by Sonya Lalli
I was exhausted, and as I made introductory chitchat with Rahul, I realized I was not prepared for yet another blind date. I’d worked crazy hours all week, all the while fielding panicked calls from Shay and Auntie Sarla about the engagement party—which was tonight.
I’d stayed up late the evening before with Shay’s younger brother, Nikesh, designing, printing, and manually cutting out place cards for the table settings. Afterward, I’d thought seriously about canceling on Rahul, but Nani had called me excitedly at the crack of dawn asking me what I was wearing and where Rahul was taking me—and I didn’t want to let her down again.
To Nani’s dismay, Jayesh had given up on me. I guess postponing a first date for an entire summer does that to a guy. To make matters worse, earlier in the week I’d bailed on a Skype date with Jagmohan in India, something Nani had organized so I could check whether he was still coming to visit.
“Absolutely not. Nani, he just wants a marriage visa,” I’d said, pointing at the list. “You wrote it down yourself.”
“Even nice boys can have ulterior motives, nah?”
Rahul was the very last name on her list. So when she asked me to call him, I didn’t know how to say no.
A server with gray-blue hair dropped off two jam jars full of water and a wicker basket full of what appeared to be—and nearly smelled like—dog shit.
Rahul lunged for the dung, and popped one in his mouth.
“What is it?”
“Gluten-free vegan raw bread,” he said, his mouth full.
“Can bread be raw?”
He scowled at me as he swallowed. “Don’t you have a dehydrator?”
I shook my head.
“Wow, okay.” He looked alarmed. “Well, it’s a must-have when you’re on a gluten-free vegan raw diet. It’s as indispensable to me as my NutriBullet.”
I snuck a look at my watch. I’d been at the restaurant for four minutes, and already I wanted to leave. Rahul seemed insufferable, but maybe we had gotten off on the wrong foot? Maybe I was judging him too quickly.
I forced out a smile, trying to make an effort. I picked up a piece of the “bread” and nibbled on the corner. It tasted like mildew.
“Mmm,” I purred, nodding heavily. “What’s in it?”
“Vegetables, mostly. Onions, tomatoes, peppers, broccoli. Sunflower seeds, too, I think.” He chewed loudly. “Whatever it is, it’s ethically sourced. Everything here is farm-to-table fresh.”
“My nani owns a restaurant.”
“Oh yeah? Which one?”
“Saffron. It’s in Roncesvalles—”
He waved me off. “Oh, I know it. It’s quite . . . popular, isn’t it? I imagine a lot of tourists go there. Must be in the guidebooks or something.”
“What’s wrong with tourists?”
“Where you should really go is to this place I know on Keele Street.” He grabbed another turd, and I thought about telling him that he still had pieces of the last one all over his teeth. “It’s less overplayed. You walk in, and you think it’s a run-of-the-mill ciggys and gum convenience store, right?”
“Right,” I deadpanned.
“And then the guy takes you through the back door and . . . BANG!”
“He shoots you?”
“Best Vietnamese food in the city. And decent virgin cocktails.”
“Naturally.”
“All in all, the evening will cost you around fifty bucks.” He eyed my handbag, which I’d hung off of my chair’s armrest. “I’m guessing that’s less than that purse you have there. That isn’t real leather, is it?”
I glanced at it, suddenly recalling that the ebony black tote was Shay’s. I’d borrowed it the year before, swearing to give it back, but never had.
“I’m not sure . . .”
“Consumer culture. Am I right?”
I laughed, and it sounded about as awkward as I felt. “I sure could consume a drink right about now—”
“Raina, this place is alcohol free.”
“Oh, I was kidding . . .”
He rolled his eyes, and after handing me a menu, I resisted the temptation to hit him with it.
* * *
Rahul suggested we try the five-course lunch tasting menu, and I obliged. He ordered an aloe vera smoothie, and despite his rave reviews of the birch juice, I wasn’t quite in the mood for tree. I settled on an organic root beer, and while it tasted nothing like root beer, it was actually pretty good.
