"I like to watch the sun go down," he said. Sitara did too, but she gave her father the better seat. Poring over the menu, he asked, "What do you recommend?"
"I don't know. I've only been here once."
"Because you do not like it?"
"No, I just don't eat out very often."
"Then here is what we will have: one order of dahl, one order of aloo gobi, one steamed basmati rice, four chapati, two puri, two lassi—unsweetened, of course—and a basket of samosas to start. The pappadam is overpriced. A good restaurant brings it for free."
"But Bapa, what if—"
The waitress came and took his order before Sitara had a chance to say anything. She liked dahl, but was in the mood for chickpeas instead.
When the puri and samosas came to the table, he asked, "Do you like these, Sitara? Try some. These are potato with carrot and peas, and these ones—"
"I know what they are, Bapa. I've had them before. Actually, I thought you would have ordered pakoras."
"Why? I have no taste for them. Too hard and greasy. Especially the way Canadians make them."
"This restaurant has Indian cooks!"
"Yes, but something changes when they cross the sea. Or perhaps it is the climate here—it is too cold for good deep-frying. Why does it matter to you?"
"Samosas and puri are deep-fried too."
"Yes?"
"Then it can't be the oil, can it?" Sitara smeared a samosa in chutney and took a bite. "Blaming the oil is not logical."
"Sitara, what are you talking about? You sound like Parvati."
Poking at a pea with her finger, Sitara tried to formulate her thoughts. Her father's domination and insensitivity angered her. The man she remembered was more open-minded and fair. The man she remembered liked pakoras.
"Bapa, I can't believe you ordered for me. I'm thirty years old. I can read menus."
"Yes, of course. But do you know about Indian food?"
"I've cooked my share of biryani."
"Yes, but you practise Chinese medicine. We have a medical tradition too, Sitara."
"I know. I've studied the Ayurvedic approach. It is very powerful. But there are other valuable traditions too." She licked chutney off her thumb."I went to college for this. I am certified."
"Yes, of course you are, Sitara. You are a good doctor, I am sure."
"A healer."
"It is the same thing, whatever you call it."
She resented being linked with medical doctors when she had, very intentionally, taken a different approach. "That's not true," she said.
"Health is life, Sitara. It is not something to take lightly. I wish you people could see that."
As Sitara held back the things she wanted to say, the waitress came with their main dishes. She laid them out in front of Raj as if he had ordered them all for himself. Sitara watched as she did this, but said nothing. Although the food smelled good, arguing had left her with very little appetite.
Without ceremony, Raj ripped apart a chapati and, using his right hand, shovelled a scoop of dahl into his mouth.
Looking down at the dark green tablecloth, Sitara thought, At least he can't talk while he's chewing. She needed a gap in the fighting to prepare her line of fire.
When my parents get home I am in the cupboard playing singing games with Sarasvati. I can hear them yelling even as they come down the hall. There is a high-pitched shout followed by a low-pitched rumble, then another high-pitched shout. As they come through the door, their voices get clearer.
"I want Sitara to go to an Indian school."
"There are no Indian schools in Vancouver. We've talked about this before."
"I am not talking about Vancouver. I am talking about India."
"I'm not going back, if that's what you're thinking! Not on your life, Raj. I am successful here. I have a career."
"I am not saying you should go to India—just Sitara. I have already spoken to my sister, Usha. She is willing to take her. She has a daughter the same age. They can be friends. Sitara needs friends."
"Perhaps, but why Indian friends?"
"Stubborn woman! I thought you would be happy to get rid of her!"
"Raj, you say too much and understand too little!"
"Tell me of one day when you have not complained about her? ‘The child is too demanding. Tell her no, she cannot have whatever it is she is asking for.' Or ‘Your daughter has taken my pens again. What is wrong with her? I have already given her four pencils this week.' Parvati, you say these things every day! If I send her to live with Usha, she will not bother you anymore."
"No."
"Why not?"
"In India she will learn Indian ways. And then what hope will she have? No. She was born Canadian, and in Canada she will stay. This is final, Raj. There is no room for negotiation."
Hearing Parvati stomp off, I breathe out a little sigh. I don't want to leave here, and I am worried that at my aunt's house there will be no spice cupboard.
"I can't believe you wanted to send me away," Sitara said.
"Away where?"
"To live with Usha."
"How do you know about that?" Raj talked with his mouth full, allowing Sitara to see the dark brown dahl being crushed and mixed with the pale white chapati.
"I know about more than you think."
Raj wiped out one of the curry bowls with his last piece of chapati. He had eaten the whole meal while Sitara sipped from a glass of water. "You should eat. Do you not tell your patients that?"
"It depends what their imbalance is. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't." She was staring out the window, watching the street lights come on. Now, for every person who passed on the sidewalk below, there was also a shadow. "I'm leaving," she said. She couldn't imagine the four of them walking back to his hotel.
"Sitara... We have not had dessert!"
"I'm not hungry, and I think you've already had enough!"
Before Raj could stand up she was outside, hiding from the light on the darker side of the street.
chapter 7
Sara buried her camera in the back of the closet with the high-heeled shoes she bought but never wore. I should have a yard sale, she thought, to get rid of this junk. Then at least I could pay my phone bill.
Trying on a pair of pointe shoes that were stiff from layers of encrusted sweat, she remembered how, at one time, her plan had been to be a dancer first, then a photographer when she retired from the stage at age thirty or thirty-five.
She threw the ballet slippers back into the closet and closed the door. She hadn't expected to feel old at twenty-nine.
As she sat on the floor next to her bed, staring at the blur that was her bulletin board full of photos, her suffering sank into her stomach. She was hungry for the flavours trapped in her camera bag, the ones she'd been forced—by her eyes—to leave behind. From where she sat, she imagined the contents of her kitchen cupboards: a few