The Taste of Ginger(85)

“Looks like I’m heading back with you,” I said, flopping onto the bed.

She stopped and looked up at me. “Really?”

I nodded. “Neel and Dipti are ready to go home. So that means there’s nothing keeping me here either.”

She glanced at her computer. Two new emails had come in during our small exchange, each with the telltale red exclamation point that had once made me jump to the ready like Pavlov’s dogs. She held up a finger gesturing for me to wait while she sent off hurried responses.

“You don’t seem that excited to head back,” she said.

“No, I am.” My voice trailed off, and I fidgeted with the rajai on the bed.

“That’s convincing.” She laughed and then said, “Are you sure there’s nothing keeping you here?”

“Of course. I’ve never spent a day in India without my mom and Neel. It makes sense for all of us to go back together. That was always the plan.”

She shrugged. “Plans change.”

Sure, sometimes they did. But I had always been someone who stuck to the plan, and that was how I survived. Fit in with the American kids after we immigrated. Get a job in which I didn’t have to worry about financial instability. Commit to Alex because I had said I would, even if it meant losing my family. I wasn’t one to deviate from the plan.

Carrie looked at me in the way that only a best friend could—with compassion, understanding, and pity all blended together.

“Go talk to him,” she said.

I made a move as if I was about to object, but then stopped myself. She was right.

I was about to fly down the stairs and out the door and hail a ricksha when I heard Dipti call out to me. She was in the room she and Neel had shared before she’d moved out and was collecting her clothes that she had brought for the wedding but never worn.

I leaned against the doorframe and tried to keep the angst out of my voice. “Do you need help with something?”

She shook her head. “I wanted to say thank you.”

“For what?” I asked.

“For not giving up. On me, and on Neel.”

I moved closer to her. “There’s nothing to thank me for.”

Dipti managed a half smile. “I doubt any of that was easy for you.”

“It was easier than you think,” I said. “I’ve seen what you and Neel have through such a different lens while we’ve been here. I was too stubborn to see it before, but I see it now. You’ll always have my support.”

I tried to be present in what she was saying and not let my mind wander to where I needed to be.

“Are you okay?” Dipti asked. “You seem . . . I don’t know . . . jittery.”

I tried to calm my nerves. “I’m fine. Just didn’t realize we were going to be leaving so soon, so trying to wrap some things up.”

“You mean with that photographer?”

I froze and looked at her.

She laughed. “Come on, I’m grief stricken, not daft! What wedding album could possibly take this long to put together or require a late-night session on New Year’s Eve!?”

I wrung my hands together.

“Don’t worry. I haven’t shared my suspicions with anyone. People have been so distracted by other things that you’ve managed to stay under the radar.”

“Thank you,” I said, the tension subsiding a little.

“It will be our secret. I hope you get whatever answers you need.”

As I rushed down the stairs, I knew Dipti would eventually be okay. That they would be okay, and it propelled me forward as I bounded out of the bungalow.

The ricksha ambled through the traffic at the same pace as the lackadaisical animals crowding the streets. The horns from the cars and the people yelling from the cycles and lorries were deafening. I willed the sea of traffic to part and let me continue on my way to Happy Snaps, but the ricksha moved as if it were slogging through wet cement.

All I cared about was getting to the shop. I hardly noticed the exhaust around me or the swirling dirt that normally irritated my eyes. Thirty-five minutes later, I threw some rupees at the driver and nearly tripped over my feet as I scrambled out of the seat.

The little bell above the doorway chimed when I went barreling through. Tushar was at the counter tending to a customer, so I tried to collect myself. He looked at me with curiosity blended with irritation at my raucous entrance. It did not help that the elderly lady in his shop made a show of clearing her throat, annoyed by the NRI girl who had just bounded into the shop as if she owned the place.

Slipping behind the counter, I waited while Tushar rang up the woman’s order. She seemed to move more slowly than a cow in traffic, counting out her coins on the counter to pay for the prints. I began tapping my foot. Tushar shot me a warning glance. I mouthed the word sorry to him and put my hand on my knee to control the bouncing.

“What is wrong with you?” Tushar asked when the bell to the front door chimed after the woman left.

“Me?” I felt my cheeks flush, suddenly shy.

“Why are you acting so strangely?”

“I . . . I . . .” I felt myself getting flustered. I had wanted to talk to Tushar, but now that I was standing here facing him, I wasn’t sure how to begin. I crossed my arms over my chest, unsure of what to say.

I felt silly, like a high school girl who couldn’t string together a sentence in front of a boy she liked but with whom she also knew things would never work out. We would not be the first people who flirted with dismissing the caste system, but it had persisted for thousands of years, and it was clear that it would continue to exist for thousands more. I started to turn away.