by Laura Briggs
“But you should think about Asian fabrics and design. I think it would be a new fashion experience that you would probably enjoy.” Chad turned right at the same moment the restaurant’s lights blinked to life in red and gold. Ama’s brother waved to their car as he climbed down from the ladder, recognizing Natalie, apparently, as the friend who sometimes stopped by to see Ama. She didn’t think he saw her wave back as he unraveled his next string of lights.
As Natalie had driven past the Tandoori Tiger, Ama was inside, untangling some very different lights with Rasha. Her sister’s latest purchase was a tiny string of novelty Asian elephants painted with bright purple rugs adorning their backs.
“Aren’t they adorable?” said Rasha. “The second I saw them, I knew they would be perfect for the window. What says Christmas—but still says Indian—better than these little guys?”
“Nothing?” suggested Ama.
“It gets better,” said Rasha. “Plug them in.” As Ama stuck the plug into the electrical socket, the tiny elephants lit up, and began blinking like the twinkle lights her father loved so much.
“Aren’t they perfect?” said Rasha.
Ama laughed. “Okay, I agree,” she said. “Do we drape them above the window, or put them on one of the trees?”
“I think maybe both. The Mexican place one block over has little chili pepper ones hanging in the window where everyone can see them,” said Rasha. “They’re so adorable. Have you seen them when you’ve gone past? He draped them over the Christmas tree, under the Christmas tree…”
Ama’s mind was far from the Mexican restaurant’s holiday display as she looped the cord for the elephants over one of the picture nails tapped just above the window. Mentally, she was searching for a suitable replacement Christmas recipe for the autumn’s creamy carrot halwa porridge, dressed up with cinnamon and other pumpkin pie spices. Now her father wanted something resembling plum pudding, causing Ama to rack her brains about the possibility of plum-flavored gulab jamun.
Luke had liked hers. He had eaten every last bite on the train. Remembering that made Ama feel special, as if he was one of the few people who had truly appreciated both sides of her life. Clients met with Ama the cake baker, while Ama the daughter forewent cupcake baking to worry about the consistency of halwa porridge for the restaurant menu… but how many people encountered both sides of her at once and simply accepted that both were equal? Her business partners came close, but they mostly saw her American side—the side that her parents still had trouble believing could be equal to their original culture and its traditions.
She and Rasha tucked the lights between the branches of the tree by the cash register, the one decorated in white and rosy purple shades. Her father and Jaidev were back inside and having a friendly argument with her mother over her brother’s plans to put a Santa hat on the restaurant sign’s tiger.
“It’s going up as soon as I head back out,” said Jaidev in teasing seriousness. “The neighborhood will love it. You’ve seen the German restaurant at the far end of the block, right? Their sign’s dancers are wearing little Christmas outfits cut out of red and green foil.” He stuck Santa’s hat on his own head in the meantime, the floppy red velvet hood trimmed with white felt and a glittery silver and white pompom.
“How can you put that silly hat on our beautiful sign?” demanded Pashma.
“It’s Christmastime, and most of our American customers will expect it, right?” he said.
“This goes too far,” said Bendi, adding her two cents to the discussion in Punjabi. “It’s enough that we have these trees all over the place—trees covered in lights and jewelry—”
“I like the trees,” piped up Rasha. “These elephants make them look Punjabi, don’t they?” She and Ama were giggling over the latest complaints this produced from their aunt as they tucked the last string of elephants in place.
The door leading to the restaurant’s foyer opened, meaning a customer was coming inside, even though it was a half hour until opening time. A man in a black leather jacket and red scarf entered, stomping a little sidewalk snow sludge from his boots on the snow mat before crossing the threshold.
Ama’s heart plunged like an elevator in freefall. It was Luke coming into their establishment, a paper sack in hand. His glance of greeting took in the members of the Bhagut family closest to him, her parents and her brother.
