The Direction of the Wind: A Novel(31)

Sophie wrestles with the idea of taking charity and what Papa would think if he were alive, but she is on her own now, and it is an offer she cannot refuse.



Taj Palace is cozy, with seating for about forty people, but there are only four patrons in the restaurant, two tables of two, all of them white and speaking rapid French to each other as they eat their meals using silverware. The walls are adorned with authentic beaded Indian artwork on black cloth. The pictures are of elephants and camels, and in the center of the main wall is a large beaded image of the Taj Mahal. Incense burns near the front door, filling her nostrils with the familiar scent of sandalwood as she follows the man into the restaurant. He gestures toward a small table in the corner, near the kitchen and away from the other diners.

“Are you Gujarati?” he asks.

She nods, already knowing from his accent and familiar features that he is Gujarati as well. She feels the weight of her body as she drops onto the cushioned chair he has pulled out for her. It has been a very long day, and she has had a lot of those lately, each one piling on top of the other.

“Will you like Indian spicy or Western spicy?” he asks.

She looks at him, confused.

He laughs and says, “I will make it like home. Saag paneer and channa masala is good for you?”

Sophie salivates at the thought of those familiar flavors, and she eagerly nods.

“My name is Naresh,” he says, bringing his palms together and bowing at the waist in respect even though she is the younger of the two and it is she who should be bowing to him.

“Sophie,” she responds.

His eyes flicker with the same quizzical look that crosses all Indians’ faces when she tells them her name. He masks it quickly and makes his way toward the kitchen, where she sees another Indian man, younger than Naresh and probably closer to her age, in a white chef’s coat, peering out from the pass at her, his eyes narrowed. Naresh and the chef exchange a few words, and the chef glances at Sophie and then nods, picking up a steel pan to heat it on the stove before disappearing into the back. There are some faint noises from the kitchen, and Sophie closes her eyes and lets the aromas transport her back to a simpler time.

She recalls her parents preparing for a Diwali dinner the year before Nita left. The bungalow had been filled with the smells of freshly made paneer and ginger and garlic sautéed in ghee. The blender was whizzing up the greens for the saag. In the background was the sizzling sound of the puri hitting the hot oil and puffing up to create a soft and chewy bread to accompany the vegetable dishes. The whistle on the pressure cooker sounded, signifying the rice was ready. Nita was rushing through the house, instructing the servants, the pleats of her blue sari rustling as she glided over the tiles, making sure everything was as it should be. Just before everyone arrived, Sophie found her sitting on her bed alone with her shoulders slumped. She straightened upon hearing someone enter but then relaxed her body again when she realized it was only Sophie. She held out her arms to welcome Sophie into them and pulled the little girl close to her bosom. “I hope you are better at this,” she whispered into Sophie’s thick dark hair. At the time, Sophie had assumed she meant planning a Diwali dinner, but after everything she has learned, she now suspects Nita meant more.

Naresh brings out a tray with copper bowls of steaming channa masala and saag paneer, both adorned with vibrant green cilantro leaves, as well as some garlic naan and fluffy white rice dotted with cumin seeds and verdant green peas. He also brings out a small dish of hot mango pickle and a plate of fresh cucumber, onions, lemon wedges, and tomatoes. He arranges them on the table in front of her with a precise and practiced hand.

“This is too much for me,” she says, eyes wide.

It is a feast, and Sophie cannot possibly finish the food and tenses at the thought of wasting it. “There are starving people right outside our door, and we cannot waste,” Papa would say. And it was true, any scraps of food left behind would be put on the street for the beggars. She doubts such a thing would happen here and assumes the food will be tossed into the garbage bin if she doesn’t finish it.

Naresh waves her off. “Just eat what you can.” He takes two large spoons and clamps them in one hand to use them to scoop rice onto the middle of her plate. Then he serves her the remaining items, arranging them around the rice, creating neat piles with bold colors from the different dishes.

The spices waft to her nostrils, and her mouth waters. She rips off a small piece of hot naan and wraps it around some of the deep-green saag. She closes her eyes while she chews slowly and savors the bite. The green chili lights up her tongue, followed by the brightness of the lemon and the sweet roasted garlic from the naan. She’s not sure if it’s the best Punjabi food she’s ever had, but as she sits in that chair, she thinks it could be. Sophie has had a lot of meals in restaurants, between growing up without a mummy and doing her accounting work in this industry, so she thinks of herself as a credible food critic. She looks at the French patrons in the restaurant and wonders if they can fully appreciate how well flavored and balanced the food is here. If they went somewhere else, would they realize that it lacked the freshness and attention to detail of Taj Palace?

She finishes her meal in peace, trying to eat as much as she can, both so she doesn’t waste and because she knows she will not get another meal like this for a while. She thinks about what she should do next now that she has little money. She has taken charity twice in one day: first with the hostel and now with this meal. She feels her cheeks flush at what Papa would say about this. She is failing him so soon after his passing, having run out on her job that he’d secured for her without a word, left the fiancé her fois found for her, and lost the money she’d brought with her. But then she reminds herself that he had failed her for much longer by keeping secret the true story of Nita. She unclenches her fists and pushes down the anger that continues to reside inside of her.