As they enter through the arch, she feels a tap on her shoulder.
The Sikh offers each a slice of coconut to make an offering.
Two devotees sit cross-legged on the carpeted floor.
Ashok and Monica tentatively approach the Guru Granth Sahib, eyes closed, before the holy book. They bow their heads. Is Ashok praying? she wonders. As if on cue, each leaves the offering and they exit silently.
“Lovely,” she tells their host as she pulls on her shoes.
Ashok drops several coins in a dish and tents his hands. “Namaste.”
*****
Carefully, they pick their way downhill, avoiding patches of last week’s ice storm.
“My first romance was with a Sikh girl,” he muses.
“Oh?”
“Sanjana Singh. I think I fell in love with her name first.”
“When was this?”
“I was what, twelve or thirteen,” he pauses. “Romance is an exaggeration. Powerful emotions—or hormones—on my part. We went to one film.”
“And?”
“There’s no ‘and.’ Maybe she hated the movie. She avoided me after that.”
“Sad,” she says, amused as her twinge of jealousy dissipates.
“And you? Your first love?”
She rolls her eyes. “Not sure I’d call it love, but it was a deep crush. I asked a boy to the junior prom.”
“Bold of you.”
“We were studying feminism in Civics class. Besides, boys were put off by me.”
“Too smart?”
“Something like that. So I asked this cute guy and we had a fabulous time.”
“And?”
“Turned out he was gay. But it was the beginning of a long friendship.”
“An ordinary friendship?” he teases.
She blushes, “We’re still in touch. He’s a neurosurgeon in Detroit.”
*****
The garden is hardly blooming, but most of the snow has melted and the little tables are covered with white cloths and flowered plates.
Ashok ushers her to a table in the corner. “Better for watching the parade.”
A young Tibetan man takes their order. Darjeeling for her. Assam golden tip for Ashok. Both without milk.
Other tables are filling with families. A pair of old women. Several couples. Monica notices she’s the only non-Indian. She’s glad Sudha suggested a place that wasn’t packed with foreign tourists. What else would she expect from Sudha?
Inhaling the flowery steam of Darjeeling sweetness, she sighs contentedly.
“I had an interesting email correspondence last week.”
The intensity of his voice makes her uneasy. “Yes?” she asks.
“From the department at Madison.”
“Really?” she tries to sound neutral.
“They’re inviting me to apply for a senior position there.” The words spill quickly; his voice is high. “An invitation only. Maybe they’re asking dozens of people.”
She pushes through the weighty disappointment. “Don’t erase the honor before enjoying it. You’ve talked about taking a break from Delhi.”
“This would be more than a break,” he says intently.
The small scar beneath is lower lip is reddening. She wonders if he fell on a bottle as a baby. No, certainly his mother breastfed him.
“It’s a permanent post. Full professor.”
“How do you feel about that?” she watches the afternoon’s gaiety fading away.
“They have a great department. They ‘get’ my work. It’s almost ideal.”
“Almost?” Her chest tightens.
“I have, um, certain attachments in India.” His gaze is fixed on his cup.
She sips tea, waiting, then selects a biscuit, nibbles the edge.
“Besides,” he explains,” I may not get the job.”
“But if you did?” She shouldn’t pressure him.
“That would be a hard decision.” He’s studying her again.
She nods.
“I could take a leave of absence from my post in Delhi just in case.”
“That sounds wise. Alonso advised a leave from the clinic. I wasn’t so wise.”
“Monica, I wanted to say,” he hesitates.
“Yes?”
Screeching. A monkey leaps up on their table. Higher pitched shrieking. Her voice. Ashok’s. The culprit scatters biscuits and snatches two digestives, then leaps away.
Laughter from the other tables.
“Rascal,” clucks a man to their left.
Hands on her chest, Monica’s eyes are still popping out.
“Are you OK?” Ashok firmly grasps her arm.
“Walk with a stick,” advised Father Freitas. Tina warned,“You’ll need these shots because of the monkeys and…”
She’s shivering. Damn, she’s let down her guard. About the monkeys. About so many things. She needs to be more realistic about this place and the people here.
“Monica?”
“I’m fine, thanks. I might have a short rest before dinner.”
“Of course.” He takes her elbow. “This is a holiday.”
Holiday, yes, she ignores the fears about Madison, reminds herself to live in the moment.
*****
By seven, her good mood has returned. Maybe it’s the collective vibes haunting this opulent bedroom. Vivacious spirits of maharanis past beguile her into dressing fastidiously for dinner. A leave of absence, he said, just in case.
She fingers a few pieces of jewelry. Nothing seems right. She hadn’t counted on a real palace. Silver choker, jade beads, gold earrings, Sudha’s purple baubles.
Sudha is such an advocate for Ashok. Annoying, yet pleasing, too. She wishes Beata had met him. At least her two girlfriends know each other. She thinks about the distinctions as well as the parallels. Beata is less cosmopolitan than Sudha. Also more droll. No one has ever made her laugh like Beata. Perhaps the jade. Eric wouldn’t mind.
