Where the Lotus Flowers Grow (2 page)

Their voices didn’t carry, but even if they did, I doubt I’d understand what they said. It didn’t matter, though. Their body language slashed through any language barriers. He was taller than she was, but she looked him in the eyes when she spoke. She patted his arm, a docile gesture meant to comfort. She kept an ample amount of space between them, each of her movements careful, perhaps even guarded. His words were accompanied with shakes of his head, his hands barreling though his hair, and finally a defeated slump in his shoulders.

I chuckled to myself.
Sorry, mate, but at least she’s letting you down easy.

He took her hand and pulled it toward his mouth. She yanked it back so fast, his lips met nothing but air.

Don’t go embarrassing yourself, bro. No bird is worth that
. As if to contradict me, a fucking Pterodactyl soared past, squawking loudly. I stumbled back.

Bloody birds.

Once I regained my balance and confirmed my heart was still tucked inside my chest, I shifted my attention back to them. He kept talking, closing the gap between them, his fingers curling around her arm. In reaction, I tightened mine into a fist.

You’re starting to piss me off. Keep your fucking hands to yourself before I come down there and break them.

Her stance stiffened. She slapped his hand away. Whatever she said, she spoke it with force, pushing his chest so hard he staggered back.

“Good for you,” I said. “Let the wanker have it.”

She uttered some final words that must have been harsher than any slap. He shrunk against her voice, shoving his hands in his pockets. She grabbed the large pot and walked away…well, more like sashayed. The girl glanced back once more, but not at him. At the flower in the fountain. I swear, even from this distance, I could see her regret at being disturbed, her solitude ruined.

I felt it, too.

Mary

My knocks went unanswered.
What type of person requested additional towels and didn’t bother to answer the door?
And of all the guests, this one should know better. Although there was no invitation to enter, there wasn’t a Do Not Disturb sign either. Prabhat had warned us of this guest—a man who came from our corporate office to look over our burdened shoulders.

Prabhat had even called a mandatory meeting with the whole staff, including maids like me, who were normally left alone. He reiterated that we not only had to be exemplary, but extraordinary. With each passing week, the warnings grew and shuffled downward until each supervisor rendered a perfect imitation of our general manager, right down to his stern glances, wagging fingers, and the nervous tick of his lips. Ironically, all the frenzied energy surrounding this visit had the opposite effect. Rather than putting our best foot forward as the guest-centered hotel we were, we fluttered about, tipping around nervously like meek mice in the presence of a hungry cat.

Prabhat would have my head if the man complained about not getting his towels. Then again, if the guest, especially this particular guest, complained I’d intruded on his privacy, it would have the same result. I stared at the soft, fluffy, brand-new towels in my arms. I had no idea what Prabhat thought this deceit would accomplish, except all the fanfare on the man’s behalf was an annoyance. He would have to settle. He was a man, after all, not a god.

It took three swipes of the electronic all-access keycard until I managed to unlock the stupid door. I breathed a sigh of relief at the empty room, glad I didn’t find anyone sleeping on the four-poster king-size bed. He wasn’t here. I wondered why he hadn’t chosen a suite or, at the very least, a room with a nice view. I placed the towels on the corner of the bed, making sure their edges were neatly tucked. I pivoted toward the door.

That would have been it. Should have been it. Except my gaze lingered on the bureau. It didn’t just linger, it full-out paused. My heart beat several decibels louder than usual. It was love at first sight.

A book.

Not just any ordinary book, but leather-bound with gold lettering etched on the spine. The kind of book my father had kept in his library, and by library, I meant bookshelf. But it was reserved for only the most revered novels. If my father had shown any signs of religion, the shelf would have been his altar, an organized place free of the dust and clutter of his carefree, sometimes careless life.

Although my head kept blasting warnings to leave, my rebellious feet carried me in the wrong direction. I stroked the stiff ridge of the spine and traced the embossed letters. But touching it wasn’t enough. To leave would be like seeing an old friend without saying hello. How rude would that be? So despite all my best efforts and misguided intentions, I found myself picking up Charles Dickens’s
Nicholas Nickleby
.

