My father calls up the stairs. Can he make me some scrambled eggs? No, I lie. I’m not hungry.
The real reasons:
1. I don’t trust my father’s scrambled eggs. In all the years of living at home, I don’t remember him fixing breakfast—or any other meal, for that matter. He did wash the dishes on the nights he was sober, but that scarcely qualifies as a skilled culinary activity. As if to validate my thinking, there is a loud clang from the kitchen. Sounds like he dropped the pan. Maybe his hand isn’t as strong as he thought it would be. I curb a pang, an urge to run down the stairs and sit him down and cook the eggs for him. He’ll manage, I tell myself. If he dropped something, it’ll do him good to bend over and pick it up. After all, that’s what he’ll have to do when I’m no longer with him.
2. I don’t want to accept any favors from my father. I was forced to ask him to translate the journals; I didn’t have a choice there. But I want to keep my debts as light as possible.
3. After reading the last entry he translated for me, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop myself from searching his face for the ruins of the young man my mother had loved so rashly. From asking, with my eyes, What happened?
When I come downstairs, I notice that he’s set the table with two plates. The scrambled eggs, neatly piled into a serving bowl, look safe enough. He’s also cut up some melon—my favorite fruit—and put out a loaf of French bread. If he dropped something, there’s no sign of it on the kitchen floor.
“Have something,” he says. “It’s going to be a long day.”
I give him a sharp look. I haven’t told him about the store closing, haven’t even told him how bad our finances are. I consider saying no again, but I’m suddenly hungry. And he’s right: it’ll probably be a long, hard day. I take several slices of melon, a wary spoonful of the eggs. They’re surprisingly tasty. He pours us orange juice, his injured arm held at an awkward angle.
“How does it feel?” I ask.
“Better,” he says, flexing gingerly.
“The eggs are good.”
“Glad you like them. Can I give you some more?”
This is still the only kind of conversation I’m able to have with him, and he knows it. He must notice that since the accident I haven’t called him Dad. Once in a while, when I’ve caught him unawares, I’ve seen the corner of his mouth pulled down with the weight of all the things he wants to say. But I’m not ready to unburden him.
I tell him I might be late coming back. He shouldn’t wait up for me.
He follows me to the door, then says, “But I’m coming with you.”
That’s when I notice that he’s wearing a clean pair of corduroys, a button-down shirt. He must have bathed early—his hair is damp, the comb markings clearly visible.
“No,” I say. “I don’t want you to.” I speak slowly, as though to a child, trying to hold on to my temper. What makes him think he has the right to intrude like this into my life?
“Rakhi, it’s going to be hard, closing down your store. Having someone there who cares for you may be a good thing.”
“How did you know about us closing down?” My voice rises in spite of my efforts at calmness. “I don’t recall discussing it with you.”
“I overheard you talking to Belle. Maybe I can help—”
The words tumble out before I know it. “You’ve never helped me with anything in my entire life. And now you’ve started eavesdropping! Just because I’m forced to stay here with you doesn’t give you the right to pry into my life like this.”
He blinks as the words hit him. For a moment his lips move but no sounds emerge. Then he says, unevenly, “I didn’t mean to pry. Maybe I shouldn’t have listened. I did it because I worry about you. I always have. But until now your mother was there to take care of your problems. That’s the way she wanted it, without any interference from me, so I let her. Maybe I should have insisted on doing more—. Well, it’s too late to think about the past—”
I’m surprised, then suspicious. Easy for him to say that my mother’s wishes kept him away from me. She isn’t exactly here to deny it, is she?
“It is too late,” I say. “And you’re making me more late right now. So if you’ll excuse me—”
I’m at the door when he says, “Rakhi, what’s more important? Proving that you don’t need me or not losing what you’ve worked so hard for all this time, your business—and maybe your daughter?”
I turn, stunned. How did he know my fears about Jona? And what else does he know?
“I can’t guarantee that I’ll be of any help, but at least let me try,” he says.
I swallow what I’d been about to say—If you really want to help, just take care of yourself so I don’t have to be here—and let him follow me into the car. What he said has hit me hard. Do I really have my priorities wrong, as he claims?
If my mother were alive, I would have consulted her, and she—always honest in such matters—would have told me. Now I must figure it out for myself. I chew on the inside of my cheek, thinking, as we drive to Berkeley in silence.
Belle is already at the store, dressed for hard labor in overalls and a sleeveless T-shirt, her hair bundled into a bandanna. But she isn’t alone. Across the counter from her is a tall young Sikh, dressed in blue jeans and a traditional turban. At first I think he is a customer (an irony—we no longer have anything to offer customers), but then I see that they are arguing. Or, more accurately, Belle is holding forth while the young man listens. She gives my father and me a distracted wave as we enter but doesn’t stop talking.
“I told you I don’t want any of it. What am I going to do with it? What on earth were they thinking of, sending me this stuff! It’ll all spoil. You’ll just have to take it back.”
Between them on the countertop there’s a large box filled with packets and jars. I can also see produce: mustard greens, mulee, lauki squash. Her parents must have sent a care package.
