
“A small, good deed at a time…” He took another smooth sip. “But kindness alone cannot remedy social inequalities. So, don’t cheat on your taxes.”
He was definitely living up to my standards—and more.
“Since our first meeting, I’ve been trying to figure you out. I think I finally have. You are ethically balanced,” I said.
He returned an inquisitive frown. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but it’s the first time I’ve heard that one.”
I pulled my hands down under the table to my lap and fidgeted with the ring on my left index finger. This proximity to him, physical and emotional, was starting to get daunting.
“You know why I’m rich?” he continued. “Because currently, society values my skills more than it does others’, like my father. Teachers used to be the most valued in society. Do you know what grade school teachers or even university adjuncts make these days?”
I shook my head.
“Society determines who gets valued, what kind of labor is worth more based on how much money it brings to the most powerful. When I was little, I used to see construction workers and servers at restaurants and wonder why they were poorer than my father, who sat all day and read books. Surely, manual labor must beget more money than reading?”
Hearing him speak about wealth so unhesitatingly knocked down the walls I always put up around me.
Since I was little, I had learned to behave as if I was born into money.
Talking about our struggles meant that we were new money and thus needed to justify our place among the crème de la crème.
Not talking about it signified that our wealth was incidental, a behavior I had learned from Mary Beth.
The truly rich didn’t need to showcase their wealth through brands and brags.
That was the difference between old and new money.
New money felt the need to justify its place in society.
Old money took its place for granted. New money needed fancy cars and loud bags.
It craved to be seen. Old money preferred its quiet existence because much of it was derived through exacerbating the social inequalities in our societies.
Historically, obscene wealth accumulation was made possible only through exploitation, whether it was feudalism, enslavement, colonization, or neoimperialism.
This wealth also gave old money the power to define and determine the rules of existence and etiquette.
When the Industrial Revolution led to the creation of a new class of rich in the West, the aristocracy needed to distinguish itself from the nouveau riche.
The terms classy, classic, and classical all alluded to this distinction.
Where new money was ostentatious and gaudy, old money was “classy.” Where new money loved to show off its wealth with loud clothing and jewelry, a “classic” wardrobe became the hallmark of old money.
Even today, we use these words as if they don’t actually establish the legitimacy of a certain class of people over others.
Etiquette was another way to maintain the divide between the classes. People with wealth created arbitrary rules of behavior—how to walk, talk, laugh, eat—and called it etiquette. Those without it were uncouth. Not worthy.
As immigrants to a new country, all you ever wanted was to prove that you were worthy.
You deserved to be at that table of the richest people with class.
Hence, you didn’t talk about your wealth.
You internalized the rules of etiquette and hoped that you found a seat at the table on an equal footing.
But histories of colonization and enslavement meant that people of color had to keep clawing our way out through a sea of racism and privilege.
And when we did, some of us turned around and used that privilege to further the exploitation of others.
Not Sujit, though. The resounding conviction comforted me further into this easy camaraderie.
I could let it all out in his presence. “When I was little, Dad didn’t have this sprawling business.
He was a small-time realtor. Until I was about five, we lived in a small two-bedroom apartment.
But both my parents are hardworking. Mom helped by staging open houses and selling Indian clothing and jewelry as a side hustle.
This model is pretty commonplace now, but at the time, only a few people did it as a home business.
Dad learned the property business quickly, took out massive loans, made smart investment decisions, and the business grew.
From fifth grade onward, I only attended elite schools.
We moved several times, each time into a bigger house in a richer neighborhood.
It was one way to establish status, especially for an immigrant family, but I didn’t know that.
My brother has only ever seen the riches because he doesn’t remember the life before we became wealthy. ”
I exhaled and let the silence between us get subsumed by the gentle sounds of the restaurant.
“My brother is wealthy because he helps others make money,” Sujit said with a laugh. “But if you meet my parents, they behave as if they are still those struggling immigrants. They still think twice before buying anything that isn’t groceries.”
I’d love to meet them someday , I wanted to say, but that statement came with inferences, implications, and a bitter history of heartache. Wasn’t it the same day Tara broke his heart that he’d introduced her to them? I kept my mouth shut.
“Go on, read one more dish on the menu. I know you want to,” he nudged.
“Okay, one more. It will be the last one, I promise.”
He sat back with his drink.
“For the Love of the Unctuous.”
“What? That’s a new addition. What is it?” He pulled his menu open and looked for it. “Oh, it’s sausage and peppers,” he laughed gently.
He ordered For the Love of the Unctuous, and I got Scandal Under the Skirt.
“Potpie is my favorite, but I can hardly find a place that makes a good one. The best places don’t have them because it’s seen as rustic and homey, not gourmet food. But the best things in life are simple, aren’t they?” I said, cracking the delicate puff pastry with the spoon.
He nodded as he sliced into his sausage.
So are the best relationships, I thought as I watched him enjoy his food just as much as I did.