The Overnight Palace by Sola Janet

Author:Sola, Janet [Sola, Janet]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi
Publisher: Spotted Owl Press
Published: 2014-11-06T16:00:00+00:00

On this particular morning, I’m writing at my table at the rooftop restaurant. The city outside is already shimmering in the heat. Then, suddenly everything is black, black, black. At first I’m startled. Then I hear Sahil’s laugh. He’s snuck up behind me and put something over my head.

“Now, tell me what you see.”

“I see that you’re twelve years old.” He takes away the basket, that’s what it was, and swings into the chair next to mine.

“No, I am a twenty-seven year old man. Do you not remember last night?”

I cock my head to one side and resist smiling. “It’s all a blur.”

“Here,” he says, and takes my notebook and pen. “You can take a holiday from writing. I write something for you. Whatever you want to say, I say it for you.”

“I love this country,” I say. That phrase just comes out, without thought, as naturally as breathing.

“That is this,” he says. He writes something in my notebook in the extravagant curling letters of Hindi.

“Write in English for me. Please. So later I won’t forget what it means.”

“Of course, I do this for you.” I read it as he writes it. “India is mine.”

He glances up at me. “India is mine. You are mine. I am yours. This is the message I send to you with lights.” He looks around to see make sure we’re alone, and then he leans over and kisses me. I pull back from his kiss and look at him. Does he really think of me like that? As precious to him? We are so different. If I could conceive of someone as unlike myself as possible, I would have invented Sahil. He moves quickly, confidently. I move cautiously, as if I were crossing a stream and looking for a good rock for my next step. I have a past, with a few crumbling statues in my back yard, he is near the beginning of his journey. He is outgoing, things pour out of him and over him easily. I take everything in, nurture it, try to make sense of it.

“Tonight, I make you a special dish,” he says.

“What kind of dish?”

“A fish dish.”

“I didn’t know you could cook.” He’s smiling that show-off smile. I can’t quite take in that Sahil can actually cook. He is good at many things—at painting, at making people laugh, at getting things done in a country where the idea of time is a circle, not an arrow. But cooking?

“My mother teaches me to cook. To make very nice curry. We have a party. Tonight. Right here. I cook in the kitchen.”

“Here?” I gesture toward the enclosure where the waiter disappears to scramble the eggs for omelets each morning.

“Yes, of course. This is no problem. No one cooks here at night.”

“A party. I like that.” I smile and touch him on his perfect nose. “What a nice nose you have,” I tell him.

“Yes, like my father.” He laughs. “It is the only way I am like my father.” He frowns and reconsiders.

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