Love Comes Later by Rajakumar Mohanalakshmi

Author:Rajakumar, Mohanalakshmi [Rajakumar, Mohanalakshmi]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2012-07-05T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-One

Sangita finds it even more amazing, after they have finished eating, that Abdulla helps clean up, clearing the dishes, drying while she washes, and even putting them away. But as soon as the tasks end, the easy camaraderie ends with them. In the growing silence, the two of them are back to being complete strangers instead of the amicable acquaintances they were becoming.

When the phone on the wall rings, they both flinch.

“Hello?” Sangita says, half-wondering where to start, when all at once she hears: “Gita! Who is this man you were eating with in Maya Auntie’s restaurant?”

“Hiya, Ma.”

It’s just like her mother to launch into a conversation as though it were already going. And just like her to have the most up-to-date information. Sangita looks at the clock on the microwave. Only ten hours can have passed since the meal under discussion occurred. Sangita is surprised her mother has waited this long.

“Don’t you ‘hi’ me,” Mama says, not to be distracted.

“How are you?” she persists, wishing she could switch into Tamil but knowing it would alert her mother that someone else was in the room. They only speak Tamil when foreigners are around: in the movie theater line or when deciding how much to pay for something at the flea market.

“Maya says he was very handsome,” she says, unperturbed.

“A friend, Ma, just a friend.”

Sangita senses Abdulla wandering away from the counter top towards the living room and unhunches her shoulders. He takes up the BlackBerry again and scrolls through his contact list, or emails, she can’t tell which. She cranes over at the top of Abdulla’s bent head, hoping for a better angle.

Maya Auntie has sharp eyes. Sangita gives her that. At least her facts are right. What she doesn’t know – and Sangita hasn’t offered – is that Abdulla is named Abdulla. That’s all anyone in her Hindu community needs to hear before screeching from the room. The slave of God, abd of Allah, could never be a potential marriage partner for a high-caste Hindu girl.

But he’s not my fiancé, she reminds herself. I don’t have to feel guilty about anything.

A noisy sigh. Sangita pictures her mother worrying the thick rope chain from which hangs her five-gram thali, the Hindu woman’s equivalent of a three-carat diamond.

“You have enough friends, girl,” her mother is saying. “Find a man who will make a commitment to you. Speaking of which, I found two more potentials this weekend at Monica’s wedding.”

Sangita rolls her eyes, glad her mother can’t see her, but not realizing that Abdulla can and that he’s suddenly very interested in what she is saying. “I have to go, Ma,” she says, wishing her mother didn’t have such easy use of technology and resources when it comes to keeping tabs on her only daughter.

“Have you talked to your brother?”

Sangita flinches. If only Ma knew that Ravi was showing up in their natal village with a Qatari woman, there would be no stopping her from flying over on the first available plane, damn the expense, to drag the poor boy home by the ear.

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