In telling him that she worked downtown at a restaurant, she hadn’t meant that to be an invitation to stop by. If he was coming, why hadn’t he done it for a nice lunch plate and not in pre-service hours, when it appeared that her entire family was standing in the lobby like a welcoming—or unwelcoming—committee? It was a bad dream, it was a nightmare—but if she pinched herself, she knew she would feel it, because this was all too real. What have I done to make the universe kick me so many times lately? she thought.
“Welcome,” said Jaidev with a grin of greeting. “We’re not open yet, but if you would like to wait at a table, you’re welcome to stay.”
“Come and sit. I am Ranjit, owner of the Tandoori Tiger,” said her father, who scrambled for a menu—never mind that it was still several minutes until they opened. “Would you like a table near the windows or the nice holiday trees?”
“Thanks, but I’m not here for lunch,” said Luke. “Though I’d love to try your food sometime. Ama says you’re the best Indian home cook in the city.”
“Ama?” repeated Pashma.
“That’s who I’m looking for. She works here most days, doesn’t she? I’m a friend of hers,” he said, glancing from her clueless parents to Rasha in her workplace sari for serving as a hostess, then to Ama herself. She waved at him, although it felt like a hesitant move with so many pairs of eyes watching her.
“Hey,” Luke said. “I brought you a present in thanks for the one you gave me.” He held up the paper sack. “Pastries for pastries. Is that a fair trade?”
“Thanks. But you didn’t have to.” She approached, aware that confidence had been sucked from her in the seconds that Luke had occupied the restaurant’s lobby. “I didn’t realize you were coming by.”
“I was on my way to drop a bike at a customer’s place, and I thought I’d bring you something from that friend I told you about,” he said. “My friend the bread baker. Turns out her recipes are Polish, by the way. Her grandparents brought them to America. I figured you’d like to try some after hearing about a fellow baker’s work.”
“You’re a friend of Ama’s?” Ama could hear the surprise and skepticism in Pashma’s voice.
He was so… bohemian. That’s exactly what her mother would be thinking, from the casual manners that assumed familiarity, the city accent, the leather coat and torn jeans and peeling vinyl t-shirt, to the disregard for the ‘closed’ sign on their door. He seemed exactly like the guys who always turned out to be trouble in the movies—Pashma had seen enough of them on Saturday afternoon television to recognize a ‘bad boy’ image when she saw one.
“Yeah. We met at the markets downtown,” he said. “Luke Johnson. You must be Ama’s family.” He stuck out his hand to Pashma, who shook it, to Ama’s surprise. He did the same to Ranjit and Jaidev.
“Thanks for the bread,” said Ama, taking the sack from him. “You didn’t have to do this, though, truly. Those pastries were just a gift. Leftovers from the restaurant. Honest.” This sounded more like a justification to the Bhagut clan and not to Luke. Of course, she had made them especially for him, but there was no way she was declaring that in front of her family.
“That’s some kind of Polish Christmas bread, by the way,” he said. “And there’s this cinnamon twist pastry in there that smells pretty amazing. She’ll give you the recipe if you like it, by the way. I put her bakery card in the bag, since I had a couple extra at my place.”
Maybe they will think she’s his girlfriend, thought Ama.
“You said you were at the street market downtown?” said Jaidev. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you there.” His puzzl
ed smile proved he was trying to make the connection, probably mentally reviewing the faces of all the sellers he knew.
“I don’t have a stall. I just shop there sometimes. I have some friends who are sellers, plus some of my customers hang out there.” Luke tucked his hands in the pockets of his coat. The shirt underneath it said ‘Challenge Authority’ with stick figures locked in combat.
He couldn’t be wearing a ‘Smile’ t-shirt the one day he encountered her parents?
“What do you do for a living?” asked Rasha.
“I run a motorcycle garage,” he said. “I fix up bikes, restore classics—Ama and her sister-in-law were downtown one day the same time as me, and we got chatting about the classic bike I had with me, so we talked for a while about bikes and restoration.”
“Do you have one with you now?” Jaidev was immediately drawn to the window to look for a Harley strapped inside of someone’s trunk, possibly.
