Pride, Prejudice, and Other Flavors (The Rajes #1)(73)

She held the box out to him and as soon as he took one she popped one whole in her mouth with near desperation.

“I know what a ladoo is. Are these rava or besan?”

The way she blinked at him he might as well have unexpectedly spouted Enochian. The ladoo poked into her cheek and her surprise seemed to make it hard for her to chew and swallow at the same time. “Right,” she said on a gulp. “Your specialty is fusing traditional north Indian flavors with classical French technique.” She took a second ladoo out of the box. “This is rava. You probably know how to make these and everything. But my aji—that’s my grandma—makes the best ones.” A worshipful smile danced around her lush mouth, which was glossy from the ghee. A few grains of semolina clung to her full lips. With a delicate and slightly self-conscious flick of her tongue she licked them off.

He took a bite. “They’re pretty good.” They were great, actually. The kind of great that came from internalizing recipes from prolonged and organic repetition. The kind of great that trained chefs found the hardest to achieve.

“How did you get interested in Indian food anyway?” Another sweet round ball went into her mouth whole. She was going through them so fast he was having a hard time keeping his eyes on the road.

The way she had eaten his food in Nisha’s kitchen flashed in his mind once again. Eyes suffused with pleasure, body limp with satisfaction. Artless, with nothing held back. This time he had a harder time pushing the memory away. It settled in his gut and sent the strangest buzz coursing through him. “Well, it is the official cuisine of London, didn’t you know?” he said finally.

That made her smile and relax into her seat. Or maybe it was all that sugar and ghee.

“My father was Indian.” He had no idea why he added that. He had hardly learned how to cook Indian food from Dad. “Anglo-Indian, actually. Or at least that’s what my father liked to call being half British and half Indian.”

“You’re Indian?” This time her shock wasn’t a surprise. Both Emma and he favored their Rwandan mother.

“My dad was born in England, but his family migrated from India a few years before Indian independence. I’m not sure, but I think my grandfather was born there. He married an Englishwoman.”

“You’re not sure?” she said with the puzzlement of someone who couldn’t imagine families who didn’t know each other, didn’t know their own history. For a moment he wanted what she had so badly, he couldn’t speak.

“My father’s family threw him out when he married my mum. She was a refugee from Rwanda. We never really knew his family.” All DJ knew of his family history was what he’d pieced together from overhearing his parents’ conversations before his father died.

He had never talked about his parents to anyone, but something about how much his words seemed to horrify her made him go on. “It had taken my father’s family a few generations to wash the brown out of them, so by marrying Mum, my father basically nullified half a century’s worth of effort for whitening up the Caine line.” He tried to sound nonchalant but ended up sounding more bitter than he actually felt about the entire sordid business.

“That’s terrible.” She twisted in her seat as though what he’d just told her was so disturbing it made it impossible for her to sit still.

It struck him suddenly, the realization that he’d never met a brown person more comfortable in her own skin than Trisha Raje. He wondered if it had always been this way. If she’d ever struggled with her identity.

“My mother quit her movie career in India and ran away with my father against her father’s wishes. He never spoke to her after that and died soon after their wedding. Ma never talks about him—but there’s this distinct pain in her that surfaces if he ever comes up.”

DJ couldn’t imagine anything cracking Mrs. Raje’s pleasant demeanor. For all their shared beauty, how very different the two women were. He wondered what their relationship was like. His own mother’s softness had been snuffed out by hardship. The world never saw her warmth. But the love in her eyes had always shone strong and open for him and Emma. And saved them.

“Did your dad ever reconcile with his family?” Trisha asked, studying him, her voice catching a tiny bit on the word reconcile. “They must’ve been heartbroken when he died.”

He gave her the ugly laugh he saved especially for his Caine relatives. “Not in the least bit.” One would require a heart to be heartbroken. “They threw us out on the street after Dad died, took our home, and never spared a second look on us.”

Another stretch of that neck followed by another deep swallow. “So your mother raised you by herself?”

The pain in her eyes made him mirror her swallow. “Yes. She died when I was eighteen.” Somehow it felt important to say that. To highlight the differences between their lives.

“Emma and you really only have each other.” Her voice fell to a gentle whisper.

He nodded. Emma was all he’d had for a very long time.

“I’m sorry.” Her eyes blazed and dimmed at once, and it felt like the old pain in his own heart finding fresh release.

He reminded himself that the tale of one’s orphaning usually made even the most hard-hearted sorry.

“I’m glad she’s getting to spend this time with her work and with her art,” she added in the same gentle whisper, as though his pain actually meant something.