Page 139 of Cakes for the Grump
Gianjot Singh is in his late fifties, but, to my fresh eyes, he looks impossibly old and thin, shrank smaller by the length of his unpinned beard. Sitting in his chair with his eyes closed, his eyelashes magnify under the thick lenses of his spectacles. Despite the heat, a light blanket delicately wraps around his body. His hands are folded very properly in his lap, as if he is waiting for something to happen. Or for someone to come.
Coming to a distanced stop in front of him, I am suddenly overwhelmed. I haven’t had a proper relationship with Dad in a really long time. He’s been a shadow of himself, and to survive that transformation, I’ve numbed myself to it. There is a realization inside myself, right now under the sun, that all the hardship and determination I’ve put into his rehab isn’t as self-sacrificing as it looks. I think…I think I was so determined to pay for it as a way to mitigate my absence from his life. Back then, the formula felt simple. Give money, be a good daughter, and you don’t have to deal with how you don’t actuallyspeakto your father.
His eyes open and catch sight of me. He tries to stand, but Dr. Mangat hurries over and tells him to stay relaxed. She pulls up another chair for me to sit on and signals her colleague to bring us over some tea.
For a while, nothing is said. I don’t know how to start.
My dad’s eyes are shining as if damp, and he is sniffling and clearing his throat.
“How are you doing?” a tiny voice of mine ventures out.
“Thank you for seeing me, puth. There is so much I’m sorry for.”
I brace myself, feeling my legs lock up.
Dr. Mangat softly clucks her tongue. “How about today, we enjoy a nice cup of chai together? And, Gianjot, you can tell Rita how much you love yoga.”
“What are you saying? I hate this yoga. It isn’t natural to bend over into these shapes.” His voice sounds thin and hesitant, but is pleasing to my ear like an unused door opening after sitting in dust for so long. “Puth, don’t get me started on the clothes this doctor is trying to get me to wear doing this exercise.”
I bring my chair closer to him. “Are you saying it’s not helping at all?”
“Well, a bit,” he concedes. “My hips are moving better.”
Dr. Mangat laughs. “You’ve made marvelous improvement. How about you tell Rita what kinds of moves you’ve been able to do? We’ll go from there, bit by bit, and share as much as everyone is able to.”
For the first time today, I properly exhale. “That sounds like a great idea.”
“Yes, I agree.” Dad wipes his eyes a few times with his handkerchief, and I catch him staring at me when he thinks I’m not looking. As if he can’t believe I’m there.
I can’t either, but I’m glad I am.
It’s a start.
THIRTY-NINE
The aftermathof me leaving Luke is a mess of confusion, heartsickness, and pain I feel all the time, but most viscerally at night. There is little sleep I get. Someone—mostly Uncle—comments on how I wander around the apartment at all hours in a daze.
While I’ve shared everything with my loved ones, I’m not ready to expose the true depth of hurt I am in yet. Even to myself. My excuses are in rotation, changing between how I’m shaken up over his strained hip, that I’ve got a case of wicked lingering jet lag, how reconnecting with my dad is emotionally exhausting, and finally, the major trouble circling my head: the question of my employment.
As in, what am I to do next since I’m no longer a meal-prep chef, and no longer in the running to win an international meal kit competition? The safe and good choice is to try landing a salaried job, something in high tech, professional services, sales, hospitality, or entertainment. Even with my limited background experience, if I send out enough applications, I’ll find somewhere willing to give me a shot since I speak English proficiently enough.
The problem with trying to make it in a culinary capacity in India hasn’t changed. Long hours, less pay. No real guarantee of advancement. It’s a mountain my legs currently can’t bear to climb.
Uncle looks at me, tidying up my non-cooking related resume, andexpresses disappointment. So do my friends. They are quite persistent about it.
“Rita, think about how far you got,” says Kiren. “Your recipes beat outhundredsof other cooks, and we all know you have skills.”
“Yes, but there are a lot of good chefs out in the world that keep it as a hobby.”
Uncle, while still mostly immobile in his lower half, is doing arm raises to keep his upper half strong. “Can you really imagine doing anything else?”
“There’s a lot to be said about changing direction.”
“It will make you miserable,” predicts Noor.
I pull out my laptop, glad that despite it being an ancient model, it connects to the Internet after a few failed hiccups. “I’m just being practical. I—I don’t think I’m ready for another failure, that’s all. I needonething to go right in my career.”
“Back up.” Kiren makes a circular gesture with her finger. “Let’s do a tally of everything you’ve accomplished. Your cakes for Luke?—”
