Incense and Sensibility (The Rajes #3) - Sonali Dev Page 0,64
on a technicality. Truth is truth.” She was staring up at him, absolute clarity in her eyes.
“You would get that. I’ve never seen you lie.”
That made her swallow and step away. “You barely know me, Yash.”
That might be the first lie he’d heard her tell. At least it felt like a lie. From the first moment he’d met her it had felt like he’d always known her.
There was this way she had of shaking her head, as though dusting off one conversation and resetting herself before moving on to the next.
He complied. “What is your mother working on?”
A shadow passed in her eyes. “She’s working on her incense sticks.”
“Words one doesn’t hear every day.”
She smiled again, with more patience than humor. People being amused by the woo-woo-ness of her life had to be something she was used to. “So, did you want to do some breathing?”
“Also not words one hears every day. And yes, please.”
She rolled out a yoga mat. Following her lead, he did the same. One orange and one turquoise, stark against the dark gray wood of the floor.
He was struck by how little he had noticed details the last time he was here. Now he couldn’t stop noticing everything. Storing it away.
“Let’s stretch first today. That okay?” India said.
“Sure.” The idea of following along relaxed the knots he’d been tied up in. Then again, they’d started to relax the moment he’d walked through her door.
India crossed her legs, spine stretched tall, legs almost poetically contained in that compact fold. The way all her lines came together was effortless. On her it was no wonder why they called it a lotus pose. Yash followed, working hard to mirror her. His legs were stiffer than he’d like them to be. Definitely more cactus than lotus.
He always stretched before his runs, but these past few years he’d stretched in a hurry, too strapped for time to take away from the run itself. Since the shooting, he hadn’t stretched or run at all.
A groan escaped as he pulled his knees toward himself. With her usual grace she ignored it. “Let’s pull our knees apart and bring our feet together.”
He did as he was told, and somehow it released the tightness in his hips.
As he relaxed and focused, the strong earthy-sweet smell of incense caught his senses. “So your mother makes incense sticks? Like agarbatti?” That was a little much even for a place this comfortable with woo-woo-ness.
“Yes, we have a workshop upstairs, with all the equipment and supplies you need.” Unlike his, her feet met flush together and her knees fell outward and touched the floor. She folded her hands around her feet and stretched forward, bringing her jaw to her toes, her eyes signaling him to follow. “My grandmother learned how to make them from Ram—he was, well, he was my grandfather. My mom’s father. She taught my mother, and Mom taught us.”
“Seriously?” He forgot about the pose and sprang upright. “Your grandfather was called Ram?” This was so bizarre, he laughed.
Her body stayed languid, but something inside her stiffened. Something too much like anger pursed her lips as she too straightened up. “Why? Because if I have an Indian ancestor, it makes it harder for you to mock my family’s lifestyle?”
“What? No. Do you really think I mock you?” Did he?
She closed her eyes, obviously wishing she hadn’t reacted the way she had.
“India?”
Her eyes opened again, but she focused on her feet. “No, I don’t think you mock me. But . . .” On a deep breath, she threw a glance around the apartment. “You find the way we live amusing. I understand. Most people do. Our lives are nothing like each other’s. I get that.” Was that a reference to what had, rather hadn’t, happened between them? She looked at him again. The anger was gone, but something defensive lingered. “You also think of a lot of this as something you own, culturally. Indians do have a chip on their shoulder about other races and yoga. I get that too. It’s their chip to have. But . . .”
“But what?”
“But, when you do it, it feels more . . . more judgmental.”
“Because I know you and I should know that everything about you is authentic.”
Color rose up her face. She fought to keep herself composed. “No, you don’t know me at all,” she said again. “But this is the only life I’ve ever known and I feel blessed to have it. I’m proud of it. I can understand