Epilogue
The next year passes in a monsoon of changes, some winds prevailingly strong in shifting the foundation of my life, others a tender drizzle nurtured by two hearts beating in synchronicity.
Luke moved to Mumbai, and not beholden to his usual punishing deadlines and pressures, took time off to attend Punjabi classes, immersing himself in the language, culture, and traditions. Mostly, he was proud anytime he could recite a fact I did not already know.
Anyway, that lasted a while and then he woke up one morning and started his own investment firm.
As of right now, he has funded and grown the following: a technology platform that connects Mumbai students with vetted international exchange opportunities, a digital coach that allows anyone to enter in their circumstances and receive free financial education about how to make their money work better for them, and an app-based ecosystem that allows tenants access to affordable legal advice in relation to deteriorating housing conditions.
The start-up culture is anything but glamorous.
Most meetings happen in bootstrapped apartments-turned-to-office-spaces.
The times I have dropped by, I see him circled by heads, debating healthily back and forth with the founders and lead engineers about business growth strategies.
Luke Abbot no longer sits on a throne. He’s flattened the platform to make room for others to join him.
His explanation is not that he has turned into a generous benefactor for altruistic reasons. He states, “If they succeed, I succeed since I own a slice of their business.” I notice that doesn’t account for why he keeps selecting companies with social impact missions to invest in for his portfolio.
What he does well is leverage his history of connections, encouraging past wealthy associates to diversify where they put their money.
To fund and give opportunity to those companies that might never have had a chance to be spotlighted.
What that means is we attend a few galas.
I dress up in an expensive dress, and accompany Luke around the room.
No longer am I tongue-tied doing this. Not because I’ve suddenly learned the language of the powerful and occasionally rude elite, but because I’ve lost my fucks to give.
I’m an expert in what I’m doing and see no need to be someone I am not.
We are all greater and lesser people in different ways, and I’m no longer interested in regretting the uniqueness of my own journey.
As for my work, it’s a business of small steps—by choice. Every time I visualize what I want to be doing, I remember the night of my first catering event. How deliriously happy I felt with that scale of work.
That’s the feeling that feeds me.
Luke has—to my chagrin—put my name on his bank accounts.
I can take whatever I need at whatever point without question.
That is a terrifying amount of trust and responsibility, which I have only nibbled on.
It’s not because I believe in suffering my way to success or because I’m self-sacrificial.
My boyfriend is rich. He won’t miss anything I take.
No, it’s because I’m not built to run a big operation. It’s not what makes me happy. I’m a baby entrepreneur who has gone into business with my best friend, Kiren, who has discovered great skill and talent with marketing. (Noor is a cheerleader but finds her happiness in studying animation).
With Kiren’s help, we’ve grown Boutique Desi Catering and successfully pulled off a hundred and twenty-five events so far.
People choose us not for our volume, but for the innovation of our dishes created with local, sustainable ingredients.
We are hired by those companies who want to treat their employees to a culinary journey they won’t experience anywhere else.
Along the way, we’ve hired two new chefs, Sheeta and Dirgal, to join the team.
Practically what that looks like is three heads in one mad-scientist kind of kitchen, brainstorming food.
The last dish we created took us a whole week where we obsessed if a fusion balsamic vinegar fish pakora could exist (it can).
Speaking of inspired, I’ve also finally discovered Luke’s perfect dessert.
It’s barfi, a milk-based sweet, but not in its usual form.
No, it has to be coconut milk, and the sun has to dry it out until it loses all moisture and is a crumbly, kind of chalky consistency.
I remain horrified, but we found this out after he ate one left out, mistaking the little square for a mint.
As for our relationship, we finally moved in together.
In the beginning, because of schedules and the slow pace of integrating in a completely different kind of city, we only saw each other every second or third day.
But then, Luke bought a home and gave me the key, saying he missed me whenever we were apart.
Seeing as I’d taken to stealing his clothes to wear them around the house so I could smell him always, I agreed.
I didn’t want to leave Uncle alone, though.
It wasn’t an issue. Luke bought us a home where we all fit, even the guests that show up unannounced.
Sistine visits, but has not threatened me with a knife since our first meeting in Barcelona.
To Luke’s great relief, she has ceased going to sketchy animal mask parties for blackmail purposes and has decided to become a fashion influencer.
I’m not surprised by her immediate success.
She’s a muse for one of the biggest designers in London.
As for other guests, Theo shows up at the oddest of hours, for he likes to cause ruckus.
For these visits, he insists we adventure around the country.
Because of him, I’ve rafted the Brahmaputra River and paraglided in Goa.
His next request was to heli-ski in the Himalayas, but Luke threw him out of the house before he could convince us.
It’s a game they play. Theo shows up, is welcomed, then is kicked out, and then shows up again.
I pretend not to know that Luke sends the jet whenever Theo asks to come over.
Dad does not live with me. He prefers a permanent stay in a retirement and rehabilitation center where he is surrounded by support.
