Chance Meetings: Stories About Cross-Cultural Karmic Collisions and Compassion by Madhu Bazaz Wangu

Author:Madhu Bazaz Wangu
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Anthologies, Literary Collections, Short Stories, Asian
ISBN: 9780972145916
Publisher: Madhu B. Wangu
Published: 2015-03-20T00:00:00+00:00

The following month, when Ramji informed the family that he had invited the Sens for dinner, Gauri couldn’t wait. She heard Ammaji say to him, “I don’t see why you associate with those people. They have forgotten their Hindu traditions; they have lost their path. Their children live in separate homes—rotten Amreekan culture!”

“Can’t control their own children! They themselves behave like pseudo-Amreekans, especially the wife,” added Boji.

“But their children are adults, and they are Americans!” Ramji said, although he rarely contradicted his parents. This gave Gauri a sliver of hope. He looked at her and gave a wink.

“That will never happen in this house.” Ammaji and Boji were together on this.

But on the evening of the dinner, Ammaji was everywhere: in the kitchen ladling, at the sink rinsing, near the counter wiping, at the dinner table serving, while Gauri assisted. The two of them joined the guests only after everyone had second servings. Boji ate with relish and gestured for more. Throughout the dinner, Ramji and Mr. Sen discussed how they could increase the sale prices of their merchandize without jeopardizing their business. Mrs. Sen talked courteously with Ammaji and asked Gauri if she had made any paintings. Gauri shook her head.

After dinner, Ammaji and Boji excused themselves. Bidding everyone good night, they retired to their room.

Gauri went to the kitchen to make tea and overheard Mrs. Sen say, “Hey, Ramji, what about helping your bride?”

“She is not a bride anymore! Does she need my help?” Ramji said.

Gauri returned with a tray of teacups filled with masala tea and a plate of pistachio burfi. She saw Ramji smiling sheepishly at Mrs. Sen. As she was about to set the tray on the table, Ramji said, “Let’s have tea in the family room.” So she carried the tray to the room where her husband wanted to sit.

“Can I help with anything?” Mrs. Sen picked up a few remaining water goblets and plates from the dining table and followed Gauri.

“No, please, Mrs. Sen, I want you to sit.”

“Kapila, please, and that’s all right; I don’t mind,” Mrs. Sen said as she placed the plates in the sink. “So show me some of your art. Have you been painting?”

Gauri shrugged. “I don’t seem to have the time or inspiration to do as much as I would like.” She offered her guest a piece of the sweet pistachio burfi. “I don’t even have supplies to work with. The practice of my art has hit a brick wall. Honestly, Kapila, why would the muses stick around? They seem to have left me.”

“Muses never leave, dear. Without practice, they just go dormant.” Mrs. Sen declined the dessert with a gentle sweep of her hand. “Show me something you’ve painted.”

Gauri hesitated, looking toward the doorway to the family room. “Okay,” she said.

She led Kapila to her bedroom. The three watercolors that she had persuaded Ramji to frame hung on the wall opposite the window. Mrs. Sen stood at a distance and looked at each one. “These are beautiful! Tell me about them.

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