We discussed the weather—hot, but not sticky hot—and then took turns commenting on the restaurant’s decor. The twinkly lights and green-brown ferns. Persian rugs and throws in piles, as if to enforce a sense of coziness.
Rahul had strong opinions, even on things that you wouldn’t think warranted such fervor—such as the choice between wood flooring and carpet. Everything was right or wrong, authentic or “trying too hard.” I glanced at the hemp necklace dipping between the V of his distressed T-shirt, the twisted tuft on the top of his head that very nearly fell into man-bun territory, and wondered which category Rahul fell into.
My favorite Drake song came on, and Rahul groaned. “Really? Drake?” He glanced around accusingly, as if prepared to prosecute whomever it was who had dared to play popular music.
“What’s wrong with Drake?”
“Nothing, I suppose.” Rahul rolled his eyes. “He’s just so passé.”
I suppressed a smile. Authentic. Rahul certainly was authentic.
“We should have met up tonight,” he said after a moment. “I know this hole-in-the-wall club around the corner. Great vibes, low-key—and like, you know—fresh beats.”
“I thought I mentioned already; it’s my best friend’s engagement party tonight.”
“Oh. Right.”
“And it’s been a bit stressful I suppose, with the planning and—”
“Ah,” he said, blinking at me. “Stress.”
“What about it?”
“I feel sorry for you.”
Mister pays-fifty-dollars-for-noodles-in-a-broom-cupboard felt sorry for me?
“I just don’t get worked up about that kind of stuff.”
I sat up in my chair. “What kind of stuff?”
“You know. Logistics. Details. Everyday . . . stressors that wig everybody out—and to be honest—make life unpleasant for those around them.”
I nodded earnestly, thinking that maybe if I was unpleasant enough, he’d leave, and take all the organic shit-bread with him.
“Stress. The mental, physical, sometimes even spiritual reaction to the world outside of us. Aren’t they all just feelings we can control?”
“You’re kind of a superhero then, if you have the power not to feel. How do you do it?”
He smiled at me coolly. “Meditation. Yoga. Eating clean. It’s all about bringing balance to the everyday.”
“Like a Jedi.”
“Huh?”
“They bring balance to the force? Star Wars?” The muscles around his lips twitched, and I sat back in my chair. “Oh, let me guess. Star Wars is also passé.”
“I really don’t get what all the fuss is about.”
* * *
Our food arrived, if you could call it that. A vegan cheese board. A course of dandelion salad and eggplant bacon. A bowl of bloodlike broth that claimed to be pureed avocado, beets, and tigernut milk. (Note to self: It’s not from a tiger, or a nut.)
No matter how hard I tried, Rahul shot down every topic of conversation I attempted. The Toronto Blue Jays? Too pedestrian. His favorite band? You wouldn’t have heard of them.
What school did he go to? What does it matter? We live in the present.
I let the conversation dry up, much like the prunes, figs, and apricots that had gone into making our next course: a granola bar. At least I had chia and oat pudding to look forward
to, and then, a cross-examination by Nani about how the date went.
I knew she would laugh when I told her about Rahul’s raw, meat-, bread-, and milk-free diet, and how definitively incompatible we were. But then again, Rahul was the last name on her list . . .
“You’re not enjoying the food,” Rahul said, as I poked at a loose fig with my fork.
“Sure, I am,” I lied.
“Raina, one must always be true to oneself.”
Was he being serious? Did he think of himself as some kind of wise, Gandhi-like pundit? “I’m just not used to it,” I said finally, wracking my brain for something nice to say. “But I admire your discipline.”
Smugly, he laughed, shaking out the elastic in his hair. His man bun parted into an inverted pyramid at the top of his head.
“It’s not discipline, Raina. It’s being informed.” He held out his hand, as if signaling an oncoming vehicle to stop. “Do you know how many pesticides you have in your body? How many you’ve accumulated”—he pointed at my stomach, which was still growling for food—“that are compounding in you right now?”
