The Unexpected Son (13 page)

G
irish Patil arrived at precisely 7:30 p.m. And he was dressed like a college professor: crisp tan pants, white shirt, and a navy jacket. It was a wonder he wasn't perspiring in it. His scholarly expression, too, was that of an educator. The only thing out of place was the footwear—
chappals
instead of shoes. That was the only concession to his Indianness and to the sweltering Bombay weather.

Vinita had been dressed and ready for nearly fifteen minutes. She knew the salmon pink nylon sari with a dainty, white print suited her well. Worn with her pearl pendant and matching earrings, it looked dressy without being gaudy.

Accustomed to the casual “Indian Standard Time,” Patil's prompt arrival was a pleasant surprise. That kind of punctuality was admirable.

Despite her earlier resistance, Vinita's mother was cordial to the man who was taking her daughter out to dinner. “Nice to see you again, Girish,” she greeted him.

“Likewise, Mrs. Shelke,” he said with a smile and a
namaste.
“Hope you don't mind if I whisk your daughter away for the evening?”

“That's…okay,” Sarla replied, her wary eyes darting to Vinita and then back to him. She was probably dying to find out where he was taking her. But she dare not ask.

“Vinita and I need to talk,” he explained, perhaps because he noticed her mother's hesitation. “In private.”

“I understand.”

Vinita quashed the urge to smile at her mother's blatant lie. Vishal hadn't returned home from work yet, so it was her mother who had to play friendly host to this man who could, by some twist of fate, end up being her son-in-law. Vinita didn't see that possibility, once she'd finished telling him about her past—but her mother had to try nevertheless. A potential
jaavayi
held a special place in a Hindu household. A son-in-law was to be honored.

“I'll bring her back by ten o'clock,” he promised.

“Thank you,” her mother said with a tight smile, all the while taking in every inch of his appearance. “Have a nice…dinner.”

Stepping out of the lift, Vinita and Girish got out of the building and onto the crowded footpath.

He stopped for a beat and faced her. “You look lovely,” he said, taking her by surprise.

She knew she looked her best, but lovely was pushing it. “Thanks.” She searched his face for signs of hidden amusement. There were none. He appeared serious and honest. Like a professor.

They started moving again. It was awkward walking beside a strange man. She couldn't help recalling trotting beside the tall and swaggering Som. She'd felt like a dwarf next to him, always hurrying to keep pace with his long strides.

This man was a bit shorter, heavier, older. But he was close enough for her to smell his soap and aftershave, or deodorant, or whatever it was that smelled like fresh breezes and
tulsi.
Basil.

He seemed at ease with himself and the situation. After all, he had dated an American woman, courted her, then married her. He walked with deliberate slowness, obviously taking smaller steps so she could keep pace. It was considerate of him.

She wondered where they were going. Amidst the bustling crowds of pedestrians, it wasn't easy to walk side by side, so he fell a step behind her at times, then caught up again. On one occasion, he put a steadying hand beneath her elbow when her high heels stumbled over the uneven concrete blocks of the footpath.

“Is there a particular type of cuisine you like?” he asked after a minute or two of aimless strolling. “I'm trying to come up with a suitable restaurant where we can eat.”

She shrugged. “I'm not fussy, Mr. Patil. Whatever you pick will be okay.”

“
Mister
Patil?” he said on an amused note. “Do I look
that
old?”

“No…you don't…but you know how it is.” She didn't want to offend him, but what else was she supposed to call him? He was a stranger to her.

“I know how it is,” he assured her. “I was only kidding. Having lived in the U.S. for over nine years, I tend to forget certain Indian customs.” His lips curved in a smile. “But please, call me Girish.”

“Okay.” She felt her taut shoulders loosen up a bit.

“Do you mind Chinese food? I haven't had Indian-style Chinese in years, since most Chinese restaurants in the U.S. are Americanized. I've been craving some pungent, spicy food.”

“I like Chinese,” she replied. “There's a good place not far from here. It's called Ming.” She wondered if it was proper etiquette for the woman to suggest restaurants. Wasn't it usually the men who picked the location for a date? She had to stop thinking of this as a date.