“I told you,” the young man says, “I’ve just come from Turlock, from visiting my folks. I’m not going there again until the end of the month.” His accent, distinctly American, isn’t what I’d expected. He must have been born here, like Belle and myself. I wonder at the turban—so many young Sikhs have chosen to dispense with it. It suits him, though, gives him a rugged, adventurous look.
“I don’t care. Just take it away.” Belle pushes the box at him. “I can’t handle vegetable guilt on top of everything else today.”
He raises a polite, inquiring eyebrow. “Vegetable guilt?”
“That’s right. I don’t know how to cook any of this—and my mom knows it. I can’t figure out why she sent them—and right now, too, when I’m drowning in stress. Look at all these spices: cumin, red chilies, bay leaves. A whole bottle of chickpea flour. I’ve never used chickpea flour in my life.” She pokes at a packet. “And this—I don’t even know what this is.”
“It’s saunf,” the young man says. “Foreigners call it fennel. Very good for digestion. People with bad tempers usually have digestive problems. Maybe that ’s why your biji sent it.”
“Thanks for the lesson,” Belle snaps. “Now if you would please remove the box and yourself from here—some of us have to work for a living, you know.”
The man picks up the box. “I’ll be happy to leave, believe me! I’ll take the produce and use it myself. It’s obviously wasted on you! It’s a good thing your parents won’t know how you treated their gift. They packed that box with a lot of love. But that probably doesn’t mean much to you—you’re far too cool to care about old-fashioned concepts like respect for your elders.”
I brace myself for an outburst, but Belle looks taken aback. Only for a moment, though. Then she snatches the box from him.
“You think wearing that turban makes you better than other people and gives you the right to judge them?” she says. “You think you know all about me? Well, you’d better leave before I contaminate you with my coolness.” She turns to me. “We need to start with the inventory. W
e’re already late.”
Belle has contacted a company that buys equipment from bankrupt businesses. They’ve agreed to look at our inventory and give us a price. If we agree, they’ll send their van in a couple of days to pick up everything they want. We’ll have to throw out the rest, I guess, or maybe give it to Goodwill. And then good-bye, Chai House.
Belle calls out the names of items, and I write them down. The espresso machine, the display trays, the spoons with roses embossed on the handle. I remember buying each item. My hand hurts. I realize I’m gripping the pen too tightly. My father has disappeared into the kitchen area in the back, where the stoves and ovens are, but the young man, surprisingly, is still around. When Belle climbs up to see what’s stored in the attic, he steadies the ladder for her, although she pointedly ignores him. I feel a wrench as I add the rocking chairs to the list. I can’t take them, even though I’d like to. Soon I’ll have to move to a smaller place. And begin the long search for another job. My stomach curdles as I think of it.
Several hours and we’ve barely made a dent. Who knew we had so many little things: cookie cutters, melon scoops, teapots with silk cozies to keep them warm? I’m exhausted, dusty, hungry. Belle suggests that one of us run down the street for some fast food. The young man, who’s been helping us fill boxes, offers to do it. I take out some money from my rapidly slimming purse, but he waves it away. “My treat,” he says with a grin that makes him seem younger and less forbidding.
“Absolutely not,” Belle says, chin squared in stubbornness. I can see we’re in for another long argument, but then, from the door of the cooking area, my father clears his throat.
“I could fry up a few pakoras for you,” he suggests hesitantly. “Make some cha, Indian style?”
Cha, that Bengali word again. I remember my mother using it, though I can’t quite recall when. I’m about to refuse, but Belle says, “That would be great, Mr. Gupta. We have all this good Darjeeling tea we’ve been saving—”
“Not to mention a whole packet of chickpea flour,” the young man adds, “destined never to be used in your lifetime—”
Belle draws in her breath for a suitable rejoinder, but my father, in his new incarnation as chef-cum-peacemaker, asks the young man to carry the box into the kitchen for him. We hear murmurings, the water runs, there’s the sizzle of pakoras in hot oil.
Belle sits down in one of the rocking chairs and puts up her feet with a sigh.
“How’s the job search going?” I ask.
She grimaces. “It’s a soulless world out there, Rikki. No one wants people like us, with our enriching and impractical liberal education.”
I sit there rocking. She’s right—what am I trained to do? Maybe I could work as a maid in a hotel, or a waitress in someone else’s restaurant. I guess I could clean houses, except if folks knew what my own apartment looked like, no one would hire me.
“Hey,” Belle says suddenly. “Is that your dad singing?”
It is. He’s singing one of his Hindi songs—it must be a well-known one, because the young man joins in the chorus. They make a good duo, though my father is obviously the lead singer. Interesting how when he sings his diffidence falls from him and a rich, pure melody emerges.
“He’s good!” Belle says. “How come you didn’t inherit either of your parents’ talents?”
“Thanks,” I say. It’s the first time she’s mentioned my mother without an accompanying somberness. It’s the first time I haven’t flinched when she’s been mentioned. It’s a progress of sorts.
“That other guy—he isn’t too bad either,” I say. “I wonder what his name is.”
“Jespal.”
“So you know him from before?”
“I’ve seen him around at community events back in Turlock.
