This OS was inspired by that wonderful dinner scene. Apologies if the structure is confusing, constructive criticism is always welcome. Title taken from a poem by Langston Hughes reproduced below.
There is so much great fic on this board, I look forward to reading all the new updates soon - will be unable to check in the next couple days.
--
She sits next to him and tries not to think about time. How much has passed with them apart, how much is left with them together?
How much have they wasted?
She has lived simply for many years, sacrificing small pleasures for the smiles on her children's faces (and occasionally, their scorn). Dreams are a luxury she reserves for them - when she imagines Aarav's college graduation, Nishi's bundle of joy, success and happiness for Ranbir, Aagham, and Suhaani - there is little reason to wish for anything more.
Nachiket gently pushes more rice to her side of the plate and leaves her extra gobi (her favorite part). He eats unhurried, savoring each bite and with it, she imagines, their time together, which continues to slip away. She wonders if maybe she has given up on this particular dream too soon.
--
He sits next to her and tries not to think about how he will miss her. It is harder when she's like this: eyes full of remorse, her knees brushing against his as she indulges in the food he offers, her aloofness falling away as she remembers that what is his is hers, always.
It is harder when she is his Ragini again.
It is not an uncomfortable silence, but he is glad when she asks him about the life he will be returning to - it is a topic they would be hard-pressed to argue about, and he meant what he said about not wanting their last words to be hissed in anger.
So he starts to tell her about their - his - home, about the sunlight streaming through large windows overlooking the yard and how he sits in the kitchen with his coffee and paper before the house awakens. It's a habit he's adopted - he doesn't have to tell her from whom.
What he doesn't mention is how he looks out and thinks of her. He doesn't tell her of his dreams, now more aptly named fantasies: she is sitting across the table sipping on tea (he remembers to use extra ginger - American ginger is not as sharp as she's used to). Their fingers brush as they trade sections of the paper and she makes him breakfast with the toast done just right (it's not the same when he does it).
He sees the kids before he goes (she cajoles them awake first with the promise of hot breakfast - Aarav mumbles he wants cereal) and before he steps out the door she straightens his tie with her delicate fingers. He takes the opportunity to steal a kiss (she tastes like sugar and butter) and answers her blush with a wink, teases her that she's American now.
At work she calls while he's dictating a note to remind him to take his heartburn medication but he doesn't mind the interruption. They talk briefly about the kids and how the day is going, and she mentions that she may have to put in a few extra hours this week. He fusses over her eating habits when she's working late and her voice is low and warm when she tells him she loves him.
It's late when she finally clambers into bed. She settles in against him, smelling faintly of the perfume he bought for her birthday, limbs heavy and languid. She's asleep before he can whisper, "Sweet dreams."
--
The quiet of the late hour lets her drink in his descriptions as he draws a picture of his life an ocean away. He jokes about the traffic and the weather, but there is lonesomeness behind his words that she knows all too well.
Just months ago, she had allowed herself to contemplate a place in his home. With his words, her imagination takes flight again.
There is a garden in the yard with eggplant and little green tomatoes which the deer love to chew on despite her best efforts. They don't touch the chilies, however, and so she has enough to harvest and show Nachiket as a reward for the weekend he spent lugging soil and pulling weeds. He laughs (it's a deep rumble she feels down to her toes) and brushes a smidge of dirt off her cheek. The deer are like him, he says, they can't handle the heat.
She raises an eyebrow. Since when, she asks - he didn't seem to have a problem last night. The effect is somewhat marred by her furious blushing as soon as the words leave her mouth (for God's sake they've been married already 20 years) but his jaw still drops in shock before picks her up and carries her into the house, her protests falling on deaf ears.
Later, when Pam asks how he hurt his back he blames the deer. The kids roll their eyes. Ragini hides a smile.
She and Ranbir take small steps back towards each other. She learns to respect his privacy (these Americans and their privacy) and he learns to accept her kindnesses as a mother's right.
The day Ranbir addresses her as Ragini Mom, she cries in Nachiket's arms, drawing strength from his solid presence. His murmured reassurances lull her to sleep, where loneliness and empty spaces now seem like distant memories. Their family feels complete.
--
They finish their meal and before they part, she softly bids him goodnight. "Sweet dreams," he replies, and closes the door.
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore -
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over -
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
- - Langston Hughes
comment:
p_commentcount