“Excellent!” he said, putting her mind at ease. “Walking distance, or should I hail a cab?”

“Walking distance.” She was glad of it, too. Sitting beside a man she hardly knew in the hot, cramped seat of a taxi wasn't something she wanted to do. With the windows down, the wind always whipped her hair into a mass of tangles and that wouldn't do at all on an occasion like this. Besides, her mother was already worried about her going out with a strange man. A taxi would feel a bit too intimate.

And the good thing was that Ming wasn't too expensive. She didn't want him to spend a lot of money on her—especially after he discovered her secret and realized she was all wrong for him.

The popular eatery was overcrowded as usual, but after a brief wait they managed to get a small table amidst the hustle and bustle of Bombay's more fashionable restaurant patrons. Eating Chinese food was the mark of a sophisticated palate.

The first thing Girish asked the waiter was whether they served wine.

The waiter looked him over briefly, as if to assess his ability to pay for an expensive alcoholic drink. He must have liked what he saw, and noted the slightly American accent. He nodded. “Yes, sir, Golconda wine.”

“Golconda, huh? Is it a sweet or dry variety?”

The waiter had no clue. He scratched his head and frowned. Perhaps no one had ever asked him such a question.

“Sounds interesting, anyway,” Girish said, and raised a brow at her. “Would you care to have a glass?”

She shrugged. “I've never had wine before.”

“Guess what? I've never had anything called Golconda, either. Perhaps this is a chance to try our first glass of Indian wine.” When she nodded, he ordered two glasses of it.

Why not try some wine, she thought, with a mild spark of excitement. She'd heard a lot about it from her colleagues, about how wonderful it tasted, but since her family didn't drink alcohol, neither did she.

While he held the menu in both hands and studied it carefully, she stole a swift glance at his hand before perusing her own menu. She'd tried hard to keep her eyes away from his hand, but it was impossible. What could have caused him to lose his fingers? Or was he born that way?

After they ordered their egg rolls, chicken soup with sweet corn, and prawns in black bean sauce, they sat back in their chairs to enjoy their wine—served in small water glasses. The restaurant obviously didn't have stem glasses. Vinita gingerly took her very first sip. It burned a little as it trickled down to her stomach. She stifled the impulse to clear her throat.

“Do you like it?” His brows were raised above the rims of his eyeglasses.

She hesitated. “Well, it…uh, tastes and smells a bit like cough syrup.”

He let out a hearty laugh. “Cough syrup is an appropriate description. It's awfully sweet. I would've preferred something dry and mellow.”

She couldn't help grinning back at him. He seemed to think her remark was funny. She didn't know what dry and mellow wine was, so she quietly took another sip. It was slowly beginning to taste better, as the sweetness coated her tongue and the alcohol warmed her throat.

“Tell me about yourself, Vinita,” he said, using his right hand to dip a crisp Chinese noodle in the sweet-hot sauce served in a dainty porcelain bowl. He seemed to make efficient use of his thumb and two remaining fingers. With surprising dexterity, too.

“I'm sure you already know all about me,” she said, putting the glass down and clasping her hands in her lap. Was this a good time for total disclosure? she speculated.

He crunched on his noodle and swallowed. “You mean that trivial stuff that every young lady's family tells the man she may end up marrying?”

She took another sip of wine. “Trivial stuff?” Exactly how much did he know about her?

“The usual list of things like college degree, extracurricular activities, culinary skills, et cetera, et cetera.” He waved if off with his left hand. “I already know you have a great academic background and a promising career.”

“You do?” she asked. “You know about my job, too?” How unfair was it that he knew everything about her and she had been told very little about him?

“Most of it,” he replied. “Your brother mentioned it to my family. You're a very smart girl…with ambition. And an accomplished dancer?”

“Isn't every educated woman at least a little bit ambitious?” she challenged him. Hadn't he deduced that after living in an emancipated country all these years?

“I suppose so.” He was silent for a moment. “I'm more interested in what you like to do besides your classical dancing.”

