She squinted up at him and forgot what she wanted to say; the only thought was Alone with Rishi. Alone with Rishi.
“Well, it must be really complicated if it’s taking that long for you to answer.” Rishi laughed.
The last thing Emma wanted was to appear like a complete dolt. “I’m just dandy.” Because, yeah, that was a totally normal thing to say.
“Do you want a drink?”
She looked at the bar. Need was the more appropriate word. She needed a drink. She needed to calm her nerves. She needed to think.
But what she really needed was to figure out Rishi. The one person who made her feel like she’d regressed to an awkward adolescent girl clad in hand-me-downs. And also, her best hope to make the Helix app successful.
Hopeless.
She took a deep breath. A drink could help lubricate their conversation. Ugh, lubricate? “Maybe a beer?”
“What do you like?”
She glanced at the menu on the table. “Kingfisher?” She’d seen the signs and commercials for the brand. “Is it good? I haven’t had any Indian beer yet.”
“Kingfisher’s good if you prefer a lager. But if you’re in an adventurous mood, try a Haywards 5000.”
“It’s not some kind of secret fiery, spicy beer that you’re going to torture me with, is it?” Maybe she should verify, just in case . . .
A roar of a chuckle erupted out of Rishi as he tilted his head back, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. She could see the silver in the back of his molars. Quite the intimate view. But this laughter was the contagious type, and she found herself smiling just watching him. “What?” she asked.
“Your face!”
Emma’s hand came up to her cheek. “Why? What is it?”
“You look so scared. Geez, why are you so paranoid? You’re the one who took my job, remember? And I’m putting my trust in you to find me a life partner.”
She bit down on her lip. Okay, maybe she was being a tad paranoid, though she had good reason to be. But she wasn’t about to regale him with The Story of Emma, the one subtitled The Hardships of a Poor Orphan from the Trailer Park, and below that, in parentheses: Who had to struggle like hell to get where she is today.
“Sorry.” She smiled at Rishi. “Let’s get two Haywards. I’m intrigued.”
The server set down two 750 ml bottles of beer in front of them and poured them into pint glasses. Maybe they were intriguing because of their size. Emma took a sip of the bitter, thick beer and almost coughed. She picked up the bottle to read it. “This is almost eight percent alcohol. Now I know what you mean by ‘adventurous.’” She drank up, easing her nerves into a dense Haywards-induced fog.
“It’s good, though, right?” Rishi said, drinking his down smoothly like water, the smile still lighting up his face. “I like this place. My friends and I used to come here all the time and watch cricket.” His smile glazed over with melancholy, a look that Emma had seen in the mirror when she remembered fleeting moments with her parents.
“Oh.” She whispered, “Did something happen?”
Rishi leaned back in his chair and blew out a sigh. “Yeah, they all got married. Pub outings now are severely diminished.”
“Ah.” So he also needed to join his friends in their marital bliss. She asked, “You must be dying to finish your algorithm then?” at the same time Rishi asked, “So what do you think of Bangalore?”
She laughed, and Rishi smiled.
“Sorry, you first,” they both said at the same time.
“No, you,” she said, just as he said, “I insist,” gesturing his hand toward her.
She shook her head, marveling in horror at how their brains seemed to be connected on some higher plane.
His thumb and forefinger pressed together, and he made a zipping gesture across his lips.
She chuckled. “Okay, I’ll start. Why don’t you tell me what you thought of Seattle?”
Rishi set his beer down with a thunk. “Well, first of all, the people there are sort of fake friendly. They’ll stop if you try to ask a question but then try to escape from you as soon as possible, like you could potentially murder them after you got directions. It’s kind of rude.”
“Hold on!” Emma interrupted him, wanting to defend her precious city, but also, he was sort of right. “Maybe they take a while to open up.”
“Maybe? Maybe they act like a stranger is trying to steal their firstborn when you just want some pizza.”
“It’s the gloom. Everyone is just scurrying off for shelter in case of rain.”