“It’s the truck by the streetlamp. Bike’s chained down in the back. It’s an eighty-three Harley, nothing really special. I think they fixed it up for sentimental reasons.”
“Cool,” said Jaidev, with the near-universal masculine appreciation for things with engines and noise. “That must be a fun way to make a living.”
“It pays the bills,” said Luke.
Ranjit had been silent, except for when he introduced himself to Luke, as if not quite sure what to say to this friendly stranger. Situations seldom left him this quiet, but there was an air of worry and unease in his glance as it surveyed Ama’s friend. Now he spoke up. “Do you like Indian food?” he asked.
“Honestly, I haven’t tried it that many times,” said Luke. “I used to grab a curry now and then, and I went to the Punjabi Express a few times when I lived on that side of town. I liked their menu, but their desserts weren’t as good as Ama’s.”
Paying a compliment to the Punjabi Express, with its fast food-style menu and atmosphere—not a good beginning to a conversation with Ranjit. Ama was lucky she didn’t groan aloud.
“If you would like lunch with real Indian food, then eat here,” said Ranjit. “We have a special today on peanut chicken, a new dish on our menu. Friends are always welcome.” Probably some friends were more welcome than others, but it was nice of him to extend this invitation to Luke. Not that it meant he approved of their connection or anything.
Missing was her father’s customary hearty tone for coaxing visitors to try something new. He didn’t act like this when other friends from her outside life showed up, like Tessa or Natalie. The simple knowledge that this stranger was a boy and knew Ama in the outside world had changed the whole atmosphere—almost as if her father and the others sensed there was some kind of secret involved, although that was ridiculous. Ama knew it, but she was still thinking it.
“I’ve got to go drop off my delivery,” answered Luke. “I should let you get back to decorating,” he added, motioning toward the string of lights looped around Ranjit’s shoulders from the outside Christmas decor project. “Nice meeting you all.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” said Bendi politely.
“I’ll see you around, Ama,” he said. “You want to check out the bike before I go?” He jerked his thumb toward the truck. “It’s not as good as the one you and your sister-in-law spotted at the market, but I’ll show you the finer points.”
Something emboldened her—maybe the thought of escaping this awkward situation. “Sure,” she said.
She stepped outside the restaurant with him, being careful not to imagine her family watching from the dining room windows. She wrapped her arms around herself in the chill breeze, then quickly uncrossed them. What if Luke tried to give her his coat while they were watching?
Luke lowered the tailgate and ran a hand over the new paint job on the motorcycle, which was a deep purple. “This one was originally green, but the owner changed the color on me halfway through the job,” he said. “The shell was rough but the motor was perfect except for the spark plugs and a little work on the steering pins. I’d give you a ride, but I’d have to undo about six wire cables and locks,” he added as a joke.
“Not this time, then,” she said. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Listen, uh…” She hesitated. “It’s probably better not to come by here to see me. It’s better to come to the address on that business card I gave you, the one for the building on the other side of town.”
“What for?” He looked puzzled. She didn’t blame him, after talking about her family and their restaurant. She hadn’t meant to give him enough details to find it, or want to stop by… at least that’s what she thought at the time.
“Because my family’s kind of… busy,” she said, using the only inspiration that struck her in the previous second’s silence. “The restaurant’s usually really busy. Friends never come by, because it’s crazy when we’re open, and even during setup and cleanup. But it’s not that way at the wedding planning place.” Tessa and Natalie wouldn’t be concerned by Luke’s rebel-like appearance. They would probably congratulate her instead.
“Okay. I’ll remember,” he said. “Hope you enjoy the pastries and the bread.”
“I will,” she said. “They smell great. I know a good bake just by the scent.” She clutched the sack in her left hand, and tucked a strand of her hair aside from the breeze with the other one.
“Baker’s instinct, huh?”
She nodded. “Exactly right.”
His smile melted. “You must be freezing out here,” he said. “Ama, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking when I asked you if you wanted to see the bike.” He was going to take his coat off, so Ama hastened to move toward the restaurant’s entrance.
