‘If you say so.’ Somehow seeing Shweta again had brought out the old desire in Nikhil to wind her up, watch her struggle to control her temper—except she was now all grown up, and instead of wanting to tug her pigtails and trip her over during PE class he wanted to reach out and touch her, to run his hands over her smooth skin and tangle them in her silken hair...
Realising that his thoughts were wandering a bit too far, he picked up the menu and started leafing through it. A thought struck him. ‘You haven’t turned vegetarian, have you?’
He looked relieved when Shweta shook her head. ‘Thank heavens. I’ve ordered mutton stew and appams and prawn curry—I just assumed you’d be OK with all of it.’
‘Of course I am. I’ve always loved prawn curry. Your mom used to cook it really well, I remember.’
‘Which mom?’ he asked, his mouth twisting into a wry smile.
Shweta felt like kicking herself. Nikhil was illegitimate, and had always been touchy about his family. His father had taken a mistress after ten years of a childless marriage, scandalising everyone who knew him, and Nikhil was his mistress’s son. Perhaps it would have been less scandalous if he’d tried to keep the affair secret, but when he’d found out that Ranjini was pregnant he’d brought her to live in the same house as his wife. Until he was four Nikhil had thought having two mothers was a perfectly normal arrangement—it was only when he joined school that he realised he lived in a very peculiar household.
‘Veena Aunty,’ Shweta said.
Veena was Nikhil’s father’s wife. If they’d been Muslims Nikhil’s father could have taken a second wife, but as a Hindu he would have been committing bigamy if he’d married Ranjini. Veena had taken the whole thing surprisingly well. People had expected her to resent Ranjini terribly, even if she couldn’t do anything about having to share a house with her, but Veena appeared to be on quite good terms with her. And she adored Nikhil, which perhaps wasn’t so surprising given that she didn’t have children of her own. In his teen years at least Nikhil had been equally attached to her—all his sullenness and resentment had been directed towards his parents.
‘How’re they doing?’ Shweta asked. ‘Your parents, I mean.’ She’d met them only a few times—her father had made sure that she didn’t have much to do with Nikhil.
Nikhil shrugged. ‘OK, I guess. I haven’t seen them for over four years.’
Shweta’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Aren’t they still in Pune, then?’
‘Dad has some property in Trivandrum. They moved there when Dad retired. They’re still there—though now Amma is pretending to be a cousin and Mom tells everyone that she’s married to Dad.’
The words came out easily enough, but Shweta could see his jaw tense up and was very tempted to lean across the table and take his hand, smooth away the frown lines. He’d always called his own mother Mom, while his father’s wife went by the more affectionate Amma.
‘I guess it’s easier that way,’ Shweta said. ‘Rather than having to explain everything to a whole new set of people.’
‘Pity they didn’t think of it when it really mattered.’ His voice was tight, almost brittle. ‘I don’t know why Amma is letting them do this.’
‘I’m sure she has her reasons. Maybe you could visit them now that you’re already in Kerala?’ Shweta believed strongly in women standing up for themselves—in her view Veena was quite as responsible for the situation as Nikhil’s parents.
‘Not enough time—I’ve got to be back in Mumbai for another gig. Plus I’m not on the best of terms right now with my father.’ He was still frowning, but after a few seconds he made a visible effort to smile. ‘While we’re on the subject of parents, how’re your dad and aunt?’
‘He’s retired, so now he bosses the gardener and the cleaners around instead of his patients,’ Shweta said, and Nikhil laughed.
Shweta’s father had been a doctor in a fairly well-known hospital in Pune, and he’d inspired a healthy respect in everyone who knew him. Shweta’s mother had died quite suddenly of a heart attack when Shweta was three, and her father’s unmarried older sister had moved in to help bring up Shweta.
‘And your aunt?’
‘She’s still keeping house for him. Though she grumbles about him to whoever’s willing to listen—wonders how my mother put up with him for so many years.’
