“You drink too much tea and don’t eat enough. It’s not good for you, Mom.”
“Oh, stop fussing about my diet, Anju. Do you want a cup of tea or not?” When Anjali shook her head Usha got up and walked toward the foot of the staircase to call out to her husband. “Mohan, do you want a cup of tea?”
“Yes,” replied Mohan from upstairs. Moments later he strode into the kitchen, shaved, showered, dressed, and smelling of his favorite cologne—some inexpensive brand bought at the drugstore. In his peppy walk and the way he pulled the chair out and sat down with the morning paper, Anjali could detect an air of expectancy.
Usha placed a mug of tea before him and got one for herself. “What time are you leaving for the airport?” she asked him wearily.
He checked his wristwatch. “In about fifteen minutes.” Lowering his newspaper, he peered at Usha through his gold-rimmed glasses. “Don’t worry so much. He has changed a lot in the last few years. Jeevan-bhai is almost seventy-seven now—more flexible.”
Usha took a slow sip of the fragrant spiced tea. “Jeevan-bhai’s not likely to change, no matter what his age.”
Perhaps trying to avoid a confrontation with his peeved wife, Mohan quietly drank his tea and returned to reading the paper. A little later he put on his shoes and went out the front door.
Anjali and her mother exchanged a silent look. The show was about to begin.
An hour later, the sound of the car pulling into the driveway had Anjali and Usha rushing to the entry foyer. Anjali smiled inwardly when she noticed her mother taking a quick peek at herself in the framed mirror hanging on the wall. As far as she could see, her mom looked perfect.
Usha had on a butter-yellow sari with a daisy print. Today she wore her old-fashioned mangalsutra, the necklace that symbolized marriage in the Hindu culture, and old-fashioned diamond cluster earrings. It wouldn’t do to wear any of the delicate, contemporary jewelry that her mother favored. Jeevan-kaka did not tolerate married women in the family wearing anything but traditional garb. They were supposed to take pride in the Kapadia name.
Somewhat nervous herself, Anjali wore a sensible pastel blue salwar-kameez suit that covered most of her arms and legs. The kameez was a loose shirt that hung below her knees, effectively making her look shapeless. The salwar pants and the chunni, the matching boa-like accessory, were modest, too. The outfit was in direct contrast to her usual form-fitting slacks, skirts, dresses, trendy blouses, and snug sweaters.
Her father didn’t approve of her wardrobe because she was a woman on the wrong side of thirty-five, and her marital status had to be considered. But that didn’t stop her from enjoying her slim and youthful figure.
People always told her she looked ten years younger, and it felt good to wear clothes that suited her. Besides, the owner of a fashionable boutique couldn’t afford to wear frumpy clothes. She had to set the right tone for the business.
The front door opened and her dad walked in, carrying two large suitcases, his face aglow. “Usha, Anju, Jeevan-bhai is here,” he announced cheerfully.
As if they needed reminding. The house had been buzzing with nothing but Jeevan Kapadia’s arrival for the past few days. And the suitcases! They were the size of mature hogs, which didn’t bode well at all. Her uncle was here to stay a long, long time.
Expecting to see the roly-poly Jeevan-kaka following on her father’s heels, Anjali’s jaw dropped when a considerably slimmer man walked in. She heard her mother draw in a shocked breath.
Good Lord, who was this man?
He had Jeevan-kaka’s eyes, his shaggy, squirrel-tail eyebrows, and bulbous nose, but this man was only two-thirds his size. His khaki pants were about two sizes too large and were bunched up and held together at the waist with a thick black belt. He had lost more hair than ever and his once-smooth face looked wrinkled. One tooth on the bottom was missing, too. Talk about age catching up. Five years had made an astounding difference.
Then he spoke to her mother. “Ahh, Usha! Kem chho? How are you, little sister?”
It was her uncle all right. For a slimmed-down man, the voice was still robust and commanding. It had suited the chubby Jeevan, but not this one. Whatever happened to make him lose weight? Maybe he’d gone on some kind of diet and exercise program?
Anjali watched her mother flash her most cordial smile and bend down to touch Jeevan’s feet in the conservative way of greeting an elder. So she followed her mother’s example and did the same. It’d be best if she played the passive little Hindu woman—for the moment.
Grinning from ear to ear, Jeevan-kaka first blessed his sister-in-law and then caught Anjali in an exuberant hug. She nearly got smothered in the embrace, her nose squashed against his soft cream cotton shirt and the smell of his basil-scented cologne.
He held her away from him for a second and studied her, his shrewd black eyes seemingly taking in every inch while Anjali tried not to squirm. “Anju, how big-big you have become. Looking lovely-lovely also, huh?”
Well, at least he thought she looked lovely. And thank goodness, big in his vocabulary meant grown-up. She had news for him: she’d become a voting adult some nineteen years ago.
Just as she thought the surprise and the official welcoming ceremony were over, and they could now settle into the routine of having her uncle around for the next several weeks or months, another shock followed.
A strange man came in through the door, a giant suitcase in each hand. Anjali’s head snapped up to study him. She could almost feel her mother’s back stiffening alongside her own.
He certainly didn’t look like the average cab or limo driver. He was tall and broad-shouldered. With her eye for fashion, the first thing Anjali took in was his attire. He wore an open-neck tan shirt and tobacco dress slacks, both beautifully tailored and very expensive looking. The shoes were glossy brown wing tips. He had smooth white skin. His hair was dense, dark, and neatly groomed. A scar was visible just beneath his left eyebrow, making the eyelid look swollen. His eyes were…gray.
He couldn’t be Indian—not with that complexion and those eyes. And yet, there was something very Indian about him. Anjali could sense his Indian-ness, sniff it. One Desi could always spot another.
“Come inside, Rishi,” Jeevan-kaka ordered the man, beaming at him.
Rishi? It was an Indian name, Sanskrit for sage or wise man.
“Put the suitcases down and meet everyone, beta,” instructed Jeevan-kaka. Although beta meant son, most often the term was used affectionately for a child of either sex, so it probably meant nothing in this case. Jeevan-kaka’s sons were about this man’s age, especially his youngest, but none of them were this fair or impressive looking. And none was called Rishi either.
Something odd came to mind. Jeevan-kaka couldn’t possibly have a love-child, could he? The old man was even more puritanical than her father. She couldn’t picture him fathering an illegitimate son. But then, his wife, Chandrika, was unattractive, and there was a remote possibility that Jeevan-kaka could have strayed. Although why any woman in her right mind, no matter how desperate, would go for Jeevan was beyond Anjali’s imagination. Nonetheless he was loaded, and money was a magnet to certain types of females.
The stranger put the suitcases on the floor and dutifully joined his palms to greet Anjali and her mother in the traditional way. “Namaste,” he said with an accent she couldn’t quite place. He had an interesting baritone voice.
For a split second her mother’s eyes connected with hers and Anjali clearly saw the look of puzzled wariness in them.
Who was this man? Anjali tried to take a few silent guesses. He certainly didn’t look like any of her other cousins. Maybe he was a friend of Jeevan-kaka’s?
Her father solved the mystery to some extent