The Taste of Ginger(26)

I’d been meandering around the first level of the house seeing what I could do to help. Indira Mami was carrying a tray with small mugs of hot chai and serving it to the guests. Virag Mama was walking around encouraging people to take second helpings of the nasta that had been laid out on the large dining table. In our culture, there was no greater showing of respect than to tend to a guest’s food and tea needs.

Neel had assumed his post of standing near the front door to greet people as they arrived and exited. The elders and my father had gathered near the Brahman, chanting prayers, their eyes closed and their voices strong. I found my mother in the kitchen squeezing lemons to make another batch of nimbu pani for those who didn’t want tea.

“Do you need help?” I asked her.

She whirled around, startled. Once she saw me, she quickly dabbed her eyes with a towel. “I rubbed my eye after juicing all these lemons for the pani. It’s so stupid.”

I nodded, letting her have the lie.

“Let me help.” I moved closer.

She sprinkled salt into the pitcher with the lemon juice, sugar, and water. “It’s all done now.”

Glancing around the kitchen, I asked, “Is there anything I can do?”

“Why don’t you mingle with the guests? See if anyone wants more food or chai?”

It seemed both of those jobs were already covered, but I roamed around the living room, trying to figure out a way to be of some use. People were chatting in small groups. The only loud voices were those of the younger kids playing cricket in the yard. For a second, I wished I could trade places with them. Be young enough not to realize what had happened today, why everyone was gathered with solemn expressions. And be able to wake up tomorrow barely remembering today.

Eventually, I found a quiet spot in the corner of the dining room. Whenever people passed by me on their way to the bathroom, they cast me a reserved smile. To avoid that uncomfortable situation, I pulled my phone out of my purse, more out of habit than anything else. As soon as I saw there were six unread messages, in an almost Pavlovian response, I needed to find out what was happening back at the office. There were several messages from Jared, and I began scrolling through them. He needed me to draft a motion, and I was already mentally constructing the arguments before reading through the rest of the emails.

“You look rather deep in thought,” someone said to me.

I looked up and saw Biren, the guy Monali Auntie had briefly introduced me to at the hospital. His tall, lean frame loomed over me while he stood.

“I guess I was.”

He sat in the chair next to me. “Days like this are something you can’t prepare for.” He gestured to my phone. “It’s good to have your mates on hand.”

Sheepishly, I said, “Oh, this is for work.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Really? You can’t possibly be thinking of work with all of this going on.”

I probably shouldn’t have been, but I was. And from the look on his face, I could tell he thought that was ridiculous. Biren wore the same expression Alex used to don when I checked my emails while he was bouncing script ideas off me or when I was on the phone with my parents. Alex was all about living in the present, and it seemed Biren might be as well.

“What kind of work can’t wait until after a wake?”

“My boss needs me to write a brief. He says court deadlines don’t wait for family emergencies.” I knew how cold the words sounded before I’d even uttered them out loud. I wished I could pull them back.

“Forgive me, mate, but that’s just crap. People can’t be expected to live that way.”

Biren was right. Just as Alex had been when he’d said similar things to me for almost two years. On the day of my niece’s funeral, I shouldn’t be thinking about court deadlines. It was that simple. My priorities had shifted very far from the way my parents had tried to raise me. When I was growing up, my dad always said, “In life, the priorities should be Bhagwan, family, health, and then job.” Sitting here, I realized that my work had jumped to the top of that list. And I had let it.

“You know what? You’re right. Will you please excuse me for a minute?” I said, as I stood and headed toward the stairs with my phone in hand.

I closed my bedroom door and leaned against it. Sunlight trickled in through the window. It was cracked open so the cacophony of noises from the street came through unfiltered: dogs barking, the occasional mooing of a cow, the pop of fireworks, high-pitched horns on scooters and rickshas. With everything going on around me, it was amazing I could think straight, but my thoughts felt clear for the first time in months.

Seeing Neel and Dipti suffer through losing their child made evident how short life could be. I took a deep breath and picked up my phone. With the time difference, it was just before six in the morning in Los Angeles, but given the number of emails I’d received during the past hour, I knew the Warden was already in the office. It would probably be the last time I dialed the phone number that had become as familiar to me as my own. He answered on the third ring.

“Preeti, good to hear from you. I was beginning to think we were going to have to retire your jersey. Are you back in town?” His nonchalant tone irked me.

“No, I’m at my niece’s wake in India,” I said dryly.

“Yeah, I’m sorry to hear about all of that. I suppose you’ll be heading back to Los Angeles now that the situation is . . . resolved. We’re ready to have you back on the team.”