Chapter 2
After a quick shower, Manisha slipped into her green velour Juicy Couture track suit and followed the familiar, mouthwatering scent of piping hot, buttery parathas downstairs.
A thin layer of smoke drifted across the hallway into the kitchen as she skipped down the last step. Food always made her happy.
“Dad, you’re burning down the house again,” she teased, grinning. “The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire!” Manisha waved her hands and danced into the kitchen, singing off-key.
“Chup kar,” he replied, not looking up from the stove. A smile tugged at the corners of Manisha’s mouth. “Keep quiet” was her dad’s unique way of saying I love you. A “chup kar” went a long way in the Patel house.
“Oh, look, our rani finally decided to get up and join the rest of the world,” her mother remarked from the stove. “What a royal arrival!”
Manisha rolled her eyes, stifling a yawn. “Yes, the queen is overjoyed at her aloo paratha crown. I humbly request you bestow it upon me,” she responded, slipping into a British accent.
“Do you see? She becomes a lawyer in the UK, and suddenly, she’s Queen Elizabeth,” her mom said to Manisha’s father, who was expertly flipping a paratha onto the tava, the golden-brown side sizzling.
Her dad was a real culinary genius. He’d picked up cooking skills from his travels across the globe during his military years.
He could whip up anything—from deep-fried panzerotti to flawless sushi rolls—while her mom struggled to make a simple omelette without it turning into burnt scrambled eggs.
But she did have two tricks up her sleeve: she could perfectly heat a paratha and brew a perfectly spiced cup of chai.
One was already waiting for Manisha on the old wooden kitchen table.
Despite owning Baskin’s premier home decor and design store, Manisha’s parents cared little for fancy decor in their own home.
Their kitchen had yellow-stained cupboards from the ’80s and mismatched kitchenware, but it was just fine for them.
Admittedly, when Manisha was younger, she’d been a little embarrassed by their home when her friends came over.
But now, her parents’ unpretentiousness was, in a way, endearing.
It showed how little they cared for impressing others and—as much as Manisha teased her mom about her now-overflowing wardrobe—how truly focused they had always been on the things that mattered.
Manisha cradled the cup of hot tea in her hands, gently blowing on it to cool it down.
“Hey, Dad, you’re looking like a real fashion icon in that apron.
Giving Gucci a run for his money!” She gestured to the flowery apron he wore over his usual uniform of a kurta top and dark Dockers khakis.
The apron was one her mom had bought for herself but never wore.
He waved at her dismissively, causing her to snicker into her cup. It was good to be home. Manisha sank into her chair and relished the sweet, creamy chai that was heavy on the two percent milk, just as she liked it.
“Ghee or salted butter?” her mother asked, placing a hot paratha on a silver plate in front of Manisha.
“Ghee, obvs, Mom,” Manisha replied, taking a spoonful from the jar before spreading it on the bread, watching as it melted into the flaky cracks.
Her dad’s secret to the perfect paratha was to use not one but two doughy layers to sandwich the filling—in this case, spiced potatoes—in between.
It was like the Quarter Pounder of parathas, with golden ghee gleaming at her.
She spooned a generous scoop of the tangy raita from the bowl on the table onto her plate, then tore off a piece of the paratha and scooped it up with the cucumber-yogurt mix. The flavours exploded in her mouth, hot as they were, making it all worth it.
“How is it?” her dad asked with a smile. “You know I prefer mooli, but I made aloo just for you.”
Manisha shuddered at the thought of horseradish and its offensive aftertaste. “Gross, Dad. Why even mention mooli? This is just fine.”
“Just fine? If you want fine, go to your grandmother’s house for that. Okay?” he shot back dramatically.
Manisha rolled her eyes. Her dad had a knack for turning any unpleasant situation into a chance to throw shade at his mother-in-law, who was a sort of forbidden topic in their home—one shrouded in secrecy and curiosity that no one dared to unravel, especially around her dad.
Manisha shrugged it off as but another twist in her favourite Bollywood movie.
Sometimes, the less I know, the better.
“Come on, Dad. You know your parathas are excellent—the best. I hope I find a husband who makes me aloo parathas as good as yours,” she said between bites.
Her father beamed at her, and, not for the first time, Manisha was struck by how much they resembled one another.
She loved being tall, and her appetite for food was something she’d gotten from him—along with the care he put into his appearance.
His dark beard was always impeccably groomed, and his hair neatly slicked back.
