Chapter 29

At two o’clock in the morning, Taj was still sitting with Priya in his car outside her apartment.

“How is it possible?” Taj asked again, as if anything in the last hour had changed. “There are a billion people in India, half a world away, and I end up dating the daughter of a man tied to the orphanage who took me as a child from my family! Do you realize how crazy that is?”

Priya had no answers.

“What if he knew?” Taj asked.

“That you’d been kidnapped?” Her calm balanced his concern.

“What if he helped?” Taj added.

“I’d like to think he wasn’t involved like that, but I don’t know. I was just a child.”

“What if we talked to him, see what he says, what he remembers, if he knows anything about me or my family? Maybe he could help me find them.”

She’d already been over this. “Taj, we can’t! My family believes in arranged marriages. I’m forbidden to date. My father’s leery of you, anyway. If he weren’t back in Singapore, well . . .”

“I can’t help that he hates Air Supply,” Taj added.

It was a needed smile. “He does hate Air Supply,” Priya confirmed, “but that’s not why. I think you scare him.”

“Me? Scare him? Why?”

“Because you’re assertive. You know what you want and go after it. You aren’t afraid of people—and, of course, you called him on the phone and wanted to date his daughter.”

“Those are all good things, right?”

“I’m sitting here, aren’t I? Listen, just be patient. We’ll ask him, but we can’t do it yet.”

“When?” It was an eager word that begged for an answer.

Priya spelled it out for him. “We can’t talk to him until we know we’re serious. There has to be no turning back.”

“Priya,” he said, his voice lowering to a whisper, “I would tell you I’m falling in love with you, but actually . . . I already fell. The moment I saw your picture at Daniel’s. Does that . . . I don’t know . . . freak you out?”

He clutched her fingers, their eyes intertwined. “Are you just saying this so I’ll talk to my father?”

“No . . . I . . . didn’t mean . . .”

She uncovered her grin. “I’m kidding. Taj! The thing is . . .”

“Yes.” He was absorbing every glance, every pause, every movement.

“I’m falling in love with you, too.”

 

Priya tugged at the door of Bombay House and peeked inside. With any luck, Daniel would be in the kitchen.

“Priya?”

“Oh, hi, brother.”

“What’s up?”

“I’ve been told the food here is tolerable. Can you hook me up?”

“Sure, what can I get you?”

She didn’t need to look at the menu. “I’ll have the coconut kurma and maybe take some chicken masala, for later.”

Daniel halted. “You hate my masala.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You tell me I use too much garlic, that you like Mom’s better.”

“All true, but I don’t hate it. Besides, I’d like to see if you’ve made any improvements.”

“Sounds reasonable. I guess honest feedback never hurts. Kurma to stay and a masala to go.”

Priya’s lips formed another lie. “Actually, I’ll take them both to go. I have to . . . um, study.”

Daniel’s eyes narrowed. “You despise eating out of a styrofoam box—and since when do you need to study? You’ve always breezed through school.”

She could feel her face blush and excused herself to go to the bathroom. When she returned, Daniel was placing her food in a bag. He dropped in a set of utensils wrapped with a napkin. “Can I have two of those . . . one for later?”

He tossed in another and then stepped around the counter. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your car.”

Beads of perspiration were mobilizing in patches on her forehead. “I’m completely capable of carrying my own food, thank you.” She reached out and took the bag from him.

“Geez, whatever. A brother tries to be nice and look how he’s treated.”

“Sorry,” she replied, “I’m just . . . in a hurry.”

As the door closed behind her, he called out. “Let me know how you like my masala!”

When she reached the car, Taj was bouncing. “I’m starving. What took so long?”

Her eyes smoldered. Her fingers clenched.

“Next time, we’re going to McDonalds!”

 

From: Christopher Raj

To: Taj Rowland

Taj,

This is Christopher Raj. I’ve finally figured out how to log on to e-mail. Can you hear me?

Chris

________________________________

From: Christopher Raj

To: Taj Rowland

Taj,

Sorry you had to phone again. This time I really do have e-mail figured out.

I have an idea for a product. In India, many people sleep directly on the ground. Families with money purchase woven mats that not only provide protection but are also very colorful.

I imagine people in the United States would like them. Can we import and sell these sleeping mats? I’ll keep this short as I’m not sure if they charge me by length.

Christopher

________________________________

From: Taj Rowland

To: Christopher Raj

Chris,

We don’t sleep on mats here. We prefer beds with mattresses. We do, however, go on picnics and take vacations to the beach. Perhaps your sleeping mats would make great beach mats.

What do you think? Please send a sample.

Taj

P.S. There is no limit to length when using e-mail.

 

Love is both comfortable and complacent, like a child’s blanket that in a perfect world would last forever.

Every month, Taj and Priya talked about telling her family. Every month, it was easier to focus on school, schedules, and strategy, as they planned what their lives together might look like after graduation.

“We could come at Christmas!” Priya’s father had said when he last called.

“It’s freezing here, Papa, and there’s no reason to spend the money now,” she’d countered. “School is going well. I’m getting good grades. I’ll be just fine.” And she was. Taj was making sure of it.

Daughters are experts at persuading their fathers.

Another semester here, another holiday there. Here a spring, there a winter. Always putting off the inevitable, like a boy not telling his parents that he broke their heirloom crystal vase, as if it might magically piece itself together.

“I’ll graduate in the spring. Why not wait until then?” Priya wondered.

Taj wasn’t listening. He was staring out the window at the churning clouds. A storm was blowing their direction.

When it finally arrived, it was going to be ugly.

 

It was early March as Taj lounged on Priya’s couch watching a rerun of Jeopardy. He knew all the answers. Reruns can make anyone a genius.

Priya was in the bathroom drying her hair. It was movie night at the dollar theater, and they were going to be late if she didn’t pick up the pace.

The phone rang three times before Priya answered it.

“Hello?”

A pause.

“Oh, hi, Papa,” she said, surprised.

A longer pause.

“No, I . . .” Concern peaked in her voice. Taj rose from the couch.

“You’re what? No, no, you can’t . . .”

He stepped closer.

“Papa! You haven’t even . . .”

Her fingers clenched. Her eyes clenched. Her teeth clenched.

“That’s not right . . . it’s just . . .”

Twice her lips almost spit out a word. Twice it was swallowed.

“But you . . .”

Within a second, anger thawed into frustration, and frustration melted into tears.

What happened? Had somebody passed away? Taj sat beside her, pulled her close with one arm while taking her hand in the other.

“Priya, tell me what’s wrong.”

When she faced him, it wasn’t worry still glistening in her eyes, it was terror.

“They’ll be here this weekend,” she muttered.

“Priya, it will be okay. We’ll sit down and calmly tell them. It will be all right.”

She was trembling. “You don’t understand.” She reached out and grabbed his leg to steady herself.

“Father said they’re coming because they’ve found the man I’m going to marry.”