Love In Two Cities [COMPLETED]

2-Cozy Kitchen

Pooja is greeted by hugs and kisses from her aunt at the arrival section of San Jose International Airport.

'Journey all good?' Mrs. Saroja asks her and is answered by a shake of the head that is piteous.

That's because Pooja has had a harrowing journey, to say the least. She had to change flights at Heathrow Airport in London. Not to forget the three long hours lay-over in between. The kulchas at the Indian restaurant tasted like rubber and the rice was quarter-cooked or something. She was disgusted by the London airport, leading her in the wrong direction at terminal 3. The beans gravy given with chapattis in a plastic dinner box on the plane almost made her puke into the large white air sickness bag. Sleep is a mess, her neck aches and she reeks of Amrutanjan. Also, she had to answer some twenty questions from the fat white immigration officer behind the glass counter. Had Pooja not met her aunt and her cousin now, she was pretty sure to lose it anytime soon.

As they drive her back to their home in Willow Glen, Pooja lowers the car window and feels the San Jose breeze against her face.

I'm good, she tells herself. I have a dance video assignment and a stage show here. I can do this. I'll rock it, in fact.

Soon, Dhruva turns the car into the driveway of their Spanish-styled home on Peter road. An old double-storeyed bungalow of the 1920s has been renovated impressively. Two trees with purple and red flowers respectively in the front yard welcome them.

Pooja crawls into the guest room, realizes with delight that it smells of lemongrass, and proceeds for a long bath under the shower. She emerges out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, smelling of Irish Spring, puts on her lavender flowered loungewear, pulls the bedsheet over, and immediately falls asleep.

***

'Can't believe I slept for fourteen hours straight! I couldn't meet Uncle' Pooja is bewildered. She rests her cheek against the cool granite breakfast countertop. Mrs. Saroja picks up a plastic milk container from the fridge and pours its contents into the milk pot. The aroma of decoction dripping in the old brass coffee maker lingers in the air.

'It's okay. You will meet in the evening anyway' Mrs. Saroja says and beams at the stack of boxes and packets in the suitcase. Together, they take them out, and Mrs. Saroja looks thoroughly elated.

'Oh, you have brought Variar bakery butter biscuits! So sweetuuu you are' She gurgles with delight. 'How is that fellow? Has he opened new branches?' she asks, laying out the sweet rusks on a glass plate.

Mrs. Saroja Joshi, elder sister of Mrs. Jaya Hiremath, was a mother of ten-year-old-Dhruva when she had packed her baggage and shifted to San Jose, with her husband. Eleven years of stay in a foreign city have doubled, tripled, and quadrupled her love towards all things Indian. Now a short and stout woman in her late fifties, she often craves for a day's trip to the K R market, the roadside paani puri, or the haggling for kitchenware in the crowded streets of Basavanagudi.

'He's fine..and no, he is firmly rooted in Rajajinagar' Pooja says. 'Oh I love you Saru' she puts her arms over her aunt's shoulders, delivering a smacking kiss on her cheek. She picks up a rusk and crunches into it noisily.

'I'm so glad you are here for an entire month, Poojamma. My aching heart has eased a little' Mrs. Saroja tells her gratefully.

'What? What happened Saru? Did you just say heartache?' Pooja looks worried.

'Aiyyo, what to say. I am doomed. The curse is having its effect!'

'Saru, please! What is it?'

'Dhruva loves that girl'