“I am going to throw up,” she said, as soon as her eyes fell on her husband-maybe-to-be. “I have never been this scared before, Priya. This is a really bad idea,” she clutched my wrist. “Let us go back and we will pretend you never called him.”
I unclasped the death grip she had on me and patted the offending hand. “You don’t have to do this. But I think you need to, to be sure. It’s okay. I’ll be there.”
“You are more interested in that masala dosa,” she quipped nervously.
“Well . . . it is hard to get good dosa back home,” I said with a smile. “Come on. You know you won’t rest until you do this. And we have to get back by noon. Thatha wants me to let him know what my decision is.”
“And what is your decision?” Sowmya asked, still rooted at a safe distance from Vinay.
“We’re not here to discuss that,” I reminded her. I raised my hand and waved to Vinay. “Hi,” I cried out, and Sowmya closed her eyes.
She looked strange without her glasses. Vanity had taken over and she had abandoned the thick glasses for her seldom-used contact lenses.
“Namaskaram.” Vinay folded his hands and then gestured for us to sit down.
“No problem,” Vinay said, and then smiled uneasily at me. “Would you like to eat something?”
“No,” Sowmya said, but I nodded and said, “ Masala dosa.”
Sowmya pinched my thigh and I stifled a yelp. “No, nothing, thanks.”
“Coffee?” Vinay asked, sounding as nervous as Sowmya.
“No,” Sowmya said, her head still bent. “I . . . wanted to talk to you,” she raised her head and he nodded. Speaking of uncomfortable places to be, this one took the cake and the baker.
“So . . . is there a problem?” Vinay asked. “You don’t approve of the match?”
“I . . . I want to marry you,” Sowmya reassured him a little too curtly. “But I wanted to clarify a few things.”
“Sure, sure. I am very happy that you want to marry me,” Vinay said with a small smile.
Sowmya held my hand and almost broke my pinkie finger. “I want to work,” she revealed sincerely. “My father didn’t let me and they said that your family doesn’t approve. But I want to work.”
Vinay nodded. “No problem. I can handle my parents. I will explain to them. If you want to work, I fully support that and they will, too.”
Sowmya smiled and I felt and heard her sigh of relief. “And . . . I want to have my own house. I know you care for your parents, but . . .”
Vinay smiled then. “The house is big. There are two kitchens and two everything. Old house, though. My grandfather, he built it. We will live separate, but they are still my parents.”
Sowmya smiled back and nodded.
“Anything else?” Vinay asked.
“And that is all,” she said.
“Now will you have coffee?” Vinay looked at me. “ Masala dosa?” he asked.
Sowmya nodded shyly and Vinay signaled for a waiter to come to our table.
During the auto rickshaw ride back home, Sowmya was flushed with happiness. “He is nice, isn’t he?” she said.
“Very nice,” I agreed with her.
“I can work,” Sowmya said almost giddily. “A job, Priya. A place I can go to every day, out of the house. I am so glad I did this. I feel so relieved. And”—she laughed softly—“I am getting married!”
“Congratulations,” I said, and kissed her on her cheek.
“What will you tell them?” she asked me when we got off the auto rickshaw.
“The truth,” I said easily. If Sowmya could take such a big chance to make a better life, I should be able to do the same. “I love Nick. I’m going to marry him.”
Sowmya laced her fingers with mine after she paid off the auto rickshaw driver and squeezed gently. “I will be with you all the time. All right?”
“All right,” I said. “I . . . am going to go and make a phone call.”
“Isn’t it late there?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Around midnight, but he’s usually awake late.”
“Okay, I will make an excuse for you,” Sowmya said and winked at me.
I couldn’t get ahold of Nick. His cell phone said he was out of range. I got our answering machine the five times I tried our home number and his work number said he was either out of his cubicle or on another line.