Dinner at the Patel’s

~Alexie Ivanov~

Annoyed, pissed, and tired – these were the adjectives that would perfectly describe my day. Except for one instance, the rest of my day seemed to have been ruined thanks to an encounter with a certain someone. It was all thanks to Nari that a glimmer of sustenance remained in my day.

On the drive back, I watched on my monitor as Nari hopped around all the way from the central foyer to the gardens, then to the garden. I had never imagined a youngling like her would show keen interest in a hobby that I had picked up a few years back to bring some solace into my life. The way her eyes glimmered in excitement made me smile.

Although I was a bit worried about the stairs, to my relief, she opted not to go there. The house stretched out over a five thousand square feet area, with an additional two thousand for the garden. For her tiny legs to cover so much ground in a matter of hours marveled me, indicating her will to explore—a good sign, I suppose. She was slowly opening up to the new space, and the positive indications she gave also had a correlation with her healing, both physically and mentally.

Deciding to go to the supermarket to pick up some things of her liking to cook, a distant memory suddenly popped into my head. It was the first time I had been invited to dine with the Patel family. Back then, having recently landed on this continent, the country's language was still a bit haywire for my young mind to grasp. Mr. Patel had picked me up from the boarding school, excited and giddy about something extravagant his wife had cooked for us.

He charmed me, telling me about the exquisite nature of Indian cuisine and how he had won over his American wife to love it too—and, he assured me, I would too. I was undeniably excited about the food, but another excitement also bubbled in my heart: the prospect of meeting his daughter.

Despite the fact that the girl was seven years younger than me, I held high anticipation about meeting her. If her father, though I would never admit it to him, had charmed me to this extent, what about her? Many thoughts rushed through my head—would she have the same intellect as my mentor? Would she be as proficient with emerging technology like her father? Would she be an adept conversationalist, much like her father?

We arrived at his modest abode, and I marveled at the two-bedroom apartment. At that time, it may have seemed humble for a middle-class professor like Mr. Patel, but considering my own humble origins, it felt quite expansive. Sensing my awe, Mr. Patel encouraged me to enter, and we were warmly welcomed by his wife. If ever there was a goddess in this world, she stood before me. I can vividly recall her inviting smile as she guided me into the warmth of their home.

Any initial reservations I may have harbored dissipated upon entering their cozy space, reminiscent of my own home back in Russia. In fact, when I had envisioned Nari's room, this welcoming atmosphere was the initial image in my mind.

From behind her mother's legs, I noticed two large doe eyes gazing up at me from below my line of sight. That was the moment I first laid eyes on Nari. In an instant, all preconceptions about intellect, charm, or anything else gave way to a new feeling I had never experienced before, blossoming in the depths of my heart. It was a sensation of warmth and giddiness, as if her gaze alone could melt me. Strangely, I found myself not wanting her eyes to leave me. Perhaps I stared at her for too long, for I witnessed her shy blush and the way her long lashes covered eyes that sparkled like stars.

A compelling urge surged within me—I wanted to make her look up. I yearned to tell her not to hide those orbs from me. However, my daydream was abruptly interrupted as Nari's mother shielded her daughter, an uncertain smile on her lips as she spoke, "I'm sorry, Alexie. Nari is a bit shy with strangers."

Did her protective stance irritate me? Certainly. Did I feel a desire to gently push the woman aside and catch a glimpse of my angel? Absolutely. However, even I wasn't foolish enough to rebel against the protective goddess who happened to be the mother of my cherished angel.

Coughing lightly, Mr. Patel drew my attention. "Let's eat, shall we, Alexie? The aroma is enchanting me," he remarked as he guided me toward the dining area. I took my seat across from Nari, with Mr. Patel beside me and Mrs. Patel next to Nari.

The initial tension in the air gradually dissipated as Mrs. Patel engaged me in conversation about my studies. She expressed admiration for my achievements and how quickly I was adapting to the new country. Although, from time to time, she gently corrected my grammar and vocabulary, my strong Northern Russian accent added an extra layer of complexity, making it challenging for them to grasp certain terms I used. While it initially left me feeling embarrassed, Mr. Patel reassured me later that week, emphasizing that adjusting as a non-native speaker would take time. He, being a prime example, humorously recounted how it took him years, despite being an adult double my age when he first arrived.

Although her corrections may not have been ill-intended, at times, they felt a bit harsh. Nonetheless, her skepticism seemed to stem from a place of genuine concern and perhaps a desire to help me integrate better into their culture.

Nari spoke scarcely, her words barely audible as they slipped through the air, responding in a soft voice whenever she was prompted. Occasionally, I noticed her eyes drifting toward me when my attention was elsewhere, causing a flutter of butterflies in my stomach each time I caught her gaze. In a playful moment, I intentionally focused on my plate for an extended period and then glanced up swiftly, catching her off guard and eliciting a cough from her. This earned me a disapproving look from her mother, who promptly assisted her with a sip of water.