The necklace is perfect against the steel grey dress, the subtle colors accenting each other, Beata would say. Pulling her hair into a French twist, she thinks how her friend often complimented her long neck. Well, she’s no maharani, but this will have to do.
Ashok stands at the front of the stairway, dashing in a navy kurta and matching slacks. He guides her to their table, set with candles, gold-rimmed china and crystal glasses.
“I feel like Deborah Kerr.”
He holds the chair for her. “You don’t mean An Affair to Remember?”
“Yes, actually. You know the movie?”
“My sister Manju’s favorite. You share with her a certain…”
“Schmaltziness?” she laughs.
“No,” he rubs the side of his chin. “No, a melancholy.”
She’s ridiculously touched to be compared to his adored sister.
“The film is much too sad.”
But Kerr and Grant do get together, she thinks, after an absence.
The waiter delivers menus, then asks solicitously, “The monkey scared you?”
“A little,” she admits. “I’m fine now.”
“Really!” Ashok clears his throat. “Management should erect barriers.”
“Yes sir,” the waiter regards her with wry sympathy. “I shall return for your order.”
“First, would you bring us a bottle of champagne?” Ashok recovers his equanimity. “This one,” he points to something in the leather-covered wine menu.
Once the waiter leaves, she asks hesitantly. “Isn’t this extravagant?”
“My treat,” he smiles widely. “To celebrate our
first holiday together in the land of maharajahs and monkeys.”
Other tables begin to fill. She watches the dazzle of shimmering saris. In the corner, parents lead two well-behaved boys dressed in white shirts and ties.
“To the weekend,” he raises a glass of bubbly.
“The weekend,” she repeats. The weekend which is just beginning.
Their local lake fish is light and flakey. The chef has mashed his potatoes with garlic and butter. The fresh green beans are perfectly crunchy. She savors every bite despite a sliver of disloyalty to Cook.
“Tasty,” he murmurs.
“Very.”
They chat for a while about Ashok’s classes and Monica’s patients. She reports on her talk with Father Freitas and the recent email invitation from Father Daniel.
“A break is a good idea,” he agrees.
She is so at ease, happy, here in their private nook, feels intimate with this man, yet aware that there’s so much she doesn’t know about him. Hesitantly, she treads into deeper waters. “You never mentioned how your parents died.” She watches him closely. “Are you comfortable telling me about that?”
“Very sad.” He lowers his voice and fiddles with the highly polished silver pepper shaker. “Twenty years ago this month, actually.”
“I didn’t know.”
“The sadness remains. Tempered by happy memories.” His brown eyes soften into a rueful smile.
She aches for the time when her own grief lifts a little.
“They were in an auto accident. On holiday.”
She recalls his warning, “That road to Moorty is fairly labyrinthine. A three hour ride at least.”
“How horrible.”
“They say it was instantaneous. Still, yes, tragic.”
“You and your brothers and Manju were all grown by that time?”
“Manju was in college at Miranda House, but my brothers and I were all working.”
“You’re the oldest by how much?”
“A year older than Ashish. No matter. The first child is always the boss.”
“You know that about yourself?” she grins.
“I’m not wholly without personal insight,” he feigns offense. “Our parents’ deaths brought us closer,” he takes a long breath. “Has that happened for you and Jeanne?”
“No, quite the opposite.” She’s dreading discussing Jeanne with him, should have at least begun to tell him months ago.
“I’m sorry,” he says. Perhaps sensing her reluctance to discuss Jeanne, he goes on. “I think it made us feel more tied to Kerala, too, despite our Delhi lives.”
“Kerala,” she repeats. “Tell me something. When we first met, you must have known the long history of Christianity in Kerala.”
“I’m an educated person,” He refills their sinewy champagne glasses. “I was provoking you, slightly. My way of getting to know a beautiful foreigner.”
“You make me sound exotic, like, oh, Sophia Loren.”
“I didn’t know you were such a film buff.”
“I’m not, really. There’s something cinematic, make-believe, about this castle in the sky.”
He smiles. “A good recommendation from Sudha. I’m surprised she permits you to see me.”
She bites her lower lip, but has no doubt her eyes reveal pleasure.
“You don’t talk about your father. He moved to the Wild West?”
“He and his second wife Dorothea live in Wyoming. I got a letter from him last week.” She pauses, finishing the potatoes, not certain she wants to discuss her father.
“A letter. That’s nice.”
“I’m kind of paralyzed about answering it. He wants to know how I’m doing. But part of me is still angry. How much does he care? I don’t know where to start.”
“Why don’t you start there?”
“Pardon?”
“He must be a bright man if he’s your father. He knows you’re angry and sad about his departure. Maybe you need to get that out in the open.”
