The Taste of Ginger(73)

I had been taking a sip and nearly choked when he asked the question. I wiped my mouth with my forearm before answering. “My parents may have left Gujarat, but Gujarat didn’t leave them! We didn’t keep a drop of alcohol in our house. They wouldn’t even eat food that was cooked with alcohol!”

Tushar raised his eyebrow. “People in America put alcohol in food?”

“Sure. Most of the alcohol burns off.” I leaned in closer and lowered my voice in conspiracy. “In fact, I’ve never told my parents that the mushroom risotto I once made for them had white wine in it. They loved it, so I figured some things were better left unknown.”

He shook his head at me—something he did at least once whenever we spent time together. Our lives were so different. He often commented that I was much more outspoken than anyone he had met before.

This was his first taste of alcohol, so, not surprisingly, Tushar was a lightweight. After half a mug of the Jacob’s Creek Shiraz, he was back to the friendly banter we’d had that day at the ice cream shop.

“Tell me what you normally do for New Year’s Eve,” I said.

“We do typical things. Go to dinner parties.”

“And what happens at midnight?”

His cheeks reddened, but I wasn’t sure if it was from embarrassment or the alcohol. Either way, it was endearing.

“Everyone just says congratulations or ‘Happy New Year,’” he said.

I poured more of the cherished wine into my mug. The smell of tangy, spicy grapes warmed me. I breathed in deeply to savor the aroma, unsure when I would have the chance to taste wine again.

“My parents think I’m at a dinner party with my friends,” he confessed after he set his empty mug on the wooden table. We had spent many hours sitting around that table examining prints or talking about the books he was reading. Tushar reached for the bottle.

“You’ve started lying to your parents? How very American of you,” I said with a wink.

“Would you rather I go see my friends?” he shot back.

I grabbed his forearm even though he didn’t make any move to leave. “It’s eleven forty-five. With the Ahmedabad traffic, you’re stuck here with me unless you want to be in a ricksha when the clock strikes midnight.”

He shrugged. “Western New Year’s Eve isn’t a big deal to me. It’s not like I’d be missing the real one,” he said with a wink.

We began to tell each other stories about past New Year’s Eves on both the Indian and American calendars and dissolved into fits of wine-induced laughter. Neither of us kept an eye on the clock, so we missed counting down to midnight. We didn’t care. It was enough to be with someone and enjoy the company. When I stood to leave around one in the morning, I was emboldened by the wine, so I went to Tushar and hugged him.

“It may not be the Indian way to say Happy New Year, but we Americans have to at least give each other a hug,” I said.

Tushar stood stiffly at first but eventually relaxed and squeezed me back. I sank into him before he began to pull away. Our eyes locked, arms still loosely around each other, neither fully letting go. My lips parted. I willed him to bend to meet my mouth. His eyes searched mine before he finally released me.

“It’s late. Your family may worry,” he said.

I cast my eyes downward and nodded.





34


On New Year’s Day, I awoke with an all-too-familiar red wine headache. After my monthlong forced detox since arriving in India, my body was struggling to process it.

“Worth it,” I mumbled to myself as I lay in bed with my eyes closed, thinking about how nice it had been to spend time with Tushar and just be two adults talking about our lives.

I felt a bit guilty that he had lied to his parents. It was the type of innocent lie I had told my parents countless times, but Tushar was different, and this type of lie had different stakes for him. But then another side of me appreciated that he had done it for me because I knew the list of people he would have lied for was very short. It was increasingly difficult for me to navigate the waters of a society that did not date in the way I understood. Meaning, they didn’t date at all. I thought of my parents and realized I could not have done what they each had done—marry a total stranger. People had serious expectations at such an early stage, and the whole process of getting to know someone was circumvented entirely.

Once my headache cleared, I sent Biren an email saying I knew he needed space but would be there whenever he needed someone to talk to or listen. I checked in with him every day, and he would occasionally send a short response, so I knew he was seeing my messages even if not responding to them all. Neel and Dipti were still fighting a lot, but at least now they were fighting with each other under the same roof and not on their own. There was a certain comfort in that.

A couple days into the new year, Carrie called me and said her case had settled, and she was going to get a ticket and arrive in India on January 10. I could hardly contain my excitement at seeing her in such a short time.



Tushar and I didn’t speak of the moment we’d shared on New Year’s Eve and carried on putting the wedding album together with the utmost professionalism. It seemed we were both trying to heed our families’ wishes and keep our relationship platonic. There was so much I needed to share with Carrie when she arrived.