Her mom tossed the mustard seeds into the heated oil, and a satisfying sizzle emitted from the pan. The tantalizing aroma was always a comfort to Riya, reminding her of better times.
“Need me to grab the laundry?” Riya asked. The washer and dryer were in the basement, which meant that her mom or dad had to carry the laundry down two flights of stairs and then back up again.
“It’s in the dryer. You can bring it up before you go,” her mother said.
Sometimes, Riya could still smell the smoke or see the charred remains of the furniture after the fire had been doused. She closed her eyes against the memory, and Dhillon’s angry face replaced it. She sighed and opened her eyes, forcing herself to focus on making the small balls that she would roll out for the rotli.
“Where’s Dad?”
“He should be home shortly.” Her mother’s gaze landed on the clock. It was overly ornate, a wooden filigree piece painted gold, with a full-color painting of Ganesha in the center. The clock face was just above his ample belly, the face of the clock around the elephant-headed deity. The Remover of Obstacles. Since the fire, after losing Samir, every room in the house sported some form of this image. “Are you staying for dinner?”
“I have an early shift.” Her reply was automatic.
Her mother’s eyes clouded over for a second, but then she nodded.
“But I can stay to eat,” Riya added. Guilt was a powerful motivator.
Her mother jerked her head up to look at Riya.
Riya widened her eyes as if she changed her mind all the time. “What?”Tell her.Dhillon’s admonishment that she hadn’t even told her parents weighed heavily on her. But what would she say?“Mom, I’m a firefighter”? If Dhillon’s reaction was any indication, her parents would never understand that choice. As it was, they had a hard time understanding her decision to be a paramedic.Why not just be a doctor?
Every decision she made for her life just seemed to put another layer of space between her and her parents. The hardest was when she had moved out. It didn’t matter that she had been twenty-eight. Tradition dictated that she live at home until she got married.Why would you want to live alone? Even Dhillon is still at home.The concept was as foreign to them as eating steak. Dhillon was still at home because hewantedto be. He wouldn’t leave his family until he was sure they were okay. Whatokaylooked like, only Dhillon knew.
Riya had moved out because she couldn’t be in the house anymore. She would have left the minute she turned eighteen, but her parents had seemed so fragile she couldn’t do it. She finally made the move two years ago when she realized that her presence wasn’t really doing anything for her parents. At least, not that she could see. She had also started training for the academy at that time.
Now she found it hard to even have dinner here.
“Nothing,” her mother managed. “Good.” She smiled.
“Hello,” her father called from the front door.
“Kitchen!” her mother responded. She had added the cinnamon and clove, and the kitchen smelled like comfort.
Slow, uneven footsteps as her father made his way to the kitchen. Slower than she remembered. It seemed to take forever for him to get to the kitchen. Riya looked at her mother, a question on her face.
Her mother shrugged but offered no information.
Riya glanced at the doorway as her father’s steps got closer.
“Riya!” he boomed from the kitchen doorway. “I thought I saw the bike.” Her father was taller than her, with a slight belly and thinning black hair. This was in contrast to her mother’s shorter, slightly rounder stature, which made them look mismatched at times, when nothing could be further from the truth.
Riya noted but ignored her mother’s tight mouth at mention of her motorcycle. Just another item on the never-ending list of things her mother did not understand about her.
He beamed at her and kissed her on the cheek while she rolled out the flatbread. “How’s it running?” While her mother had never approved of what Riya was doing with her life, her father had simply changed his expectations. He didn’t like that she rode the bike, moved out and worked all hours as a paramedic, but he accepted that his daughter was living her own life.
After Samir had died, her father had taught her all the things a father like him might have taught a son. How to change a tire, change the oil, mow the lawn. Riya wanted to believe that he would have taught her these things even if Samir had lived. She did know that during these teaching sessions, he was thinking about Samir, fulfilling some fatherly obligation, imparting his wisdom. It had to go somewhere. Why not to Riya? She had eaten up the attention and the knowledge. If nothing else, it now gave them a platform from which to start a conversation these days.
I really should tell them.
“It’s fine, Papa.” She smiled. He winked as he stole a hot, freshly buttered rotli from her stack.
“Go, change your clothes!” her mother reprimanded him as he bit into the bread.
“Delicious,” he whispered to Riya as he approached his wife. “I’m going. After I eat this.” He kissed his wife on the cheek, and she flushed despite herself. Riya watched this exchange, as she had many times before. Things had been rough after Samir died, but their love had remained ever strong. She should be so lucky. Her thoughts turned back to Dhillon. She sighed and pushed those thoughts away. No sense in going there.
Her father returned from changing his clothes and pulled out a bottle of her favorite red wine.
“You keep that here?” Riya asked, as she finished buttering the last rotli.