Despite this, the same wavy kink that Manisha had inherited remained ever-present.
He was also a man of honour and integrity, and he’d instilled those values in all three of his children from an early age.
Her mom brought a second paratha and placed it on Manisha’s plate.
“Oh yes. Va, va. Did I hear right? A husband for Isha? Now, that is what I am praying for, too. I hope my youngest, smartest, sweetest, and most successful child finds a husband this year—one who can cook for her, just like I have for myself.” She squeezed Manisha’s cheeks as if Manisha were still a child, not a grown woman.
“Please, Mom. I’m thirty-four, not four,” Manisha said, breaking free from her mother’s tight grasp and then moving her head away to take another bite.
“Besides,” she added, “most guys actually know how to cook for themselves and for the people in their lives—like their partners. It’s a modern world out there. If I were you, I’d save my prayers for something bigger.”
“Speaking of cooking,” her dad chuckled, rolling out another circle of dough, “I’ve yet to have a meal from your mother that’s actually edible.”
“Me too!” Manisha cried. Her mom dashed back to the counter to chide her dad, who brandished the rolling pin like a shield, flour flinging everywhere. Laughter filled Manisha’s lungs like a breath of fresh air.
“Chup, both of you, before I—”
Before her mother could finish the sentence, Manisha’s soon-to-be sister-in-law walked into the kitchen.
“What’s happening in here?” Manny asked, wrapping her arms around Manisha and taking in the lively scene.
“Manny!” Manisha exclaimed, turning to hug her back. “Thank goodness you’re here, just in time. Now back me up, will you? I’m trying to explain to my mom that times have changed, and men actually cook now.”
“Sammy just uses Uber Eats. Does that count as cooking?” Manny quipped, grinning.
“I’m trying to explain to my daughter that I understand this modern world, but once you’re married, cooking and cleaning take on a different meaning. For husbands, cooking and cleaning for their wives is their way of showing love—it’s like flirting.”
“Mom, please—I beg you—stop there! Do not give us advice on flirting.”
“Hey, I don’t mind listening,” Manny said, putting her hands up. “I’m happy to share this flirting advice with Sammy.” Manny winked at Manisha and reached for a plate piled high with steaming parathas.
“Flirting has come a long way, Manisha,” her mother continued. “Nowadays, a man reaches to fix a loose strap on your dress, and it’s like Diwali. Fireworks everywhere.” In perfect synchronization, the butter on the stovetop sizzled and splattered, mimicking the sound of popping firecrackers.
Manisha rolled her eyes. “And that is why I pay good money to not have loose straps on my designer dresses, so I don’t have to flirt like my mom.”
“Touché.” Manny chuckled, and Manisha’s mom joined in the laughter. The vibrant energy of the Patel kitchen was exactly what Manisha had longed for in returning home—a refreshing change from the tears and misery that had consumed her back in London.
“And now my flirting is done,” Manisha’s father announced, untying the apron. “I am going to tend to my garden.” He patted both Manny’s and Manisha’s heads before leaving the kitchen.
“I think we scared him away,” Manisha stage-whispered.
“Oh, he likes to be out there anyway,” Manny said.
“Anyway, I had no idea you were coming by today!” Manisha said excitedly, mind alight with the day’s possibilities.
“Yeah, but sadly, I can’t stay long.” Manny dunked another piece of bread into the raita. “I have time for a quick bite, but then I have to meet your brother at the store. Sammy asked me to grab the mail for him.”
“Oh, boo,” Manisha said, pouting.
“Don’t worry, we’ll hang out before you leave,” Manny comforted her. “By the way, how long are you here?”
Manisha felt her face warm. She cleared her throat, avoiding Manny’s gaze. “You know, I, um, have a lot of time off, so I’m still deciding.”
“Ooh, look at you, Ms. Senior Partner, calling the shots on when she decides to work,” Manny cooed.
Manisha smiled faintly, though the words “senior partner” stung a little.
“By the way, what’s your law firm’s name again? I was going to send the details to my cousin in London. He’s looking for some legal advice—”
“No!” Manisha interrupted. “I mean, don’t do that. We’re so busy right now. I wouldn’t want to be rude and have to string him along. Why don’t I let you know when we catch a break and are looking for new clients?”
Manny shrugged. “Okay, sure. Anyway, I’m just so proud of you. Your brother and I were gushing about you the other day to our friends.”
“It’s no big deal,” Manisha said, playing with her teacup.