The languid afternoon air had driven out the flurried morning activity from the office. The overhead fans picked up the aroma wafting from open lunch boxes and swirled it over heavy ledgers and dusty documents. Sukanya’s lunch box held simple fare; lemon rice — cooked with turmeric powder and lemon juice. While the usual condiments had been added, curry leaves and peanuts were missing. Sukanya’s mother must have been distracted by Murthy’s visit.

Seeing the effect her move to Madras had on her parents, Sukanya had initially offered to move out and live on her own. It had happened after a particularly stressful visit from her father’s cousin. Sukanya was in her room half awake from her afternoon nap. Nalini lay asleep next to her with her comic book fallen on her face. Sukanya moved the comic book and tried to trace Murthy’s features on Nalini’s face, when her mother’s sharp tone reached her. “It is a different world these days. Sometimes we old people have to wonder if the earth still goes around the sun. Our daughters are pulled in all directions. They are educated, they know what to do.” Her father’s next words made it apparent to Sukanya that even he was surprised by his wife’s outburst.

“Radha, did your hand slip while putting sugar in my coffee? You always make such perfect coffee. Just a pinch more sugar in my coffee, my dear. Ask my dear cousin too if her coffee needs sweetening,” he said.

“We are blessed to have you and Nalini with us in our old age,” he told Sukanya later. “Your mother is right. With progress comes a different set of problems. What to do? Our boys — their heads get turned with all this lure of foreign investment. We just have to ride it out together and be patient.”   

Her mother’s hand must have slipped again this morning. There was too much lemon juice in the rice. Sukanya closed her lunch box and turned to her work. As she made entries in the ledger trying to balance the pluses and minuses, she started to believe that they could balance in her life, too. October 23rd.  Twelve years. Eight perfect years before Murthy was bitten by the entrepreneur bug. A sense of anticipation settled like the afternoon dust on Sukanya’s skin. Hope seeped in with the beads of perspiration that trickled down her neck and disappeared between her breasts. She shifted in her chair and willed her cotton kameez to absorb the perspiration. She would join Murthy for dinner. She would try really hard to pretend that Mr. Richardson wasn’t there. She would take an anniversary gift for Murthy — a recent framed picture of Nalini as a reminder of all that they shared. And she would try even harder to pretend that Murthy was paying for dinner himself.

*

Murthy had quite forgotten about Sukanya when he entered the restaurant. “Reservation for Murthy,” he said to the hostess.

“Yes, sir, please step this way. Madam, your party has arrived,” The hostess bowed towards a young lady who was peering anxiously into the restaurant. The lady looked at Murthy, her face brightening in relief.

“Anya! Sorry, I didn’t see you,” Murthy said. As he followed her across the marble floor of the restaurant, he kicked himself for his careless remark and the doubtful look he had caught in Sukanya’s dark brown eyes. Years of seeing her with a worried frown between her brows, in her faded house clothes, in her severe work clothes, either a cotton sari or a hastily worn salwar kameez had made him pass over this vision in tastefully tailored military-green silk trousers topped with a simple, woven, matching shirt that stopped just short of well rounded — Murthy shook his head. What was he thinking? As if in recognition of his thoughts, Sukanya tugged at the shirt. His eyes traveled up to her glossy black hair, brushed to a silky sheen for the evening, cascading to her shoulders. Her fingers straightened the strap of her handbag and betrayed the slight tremor in her hand.