Rishi hiked up an eyebrow at her. Maybe she wasn’t buying her own argument either. The Seattle Freeze was a thing, after all.
“Well, what about here? I get stared at all the time. That’s kind of rude too.”
“Well, you do have red hair. That’s something to stare at.” He paused, studying her face. “And that purple strand. And your eyes . . .”
When their eyes met, Emma realized concrete was maybe not the most accurate color to describe his. There was a luminescence about them that shone in even the bar lights. Too bad they were wasted on Rishi. She looked back at the table and pulled the beer to her lips, needing to avoid them.
Rishi continued. “The other thing that bothered me was all the homeless people. Asking for money, screaming at people.”
“Wait a minute,” Emma said, holding out her hand to stop him. “The homeless people? There’s poverty here too. And the kids!” Emma sighed and took a drink. She hadn’t been able to forget the kids who had surrounded her and Preeti’s auto-rickshaw the other day, asking for money, for anything.
“I know. But in the US, you have so many resources. There’s free food for poor people and places for them to sleep. Organizations dedicated to it. We have nothing compared to that here. And so many of them seem to have some kind of mental illness. Why isn’t anyone helping them?”
Emma took a drink, thinking back to only a few months ago, when she’d had to jump in the street and had almost gotten run over to escape the flailing arms of a guy yelling at himself, or at imaginary people, or at her—she couldn’t tell. “People help, but I think it’s complicated.” She swallowed. She had convinced her team to go with her and volunteer at the shelter once a month, and she tried to help people when she could. But as much as the city said they were working on helping these people, it just seemed to get worse.
“And another thing is that the food doesn’t taste as good.”
She almost spit out the mouthful of beer. The food? This, she could argue. Seattle had a phenomenal food scene. The best! Enough of this silly exchange. “What do you mean? You clearly didn’t eat at the right places.”
“Yes, but the Indian food doesn’t taste like real Indian food. It’s dumbed down, or something, for your weak American palates. You can’t take the spice. You have no idea what you’re missing!”
She felt like she had to jump to India Palace’s defense, to champion her beloved takeout. “You’re exaggerating. And at least there’s variety,” she said. “Italian, Spanish, Mexican, Vietnamese, Japanese . . . and that’s just what my week looks like.”
“You don’t think there’s variety in Indian food?” Rishi sat back in his chair, looking offended. “Oh my God! We have so much variety—Gujarati, Punjabi, Mysore, Chettinad, South Indian, Kerala, Hyderabadi, and the list goes on. You have no idea.” He shook his head. “And that’s just what my day looks like.”
“Hmm. Well, looks like I need a tour guide of Indian food.”
“We’ve started,” Rishi said, holding up his beer. “First we’re starting with Haywards; next stop, Kingfisher!” He clinked his glass against hers.
Emma picked up the menu. “Actually, I’m kind of starving. Do you want to eat anything?”
“Yes, pub food is the best.” He scanned the menu. “We should get gobi manchurian, masala papad, and oh my God, they have kothu parotta. Done.” He called the server over and then paused. “Wait, are those okay?”
“Yeah, I�
�m up for whatever.” She almost said, I trust you, and then she realized that even if that statement was referring to the food, she was handing over the keys to her mental castle. Horrified, she drank the rest of her beer as he ordered. What was happening?
“Good call on the food,” he said as the server hurried away.
“Which kind of Indian food is your favorite?”
Rishi scrunched up his face, apparently deep in thought. His mouth opened and closed, like he was on the verge of speaking but then changed his mind. He worried at his lip during this process.
“My mom’s.” He nodded to himself and took a drink of his beer.
“She must be an excellent cook then.” Emma couldn’t believe that, in a country of a billion people, twenty-nine states, and apparently just as many cuisines, his mother’s cooking was still his favorite.
“Damn good. Our community’s food is unique. We’re vegetarian, don’t eat garlic or onion or even paneer, really, but it’s amazing how good the food can taste. I mean, I eat everything now, but I didn’t even try a lot of things until college.”
