neighborhood. Once past Mr. Chawla’s store, they’re accountable for haulage.
She’s happy Sudha lives so near. Her small apartment block, 500 yards away, makes walking back at night easy. Thus she gets minimum flack about this “dubious practice” from Paterfamilias Walsh. She must develop a less confrontational attitude toward him. Has he simply replaced Louise as adversary in her psychological landscape?
No trip to town is complete without a stop at the Kerala Coffee House. They have a special table in the relatively smoke-free back room with a view of Lower Bazaar.
“Whew. This town does keep a person fit,” Sudha sighs as she releases her packages. “But then, being American, you’re probably used to attending the gym daily and torturing yourself on those monstrous machines.”
Monica laughs, thinking about her gawkiness in aerobics class, then feels a pang of homesickness for the low impact course, the locker room chats with Beata. “You’re right, this is a great workout. I’ve lost a couple of pounds since coming to Moorty.”
“A pound or two, it makes a difference?”
“A pound or two leads to nine or ten. Then your clothes don’t fit.”
“Ah, yet further evidence of the superiority of our saris.”
“Ha! You know full well those dainty sari blouses don’t fit if you gain weight. You’re very careful. I’ve seen you order roti rather than naan at dinner.”
“I like rotis ,” Sudha raises her hand for the waiter.
Oh, good, Monica thinks, it’s Rabi today. She enjoys the old man’s smile. He always makes sure the coffee is steaming hot.
“Would you like to split an uthapam —or would that lead to those nine extra pounds?”
“One uthapam and, as always, one dosa . I’m starving.”
“Why are you so fond of uthapams ?”
“They were part of my first meal in India. In the Bengali Market.”
“Don’t tell me—at that dreadful Bengali House of Sweets!”
“No, not at all, across the street at Nathu’s.”
“Nathu’s! Worse yet. That’s not real South Indian food.”
“So Ashok declared, but my first meal was delicious.”
“Ashok, you haven’t talked about him this week. Is he still planning to visit?”
Monica shrugs. “I guess so. If he finishes his article on time.”
“Academics! I wouldn’t have featured you falling in love with an academic.”
“Who said anything about love? He’s just a friend. An acquaintance.”
“A friend who emails every few days. A friend who phones once a week.”
“He’s very brotherly. He looks out for the Minnesota Yankee in his land.”
“Brotherly!” Sudha flicks her eyebrows theatrically.
Rabi appears with the scalding coffee and fragrant snacks.
Grateful for the interruption, Monica tries to sweep her mind of Ashok. He’s an attractive, provocative, attentive man. And she does think about him. Too often. How much of that is simple loneliness in a new country? She’s not interested in romance. She’s here to serve, to grow in spirit. You can’t love someone you’ve only known ninety days. Is she really counting the days?
“Actually, I’ve told you more than enough about Ashok, my mother, Lake Clinic. We haven’t got past chapter one of Sudha’s dramatic biography. When happened when you turned down that Colaba man? How did you tell him? How did your parents react?”
With the scrupulosity of a practiced teacher, Sudha divides the uthapam and dosa .
Monica taps her fingers on the table.
Sudha’s head drops back dreamily. “Manil understood I wasn’t going to be the docile wife who would raise four children and greet him with a martini when he returned from the office. After two dinners with our families, we knew. All of us did.”
“How did you get out of it?”
“My family is middle class. They don’t live in the dark ages.”
“Of course not,” Monica says quietly. How can she
She’s happy Sudha lives so near. Her small apartment block, 500 yards away, makes walking back at night easy. Thus she gets minimum flack about this “dubious practice” from Paterfamilias Walsh. She must develop a less confrontational attitude toward him. Has he simply replaced Louise as adversary in her psychological landscape?
No trip to town is complete without a stop at the Kerala Coffee House. They have a special table in the relatively smoke-free back room with a view of Lower Bazaar.
“Whew. This town does keep a person fit,” Sudha sighs as she releases her packages. “But then, being American, you’re probably used to attending the gym daily and torturing yourself on those monstrous machines.”
Monica laughs, thinking about her gawkiness in aerobics class, then feels a pang of homesickness for the low impact course, the locker room chats with Beata. “You’re right, this is a great workout. I’ve lost a couple of pounds since coming to Moorty.”
“A pound or two, it makes a difference?”
“A pound or two leads to nine or ten. Then your clothes don’t fit.”
“Ah, yet further evidence of the superiority of our saris.”
“Ha! You know full well those dainty sari blouses don’t fit if you gain weight. You’re very careful. I’ve seen you order roti rather than naan at dinner.”
“I like rotis ,” Sudha raises her hand for the waiter.
Oh, good, Monica thinks, it’s Rabi today. She enjoys the old man’s smile. He always makes sure the coffee is steaming hot.
“Would you like to split an uthapam —or would that lead to those nine extra pounds?”
“One uthapam and, as always, one dosa . I’m starving.”
“Why are you so fond of uthapams ?”
“They were part of my first meal in India. In the Bengali Market.”
“Don’t tell me—at that dreadful Bengali House of Sweets!”
“No, not at all, across the street at Nathu’s.”
“Nathu’s! Worse yet. That’s not real South Indian food.”
“So Ashok declared, but my first meal was delicious.”
“Ashok, you haven’t talked about him this week. Is he still planning to visit?”
Monica shrugs. “I guess so. If he finishes his article on time.”
“Academics! I wouldn’t have featured you falling in love with an academic.”
“Who said anything about love? He’s just a friend. An acquaintance.”
“A friend who emails every few days. A friend who phones once a week.”
“He’s very brotherly. He looks out for the Minnesota Yankee in his land.”
“Brotherly!” Sudha flicks her eyebrows theatrically.
Rabi appears with the scalding coffee and fragrant snacks.
Grateful for the interruption, Monica tries to sweep her mind of Ashok. He’s an attractive, provocative, attentive man. And she does think about him. Too often. How much of that is simple loneliness in a new country? She’s not interested in romance. She’s here to serve, to grow in spirit. You can’t love someone you’ve only known ninety days. Is she really counting the days?
“Actually, I’ve told you more than enough about Ashok, my mother, Lake Clinic. We haven’t got past chapter one of Sudha’s dramatic biography. When happened when you turned down that Colaba man? How did you tell him? How did your parents react?”
With the scrupulosity of a practiced teacher, Sudha divides the uthapam and dosa .
Monica taps her fingers on the table.
Sudha’s head drops back dreamily. “Manil understood I wasn’t going to be the docile wife who would raise four children and greet him with a martini when he returned from the office. After two dinners with our families, we knew. All of us did.”
“How did you get out of it?”
“My family is middle class. They don’t live in the dark ages.”
“Of course not,” Monica says quietly. How can she
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