Love Comes Later Read online

  “The thought hadn’t occurred to me,” she says with a laugh, although of course it had. Is she imagining the tension in the air? Not one of fear, not in the slightest. If anything, she is intrigued. She is caught up in the evenness of his teeth, the confident way he holds himself.

  “Well, come in and wait, then,” she says, opening the door to a male stranger in a way she would never have been able to in her father’s house. If her mother knew, Hind thought, she would have a meltdown to rival any Arabic soap opera.

  He follows her into the apartment.

  “So this is where it happens,” Ravi says.

  Hind hovers in the kitchen.

  “That’s an odd thing to say,” she remarks. “Where what happens?”

  “Marathon studying,” he says. “Which I assume is why she never calls anyone back.”

  Hind chuckles, partly at his sarcasm, but mostly because she knows “studying” is the excuse both of them use to dodge any familial duties. But if Ravi was her boyfriend – she stops herself short, surprised at the thought on several levels.

  “Sangita is a busy girl,” she says.

  “So busy she hasn’t even told me much about her roommate.”

  Hind isn’t sure how to take that observation. She puts on the kettle to distract herself from his direct gaze.

  “I’m Hind,” she says. “We’re in the program together.”

  Ravi doesn’t say anything, just follows her into the kitchen and leans on the island, which makes her more nervous. He is lean, unlike the men in her family, with the exception of Abdulla, but her mind shies away from Abdulla, focusing instead on the concept “most of the men in Qatar above the age of twenty five”. She isn’t going to look at Ravi’s arms again, at his snug t-shirt. She isn’t. But of course she does, as she hands him the cup of mint tea. He raises it in thanks and they both take a long, contemplative sip.

  “You live in London?” she enquires.

  He laughs and shakes his head, setting the cup down. “That’s very nice tea,” he says. “What is it? Mint?”

  “Moroccan,” she says.

  “I’m here on a visit. Checking up on Sangita. On my way from the States to India.”

  “India?”

  He regards her closely, breaking into a slow smile. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

  Before she can follow up on this bizarre question, the door is flung open and Sangita barrels through, arms laden with books, a messenger bag slipping down one arm.

  “Ravi!” she squeals, dropping everything to rush over to him. “You technophobe. Have you heard of email?”

  “What’s wrong with actually answering a ringing phone?”

  He laughs, as if at a child. Hind, totally confused, takes another sip of her tea and turns sideways to give them privacy. She braces for Sangita to clasp him in a passionate embrace (as she would do, she has to admit, if this specimen of manhood were hers – and she if did that kind of thing). Instead, the girl takes him by both hands and holds him at arms length, as if to size him up.

  “You’re getting fat,” Sangita says.

  Hind coughs as her tea goes down the wrong pipe. She’s always thought Arabs were the only ones to be so direct. Whatever the case, if this is fat, then she’d love to see him skinny. She flushes at the thought, though no one but her has heard it.

  “I was going to say the same thing about you,” Ravi retorts. Now they embrace, but again it’s not a body-crushing thing, no fingers in her hair, like a lovers’ reunion in the movies.

  “Mother sent you?” Sangita asks.

  Mother? Needing something to do with her hands, Hind pours Sangita a cup, knowing it will likely go untouched. Ravi leans down to pick up the books she tossed aside in the entryway.

  “Hind, you already met Ravi –”

  “I’m going to the orphanage,” he says, his eyes widened. “You want to come?”

  “Your mother?” Hind bursts out, unable to contain herself any longer.

  Ravi and Sangita turn their attention back to her, as if having forgotten she is in the room. She bites her lip and continues.

  “Your mother set you up with someone and you didn’t tell me?”

  She hates the peevish tone that has crept into her voice. But the sight of them together, their warmth and delight in each other, reminds her too much of Abdulla’s coldness, waiting for her back in Doha.

  “I’m sorry,” Sangita says, realizing the problem. “This is Ravi, my brother.” She squeezes his arm. “Ravi, this is Hind.”

  Ravi casts a teasing look first at one, then the other. “As you said, we’ve met.”

