36. Rockefeller Levels #2
Mrs. Malhotra laughed. Voices sounded from the adjoining room.
Several women appeared almost at once. I knew they were aunties before anyone introduced them.
The collective energy of appraisal hit me from across the hall.
They came in bright silk, gold jewelry, perfume, and expressions ranging from delighted curiosity to immediate concern.
One looked openly at my tattoos. Another examined my hair.
A third stared at the neck of my shirt long enough that I became aware of exactly how much chest I had put on display.
The questions began before the introductions were finished.
How long was the flight?
Had I been to India before?
Did my mother know I was here?
Was I hungry?
Why was I so thin?
I wasn't thin. I was six-foot-four and spent enough time in the gym that magazines had written articles about my arms. But by aunty standards, I was moments from starvation. Mrs. Malhotra attempted to answer for me, but the questions kept coming. I brought my palms together.
“Namaste,” I said carefully. “Aap sab se milkar bahut khushi hui.”
It's a pleasure to meet you all.
Every aunty stared at me. Mrs. Malhotra’s eyebrows rose. Her father looked openly surprised for the first time. I smiled. One of the aunties recovered and answered me in Hindi so quickly that every word I had practiced abandoned my skull. I caught two of them.
“I learned a little,” I admitted. “Very little.”
That broke the room open. The aunties laughed. One pinched my cheek. Another declared my pronunciation respectable. A third asked who had taught me and looked deeply pleased when I admitted I had hired someone in Los Angeles for several lessons.
Mrs. Malhotra announced that food had been prepared and that I needed to eat after such a long journey.
I was led into a sitting room overlooking one of the interior courtyards, where enough tea and food waited to feed the entire band after a show.
I sat where I was told. That turned out to be directly across from Mr. Malhotra.
Mrs. Malhotra handed me another plate before I had finished the first. Her husband waited.
I could feel it. He was allowing everyone else their curiosity before beginning his own.
Eventually, the aunties drifted into a separate conversation.
Mrs. Malhotra was called away by someone speaking to her from the hall.
For the first time since I arrived, the space between Mr. Malhotra and me opened without anyone standing in it. He lifted his tea.
“How long have you known my daughter?”
“A year.”
“And how much of that year have you spent in the same country?”
Fair question.
“Not enough.”
“Yet you consider the relationship serious.”
“Yes.”
It was as serious as anything had ever been for me, what that meant to her, I wasn't sure. His gaze remained fixed on mine.
“What does serious mean to you?”
I leaned back slightly.
“Are there any answers you’re going to accept?”
One eyebrow rose. I had definitely ruined everything now.
Then he said, “I accept all honest answers, whether I approve of them or not.”
I looked toward the doorway. No Radhika or rescue in sight.
Twenty minutes, my ass.
I turned back to him.
“The honest answer is I don’t know exactly what serious is supposed to look like for us yet.”
His expression cooled.
“But I know what she is to me,” I continued.
“I know I cross countries to see her even when I can barely afford the flight. I know I pick up the phone whenever she calls, no matter what time it is. I know every room feels different when she walks into it, and every city feels temporary once she leaves.”
He studied me.
“That's very romantic. Romance is easy.” The words felt like a blow to my chest. “Marriage is not. Family is not. Building a life is not.”
My stomach tightened. His gaze moved over me again, but this time it wasn’t about the shirt or tattoos. It was deeper than that.
“What do you know of her faith? Are you aware of the extent of her responsibilities or the expectations placed upon her?”
“I’m learning.”
“That's a pathetically vague answer.”
“Because I’m not going to sit here and pretend I understand her whole life after watching it from hotel rooms and phone screens.”
Something flickered in his face.
“Then why waste your time and hers? Why, then, are you here?”
“Because I want to understand it. I want to know the answers.”
He went quiet. I could hear voices elsewhere in the house. Laughter in the hall. The faint movement of water from the courtyard fountain. Mr. Malhotra set down his cup.
“My daughter has always been impulsive with her heart.”
I almost laughed. Radhika? Impulsive?
“She hides it well,” I said.
“She believes wanting something badly enough can make it sensible.” He leaned back. “You live on tour and are surrounded by women. I have heard from my friends abroad that your reputation,” he continued, “is not especially discreet.”
“No. It's probably not.”
“And yet you expect me to believe my daughter is different.”
I looked down at my hands. His face remained unreadable.
“When I’m with her, she makes me honest before I have time to come up with something better,” I said. “I don’t know how else to explain it.”
“And what future do you imagine with her?”
The question I had avoided asking myself since she invited me. My mouth went dry.
“I—”