A life without garlic or onion? Or meat? She had friends who were vegetarian—that was one thing—but flavor was not something she could eagerly sacrifice. “I just can’t imagine how the food can taste good. It’s basically just vegetables and lentils then?”
“And pulses and rice and spices. There is so much taste; you can’t even imagine.”
“But why no garlic or onion? It’s not meat.”
Rishi laughed, and it sort of faded into a groan. “It’s supposed to cause heat in the body, which, in turn, makes you . . . desirous.” Was he blushing?
“What?” Emma laughed. “So you’re telling me that garlic and onion breath has an amorous quality to it?”
“Something like that. Or that’s what they think.”
“Interesting. I’ll have to try it sometime. I mean, the kind of food you’re talking about—not using garlic and onion breath as a seduction technique.” Oh my God, did those words just come out of her mouth?
Rishi didn’t seem fazed, though. “There is one place that’s okay, but it’s not like my mom’s. We can go next week for lunch.”
Lunch plans with Rishi. The idea made her breathe deep, hoping that it was a real invitation and not some kind of deception. Because when food was concerned . . .
And just then their order was dropped on the table, bringing with it the smells of spice and tomato and cilantro. Cauliflower coated in some kind of salty, tangy sauce that wasn’t quite Chinese or Indian. Like the two cuisines had mated and had a glorious red-tinged baby. She couldn’t stop popping them in her mouth with the toothpicks embedded in each one.
“So good with beer,” Rishi said, still chewing.
Emma moaned in response. It just came out of her. Like the food was turning her tongue into a helpless, sensory-starved organ that needed more. She crisped off a piece of the lentil-and-rice popadam sitting on her plate that was coated in chilies and onion and tomato. “Why is this so good?” She shook her head at it. It was so absolutely simple, and yet it was divine.
“It’s like these mad chefs just know what food to serve with booze.”
“Usually, at a pub at home, all we have are fries and chicken wings or some crap.” Emma shook her head again at the dumbness of it.
“Try this one.” He pushed over the dish of what looked like cut-up pieces of parathas with some kind of reddish-brown sauce flecked with cilantro. “It’s from my state, and it’s amazing.”
She dug in with her fork. The flavor melted into her every pore, if that were possible. She actually felt like she was sinking deeper into her chair. The pleasure of such good food was weighing her down, carrying away the worry, leading her down a delicious saucy river.
“So good.” She shook her head, and he laughed. It was like her vocabulary had been reduced to a four-year-old’s and her body had been overtaken by flavor.
While they finished the bottles of Kingfisher they’d ordered, the barman announced last call.
Emma sucked in a breath. “We didn’t even get to talk about your algorithm.”
Rishi waved his hand in between them. “Ah, it’s okay. When we go to lunch, we can talk about it.”
“Okay, if you’re sure. I started working on it, but I had some questions.”
He nodded and downed the rest of his beer. They split the bill, and Emma pulled out her phone. “I’m going to call a car to go home.”
“Alone?” Rishi asked.
“Uh, yeah.” Who did he think was going to go with her?
“I’ll go with you. Sometimes you have to be careful.”
Emma studied his face. Maybe he was right. She couldn’t speak the local language in Bangalore, Kannada. She didn’t know her way around this city at all. And if she was honest, the only people she could call if she was in trouble were Rishi, Preeti, and Jas.
“Okay, thanks.”
They walked outside, and Rishi studied the app on his phone. “It’s like three times the price as usual.” He looked around. “Let’s just get an auto.”
A procession of auto-rickshaws was down the street. He walked over to one, throwing up his hands after a brief discussion, and then another. Emma guessed he was trying to negotiate a price.
Was it the extra-large-size beers, or did Bangalore at the moment seem almost like Seattle? The bars were closed, and people were sprinkled together on the street corner, trying to get a ride to take them home. Maybe the two cities weren’t so different.