  Still in semi-shock, Hind swallows her tea. She couldn’t have been more shocked if her tongue had gone down with it. Ravi and Sangita laugh at the obviously flustered look on her face.

  “I’m sorry,” Sangita says again. “How could I have never mentioned him?”

  “How indeed, Gita,” Ravi says, drawing himself up in fake umbrage. “Not once? Not even once?”

  “As for the orphanage,” Sangita says with a wave of her hand, thrusting on with business, “I’m afraid I have to be here for lectures. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a full-time student, brother. You need to count me out.”

  “Oh, that’s bull.” Ravi laughs dismissively.

  “No, it’s not. I’m about to start writing my thesis.”

  Hind takes in the two of them, their playful bickering. Ravi has looped his right arm around his sister’s shoulders, and it’s a lovely image: his burnt umber complementing her cinnamon, their dark hair and dark eyes a perfect match. The more she looks, the more the family resemblance strikes her – as does Ravi’s attractiveness, which seems to grow on her every time she looks at him. One or two times she meets his open gaze, but draws her eyes away at the unsettling thought that the man is infinitely more interesting now that she knows he isn’t her friend’s boyfriend.

  She tries to distract herself by contemplating Sangita, a pencil stuck in a bun at the nape of her neck, her long-sleeved plaid shirt untucked over leggings and greenish boots. A lot of work still to be done, Hind observes, where her friend’s fashion sense is concerned. But who knows whether she has enough time left?

  “Married?” Hind asks, immediately wishing she could take the question back. But if Ravi is startled by her frankness, he doesn’t let it show.

  “Nope.”

  “Different rules for boys and girls,” Sangita sing-songs, raising her eyebrows at Hind. “You should be familiar with that idea.”

  There is an impishness rising in Hind, maybe brought on by the sight of Ravi’s dimples.

  “I’ve heard of it,” she says. “But I think it sucks.”

  “No society is exempt from it,” Sangita says, persisting.

  “Is that such a marvelous thing?” Hind snaps back, and the two friends hold each other’s gaze for a moment.

  “So, girls,” Ravi slaps his thighs and sighs, glancing at his watch. Like most men, he seems oblivious to the slight tension between the women in the room. “I’m around for a few days. What’re we going to do?”

  “I think you mean ‘ladies’,” Sangita says, drawing out the word. “And in case you missed it, I meant what I said. I really am busy.”

  “Dinner,” Ravi says, oblivious to the vibes. “Mr. Chow’s?”

  “I love Mr. Chow’s,” Hind pipes up.

  “Can’t,” Sangita says. “Too much work, but maybe tomorrow?”

  Ravi flicks a glance Hind’s way. “You clearly have taste. Dinner it is.”

  He turns his back for a moment. Your brother? Hind mouths. Sangita shoots back an annoyed look.

  “You’re coming to dinner too, Gita,” Ravi says. “Maybe I can’t make you come to the orphanage, but the least you can do is listen. We have some issues there. The tsunami kids that are too old have to move out.”

  “The Japanese tsunami?” Hind says, with a quizzical look.

  “Indian,” Sangita replies.

  “But that was ages ag
o,” Hind says. “In 2004, wasn’t it?”

  She senses new interest in Ravi’s surprised nod of assent, but keeps her eyes on Sangita. Something about looking directly at this man makes her uncomfortable. There is an intensity there, like an energy field radiating out from him.

  “My grandfather was very upset by it,” Hind explains. This is true: she remembers the rare sight of Jassim watching television nonstop for two days as the coverage unfolded. Once she entered the living room unannounced and could have sworn he was wiping away tears. “He used to trade in India when he was younger.”

  “Perfect.” He beams at both women. “So it’s decided? We’ll go, then?”

  “I’ve never been to India,” Hind says. She can’t pinpoint which of the vibes coming off him – adventure, playfulness or, she has to admit (if only to herself), attraction – is causing her, or a part of her she’s only read about in books, to come to life. But there is definitely a charisma about Ravi: when he turns to you, you are the center of the universe, if only for that brief moment.

