AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He glances at the pot. “Ahh, yes. I’m afraid I couldn’t sleep.” He gestures to it. “Would you like a cup?”
I nod, making my way over to the table in the middle of the kitchen. I sit down in one of the chairs. “This is weird,” I say.
“What is?”
“Well, I’ve been told my whole life that I’m going to be making chai for my in-laws, like, every day,” I say, a laugh teasing my tone. “But here my future father-in-law is making tea for me.”
Mr. Porter smirks as he expertly crushes the cardamom pods with the side of a knife. For a brief moment, I imagine Mrs. Porter standing beside her husband in a kitchen, supervising his technique. I imagine Mr. Porter laughing as his wife puts her thin arms around his burly back, resting her hands on top of his and gently correcting his movements. Two people who come from different backgrounds teaching each other the things that make up how they live their lives. Culture is so personal; people don’t usually think about it as such, but there’s something so private about the details we learn from others, taking them for our own and molding them so they fit us. And then there’s something so incredibly intimate about sharing that culture with someone else. To give someone you deeply care about a glimpse into your soul, knowing that that person will take those glimpses and be grateful for them, because they love everything that makes you you.
Blending two cultures is difficult; most of the time one ends up dominating the other. But these two loved each other enough to commit to making it work, and instead of things being too much or too little, they managed to meet in the middle, like all good relationships should.
“I’ve always found that aspect of desi culture strange,” he says, coming back to the present. He looks over at me. “I mean, I want a daughter, not a servant.” He swipes the pieces into the pot. “Even with my wife. When we married, it’s like all she wanted to do was wait on me, and she expected me to want her to do that.” He pulls out a stirring spoon from a drawer. “I was a grown man, on my second marriage. I knew how to take care of myself. All I wanted her to do was live for herself.”
I smile. “I feel bad for the desi girls who don’t have a father-in-law with your perspective.”
He dips his chin at me. “That’s kind of you to say, Maya.”
We’re silent as Mr. Porter continues prepping the chai, and soon enough, the spicy aroma fills the kitchen. I inhale the scent deeply, and it’s like coming home after a long day at work. Ammi always had a cup ready and waiting for me as soon as I came home and changed into something more comfortable. It’s one of the things I’m going to miss the most about living with her. We may have our differences, but the realization that I’m not going to live with my mother anymore settles heavily in my stomach. Ammi, Hibba Baji, and I agreed that it makes the most sense for Ammi to move in with Hibba Baji and her husband after I marry, because she has a kid. I’m sure Ammi will come stay with me when I have kids, whenever that is, but for now, Ammi will be going to Hibba Baji’s house. And instead of a warm cup of chai to come home to every night, I’ll be coming home to an empty apartment. To a cold lonely place.
A shiver runs over me, sprouting goose bumps on my arms. I rub at them over my kurta as Mr. Porter goes over to the fridge, pulling out milk. “I do hope you’ve forgiven our...ah...indiscretion,” he begins. He unscrews the cap of the carton, pouring some into the pot.
I pause my rubbing. “You mean where you left out that you had a whole other son?”
Mr. Porter sucks in his cheeks at my tone. I don’t mean to get snarky, and I know it’s rude, but I can’t help the rush of indignation at the casual mention of how he disowned his son for wanting a path of his own. I never got to that point with Ammi, but if I were a bit more stubborn, and if she hadn’t been lenient enough...it could have been me.
“Erm, yes.” He clears his throat. “I feel badly that we didn’t tell you, but we certainly didn’t expect Sarfaraz to show up to the wedding, either. That was a surprise to us all.”
No kidding. “If Imtiaz wants him here, then so do I,” I say. I rest my arms on the table. “You know... Sarfaraz has been on his own for a long time. And I don’t know how you feel, but he’s your son. You have to miss him, don’t you?”
Mr. Porter pauses in stirring the pot. “You seem very concerned with Sarfaraz.”
My face burns. I lean back from the table. “He’s become...a friend,” I finish, though the word friend feels incredibly empty when I’m using it to refer to Sarfaraz. “We started off on the wrong foot on the plane, but I feel like I’ve gotten to know him well enough. He took care of me while we were trying to get here.” Something sweet swirls in my chest. “He could get really frustrated with me, but he always stuck by me anyway.” When I lift my eyes back to Mr. Porter, he has an undecipherable expression on his face. I give him a pointed look. “You raised a good guy, Dad. I wish you knew him as the man he is now.”
Mr. Porter doesn’t say anything. He grabs a ladle and pours some chai into two mugs. “You seem to have gotten to know him well in only a few days.”
“I wouldn’t say a few days,” I mumble. “But we were together the whole time.” My heartbeat quickens, and I clarify, “Respectfully, though. We were always together respectfully.”
Okay, except for one time, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Mr. Porter slides me my mug, and I pick it up with a grateful nod. I inhale the spicy scent of the chai, blow on it, then take a delicate sip. After a few quiet seconds, I lower the mug from my mouth. “Can I ask you something, Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Why won’t you forgive Sarfaraz for what happened?”
Mr. Porter freezes. “I don’t see how it’s your business.”
“I’m going to be family,” I remind him. “It’s my business.”
He stares at me, but when I don’t back down, he lowers his mug back to the table. “You don’t have children, Maya. You won’t understand.”
“I want to try,” I press. More like, I want to know, but whatever.
Mr. Porter stares down at his cup. “Alright.” He raps his knuckles on the counter, thinking for a long moment. When he opens his mouth, he says, “When you do everything you can for your kids, it’s disappointing when they don’t live up to your expectations.”
“Living up to your expectations and being someone they don’t want to be are different,” I correct. “You can point them in a certain direction all you want, but they’re your kid. They’re not an extension of you. They’re their own person.”
“I suppose,” Mr. Porter huffs. “But it’s one thing to want to do what you want, and then it’s another to lie about it. I had no idea, and I was completely blindsided. That’s not how you treat family, in my opinion. So why should I treat him with respect when he clearly didn’t have any for me?”
