Read Online Lovetorn by Kavita Daswani - Free Book Online

grandmother, in preparation for the lives we would lead one day as wives and mothers. Even though we had servants, we were never allowed to assume that we would be waited on hand and foot, like the men of the house were. We were still children after all, and girls at that. In the hierarchy of the household, we ranked the lowest.
    But still, we had never prepared a full meal from scratch on our own. We didn’t know what to do next. We bided our time. Soon it was almost noon, and there was still no sign of our mother.
    I looked over at Sangita. I could tell that she was thinking the same thing as me. Our mother wasn’t coming downstairs. This was going to be the first time that she wasn’t going to cook for a guest. There must be something really wrong with her.
    “Heat some oil,” I said to my sister.
    Six hours later we were done. My mother would have been able to cook seven dishes in half the time. But Sangita and I were new at this. At least we hadn’t burned anything. By six thirty the kitchen was clean, and Sangita and I were in our best frocks. When the doorbell rang, we stood anxiously behind our father as he opened the door.
    “Hello, Jeremy! Welcome! Welcome!” he said. “Please, come in. These are my girls, Shalini and Sangita.”
    Mr. Jeremy stepped in. He was shorter than I had imagined. He was wearing a smart checked shirt tucked into navy pants and in one hand was carrying a slender paper bag with a floral design. He shook my father’s hand before turning to Sangita and me.
    “Hey, great to meet you,” he said. He extended his hand to my sister and then to me. I was immediately struck by his accent—so perfectly American with all those rolling r ’s, to me so incongruous coming from an Indian.
    “Please come in and have a seat,” I said.
    He moved into the living room, took a seat on the couch, and leaned into a cushion.
    “Mr. Jeremy, what may I bring you to drink?” I asked. “We have Fanta, Coke, Sprite, apple juice, orange juice, club soda, of course water . . .” I rattled off, recalling the large bottles that we had stuffed into the refrigerator yesterday.
    “Just call me Jeremy,” he said. I nodded, knowing I wouldn’t. “I’d love a beer.”
    My father looked over at us aghast. In all of his purchases yesterday, it had not occurred to him to buy beer.
    “I’m sorry, but we don’t have any,” I said.
    “It’s no problem,” my father shouted, jumping up. “I’ll run down to 7-Eleven. It’s just on the corner. Please, tell me which brand I should buy?”
    “Relax,” my father’s boss said. “I can do without. A Coke would be fine. Anyway, I brought this,” he said, handing me the bag in his hand. I looked inside; it contained a bottle of wine. “Maybe we can enjoy it together later, over dinner?”
    “Actually, Jeremy, in my family we don’t drink,” my father said. Jeremy looked surprised. There was no reason he should have known that; this was the first time my father and his new boss were socializing. But it was true: my grandparents had a strict no-meat and no-alcohol rule, although I often wondered how my male cousins coped when they went with their friends to some of Bangalore’s famous pubs.
    “Please, let me open the bottle for you,” my father offered, although I knew he didn’t have a clue how to do so.
    “No, thank you, it’s fine,” Jeremy replied. “Maybe you can regift it,” he added, smiling.
    My father had put some music on the CD player to help liven up the otherwise quiet living room. On the table in front of Mr. Jeremy were the traditional Indian appetizers that Sangita and I had prepared. The khandvi , almost like pasta rolls but made of chickpea flour and yogurt, were floppier than they should have been; but Mr. Jeremy beamed happily when he tried one, saying he hadn’t had any since visiting his grandparents in India a year earlier.
    “I’m looking forward to meeting your wife,” he said to my father, wiping some tamarind