  “I think he means go to dinner,” Sangita says, clearly needing to deflate the moment.

  “First,” Ravi says, “where’s the bathroom?”

  Sangita points in the direction of her bedroom before wheeling back to Hind, eyes narrowing.

  “Don’t take him seriously,” she says, as soon as her brother is out of earshot. “He thinks everyone’s a free spirit.”

  “Must be a great way to live,” Hind says, “making your own decisions on the fly like that. Going wherever you want, whenever you want.”

  “Listen, woman, you have a great life too,” Sangita says, almost hissing it. “As soon as you finish, you’ll be a wife, and then –”

  Hind dismisses the thought with a wave of her hand. “You sound like Noor.”

  “She has a point.”

  Hind turns on her. “Since when do you think matrimony is the answer to all of life’s questions?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You implied it.”

  Now Ravi is out of the bedroom, rubbing his hands. “Great, I smell like lavender fields, or something. Whatever happened to regular, plain-scented lotion?”

  Hind and Sangita hold their stand-off silently, facing each other across the kitchen island, Hind defiant, Sangita poised as if holding herself back from springing at Hind. Ravi joins them at the top of the island. Whatever tension he may or may not sense, he doesn’t let on, but he’s positioned himself between them like a referee.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  Hind breaks off her friend’s glare. “Let me get my bag,” she says.

  Chapter Twelve

  Seated at Mr. Chow’s, heavy menu in hand, Hind can’t remember the last time she had Chinese food. She has no idea what half the names of the dishes are.

  “Chicken and broccoli,” Sangita is saying. “Anything with eggplant.”

  Ravi murmurs in assent as if these were good choices.

  “What would you like?” the waiter says to Hind. All eyes turn to her and she almost blurts out the first thing she sees, but thinks better of it.

  “What they’re having,” she says.

  “What?” Sangita says.

  “We’ll share, right?” Hind says, employing their favorite way to calorie count.

  “Pork in red sauce,” Ravi says. “Sure we can.”

  Hind is so flustered she can't answer. Nor does she know how to take it back.

  “Pork, Hind? Really? Don’t you want to order something else?” Sangita is giving her a look that says she wants to take her temperature.

  “Oh, inti ba’ad,” Hind says, slipping into dialect. “Anything is fine,” she corrects herself with a shrug. She hardly recognizes herself.

  “She’ll have chicken,” Sangita says to the impatient waiter.

  “About the orphanage,” she says hastily, to preempt whatever Sangita is going to say as soon as the waiter has retreated. “How many times a year do you go there?”

  Ravi passes a plate of dumplings to his sister, who takes one and stuffs it into her mouth.

  “At least once, more if I can,” Ravi says. “But we rotate. Whoever is nearest.”

  “Why not get involved in something more local?” Hind says. “I mean, in America. Like New Orleans?”

  The dumplings plate comes to her and she takes one, ignoring the look in Sangita’s eye.

  “Even the Emir gave money after Katrina.”

  “I saw that special on CNN,” Ravi says, taking the plate from her. “He’s a tall guy.” They munch for a minute in silence. “But that’s just it. Long after a crisis, the survivors still need sustained interest to stay afloat. Donor fatigue sets in, the news moves on, and everyone forgets.”

  “Ravi’s taken the orphan thing to heart,” Sangita says, some of the tension melting from her as she puts a hand on his arm. “He saw the kids when he was a teenager and he can’t forget them.”

  “Sounds intense,” Hind says, realizing she has no idea what it feels like to take a cause to heart.

  “Hmm, but from the flatness of your tone I know you think it’s anything but interesting.”

  Hind takes a sip of water, taken aback by his bluntness, but she has to admit he’s right. Orphanages aren’t at the top of her list of fascinating things to think about.

  “He’s just passionate,” Sangita says. “He can’t help it. These are young girls mostly. They have no one.”

  Hind feels her devilish spirit rising.

  “No parents?” she says. “Some of us might appreciate not being pushed around by intrusive power figures.”