A tantalizing aroma wafted through the air, filling the room with exotic scents, while Mr. Patel's excitement echoed like that of a schoolboy. Mrs. Patel, beaming with pride, presented a bamboo log, and my curiosity heightened as I watched her skillfully peel away layers of cooked flour from the top lip of the bamboo. With each peel, the enchanting fragrance grew more potent, causing my mouth to water and my olfactory receptors to revel in the delightful scent that enveloped the house.

Upon revealing the layers, a captivating rice dish unfolded, boasting long grains of Basmati rice adorned with a captivating saffron hue. Mrs. Patel proudly introduced the creation, saying, "This dish is called Prawn Biryani, with the marinated meat steam-cooked at the end along with the partially cooked rice. It's my first time preparing it this way. I hope you enjoy." A genuine smile illuminated her face as she nervously toyed with her thumbs, her gaze shifting between me and, more significantly, her husband. Her earnest desire for his approval lingered palpably, a sentiment subtly conveyed in her hopeful demeanor.

Chiming in, I exclaimed, "Sure, it smells amazing!" A grateful smile graced her face as she began to serve the dish to everyone. Once the serving was complete, she took her seat, and we prepared to indulge in the feast. I observed Nari pushing aside the fancy cutlery, opting to savor her meal with her hands. However, before she could start, her father interjected with a disapproving tsk, directed at her. "Nari, we shouldn't touch our food with our hands!" he reprimanded. His sharp tone caught me by surprise, as I had never witnessed this side of him before. Despite feeling a pang of sympathy for the girl, I hesitated to intervene, unsure if it was my place to address the situation.

"But..." she began to argue back, "Dadi said biryani is best enjoyed with your han-."

"Don't talk back!" her father abruptly cut her off, causing her small figure to retreat into her chair. To diffuse the tension, her mother chimed in, laughing a bit and offering an apologetic look toward me.

As I observed the exchange, a thought lingered in my mind, "Shouldn't you be looking out for your daughter?"

Finally, everything settled, and an awkward silence permeated the room as I observed the girl hurriedly gulping down her food. Something seemed amiss; she wasn't even chewing at this point, and a sense of pity welled up within me. Yet, an uneasy feeling crept in. It appeared as though she couldn't chew at all, evident from the frown forming on her features. My eyes widened as I anticipated what might be wrong.

After just two bites, she began coughing frantically. Her mother, visibly concerned, offered her water, but she pushed it away, attempting to stand up. Unfortunately, this action led to her falling off her chair, and the glass in her hand crashed into pieces.

Her father voiced his concern, "What is happening to her?" and her mother began to panic. Without hesitation, I sprang to my feet, kneeling beside her. I quickly and somewhat forcefully pulled her up, placing her in a kneeling position with her head bent down. My fingers moved up her face to her lips, parting them in the process. Her mother, alarmed, attempted to push me away, screaming, "What are you doing to her?"

My eyes snapped, and I glared at her, uttering in a firm Russian tone, "Молчать!" ("Silence!"), causing the whispering woman to back off. Ignoring the commotion around me, I proceeded to insert my fingers into Nari's mouth, pushing them toward the back of her throat. Instantly, her bile rose up, and she vomited in my arms. As the last bits of her dinner left her body, she whimpered and then fell unconscious.

I glanced at the baffled adults and calmly stated, "She is allergic to prawns; call an ambulance." As if snapped from a trance, they hurriedly went about following my instructions. I gently handed the unconscious girl to her mother before heading to clean myself up. The apartment's bathroom, conveniently located next to the dining area, allowed their argument and blaming to echo throughout the house. It might not be a perfect home, but it was better than mine, I thought as I walked out, hearing the sirens wail.

The ambulance arrived, and the paramedics took charge, providing oxygen to the girl as her father accompanied her. Her mother looked at me and offered a ride back, but I declined, insisting that she stay by her daughter's side.

An awkward silence enveloped the room as I took a deep breath and spoke, "I'm sorry for screaming at you, Mrs. Patel. But if you had been aware of your own daughter's allergies, this wouldn't have occurred. Perhaps, instead of trying to impress those who are already lost, you should focus on the ones you have left." Her eyes widened, tears welling up as she attempted to respond, to deny everything. However, before she could articulate her endless excuses, I walked out, embracing the cold wind that helped calm my heated heart.

Casting my eyes down, I heaved the packet of Basmati rice into my shopping trolley, the melancholy hum of the store playing in the background. As I pulled out my phone, my eyes widened, and I rushed out instinctively. The store was just a few meters away from my house, and I hurried back, quickly entering the pin for the lock. To my relief, the stairs seemed deserted as I moved in slowly, fully aware of the girl sprinting away from me. Gradually, I peeled off my tie, the weariness of the day beginning to set in.