There were relapses and a time where we stopped talking altogether.
However, we’ve picked up a biweekly visit schedule that feels tentatively healthy for me.
I’m happy he is happy. I’ve also had many sessions with Dr. Mangat alone where we figure out how I can stop feeling guilty.
I’m teaching myself the importance of boundaries and protecting myself.
That it’s okay to have the courage to love myself, even when it risks disappointing others and cultural expectations.
Love helps .
Luke finds me in the kitchen opening up a rice cooker after it’s been warming up garlic for two weeks—to turn it into black garlic.
The air is thick with fermented sweetness.
As soon as I notice Luke standing in the doorway, I rush around the kitchen to fling open windows. He hasn’t complained that I’ve stunk up this quarter of the house, but he’s dressed in a crisp-collared shirt, luxe black trousers and his favorite fitted jacket, and I don’t want that to smell.
“Is there a gala I forgot?” I ask, looking myself over.
Secretly, I was baking a cake to mark the anniversary of when I became his cake servant in Barcelona.
Sweet nostalgia is why I’ve recreated the monstrosity I’d left in his office that first day.
What started it all. The tiered chocolate hulk of sweetness is hidden in the fridge. There is flour in my hair.
“No gala.”
I unpin and shake the strands of my hair. “Then why do you look so hot?”
“Perhaps I wish to tempt you.”
I grin. “In that case, you should divest yourself of all clothes.” I’m already taking my apron off in anticipation.
“Before you objectify me, darling, I have something for you.”
I waggle my eyebrows. “Does it start with a C…?”
He laughs—and it’s my favorite sound from him. Loud, coming from the belly, and delighted as if he can’t get enough of me.
Then Luke goes down on one knee.
I gasp and clutch the edge of a counter.
“Rita—”
“Yes!”
He hasn’t asked anything, and it’s already my answer. In this kitchen, cloying with flavor, he comes to me dressed in his warrior armor, and I’m in my tank-top and leggings. I’m no longer the woman who wonders if it will last or if we are too different.
Trembling a little, Luke opens his fingers to reveal the ring.
“It’s the same one! How did you find it?” The engagement ring—the golden band we’d chosen together in a jewelry store after Luke cooked me pasta for the first time. It has been living in my drawer. One of my most precious objects.
“You’ve looked at it once or twice after thinking I’d gone to bed,” says Luke .
“Oh, not to pressure you—I mean we don’t have to?—”
“There isn’t pressure—I’m happy. More than happy. But if you’ll have me for more, to spend our life together forever, I would very much like that.”
He takes a deep breath, and I release the counter. Unable to stop myself, I reach for him. He kisses the middle of my palm.
“I didn’t have a good example of family growing up,” he continues.
“I’ve lacked in that capacity. A family where you don’t have to bend yourself into a shape to keep them happy.
I thought it was normal until I met—you.
That’s when I—breathed. Really breathed.
It—you—opened me up. I’m not angry anymore.
I’m not hurt. I’m at rest, Rita. It doesn’t matter what we go through because I love you.
You’ve given me so much strength—and I love you.
I loved you when I wasn’t a good man. And I love you now when I’m trying to do better.
I will love you always. And I’ll take whatever you’ll give me, but it would be my greatest honor to call you my wife. ”
“Yes.” I hold my hand out. “Hurry.”
“Hurry?”
“I’m so happy I don’t think I can stand longer.
I’m so desperately in love with you even when you are at your snarkiest, I love you.
You’re my forever, Luke Abbot. You are my family,” I say, clinging to him.
“And it’s me who breathes for you, who feels so safe and guarded and supported even when I’m falling to pieces.
You see me in all that I am. Happy. I’m happy. So yes, yes to everything!”
He puts the ring on my finger where it belongs, and I’m spun around. We’re kissing, and I think both of us have turned into sentimental souls, since we are both unsteady, laughing, and crying.
Then Luke leaves for a brief second to bring me his other surprise. It’s a cake. He’s baked for me a frosty, slanted mini-tower of imperfection. It pouts forward as if eager to be eaten. There is a potpourri scent that wafts out from it.
“I’ll get better,” he promises.
I rush to the fridge and bring out the one I’ve made for him. “You are more than enough, love.”
The cakes are set down, and we’re pressing our foreheads together and kissing again.
Outside the window, the sun sets. It casts a molten glow onto our kitchen, a familiar space in many homes, but one that has become extraordinary in ours.
If I could speak to the Rita of the past, I would tell her she should leave that cake in his kitchen multiple lifetimes over.
That two people from opposite worlds and opposite cultures are about to clash—and revolve around each other.
That she’d be surprised at how deeply she falls apart and how she doesn’t have to be alone pulling herself together again.
Not only happiness can be shared.
It’s okay to accept failure. It’s a part of this, and so is love. From friends and family. Old and new. Related and non-related.
That everything changes, and it’s a brilliant thing when dreams shape-shift into new forms.
~The End~