It felt solid in my hands as I turned it over, completely at contrast to the dog-eared paperbacks I currently read, but substantial like the books of my childhood. The pages, thick and uneven, would give a satisfying turn. With so many people at the hotel using e-readers, I had begun to wonder if real books were becoming as archaic as rotary phones.

I flipped through the novel. The sound of rifling paper was louder than I remembered. I missed that sound. There was something comforting about it, a lost melody of my youth.

A card fell out. I bent and retrieved it. The stiff cardboard had yellowed over time, washing out the flowers on the stationery. But the handwritten words remained sharp, written in neat ink:
To Liam on his fifteenth birthday. Always remember what Dickens said…Happiness is a gift and the trick is not to expect it, but to delight in it when it comes. May you always be delighted in your life, Love mum.

I remembered the quote. Remembered that it was early in the book. In this book. This book that belonged to Liam…not me. The right thing to do was to leave Liam’s possessions alone. I tucked the paper back between the pages, but more cards fell out, scattering all over the floor.

Oh, no. No. No.

Clearly, they marked pages. They also had the same writing. I stuck them back in, praying I wasn’t messing up the order too much.

I stood to place it back where I’d found it, but I couldn’t help myself. One sentence, I promised. I turned to a random page and read it quickly. It wasn’t enough. One paragraph. I could read a paragraph quickly. My eyes lowered, my lips moving as I devoured the words. One whole page. I deserved it, right? One stolen page of Dickens would sustain me for a long time.

My eyes scanned the well-written sheets, careful to avoid the private note cards wedged into the spine.

My thumb leafed across the pages once more, searching for another random passage to read. Air wafted across my face, blowing a strand of loose hair. Ink, glue, cardboard, and paper were not so distinctive on their own, but when combined, they created the headiest scent. I sniffed, inhaling the memory.

“Read this one, Mary,” Papa said. “You’ll enjoy it.”

“My teacher says Indians should only read Indian authors.”

“Then your teacher is a fool,
beta
. What a shame since your tuitions are so high.”

I stared at the huge book. Surely, he didn’t expect me to read the whole thing? I was twelve years old.

“Priya’s mother says reading will make your eyes go bad. Men don’t want to marry girls who wear glasses and squint.”

I chuckled, remembering the way Papa had tilted his pipe, jabbing the mouthpiece into the air with each point he made.
“Then Priya’s mother is also a fool. Pity you’re surrounded by so many ridiculous people. Why are you even thinking of marriage at your age?”

I shrugged, unsure myself, except that movies, clothes, and weddings were the only subjects of conversation among my friends. Unlike my father, I had no desire to be an outcast, so I followed suit.

He bent to my level, as he always did when he wanted to capture all my attention. “Don’t clutter your mind with nonsense. There are many people who will try to educate you, including me, but you are and will always be your own best teacher. There are many wonderful Indian authors, and you should read them. But don’t limit yourself. Never be afraid to read about other times, other places, other cultures. On the contrary, it won’t cause your eyes to blur, but rather open them wider. The choice is yours, lovely. But I fear you listen to others too readily. That your horizons will be so narrow, you’ll have to squint the rest of your life.”

“I’ll read it,” I said, more to please him than any real desire on my part. My sister, Hannah, always soaked up everything he said with a reverence I found annoying.

Hannah. I thought about her every day, but the memories were always tangled with grief. This one was different. She had sat next to me on our worn red couch, a tattered, threadbare blanket wrapped around her, begging me to read Dickens to her. The couch had been my papa’s doing because he invested all his money in us. In our education. But the blanket, I had hated with a passion. My mother had left it, and Hannah clung to it as if it would shelter her from any storm.

“You won’t understand it,” I said to her with an air of authority I didn’t deserve. My father looked angry then, his eyebrows knitting so tightly they almost joined. He said I was never to speak so disrespectfully to Hannah. His anger subsided as quickly as it came. He led me to the other room. He said in hushed tones we should both try to be more like Hannah. He’d always said Hannah had something special in her spirit that the two of us sorely lacked.