“No need,” she said, waving—dismissively, though she hoped it looked like a farewell wave from the other side of the restaurant’s windows. “I have to go back to work. I’ll see you around.”
“I’ll call you,” he replied. He waved to her as he opened the door to his truck and climbed inside. As it closed behind him, Ama went back into the restaurant. Whatever private commentary her family had been engaged in on her and Luke’s possible conversation ceased at this point.
“That’s a cool bike,” said Jaidev.
“Sure is,” said Ama lightly. She placed the sack of pastries on the cashier’s counter, and began straightening the cord for the elephant lights, as if nothing unusual had just happened.
“This friend. You met him in the market?” said Pashma to Ama, as if confirming the facts behind what apparently sounded like a sketchy story on Luke’s part.
“Yup. He had a nice bike parked by the pottery vendor, and me and Deena said to him how much we liked it,” she said. “It was while you were at the Mexican spice stall, Jaidev,” she added, speaking over her shoulder. “That’s why you didn’t meet him.”
“When did you give him the pastries?” asked Rasha. Ama wished she hadn’t mentioned this, since she was hoping to successfully avoid the fact that she had seen Luke outside of the marketplace.
“They were just leftovers from the restaurant for the Wedding Belles, that I had with me,” she answered. “Like the ones I give Tess and Natalie sometimes. Free advertising for business, right? Giving out free samples to people we know and meet.”
It wasn’t anything remotely like that, of course—not how it happened or why she did it. The suspicion and curiosity was thick enough to cut with a knife. Her words and body language had an undercurrent of defensiveness that her feigned casual tone just couldn’t hide.
Did it matter what the rest of them made of it? A rebellious part of her wanted to say it didn’t, because it was her life and her friendship, and it wasn’t anybody else’s business. But she knew it wasn’t that simple. Her family’s opinions and feelings about this mattered to her, even when it was difficult to talk to them about her personal dreams.
“Free advertising is good,” said Ranjit. Again, his tone lacked conviction, as if he wasn’t quite certain it applied in this case. Not to possible bad boys
in black leather, who might be a terrible influence on his daughter.
“Men with the motorbike and leather jacket are always trouble,” said Bendi, expressing aloud Ama’s previous sarcastic thought. “You shouldn’t invite him to lunch, Ranjit. They don’t know how to eat rice properly. They like big plates of it covered with fried chicken and that orange sweet sauce from the Chinese place.”
“I don’t think that’s always true,” said Jaidev, trying not to smile at their auntie’s usual forceful opinion. “I see plenty of customers sporting that look who also love good tandoori chicken and roti.”
“I didn’t know you liked the motorbikes,” said her father. “You like the idea of going zoom zoom beep beep around the city like boys on the streets of Ludhiana?” He sounded mystified by this. In his day, girls and motorbikes did not mix, and he still couldn’t quite fathom a world in which girls wore skinny jeans, hopped onto motorbikes for casual transport anywhere in public, and sported tattoos that were not inked with temporary ceremonial henna.
Was he suspicious of her interests—or her interest in Luke? It was impossible to say which at the moment, so Ama stuck to the former. “Maybe I do,” said Ama. “There’s probably a lot of things you don’t know about me, Papa. Nobody here bothers to ask me about my hobbies, or new interests I’ve developed. So it’s not like I talk about them all the time.”
She plugged in the elephants, the bulbs inside their plastic shells twinkling, then slipped on her apron and walked toward the kitchen. She knew her mother was watching her throughout this speech and probably had been since the first awkward seconds of Luke’s arrival. Years of instinct taught her to know when her mother’s eye singled her out among her siblings, which was why Ama made sure she walked from the dining room to the kitchen with seemingly unconcerned calm.
Nobody ever asked. Not even her siblings, who usually took it for granted that baking was her primary interest, except for crazy ideas about love at first sight and romantic first kisses. Her father would probably buy this explanation, and they would all argue over whether it was a bad hobby for girls, and forget all about Luke and his bag of pastries and his offhand knowledge of Ama’s life.