He found a ride and they hopped in. As they drove toward her house, the cool night air twisted in her hair and around her face.
“One time”—Rishi leaned toward her, his breath skating her cheek—“I was coming home from the pub, and I convinced the auto driver to let me drive.”
“What?” Emma laughed as the driver glanced up with a hard look in the rearview mirror. “I bet it’s fun to drive one.”
“Yeah, see how small that seat is? We were on it together, and this guy was not small.”
Emma eyed the tiny bench seat in front of her and then glanced down at Rishi’s thighs. Rishi wasn’t small either. He had thick, muscular legs and probably went to the gym every day.
“Well, I’m sure you can be very persuasive when you need to be.”
“You have no idea.” The way he said it made Emma stiffen. Like his voice had dropped two octaves and purred. If men could purr.
“I’m sure,” she said with a sneer, her hard shell sneaking up her spine. Manipulation and condescension could likely get a guy like him far.
They got to her house, and Rishi said something to the driver she couldn’t understand, maybe in Kannada. He got out with her. “I can walk you to the door.”
“That’s okay. I’ll be fine.” She glanced around. A wave of nervousness caused every hair on her arm to tingle.
“I insist. There could be a cobra lurking nearby.” His voice was playful.
Suggestive snake jokes flooded her mind. She swallowed the thoughts whole and cleared her throat. “Don’t worry about it. Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She walked as quickly to her house as she could without running and then locked the door behind her. Her chest was heaving. Why was she so out of breath? Why had she run away from the auto? She just needed some sleep to set her mind straight. It had been a long week.
And a brand-new week, full of work—and Rishi—was starting tomorrow.
CHAPTER 16
Rishi cringed, his thumb hovering over the call icon on his phone. His phone, his nemesis. His portal to another tirade of disappointment. He currently had three profiles of potential brides in his email that his parents had sent over.
Regardless of whether he was ready or not, he still had to call his mother back after replying to her every call over the weekend with a text message saying he couldn’t talk. He was shopping. Work had come up. He had a whole pocket of innocent lies and feeble excuses in reserve. After all, what could he s
ay to her this time? Sorry I can’t find anyone good enough for me and you. Sorry my own attempts at creating an optimized search have only turned up prostitutes.
He hunched in a corner so no one at work could hear his conversation, steeled himself, and waited for her inevitable disappointment. He wasn’t interested in the profiles they’d sent over, but he had a plan. He wasn’t going to take the night train back to Madurai until his algorithm was ready and he had at least a few women who seemed like perfect matches. Perfect for him, perfect for his family, and perfect for any potential families who were interested in his sister.
“Hi, Ma.”
Rishi got the words out just before his mother asked, “Why haven’t you called? Are you okay?”
“Yes, Mom. Everything’s fine.”
“Did you see the email from your father? We haven’t heard from you. What about this Pallavi? She seemed like a good match for you.”
Pallavi was practically his sister’s age. He didn’t even know what his parents had been thinking. “She’s too young.”
“What do you expect, Rishi? You’ve waited until the last minute to get married.” The exasperation in his mother’s voice shredded him with guilt.
“Look, I have something in progress. Something that will help me find someone perfect. You and Appa are working too hard at it. Focus on Dharini, and I will try to find someone. Then, if it doesn’t work out, you can search again.”
“Rishi, you are one year from thirty,” his mother responded in their native Tamil. “You’re already so old. I’ll die before I have grandchildren. How long will this take? Look at your schoolmates. Kumar down the street has been married for years and already has two babies.”
Rishi rolled his eyes. Only because he was on the phone and his mother couldn’t see. He’d heard this argument so many times that it played in his mind like an old record. The soundtrack of his life for the past few years. He knew what she would say next, even though he’d tune it out. The relatives are asking why you aren’t married. Most good boys are married by twenty-eight at the latest. Everyone is wondering what’s wrong with you. All we want are grandchildren and someone to take care of you.
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