Page 25 of The Rules of Playing with Fire

“She’s recruited Lata for that,” Appa said, pulling the phone back to him. Lata was our cook and Aai’s help through the day. “And I know she bribes her because I can hardly get a word in when Lata starts saying ‘Aai’s right.’ I know there’s foul play.”

I laughed just as the door opened. Mihir walked out in a plush cotton robe identical to the one I was wearing, a towel over his arm.

“Oh, hey,” he said, briefly halting in his tracks. “Do you mind if I step into the pool?”

“Not at all. I’ll be heading in soon.”

“You don’t have to leave on my account. I won’t bother you, I promise,” he said, and I returned a shy smile.

He trekked the length of the pool and put down his towel. I tried to keep my eyes off him but caught his silhouette as he pulled the robe off. My stomach dipped at the curve of his shoulder and the way it cut into a chiseled arm before I returned my attention to the screen.

“Who’s that?” Appa asked, and I tried to modulate my heartbeat.

“Tara’s friend,” I replied in Malayalam. “He planned this trip to celebrate his father’s sixty-fifth birthday.”

Appa got the hint and switched languages. “What a good son. Maybe you can get some tips on how to make your father feel special. His sixtieth is not too far away.”

I laughed again. “You are impish, Appa,” I said in English before Aai snatched the phone back.

“Enough. It’s my turn to talk to my daughter,” she said. “So, this friend, is he married? Eligible? Interested? Any crumbs you can throw our way?” she asked in Marathi.

“I’m so not having this conversation with you, Aai. Goodnight.”

“Okay, okay, don’t hang up,” she cajoled. “How’s Dallas? How’s Tara doing?”

We talked for about five more minutes before a domestic emergency called her away. Perhaps Lata got the wrong vegetable again or forgot to switch off the stove with the milk on it.

I could almost smell the mornings in that house. The milk that was boiled like a ritual. Before she even brushed her teeth, Aai went to the kitchen with her dewy face, put the milk on the stove, and by the time she returned, the milk would be at the right temperature. She always arrived in the nick of time to turn off the stove before it boiled over. I wondered how she timed it so accurately.

I had tried it once, when Aai thought I was mature enough to be trusted with this delicate task—I had been in college—but I had failed miserably. I had spent the next half hour cleaning the stove and the counter. Aai had never trusted me with it again.

When the milk was ready, Appa ventured into the kitchen to make tea while Aai brought in the newspaper. She set aside the financial pages for him, crisp and fresh, then went through the entire paper. First, the headlines and world news, then local news, and finally, the gossip column. She wasn’t a snob when it came to reading. She was the one who had imbued in me a love of reading and taught me how to enjoy everything I read.

The house then would fill with the scent of the incense that Aai lit during her morning puja, mingling with the waxy smell of the candle Appa lit at the altar. The ghee diya and the candle burned in harmony at the shared altar in the interfaith household, trying to bring peace and joy in a world overrun by hatred and bigotry.

Appa wasn’t terribly religious, but he never missed his morning prayers. His ritual was simple. He lit a candle and spent precisely five minutes with his eyes closed, hands straight down in front, one palm cupping the other. When he finished, he had a glow on his face as if he had attained enlightenment and peace in those short minutes.

I sighed. There was so much I missed about home, but this particular sigh was layered—layers I hesitated to peel because, just like an onion, they were guaranteed to bring tears to my eyes. Despite my satisfying career and life here, I missed my parents. I missed home. The top layer, though, was dry and crisp enough to decode without much introspection. I was done talking to my parents, and I should’ve returned to my room, but the memory of last night’s missed kiss kept me there.

I saw Mihir swim lap after lap, never stopping, never looking up. Gazing at his mostly naked body cutting through water wasn’t good for my health. The lights in the pool did me no favors either, but the darkness that enveloped me was my saving grace. I was reminded of his warm breath on my skin and wondered what the touch of his fingers would feel like. I sat there, pretending to be engrossed in the e-reader, while goosebumps rippled across my body.

What was I reading anyway? I got my eyes to focus on the paperwhite screen. Ah, yes, I was re-reading a book on phenomenology for my seminar on feminist spatialities. Of course, right now, the only space that seemed persuasive enough to hold my attention was the one between Mihir and me, the distance between his body and mine.

Darn it, I needed to get a grip. Did I reek of desperation? I decided to give up the farce and regain a semblance of self-respect by retreating to my room. Except Mihir chose that exact moment to swim to the far end and climb out of the pool. My heart scrambled and scuttled as he walked to the open shower and stood underneath it.

In the dark corner, I only saw the outline of his graceful figure, but it was enough to send a tingling sensation through me. My stomach tightened as I saw him tip his face up toward the water, his arms lifted, raking his fingers through his hair. I wanted details, specific ones, but he was too far, and it was too dark. As though sensing my perusal, he turned around and caught me watching him. A blaze engulfed me. Decency mandated that I avert my gaze, but he seemed to have locked his sight on me as he let the water cascade over his body. Drawing his fingers back through the hair, he gave me a show that I should not be enjoying this much.

Better belated than never! With a thudding heart, I tore my gaze from him and focused on the vacant screen in my hand. I heard the shower turn off and waited with errant anticipation until he walked up. I lifted my tentative eyes to acknowledge his presence near me. His robe was tied loosely around his waist, his hair was wet and raked back, and his beard was damp. A rustle swept across my skin as I managed a smile.

“Can I join you?” he asked, pointing to the recliner next to mine.

“Sure.” I sat upright in my seat. I was wearing my sleep shorts and a camisole underneath the warm robe, and I adjusted the robe to cover my legs. “That was a lovely celebration today. I hope your father enjoyed it,” I said when he relaxed into his chair.

“Thank you. I think he particularly liked your gift. Mom did too. That was very kind of you.”

“Hope I didn’t steal your thunder. I can’t help it. Gifting makes me very happy.”

“I’m sure you make everyone around you very happy,” he said without looking at me, and I chose to deflect it.

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