How much more affection can she feel for this discerning man who poses as a gloomy crank?
Dessert is served.
As they reach the stairs, she feels light-headed from the two glasses of champagne. Ashok, who drank far more, seems perfectly sober. Obviously, she’s over-reacting. At home she often splits a bottle with Beata.
From the dining room, she hears a piano. “ ‘Moon River.’ I’m glad we escaped the entertainment,” she laughs. “I hate Andy Williams.”
“Another movie star?” He’s amused.
“No, a schmaltzy singer.”
“I see you don’t like schmaltzy, whatever it is.”
They giggle, ascending the regal staircase.
Her foot catches. A crease in the carpet? Her own clumsiness?
He breaks her fall with his arm.
This tripping and slipping with Ashok is getting to be a habit, she thinks. “Thanks. It seems to be my day for accidents.”
His hand moves down her arm until their hands clasp.
She’s breathless.
Too soon they’re standing between their rooms.
“A lovely evening,” she says, looking down at her shoes.
“Would you like a night…”
“I feel…”
Words, hopes, intentions, collide.
“Night cap?” he persists. “I have some excellent cognac in my room.”
“I’ve drunk quite enough, thanks,” she hears herself saying. Then the voice of Sudha, “I’d love to continue talking for a while, though.” He smiles and holds open his door.
The room is as red as hers is blue. Crimson draperies, scarlet rug, ruby bed spread. Her head spins from the intensity, from the champagne.
“You look pale.” He’s uneasy. “Are you sure that monkey didn’t nip you?”
“No, I’m fine. Fine.” She drops on the plush burgundy velvet couch. “Your room is larger, grander than mine, a first class cabin,” she burbles.
He’s pouring two glasses of the aromatic cognac. Maybe he didn’t hear her daft comment. How confident he looks. Confident and composed.
“Maharajahs need larger rooms. Wives had to cope with business class.”
She laughs. “Wives. Oh, right.”
“Cheers,” he clinks his glass to hers.
The tawny drink is surprisingly smooth.
“Duty free,” he smiles. “I’ve saved it for a special occasion.”
“Delicious.” This strange new contentment is edged with anticipation. “Mom loved a glass of brandy on special occasions. On Christmas Eve or her birthday, she’d bring out the brandy and the Waterford crystal glasses.”
He sets down his glass and takes her cold hand in his warm palms.
“Christian Brothers,” she natters nervously. “She’d say, brandy must be OK with the Lord if Men of God made it. Of course Mom was joking.” She can’t stop blathering.
“She was a remarkable woman who raised an extraordinary daughter.”
Extraordinary. Ordinary.
He places her glass on the mahogany table and takes her other hand.
She looks down, then up, into his fine, dark eyes.
“Monica,” he whispers. “I have such feelings for you.”
All she can do is nod. Then someone says, “And I, for you.”
His moist lips brush her cheek as he draws her in. They embrace tightly.
He kisses her hairline, left ear, chin, proceeds up the other side of her face.
She turns his head and touches her lips to his.
“Enough,” he says as if suddenly awake.
Shaking with disappointmen
t, she’s knows he’s sensible to stop here, for now.
He catches her hand again and they are walking to the ruby bed. Perched on the side, they kiss, open their mouths to the warm wetness of each other.
The tip of his tongue is electrifying. A long sigh slithers through her chest.
He’s slowly unclasping the beads, unzipping the dress.
She opens his kurta.
As he pulls the soft navy tunic over his head, she’s engulfed in his sagey musk, back on the train from Moorty to Delhi and the pleasurable ripeness of his sleeping body.
He cups her breasts, runs his thumb over the satin of her slip, watching each nipple rise.
They turn from each other, remove the rest of their clothes and slip under the cool white sheets.
Propped up on an elbow, he gazes down, drinking her in. “Monica, dear Monica.”
She draws him closer, feels his resistance.
“Let me look a moment longer. I want to savor this.”
She runs her fingers gently over his amber chest. Light and shadow, their bodies together. At least. This feels so right, so normal and thoroughly unexpected. If she lets herself experience all the longing she’s harbored, she’ll burst with raw need.
“Monica, during the last year, I’ve come to treasure you. Your seriousness and your wit; your sweetness and determination, your never-ending curiosity.”
She puts a finger to his lips. As much as she’s ached to hear such words, she can’t absorb them.
He kisses her finger, continuing. “What I need to say, dear Monica, is that I love you.”
I love you, too, she thinks. Her chest fills with desire and apprehension. She has to answer. “I love you, Ashok.”
He slides down in the now warm bed, whispering something she can’t make out, then, “So happy. So happy.”
She closes her eyes. “Yes.”
Tongue on her thigh, he works his way down, licking her knee, her ankle. Then he moves back to the moist softness of her vagina.
It’s been so long. She stops herself from counting the months. It’s not hard because he turns her into a white hot pulsing sphere. She cries out in pleasure.
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