Page 90 of The Encore’s Crown

Mrs. Malhotra took both my hands in hers. “The flight was comfortable?”

“Very. Thank you for having me.”

“We are happy you came.”

Her husband remained a few steps behind her. Radhika had his chin. His posture, too. He stood so straight it was difficult to tell whether he was naturally intimidating or practiced at it. He wore a cream kurta beneath a dark vest, his expression controlled enough that I couldn't say he if only disliked me or was plotting my murder. His assessment moved from my face to my necklaces, the cut collar of my shirt, my tattoos, then returned to my eyes. I resisted the urge to pull the fabric closed.

“Mr. Malhotra.” I stepped forward and offered my hand. “Thank you for inviting me into your home.”

He looked at my hand for half a second before taking it. His grip was firm.

“So you are the musician my daughter has been crossing continents to see?”

“I’ve crossed a few for her too.”

Mrs. Malhotra touched her husband’s arm. “Let the poor man enter the house before you interrogate him.”

“I asked one question.”

Before he could ask any more, she guided me farther into the entrance hall, which could have swallowed my childhood home whole. The ceiling rose two stories above us, painted in blue and gold. Sunlight poured through carved stone screens and fell across the marble floor in intricate patterns. Fresh flowers filled an arrangement taller than Rithy. One wall held family photographs alongside old film posters, awards, and black-and-white portraits of people I recognized even though I had grown up thousands of miles away.

I stopped in front of one photograph of Radhika as a child, missing one front tooth and glaring furiously at the camera.

Mrs. Malhotra smiled. “She hated that dress.”

“I can tell.”

“She refused to smile for the photographer.”

Her father watched me studying it.

“She was stubborn from the beginning,” he said.

“She still is.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“Respectfully,” I added.

Mrs. Malhotra laughed. Voices sounded from the adjoining room. Several women appeared almost at once. I knew they were aunties before anyone introduced them. The collective energy of appraisal hit me from across the hall. They came in bright silk, gold jewelry, perfume, and expressions ranging from delighted curiosity to immediate concern. One looked openly at my tattoos. Another examined my hair. A third stared at the neck of my shirt long enough that I became aware of exactly how much chest I had put on display. The questions began before the introductions were finished.

How long was the flight?

Had I been to India before?

Did my mother know I was here?

Was I hungry?

Why was I so thin?

I wasn't thin. I was six-foot-four and spent enough time in the gym that magazines had written articles about my arms. But by aunty standards, I was moments from starvation. Mrs. Malhotra attempted to answer for me, but the questions kept coming. I brought my palms together.

“Namaste,” I said carefully. “Aap sab se milkar bahut khushi hui.”

It's a pleasure to meet you all.

Every aunty stared at me. Mrs. Malhotra’s eyebrows rose. Her father looked openly surprised for the first time. I smiled. One of the aunties recovered and answered me in Hindi so quickly that every word I had practiced abandoned my skull. I caught two of them.