A lot of people had wondered that, but Nikhil didn’t say so. He’d met Shweta’s father several times—he’d been on their school board, and had chaired the disciplinary hearing that had led to his final expulsion from the school. Nikhil didn’t hold that against him. He’d been on a short wicket in any case, given that the smoking incident had followed hard upon his having ‘borrowed’ their Hindi teacher’s motorbike and taken his best buddies out for a spin on it. But he had resented Dr Mathur telling Shweta not to have anything to do with him.
The food arrived and Mariamma came across to ladle generous portions onto their plates. ‘Eat well, now,’ she admonished Shweta. ‘You’re so thin—you girls nowadays are always on some diet or the other.’
‘I can’t diet to save my life,’ Shweta said. ‘I’m thin because I swim a lot.’
Mariamma sniffed disapprovingly, but Nikhil found it refreshing, being with a woman who wasn’t obsessed with her figure. His job brought him into contact with models and actresses, all of whom seemed to be afraid to breathe in case the air contained calories. In his view Shweta had a better figure than all of them—she was slim, but not stick-thin, and her body curved nicely in all the right places.
‘Like the food?’ he asked, watching her as she dipped an
appam
into the curry and ate it with evident enjoyment. For a few seconds he couldn’t take his eyes off her lush mouth as she ran her tongue over her bottom lip—the gesture was so innocently sexy.
‘It’s good,’ she pronounced.
He dragged his eyes away from her face to concentrate on his own untouched plate before she could catch him staring.
‘Everything’s cooked in coconut oil, isn’t it? It adds an interesting flavour to the food.’
Nikhil thought back to the last time he’d taken a girl on a date to a restaurant in Mumbai that served authentic Kerala cuisine. She’d hardly eaten anything, insisting that the food smelt like hair oil. She’d been annoying in many other ways as well, he remembered. Rude to waiters and refusing to walk even a few metres to the car because the pavement looked ‘mucky’. Not for the first time he wondered why he chose to waste his time with empty-headed women like her rather than someone like Shweta. He didn’t want to delve too deeply into the reasons, though—self-analysis wasn’t one of his passions.
‘Can I ask you something?’ Shweta said as she polished off her last appam. ‘Why were you out to get me in school? We used to be good friends when we were really little—till you began hanging out only with the boys and ignored me completely. And when we were twelve or something you started being really horrible. You used to be rude about my clothes and my hairstyle—pretty much everything.’
‘Was I that bad?’ Nikhil looked genuinely puzzled. ‘I remember teasing you a little, but it was light-hearted stuff. I didn’t mean to upset you. Maybe it was because you were such a
good
little girl—listening to what the teacher said, doing your homework on time, never playing truant... It was
stressful
, studying with you. You set such high standards...’
He ducked as Shweta swatted at him with a ladle. ‘Careful,’ he said, his voice brimming over with laughter as drops of curry sprayed around. ‘I don’t want to go back looking like I’ve been in a food fight.’
‘Oh, God—and your clothes probably cost a bomb, didn’t they.’ Conscience-stricken, Shweta put the ladle down. ‘Did I get any on you?’
Nikhil shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. If I find any stains I’ll send you the dry-cleaning bill.’
She looked up swiftly, wondering whether he was being serious, but the lurking smile in his eyes betrayed him. ‘Oh, you wretch,’ she scolded. ‘I’ve a good mind to throw the entire dish at you.’
‘Mariamma will be really offended,’ he said gravely. ‘And if you throw things at me I won’t buy you dessert.’
‘Oh, well that settles it, then. I’ll be nice to you.’ He hadn’t really answered her question, but she didn’t want to destroy the light-hearted atmosphere by pressing too hard. ‘But only till we’re done with dessert.’
Copyright © 2013 by Shoma Narayanan
ISBN-13: 9781460321423
HIS UNTIL MIDNGIHT
Copyright © 2013 by Nikki Logan
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