Mira Jacob - The Sleepwalker's Guide to Dancing

“She’s really stressed about work right now,” Amina said, making the kind of excuses she always had for Dimple, whose teen stint in reform school had gone badly enough to keep her from coming back to see her father, even all these years later. “There’s a big show coming up.”

“Ach,” Sanji sniffed. “Too successful, what to do?”

“Listen, at least she isn’t working in a strip club,” Bala said, her tone dropping into decibels reserved for gossip-tragedy. “Did you hear about the Patels’ daughter Seema? Seems she’s in Houston living with an American boy and owning some topless bar where you can only order small dishes of Spanish food! Mother herself told me!”

While the others choked on disbelief (“Seema? The National Merit Finalist?”), Sanji Auntie put a firm hand on Amina’s arm, guiding her away.

“You’re thirsty, darling? Let’s get you a drink.”

Amina let herself be whisked up the step and down the green-tiled hall. It was quiet and cooler in the living room, where the bar and the puja table competed for attention on opposite sides of the room.

“You need a gin, love? Or are we being good for the parents?”

“No, thanks.” Amina took a seat on a leather stool, inhaling the sharp mix of sandalwood and rosewater. The mirrored wall behind the bar showed her pallor. “I’m still feeling the whiskey I drank last night.”

“Hair of the dog it is.”

“No! God, please.”

“Poor baby. Ginger ale? Just sit here and catch your breath.” Amina watched Sanji waddle behind the bar, where she grabbed a tumbler and filled it with ice. Of all the family, it was Sanji Ramakrishna who Amina still loved the most, her thick, meatish body, deep, rumbling laugh, mottled nose, ruddy cheeks, ability to weave equally between the men’s and women’s conversations, total inability to cook. And then there was the Ramakrishnas’ marriage, a subject of continual fascination for Amina and Dimple, having occurred in their unthinkable thirties as Ph.D. students at Cambridge. ( A love marriage , their own mothers called it, shaking sad heads at the lack of children, though to Amina, that fact itself was unspeakably romantic, as though real love was the substitute for progeny, and vice versa.)

She took the bubbly tumbler from Sanji’s extended hands. “Thanks.”

Sanji smiled. “So things are fine with you? We didn’t know you were coming, you know.”

Amina took a sip. “I had some time off.”

“Nothing else?”

She put the glass down, took a breath. “I need to ask you about something.”

Sanji studied Amina’s face for a moment, then leaned in. “It’s okay. I know.”

“You do?”

“Because Mummy has been so worried, you know. Said you were losing hope about not meeting anyone and needed to come home for a bit to build up confidences. Which is fine, nah? We’re always so happy to see you. I just wish it wasn’t because you were feeling so down.”

Amina frowned. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“No?” Sanji’s concern dipped slightly toward disbelief.

“No! I came home because of Dad.”

“What about Dad?”

“Mom said he was acting funny for the last three weeks, so I came back.”

“Funny? Funny how?”

“Talking on the porch all night,” Amina said, and when her aunt continued to look unimpressed, added, “to his dead mother.”

Sanji raised an eyebrow. “Kamala brought you home for this?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Oh, I wish you would have just asked me about it, Ami. I could have saved you the trouble.”

“You know about it?”

“Of course I know! Raj himself barely sleeps four hours a night anymore — always chattering away like one damn BBC interview. He talks to his father, his uncle, his grandfather. No, really, I’m telling you, it’s true! And if your mother would ever just talk to me about anything other than this Jesus business, I would tell her! It’s just an old man’s disease. Nothing more.”

“I don’t know. It seemed bad when she called.”

“And now?”

“Now he seems fine,” Amina admitted.

“Because he is fine. Pish, Kamala. She’s just missing you is all. Speaking of which”—Sanji stood, motioning for Amina to do the same—“we need to get you back there before those fools accuse me of hogging.”

In the kitchen, under a cloud of protest and frying mustard seed, plates of pani puri were being passed around.

“It’s only appetizer !”

“Amina, come get a plate!”

“I better get more than this!” This came from Thomas, looking down at his portion. “I didn’t come all this way to starve.”

“Who starves you?” Kamala asked indignantly.

“We’re trying something a little different tonight, Amina,” Raj explained. “Appetizers and dessert only are Indian. The main meal is Mongolian hot pot!”

“It’s a fancy way of saying he didn’t cook anything.” Sanji pointed to the dining table in the room next to them, where small hills of raw meat and tofu and vegetables surrounded a steaming cauldron. “I told you they wouldn’t like it.”

“Oh,” Amina said. “Wow.”

“Wow is right,” Chacko said. “Salmonella. E. coli . Could be our last supper.”

“You Suriani bores!” Raj huffed. “So averse to change, all of you! Remember how you loved the fondue night?”

At this there was a general murmur of agreement, heads nodding over Yes the fondue was quite good, who knew all that cheese and chocolate but still .

“Do we get to use the long skinny forks again?” Bala asked hopefully.

“Even better,” Raj said, smiling. “We get to use chopsticks.”

The chopsticks, for the most part, were abandoned after five minutes. Most found their way back to the kitchen, although one poked out of Kamala’s braid, placed there by a frustrated Thomas and either forgotten by its wearer or just tolerated. By mid-meal, three forks had also been lost to the bubbling broth, covered by chunks of meat, cabbage, snow peas, and tofu, and there was a bit of chest puffery from the men over who had made the best dipping sauce.

Bala nudged Chacko. “Tell them about the nurse in the OR!”

“Which?” Thomas asked.

“Sandy Freeland,” Chacko said. “You remember how she left suddenly for those three weeks?”

“Yes.”

“Turns out she went to find out if her husband, the pilot, was cheating on her.”

“And?” Kamala asked, trying unsuccessfully to drag a too-cooked piece of tofu from the pot with a lone chopstick.

Chacko passed her his fork. “She found him in Dubai with not just another woman, but two sons!”

“No! My God!” The gasps came from every side of the table.

“Americans!” Kamala said.

“Not just Americans!” Bala fanned her hands out. “My God, Madras has become a hotbed.”

“Ahno?” Kamala motioned for the soy sauce. “Who says?”

“My sister only! She was telling me of one Lalitha Varghese—”

“Lalitha from MCC?”

“Yes, yes! That Lalitha!” Bala said. “Anyway, her husband, the ob-gyn, goes and has an affair with a patient … and then moves her into the house!”

Around the table: hisses, nose tuggings, head shakings.

“Poor thing.” Sanji tsked. “What did she do?”

Bala held her hands up. “She started shooting the drugs!”

Amina choked on her rice.

Thomas thumped her back. “Heroin?”

“ Demerol . She took it from his office only.”

“Pathetic!” Sanji shook her head. “I would have started shooting the both of them dead and gone to Mahabilipuram on beach holiday.”

“Of course you would, darling,” Raj said, holding up a plate. “Now, who wants more tofu?”