Page 63 of One Indian Girl
My heart stopped for a second. Did he just propose a break-up? Oh my God, had the only man who ever loved the unlovable me threatened to leave me?
I turned my volume down and spoke in a calm voice. ‘Debu. What’s the matter with you? Why are you being like this?’
He shrugged.
‘Work stress?’
‘No.’
‘Is it the call? Listen, this is the distressed debt business. Don’t get so affected. It’s business.’
‘Not only that.’
I checked the time. It was midnight. I had to wake up at 6.30 to prepare for an early morning meeting.
‘Debu, calm down. Sorry I snapped at you. I will try to be understanding, okay?’
I went up behind him and hugged him.
‘This is not the time to talk about such things. It’s my mistake,’ I said.
‘It’s fine,’ he said, disentangling my arms.
‘Shall we go to bed?’ I said.
He nodded.
We slipped under the sheets. I took off my nightsuit and drew him closer.
‘I’m tired. Goodnight, baby,’ he said and turned away from me.
Within a few minutes he was asleep. I, on the other hand, kept awake all night, wondering what I would do if the one man who loved me decided to leave me.
Since I hadn’t slept I got out of bed at 5 a.m. I spent the next hour making breakfast. I made pancakes, Debu’s favourite. I also cut fruit, boiled some eggs and made toast. I wondered why I was doing this. Was it because I couldn’t sleep? Or did I want to calm Debu down? Or to show I could be domestic enough to be a good mother? Or did I want to prove that I could be sweet and innocent, which probably translates into docile and submissive?
I wanted Debu to wake up and be happy. I wanted it more than the China deal or a bonus or anything else. I scolded myself for feeling that way, but I couldn’t help it. His words about me not being potential mother material had shaken me up.
Wake up, Debu, eat the pancakes and please tell me I am lovable.
He entered the living room at 6.45. I had already laid out the plates and placed a jug filled with orange juice on the table. I switched on the electric hobs and put a saucepan on it.
‘Wow,’ he said, rubbing his eyes.
‘Good morning,’ I said in my most cheerful voice.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Making pancakes. You love them, remember? You want them with maple syrup or honey?’
‘Maple syrup. Is it the weekend?’ he said in a puzzled voice as he dragged a dining chair out to sit.
‘No, Wednesday. I just thought I would cook us something special.’
On typical weekdays we would gobble down cereal and milk and rush out of the house.
I put a plate of blueberries, raspberries and blackberries in front of Debu.
‘Fancy,’ he said.