  “Hardly a comparison,” Ravi says. “There may be consequences if you defy your parents, but you won’t be sold as a sex slave.”

  “Really? What do you think marriage is?” she fires back without thinking, an increasingly common effect this man is having on her.

  “You mean forced marriage?” Ravi dismisses it with a wave. “It’s illegal in most countries.”

  “No one is forcing you,” Sangita says. “I mean, it’s not like he’s going to lock you up in a closet or something.”

  “I don’t care. It isn’t the same thing as a life of companionship,” Hind shoots back.

  “What are you talking about?” Ravi says, his face radiating confusion.

  Hind signals Sangita to leave it. “I’m just saying arranged marriage is just another form of sex slavery.”

  Ravi is already shaking his head. “You can’t compare the two. There’s no sliding scale of suffering that makes one better than the other.”

  Sangita casts a skeptical look at Hind. “I’d say wearing designers, not having to drive, that doesn’t sound so bad. Do you know what a nightmare sex slavery really is?”

  “No, and I don’t want to.” Hind is aware how bitchy she must sound, but she can’t stop herself. “If you think arranged marriage is so marvelous, why don’t you give it a go, then?” Hind says. “And let me know how things turn out.”

  “Stop making this fuss about yourselves,” Ravi says. He taps a fist on the table. “Neither of you has any idea what these girls face. Graduate students? Seriously?”

  “What am I supposed to do, feel guilty?” Hind asks.

  “If you saw what I’ve seen you would know the answer,” he says, his brown eyes blazing.

  “Well,” she hedges, “I’ve never been to Asia.”

  His eyes widen with excitement. “Come with me,” he says, looking from one girl to the other. “Neither of you is doing anything as important as this.”

  “Ravi –”

  “No postcards, or photos, or documentary will ever give you the sense of being there, looking into their eyes. Your degree can wait. All this,” he gestures broadly at the European décor of the restaurant, “will still be here.”

  “I can’t,” Sangita says. “I know I owe the orphanage a trip, but I really can’t just now. Almost done, but not done enough.”

  Ravi turns to Hind as if waiting for her to give her
own, separate answer.

  “Ravi, don’t be an idiot. She’s in the same program as me,” Sangita says. “Remember? And on top of that, she’s...” Sangita breaks off, glancing sideways at Hind.

  “What? She's what?”

  Hind closes her eyes.

  “Getting married.”

  “Engaged,” Hind corrects her instantly.

  “Yes, you’re engaged, but… ” Sangita falters, turning to Hind in confusion.

  “But the date hasn’t been set.” Which, she consoles herself, is true. Then to distract them, as much as herself, from thinking any further about it, she adds: “I’d go to India.”

  The reaction on Ravi’s face, a mixture of shock and boyish delight, gives her a rush of satisfaction. She doesn’t look at Sangita, who she knows is aghast.

  “I mean, why not? You can’t just categorize me as a spoiled rich kid,” she says.

  “Whoa, time out.” Sangita puts her hands up. “No one is categorizing anyone as anything,” she says. “Orientalism is dead, remember?” She looks from one to the other.

  “Nerdy joke-induced truce?”

  Hind laughs, a shaky sound of assent. The food arrives and she gobbles up as much of the fried rice as she can before pushing the dish with the forbidden meat as far away as possible. As they eat, the overt tension abates, though she avoids eye contact with Ravi.

  “I don’t see what the buzz is about,” Sangita says. “There’s nothing Chinese about this. The waiters are Italian.”

  “Been here forty years,” Ravi says. “Twice as long as you. The food’s good, right, your plate is empty.”

  Of the three plates on the table, Hind’s is the only one with anything on it.

  “Yes, it was,” Sangita says. “How was yours, Hind?”

  “I’m just going to head to the toilet,” she replies. Ravi has to stand up to let her squeeze out. Their table set for three is only a few inches from the one next to it, where two men, stuffed into suits a size too small, are eating piled plates of fried meat with gusto.

  “I’ll come with you,” Sangita says.

  “Aren’t you a bit old for that?”