“Like what?” What exactly was he fishing for? Was he waiting to see if she'd confess the truth about her past? Was this an integrity litmus test?

“Umm…let's see,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “What kind of movies and books do you like? Do you enjoy sports? Do you like spicy food or mild? How about travel and the outdoors? You know…personal likes and dislikes.”

A soft sigh of relief escaped her. “I like mystery and romance novels,” she answered, after giving it careful thought. If not an honesty test, then it could be some kind of silly psychological quiz he was using on her—a bride evaluation tool. “I enjoy James Bond movies and Hindi films.”

“Ah, yes, James Bond,” he said with some relish. Picking up another noodle, he dipped it in sauce. “I went through the addiction phase with Ian Fleming's books. I read so many when I was a student that my mother had to hide them so I could get back to my schoolwork.”

He studied her while he chewed on his noodle. “But I have to admit I never read romance.” His dark eyes sparkled with amusement. “I leave that to my sister Rohini, the romantic. She's always reading the books with those sexy covers…a woman draped over the arm of a muscular man.” He demonstrated by leaning to one side, a hand thrown across his brow and a look of mock adoration on his face.

Vinita let out a hoot of laughter at his rather apt display of a romance novel cover, then quickly clamped a hand over her mouth. She'd been shamelessly loud and forward. But he had such a quirky yet pleasant sense of humor. “You should try a good romantic mystery sometime,” she suggested. “You might find it interesting.”

“Romance and mystery together?” He held up his glass in a toast. “I promise to buy one this week…if you'll help me pick one. Let's drink to my first romance book, shall we?”

She picked up her glass and raised it, wondering if he truly meant to buy a book or if he was making fun of her. Anyway, this was her first toast. And the wine was making her bolder. “I also like spicy foods, especially cheap foods sold by vendors on Chowpatty Beach and the footpaths,” she confessed.

“Me too,” he said in a conspiratorial murmur. “The spicier the better.”

“Can you get that in the U.S.?” she whispered on a giggle, trying to keep up with his playful banter. This kind of interaction was new to her.

He shook his head. “There aren't any Indian restaurants where I live. I buy something called hot-pepper sauce in the American supermarkets. I pour it on hamburgers, pizza, steak…everything.”

Their egg rolls and soup arrived, interrupting him briefly. He sniffed the appetizing aromas and grinned with delight, showing a row of clean white teeth.

He was clearly a nonsmoker, decided Vinita, mentally adding one more check mark in the plus column.

“Smells fantastic,” he declared. “Can you tell I'm a typical bachelor who eats all the wrong things?”

“I live with my brother and we don't cook much at home, either.” She smiled. “Why do you think I like all that street food?”

He looked at her in a measured fashion. Was he sizing her up as a potential wife, an Indian woman who openly admitted she didn't cook? She felt the warm blood rush to her face under his prolonged scrutiny. She could see him mentally grading her as a failure in the column for cooking.

Probably sensing her discomfort, he pulled his soup bowl closer, blew on a spoonful of steaming liquid and tasted it. “Umm! Good choice of restaurants, Vinita. I haven't had this variety of soup in a long time.” Putting his spoon down after a couple of mouthfuls, he switched topics. “Tell me, do you like sports?”

She swallowed some of her soup, giving herself a second to prepare an adequate answer. She had deliberately stayed away from cricket commentaries and anything remotely connected to sports in the past few years. “I'm not all that interested in sports.”

“Not even cricket?”

Especially cricket.
But she merely shook her head. And thank goodness he didn't push her for an answer. She wasn't quite ready to confess yet. But soon she'd tell him everything. Meanwhile, she wanted to savor her first wine-drinking and toasting experience, her first conversation alone with an intelligent, well-informed man, and then enjoy her delicious Chinese dinner. It was a treat for her. Vishal wasn't very fond of Chinese food, so they hardly ever ate it.

She had to admit the wine was making her feel relaxed and warm. She no longer felt tense and fidgety. In fact, she was pleasantly light-headed, like her feet were not quite on the ground.