My folks talk about him all the time. Successful career. Keeps in close touch with his family. Plus a devout Sikh. What more could a girl want, as my mother is fond of saying.”
“And what do you say, especially now that he’s shown up at your doorstep, bearing gifts?”
“Yeah, chickpea flour and radishes.”
“Things can only improve from there! He’s obviously interested, to hang around after the tongue-lashing you gave him.”
“Even if he is, I don’t have the energy to respond. Besides, nothing could come of it. Do you see me covering my head and following him to the gurdwara every weekend? And he’d probably faint from shock if I took him to my favorite club.”
The men bring in trays of steaming dishes. Tea, pakoras, a chutney to go with the spicy balls, which, my father informs us, he has concocted out of spinach, onions and chickpea flour. (“Known as besan to the initiated,” Jespal adds, with an impudent, imprudent grin, to which Belle returns a dagger look.) It’s a novel pleasure to be waited on in our own Chai House, and by men, too.
“How much sugar in your cha?” Father asks.
Now I recall when I heard that word before. My mother had said our problem was that we hadn’t been able to make this into a real cha shop. It upsets me all over again to remember that she had thought we weren’t authentic.
“Mr. Gupta!” Belle says as she crunches into a pakora. “How did you learn to cook so well?”
My father smiles. “When I was growing up, my parents were very poor. For a while there wasn’t any money for me to go to school unless I earned it myself. So I took a job as an assistant in a snack shop. Someday when there’s time, I’ll tell you more about it.”
“This tea is excellent,” Jespal says. “Did you put in ginger? That’s how my mother makes it, too!”
I sip my tea. It’s rich and full-bodied and very sweet, with a slight kick to it that must be from the ginger. I have to admit it’s far superior to the watery version with too much cinnamon that I’d drunk in other cafés and then served in ours.
Jespal exchanges phone numbers with my father before he leaves. He glances at Belle as though he wants to ask her something, but finally he doesn’t. I watch my father pour another cup of tea for Belle, raising the pot high with a practiced hand to let the amber stream froth into her cup without spilling a drop. All the earlier weakness seems to have left his arm. He handles the cup almost tenderly, and I realize that he is enjoying this.
I’d always thought my mother was the mystery person in our household. But my chameleon father is turning out to have a few surprises in him, too.
“Girls,” he says now. “If I may call you girls—? May I suggest that you leave the inventorying for the day?”
“We don’t have the luxury, Dad,” I say, my brief moment of well-being replaced by irritation. There he goes, interfering in my life again. “We don’t have customers, and there’s no money to pay the rent. Let’s face the truth—we’ve lost the battle with the competition.”
I glance balefully at the café across the street. Someone’s standing outside, watching our store. For some reason, I can’t see him—or her—clearly. Even though it’s a sunny day, there’s a shadow over the street right in that spot. Or maybe it’s a smudge on our storefront window, which we’ve been too disheartened to clean in a while. But I don’t need to see to know. It’s the manager. Why is she standing outside instead of tending to her (or should I say our) milling clientele?
“I might have a suggestion or two, something to keep you from losing the store. It’s a lovely space—” He says it with such earnestness that I hold back my retort.
“We’ve gone over every possibility already,” Belle explains to him patiently. “We just don’t have the funds to survive.”
My father stares out the window. I wonder if he’s looking at the manager, and what he’s thinking. Had my mother said something to him about Java? But what could she have told him? They didn’t talk much, and they never discussed the inexplicable. He was uncomfortable with what couldn’t be verified by technology.
When he finally speaks, it isn’t anything I’m expecting.
“I have some money,” my father says. “Would you consider
letting a new partner join your business?”
In the car we talk, but not about his offer. (Later I will wonder where the money came from, if it was my mother’s life insurance. But surely not, surely he couldn’t have received it so quickly.) I ask him about the journal entries.
“Is it hard for you to go through them?”
“Well, yes, it is. A lot of the time I’m struggling with the language. Some of the words—there aren’t any English terms for them. I hope I’m able to do them justice.”
“I didn’t mean that. Does it—uh—bother you to read them? Sometimes I feel like we’re trespassing, that perhaps we should just leave them the way they were, tied up, in the back of the closet—”
“You shouldn’t feel that way. Your mother was a meticulous person. You didn’t find those journals by accident. She left them for you. Maybe they’re her way of telling you what was on her mind.”
“From what I recall, she never had difficulty telling me exactly what was on her mind.”
“Those were just the surface things, the things she needed to say to run your everyday life. But the important things—the ones that live in dark closets inside us—I think everyone has trouble speaking about them.”
I didn’t expect to hear of dark inner closets from my father— but now that I give it some thought, it fits. Perhaps that’s where he disappeared to when he went on his drinking binges.
“Maybe leaving the journals behind is her way of comforting us,” my father says. “Some of the time when I’m reading them, it’s almost as though she’s right here, talking to me. Some of the things she wrote surprises me, though. She remembers events so differently. How we met, for example.” I dart a guilty glance at him, but he seems not to notice. “If it were anyone else, I’d say she’d just made that story up. But your mother—” He shakes his head, and I understand what he means. My mother was never one to make things up. Why would she? The world she lived in was more fascinating than any fantasy.
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