37. CRIMSON DIAGNOSIS
DIYA
"Diya didi . . . are you sick?" Rani stands in front of me with her hands on her hips, her tiny eyebrows pulled together so seriously that she looks like an elderly doctor about to deliver terrible news.
Before I can answer, she reaches up as if she's about to touch my forehead.
I gently catch her hand. "No, sweetheart," I say with a smile that's probably a little too quick. "I'm perfectly fine. Why would you think that?"
She squints at me. "Because you're all red."
" . . . What?"
She points at my face with complete confidence. "Your cheeks." Then my neck. "And here."
She tilts her head thoughtfully. "You look like those big tomatoes Meher didi brought from the palace greenhouse."
My hand immediately flies to my neck. It's warm. Very warm.
Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.
I'm officially being diagnosed by a seven-year-old because my face refuses to behave. The moment she points it out, every memory from last night's date comes rushing back.
Veeraj sitting across from me beneath the lanterns. His fingers wrapped around my wrist. The warmth of his hand covering the pale patches of my skin without a second thought. His quiet voice saying there were no flaws sitting across from him.
That I looked like a painting someone had taken their time creating.
My heart immediately starts doing that ridiculous sprint again.
Stop it.
We're sitting in the middle of the NGO.
I cannot blush every time I remember my husband.
"Didi had a fever before," Keshav suddenly shouts from the sandbox. Within seconds, every child within hearing distance abandons whatever they're doing and runs toward me. Apparently, the words Diya didi and sick are enough to trigger an emergency meeting.
"I don't think it's fever," Rani announces importantly as everyone gathers around my chair. "She isn't sleepy." She studies my face again. "But her eyes are all shiny." She nods to herself. "Like when someone gives me jalebis."
I cover my face with both hands. "This discussion is officially over."
Nobody listens. Raj walks over quietly with his sketchbook tucked under one arm. He looks at me for a long moment. Then he starts signing. His hands move so quickly I almost miss the first sentence. “Not a fever.”
Rani watches him carefully while I translate automatically in my head.
“Didi's face always becomes this colour whenever the giant Prince uncle comes here.” My eyes go wide. Raj keeps signing with complete confidence. “She looks exactly like the heroines in the tv shows when the hero smiles at them.”
"Raj!" I nearly squeak. "That is completely incorrect!"
I shake my head so hard my ponytail swings behind me. "There are no television dramas happening here."
Rani gasps dramatically. "I knew it!" She spins toward the other children. "Raj is right!"
She points at me like she's presenting evidence in court. "Didi turns into a tomato because of Prince uncle!"
Keshav frowns thoughtfully. "I thought it was because Prince uncle made her count all the wooden blocks before."
He nods wisely. "Mani didi says too much maths makes your brain hot."
"No, silly." Rani rolls her eyes so dramatically I'm amazed they don't fall out. She lowers her voice into what she clearly believes is a whisper.
Unfortunately . . . It's loud enough for the entire courtyard to hear. "It's because Prince uncle is very handsome." She wiggles her eyebrows. "And very tall. And whenever he talks to Didi in that deep voice . . . " She points straight at my face. " . . . she forgets how to breathe."
I feel every drop of blood in my body rush straight into my cheeks. "Rani!"
"And one day," she continues excitedly, completely ignoring me, "I even saw him tuck her hair behind her ear near the veranda."
She claps both hands together. "Didi looked like a red balloon!"
The entire group bursts into laughter. Keshav falls sideways into the grass. Two of the younger children start chanting, "Prince uncle! Prince uncle!"
Raj simply stands there with the tiniest satisfied smile on his face, clearly convinced his diagnosis is medically accurate. "Oh no," Rani suddenly says.
"What?"
She looks genuinely worried. "If Prince uncle comes right now . . . " She studies my face again. " . . . will Didi explode?"
The children dissolve into another round of giggles. "I am not going to explode," I protest weakly.
"You might," Keshav says. "You're already the colour of ketchup."
I bury my face in my hands with a groan. "I spend years getting degrees," I mutter dramatically, "and today my reputation is destroyed by children who still need help tying their shoelaces."
"Didi likes Prince uncle," one of the younger girls sings.
"Didi likes Prince uncle."
"No, I do not."
"You do."
"I don't."
"You are red."
"I am sitting in the sun!"
"There are clouds," Rani says immediately.
I glance up. There are, in fact, clouds.
Traitors.
I let out a defeated sigh and look around at the circle of grinning faces. They're all smiling. Laughing. Completely delighted by something I haven't even admitted to myself yet.
Maybe they're seeing something I've been trying very hard not to see. Maybe children really do notice things adults miss.
Because somewhere between late-night bike rides, bowls of soup, teasing smiles, quiet reassurances, and hands that always seem to find mine . . . The walls I'd spent weeks building around my heart have quietly disappeared.
And judging by the way these little monsters are looking at me . . . Everyone seems to know it.
Everyone except me.