I was about to ask him to enlighten me, but then he did anyway.
“Let me guess, for breakfast you drank coffee, which is an addictive stimulant, and had some sugar-and-gluten-based cereal?”
“Are you sure you’re not a Jedi? Because you just read my mind!”
He smiled. Had I been too rude? I was about to apologize, but then realized he’d taken it as a compliment.
“I had Special K for breakfast today, yes.”
“See? What did I say? And I bet that when you’re home with your nani, she makes you paratha in the morning, which is made from white flour, white potatoes, and butter—which, by the way, was stolen from a helpless cow imprisoned in some industrial farm outside the city. A cow that, as a Hindu, you should be honoring.”
“Hindus honor cows because they help sustain life, and provide sustenance like milk.”
“Whatever, Raina. My point is that all you need is three dates with me. Eat three of these meals, and you’ll see how much better you feel, and realize how much crap you’ve been putting in your body. You’ll be happier, sleep better, might even be able to lose some weight—”
I guffawed. Audibly. Did he just tell a girl to lose weight?
His cheeks reddened. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. You look great—”
“How can I look great?” I grabbed my handbag, wondering what the hell I was still doing there. “I had coffee for breakfast!”
“I’ve really put my foot in my mouth, haven’t I?”
“Rahul, it was really . . . interesting to meet you, but I have an engagement party to get to, where I’ll be poisoning myself with tandoori chicken and cowy paneer.” I stood up. “Lots of alcohol, too.”
“No, don’t go.” He stood up after me, and reached for my arm. “I’m sorry. I’m just being defensive. My whole family thinks my lifestyle is ridiculous. Most Indian people do, and—”
“Your lifestyle isn’t ridiculous,” I snapped, turning to leave. “Your manners are.”
Rahul—Sarla’s physiotherapist, says he very good-looking boy ☺
OMG UGHHHH!!!
SEVEN
“Holy. Shit. I am so underdressed.” Zoey hesitated at the entrance and glanced down at her beige suit. I’d offered to let her borrow a sari, but she’d claimed to be allergic to sparkles.
“Don’t worry. It’s just an engagement party.”
Zoey turned to face me, eyes wide. “Just?”
The mezzanine level of the hotel had been transformed. I had tagged along for an inspection the week before, nodding mechanically as Auntie Sarla waddled about with a measuring tape, the back of her chubby arms swaying as she visualized her masterpiece. And it was. It practically wilted in decadence; an eruption of crystal and light turquoise. At its center was Shay, gilded like a Christmas tree, eight hundred people—mostly Auntie Sarla’s own friends—milling by the open bar.
I led Zoey through the foyer, past the twenty-foot fountain of peach punch, through the clusters of families, mothers and daughters in matching lenghas; men in stiff suits, their white girlfriends gowned in spandex dresses, blissfully unaware that in this crowd, showing that much leg was the equivalent to being stark naked.
In the main hall, the tables were clothed in satin, a monstrous cake and head table at the front. At Indian celebrations, the families sat at the front, I explained.
“I guess that makes sense,” said Zoey, darting into the queue for the bar. “They’re the ones paying for it.”
“Wooow.”
I turned around and looked down toward the voice. Nani and a few of the aunties had found us. Nani was dressed up—pink lips and shawl, a gin and tonic in hand—and when I leaned down for a hug, I could smell the perfume she rarely had the courage to wear. Chanel No. 5. The last gift Nana had ever bought her.
“You look wonderful, Nani.”
“Me?” she exclaimed, her accent thickened with gin. “No one is looking at me next to this beauty model.” She squeezed my chin and tugged until my face was level to hers, plopped kisses over my cheeks. After a moment, she leaned back, and then started picking imaginary lint off of me like a chimp.
“Nani, stop.”
“The boys here will be lining up for you.” She winked. “And about time, too.”
