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Preeti makes room for him to join her in the doorway. “Bo, it’s Huan’s Komal.”
My mouth falls open. For the first time, I'm not immediately panicking at being recognized, but weirdly pleased and surprised by it. Maybe obsessed. Huan’s Komal? Is that what he calls me?
She pulls back, beaming. “You’ve got to come inside.”
“Oh, I don’t want to impose,” I rush out.
Huan’s dad, Bo, is shorter than Preeti. He has cropped grey hair, the same strong cheekbones as his son and—funny enough—is someone who wears bright yellow.There's a small scar on the bridge of his nose as if he's got a past of head-butting strangers in a bar. The solidity of his muscle certainly makes me believe he could. But, for some reason, the energy he gives off is calming. His voice lulls, and there is a reassured softness to his expression.
“Nonsense,” Bo says. “Come in.”
I’m brought inside and taken to the kitchen. Beige walls are decorated with framed recipes, copper hooks are crammed full of hanging pots, and this extensive spice rack is mounted beside the fridge. It's a kitchen that has seen a lot of action.
Taking a seat, I ask, “Is Huan home?”
“He’s not,” says Bo. “But I’ll message to see where he is.”
“Oh, I called him,” I say, “but he didn’t pick up.”
“That’s not like him.”
It’s not.
Bo leaves to find his phone, and Preeti brings me a plate of biryani rice she's drummed up from somewhere.
“I’m sure you are used to wonderful meals,” she says. “And this is a new recipe Bo made yesterday… so hopefully it’s okay?”
I didn’t think I was hungry, but I think I can eat. And even if I wasn’t, I simply can’t refuse the generous offer of food. Pretty sure if I did, I’d be taken to Bad Guest jail for violating the unwritten hospitality rules you must follow when visiting a household in India.
I say my appreciation, take a few bites, then thoroughly praise the dish. Not a lie. Bo is a great cook, probably just like his son. Huan didn’t really cook in London because of—well—the always crammed hostel kitchen, and because of my love of plain sandwiches. But I’ve got a strong suspicion he’s talented with food.
Again, the kitchen—if his—points to it.
And, as I sit here, it feels like cheating.
I’m in his space, gleaning information without Huan being here to allow it. The loosely formed plan was to confront him, not chat with his family. Though Preeti is openly kind. Seriously, she is pulling home-made chutney out of the fridge, and going through an extensive list of all the drink options I have.
“Water is good,” I say. “And please, don’t do anything special on my behalf. I don’t mean to interrupt your day.”
She brings me water.
“Interrupt anytime,” she says. “Huan is not a big sharer of information, but from what little I’ve forced out of him, I know you are a lovely person. Someone brave and someone not afraid of putting themselves in uncomfortable situations.”
Does she know about my adoption? I wonder with panicked urgency. It’s something I’ve never had to worry about before, but now the news is out. Is Preeti going to bring it up?
I mean”—she gestures her hand in the air—“London! What an adventure it must've been to explore a city like that. You must have so many stories to tell your friends and family.”
No, she’s not bringing it up. I should be relieved, but Preeti’s words have still triggered some hidden emotional landmine. My eyes rapidly water. I’m swallowing hard. Clearly I’m not steady at all, and probably should not have ventured out in public in this irresponsible state after everything that has happened.
She gasps. “Komal—Did I say something?”
I dab away tears. “No, this ismyfault! I’m so sorry for reacting this way! I usually never cry, but I keep getting emotional today.”
“Did… Huan do something?”
“No, I’m not crying about that. At least, not at this moment. It’s more… my mom,” I finish weakly.
Preeti doesn’t push for information, and I think it’s her patience that has me sharing about the fight.
