Danya Bilinsky
She remembers an article her mother gave her. It was about how, as you grow older, your perception of your mother’s advice changes. At twenty-two years of age she ought to fall into the ‘what would mum know’ category. She never disregards what her mother has to say, rarely goes against it. Yet somehow she finds herself here.
She is alone in India. Circumstances forced her to rebel, the mystery of the south too irresistible. Despite defying her mother, she often thinks of her. She also thinks of home.
There is a trough in the corner where they wash their hands, removing the dust and dirt from the outside world. She huddles amongst them, a duckling learning by example. Her sari-wrapped body does little to hide that she is a foreigner.
She lingers longer than the others. Lathering, rinsing and lathering again. No one else takes that much care. Her eyes scroll the room hoping for a nook, an alcove, where she can be protected from scrolling eyes like her own. She deflates on finding the last spare seat—in the middle of the room.
He notices her as soon as she enters. It is impossible not to. Green lily pad eyes float on her flawless complexion. Her fair hair is almost white. She dares to be here by herself.
The room is a square. Unstable propped tables are ordered into schoolroom lines. The bare wooden floor echoes the clatter of plates and patrons’ slurps. Spiced aromas swirl around the otherwise bland room. She is on show in the centre. It’s as if her fairness is reflective, forming a spot light that shines where she sits.
There is no menu. No opportunity to mispronounce and embarrass herself. Everyone here eats the same thing—a thali. The food is vegetarian. It’s how she has been eating anyway, taking the safest option. She owes it to her mother.
She fiddles with her hands, distracting her gaze as she waits for the meal.
He cannot approach her yet. Without a menu there is no order for him to take, no chance to watch her mouth struggle around unfamiliar words, no hope of hearing her voice.
The dish only requires one set of hands but five sets compete to deliver it. He wins the battle, clattering the silver bowls as he wrenches them from his competition. The ten pace journey is over too quickly. He has thought of nothing to say as he places the meal in front of her. The green eyes look into his. She thanks him, in his own language.
She feels a squeak escape and hopes it is recognised as the gratitude she intended to show. With only a guidebook as her teacher she rarely attempts the language, for fear she may say something inappropriate or worse yet, fail.
The thali in front of her is an Indian bento box, inviting her to try a little of everything. There are three curries in small silver bowls. Their gravies are thinner than their northern counterparts yet their spiciness more concentrated. Cauliflower florets bathe in turmeric, paneer cheese is dressed in spinach and the dainty fingers of okra have been fried. Mango chutney and coconut pickle are served in spoon-sized dollops on a banana leaf. They are a reminder of the palm-lined streets only blocks away. All she remembers is the chaos. She eats slowly to delay her return.
He has plenty of others to serve at lunch time on a Thursday but he lingers near her table. His eyes do not leave her. Overtly and shamelessly he stares. It’s her difference that draws him to her.
The dishes don’t come with rice. They also don’t come with cutlery. She takes care to only use her left hand—her guidebook to thank again. She also has a dosa to assist, using the edges of the crisp pancake as a spoon. The steamed idli are soft cushions that soak the spice-laden liquid into their deep-pored skin.
He weaves around her, offering refills of chai to win her attention. He watches the way she eats, snapping dosa and dipping idli. She samples and savours, not slowing for the spice. It is no challenge for her.
What begins as a chilli tingle on her tongue fiercely numbs her mouth. A milk pudding sprinkled with cashews and raisins douses the fire.
After the meal she is exhausted. Deciding she has earned a break from the madness, she will go to her room. She pays the bill and leaves.
He watches as she climbs the stairs. She must stay in the hotel above. He thinks of her laying on the sheets to rest. What would a girl like her dream about?
If he had a chance to be in her thoughts he would take her to the ocean. They would watch children playing cricket on the sand, laughter filling the air.
Or would he have her all to himself? He could take her far from the city, to the mist-veiled waterfalls in the north. They would shelter under a tree, mesmerised by the flowing cascades. With such an adventure she would have to let him into her dreams again.
He dreams too. He dreams that she comes again tomorrow—the mysterious girl that dines alone.
With her mother on her mind she takes out the pad of writing paper, the hotel’s address inscribed on the top right corner. Should she protect her mother from worrying that she is without a travelling companion? She calculates that she will return home before the Indian mail does. There will be no reason for her mother to worry when she is safe. So she starts to write: ‘You will never find a more attentive waiter than one serving a single girl in India …’