“Nani, you remember Zoey?”
As if she hadn’t noticed her before, Nani turned slowly to look at Zoey. She studied her oddly, and looked her up and down.
“How have you been, Mrs. Anand?”
“Oh, fine”—she looked between Zoey and me, and then down at the floor—“and yourself?”
“I’m well, thank you.” Zoey touched my arm. “Work has been surprisingly busy this summer, plus we had those weekends away—”
“We rented a cottage with friends, remember?” I looked at Nani. “I told you, didn’t I?”
She nodded slowly.
“I love your sari.” Zoey smiled eagerly. “I’m regretting my outfit choice, now that I see how beautiful they look on you and Raina.”
“Thank you, dear.” Nani smiled at us faintly, and then snapped her head toward me. In a loud whisper, she said, “You met Rahul today, nah?”
“Yes . . .”
“Tell us”—Nani winked—“was he a dish?”
I laughed. “Yes, Nani. He was handsome, but it’s not going to happen. First off, Rahul took me to a vegan—”
“Enough,” she snapped, cutting me off. “I cannot hear another of your stories. It is too much now.”
I could feel myself shrinking. I looked down at the ground. “But Nani . . .”
“And here I thought . . . soon, I would also have engagement to celebrate.”
I heard her sigh, and then felt her beside me as she brushed a kiss on my cheek.
“Zoey, maybe you have boy for her? She is so hard to please, nah? No one I suggest is good enough for her.”
By the time I looked up again, Nani had disappeared, and I felt Zoey squeeze my hand. “Are you okay?”
I nodded, without meeting her eye. “Yeah. Come on. Let’s go find our seats.”
* * *
Our table was disguised in a garden of gerbera daisies, cream wax candles, and chiffon seat covers. Zoey and I were seated across from Shay’s older cousins and their husbands—women who as girls used to bully Shay and me. They arrived with smiles and hellos, and then seemed content to ignore us. Soon Kris arrived with Serena—Shay’s good friend and bridesmaid. I hadn’t seen Kris in months, and wondered whose idea it was to seat us together.
Kris was thirty-eight, halfway in age between Mom and me, and I’d never really known what to make of him. He’d moved out for university when I was still a kid, and it wasn’t that we weren’t close; I’d just never really gotten to know him.
It was strange seeing him a suit, and not in gym clothes, or his uniform of khakis and ill-fitted T-shirts that he wore as an engineering consultant. He pulled out Serena’s chair, and she folded into it suppressing a smile, tucked her hair and sari perfectly into place.
Ever since his divorce, Kris avoided going to temple, Indian weddings, or parties—anywhere he said the aunties and uncles would stare at him judgingly. But as I watched Kris and Serena effortlessly interact, pour each other water, eat each other’s appetizers, I realized that already they seemed to be the community’s next “it” couple.
Serena was the golden girl of my generation, so as her date, the community must have pardoned him.
I helped myself to another glass of wine as the main course was brought out, and then another. Serena and Zoey became engrossed in a discussion about politics, and Kris and I sat together in silence. I had nothing to say. I glanced behind me, and saw Nani in fervent conversation at her table with Auntie Sarla and a few other aunties.
Had news gone around already that I’d walked out on Rahul in the middle of our date? Was this evening’s gossip that Raina, yet again, was being too picky—and not that Rahul was just a complete dick? My wineglass emptied again, and I reached over and poured more in.
“Quite the fish tonight, aren’t you?” I heard Kris say, and I didn’t answer. “I saw you talking to Ma earlier. She must be thrilled to see you all dressed up. You actually look nice, Raindrop.”
“Please don’t call me that.”
He leaned in. “Are any of them here?”
“Any of who—” I stopped, seeing his smirk.
“She’s even asking me if I have single friends for you.” He laughed. “That would be strange, hey? My little niece marrying—”
“Kris, can we please not talk about this tonight?”
He brought his wineglass to his lips, and winked. “Come on. Lighten up.”