The Taste of Ginger(72)

I smiled. “I think you picked a great wife. And the reality is that she does need to be your number one priority. That’s how a marriage works. You shouldn’t feel torn between us. It’s what I would want from my husband if I ever get married.”

“Thanks. But I’m going to work on sharing the emotional stuff with you and Dipti. You were right when you said that I don’t do that. We’ve all been conditioned to focus on making sure the family is okay and the bills are paid. The amount of stuff we have all repressed cannot be healthy.”

“No, but we have finally found something that we all have in common.”

Neel laughed. “Guess so. Where have you been hiding out this week? I knew you were probably avoiding me, but I wasn’t sure where you had gone.”

“I’ve been spending a lot of time with Biren,” I said, my eyes avoiding his gaze.

“That must make everyone happy. If you marry him, the families could unite in a powerful matrimonial union,” he said with a smile.

My mood instantly turned somber. While I knew Biren didn’t want me to tell anyone about him being gay, Neel could be trusted, and telling him would not put Biren in any kind of danger.

“I need to tell you something private about him,” I said, and then told him what happened last night at the Law Garden.

“Is he okay?” Neel asked after I finished.

“I’m not sure. He’s distant. I think he was really hurt and is trying to pretend nothing happened.”

“Emotionally or physically?”

I took a deep breath. “Both.”

“I can’t even imagine how lonely he must feel,” he said.

“I know. Gives my problems a healthy dose of perspective. I wish I knew how to help him.”

“I’m not sure if you can. Guys like to have space. So just give him that, and he’ll know where to find you when he’s ready.”

Giving people space wasn’t my forte, but I suspected Neel was right, and I was grateful for his advice.





33


Tonight was New Year’s Eve, but it seemed years away from when Biren and I had talked about spending it together at Swiss Cottage. He had not responded to my texts or calls after I’d seen him the day before. When I called his house, his mother said he was at work. Neel had been at Dipti’s since yesterday, but his loss was felt instantly by me. I’d never spent a day in India not under the same roof as him.

Knowing Biren needed space, I accepted Tushar’s invitation to spend the holiday at Happy Snaps. The photography shop was the only place we could ring in the New Year together without worrying about gossip getting back to our families. I was grateful for the respite even if it had to be in a controlled environment.

I had a bottle of wine that Neel and Dipti had brought in when they arrived for the wedding. Prohibition was in full effect in the state of Gujarat, apart from a small liquor shop at the airport. NRIs could purchase a liquor license upon arrival and buy two bottles of alcohol for personal consumption. Thankfully, my brother and Dipti had bought the maximum allotment when they’d arrived.

Alcohol was to be consumed discreetly, if at all. It was as though I were fifteen years old again when I told Mom, Indira Mami, and Virag Mama that I was going to work through the evening to make sure Hari and Laila’s album was ready. I felt smug satisfaction as I stepped out of the house with my camera bag containing the hidden bottle of wine.

The bag rested securely on my lap as the ricksha honked its way through the busy streets. Children with sparklers lit small fireworks that sizzled and erupted strips of confetti. The singed smell of burnt paper hung heavy in the air. Animals on the road hardly flinched at the chaos. For them it was business as usual. I pulled my shawl tighter around my shoulders to guard against the chill.

I had been dreading this night. As much as I believed I was strong and independent, I was self-conscious about being thirty, unemployed, and single. I was anxious about starting a new year with such uncertainty in my personal and professional life, but I was also trying to embrace the feeling. With nothing planned, it meant that anything was possible.

Tushar raced to open the door to the shop while I was still unfolding colorful rupees to pay the ricksha driver. Tushar wore a purple button-down shirt tucked into his black slacks. His pants hung loosely on his thin frame; it seemed the thin cloth belt was the only thing keeping them above his hips. His hair was greased into place with castor oil, the scent more pronounced than usual.

I wondered if I should have dressed up more for the occasion. Because we were just staying in the shop, I had worn my favorite pair of jeans and a long-sleeved red tunic. My family thought I was working, so anything fancier might have aroused suspicion.

We didn’t have a wine opener, so I used the handle of a spoon to push the cork into the bottle.

He made a sour face as he sipped from the mug he normally used for chai. “You actually find this taste pleasing?”

I laughed. “Not at first, but you get used to it. Eventually, you can’t live without it.”

“Your parents know you drink this?”

“Yeah. When I was younger, I was too scared to tell them, but what are they going to do now?” I hadn’t had any alcohol since arriving in India, so it affected me quickly. My cheeks began to warm before I finished my first mug.

“Do your parents drink?” he asked.