At the time, I thought he was speaking literally about her extra chromosome. But of course he wasn’t. It was her inner strength—a rare combination of joy, loyalty, and faith. There was nothing cynical or bitter about Hannah. She was the tiniest jewel, but she could bring light to the darkest corners.

Holding these same words in my hands again made my heart heavy and full at the same time, a bittersweet wave of emotion. My eyes darted across the sentences on a random page, my lips moving to a cadence that was too fast for rhythm. Was I an avid admirer or an addict?

A clearing throat intruded on my inner monologue, snapping it shut the way I did with the book. My spine straightened with such speed needles shot through my lower back.

“Is it common for the staff to pilfer through the guest’s belongings?” The deep voice was British.

British? He was British? I stared into the mirror, watching my body tremble before focusing on the image of him behind me.

Holy Mother of God.

I changed my mind.

He
was
a god.

Steam from the bathroom swathed him as he stepped out, a towel looped low around his hips. His naked chest, revealed muscles chiseled to perfection. I’d seen him when he arrived, but I wasn’t paying attention. And now my attention would not go anywhere else. His damp hair, the color a mix of sun with flecks of sand, lay unruly against his head. His expression conveyed annoyance. I pivoted, my bum backing into the bureau. He narrowed his eyes. Green eyes? Brown? They were both. They were neither.

“I’m waiting for an answer.”

My fingers clutched the book, digging into the hardback cover, holding it against my chest as if it could shield me from his voice, deep and husky. I shrank back farther, praying the floor would quake open and swallow me up.

His eyes shifted to my hands. He blinked, staring at the book. As much as my eyes were absorbing, my mouth refused to work. What could I possibly say to him? There were no excuses. I’d trespassed and, as a result, I’d be sacked.

“I’ve frightened you,” he said, his voice a shade softer. He held up his hand. “Wait.”

He picked up a few articles of clothing from the open suitcase on the bed, then looked back at me. “Stay.” He closed the bathroom door behind him, disappearing into the diminishing poufs of steam.

I should run. But my feet were stuck to the floor, even though my legs were shaking. For once, I was grateful the sari would hide that.

When he came out a few minutes later, he wore soft, faded jeans and a green rugby shirt. He stood a few feet away, but I could smell fresh soap and sweet mint radiating from his body.

He slapped his chest three times. “My name is Liam Montgomery.”

I continued to stare, dumbfounded. Was he introducing himself to me as if we lived on the same plane? I had found comfort in being a maid because the attention paid to me was on par with my paycheck. That was my preference. My choice. Perhaps a penance in a way. But now…I had all his attention and no idea what to do with it.

He sighed, shaking his head with disappointment. “Lotus Girl, why would you pick up a book you can’t read?”

Lotus girl? Was he talking to me?

“Let’s try this again.
Mera Nam
, Liam Montgomery,” he said in poorly pronounced Hindi.

“You don’t speak Hindi either?” When I didn’t respond, he picked up his phone and pressed a few buttons. “So many languages in this country. Rest assured, I’ll find yours.”

As if rest were a possibility.

“Ah, here we are.” He repeated the introduction in Punjabi, Gujarthi, Marthati, Tamil, Bangali, and even Sanskrit. Each time, he looked at me with a hopeful expression. With my continued silence, he grew more disappointed. Somehow, his desperation to talk with me made the tension dissipate just as the steam had. Finally, he threw his phone on the bed.

He shook his head in resignation, offering me a self-deprecating smile. “That’s all I got. I suppose we shall never speak.” He stared at the book again. I held it out to him with both hands. He stepped closer, his bare feet oddly beautiful. Later, I would wonder why I didn’t just lay the book back on the bureau. His hands, large with long fingers, gripped the other edge and stilled the wobbling tome. I tilted my chin, forcing myself to look at his face. I knew I’d regret the moment if I chose to…squint.

He nodded toward the book, but kept us at a distance. “It’s a shame, really. This is my favorite Dickens’s novel. It’s almost an autobiography.” He tugged on it. I wouldn’t let go.

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Why the hell I’m still talking to you when you can’t bloody-well respond, I have no idea.” He gestured to the door. “Either it’s heatstroke, or I’m going mad.”