Page 46 of A Kiss in Kashmir

She paced back and forth, the tension in the room palpable. “Trust? Is that what this is about? You think I’d just run back to him at the first chance?”

He shook his head, his voice strained. “No, I just—”

She cut him off, her voice rising. “I’ve waited over twenty years for him to come back, and he never did. I moved on, found happiness with you. My heart belongs to you now. I never felt this way for anyone else. But if you doubt it, then perhaps we aren’t right for each other.”

“I’m sorry, I am just being honest.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she looked at him, her anger giving way to vulnerability. “I thought you would understand. I thought you knew how much you mean to me. I cannot be with someone who doesn’t trust my love for them.”

Still crying, Sharmila asked George to leave.

The next morning, a heartbroken Sharmila and an irritable Alina abruptly packed their bags and left Kashmir to return to Washington, DC.

Chapter 21

Five months later

Washington, DC

Sharmila double-checked her list. All the wedding trousseau, the gifts for the guests, her own outfits, sandals… the list was two pages long.

She put the list down and sat at the dining table. The last few months had exhausted her, or perhaps aged her—she couldn’t tell the difference. She pressed the tips of each finger on her hand trying to calm her nerves. Then, despite the pain and the exhaustion, she smiled to herself. Her daughter, the light of her life, was getting married, and everything had worked out beautifully for the wedding.

Emilio’s call brought her out of her reverie.

“Emilio, how are you, my dear? Have you checked on the visas? Passports? Tickets?” It felt like the hundredth time she was peppering him with questions, but she couldn’t help it.

Ever patient, Emilio responded sweetly, “Yes, we’re ready. Are you? The flight is delayed, which is why I’m calling. We’ll still get there in time, so don’t worry.”

Sharmila hung up and turned back to her list. Normally, a delayed flight would have caused some agitation, but not this week. So much good news! Alina had been accepted to her top-choice nursing school. Emilio’s entire family—including his now-healthy nonna—would all be coming to Srinagar for the wedding. Her sister, finally out of the silent retreat she had been on, had confirmed that she would be there as well. Everything was falling into place.

She was proud that she could pay for it all. When Alina was a baby she had struggled to support the two of them, so she eventually—and reluctantly—relied on her family’s trust fund. But once her paintings started to sell, she used her own money. She painted, she taught, she gave lectures—anything to help her and Alina stay independent. And miraculously, in the past few months three of her most recent paintings had sold for exorbitant amounts. Then a highly complimentary newspaper article announcing the auction results had referred to her as “a charming painter who is just discovering her potential.”

She only occasionally thought about George—mostly when she was painting. She tried to keep those thoughts occasional, but that had become more difficult as the wedding approached. When Alina had shared her intention to invite him, Sharmila just smiled at her daughter and said nothing. Alina had a loving relationship with him, and she wouldn’t stand in the way of that. She told herself she didn’t want to see him. But as she made her plans to travel back to India, it was harder and harder to believe that.

Sharmila shook off her feelings and went to her painting studio. The art-filled room was on the top-most floor of her quaint townhouse that overlooked the Potomac River. As always, all her worries, anxieties, and pain were forgotten for the moment. This was her sanctuary, where her emotions were laid bare on canvas, freeing her spirit and her heart. She kept the brochure that the auction house had sent her in there, with images of her three sold paintings inside it. If anyone—particularly Alina—had seen the references to George in the paintings, they hadn’t mentioned it.

Sharmila’s studio, once a lively haven of color and warmth, now reflected her quiet solitude. While she was thrilled that Alina was getting married, there was a part of her that was grieving—Sharmila would be fully alone for the first time in her life. There was a time this wouldn’t have bothered her—not much—but now “alone” meant something different.

She could admit it now, if only to herself. She missed George. A lot. The distance between them hadn’t eased the ache of her heart as she had hoped.

Picking up the brochure, Sharmila ran her fingers over the images of the paintings she had poured her heart into, every stroke telling the story of their love. Colorful shikaras and vivid Himalayan sunsets over Dal Lake melted into the canvas like liquid gold, capturing the warmth of their moments together. The Shankaracharya temple painting showed the temple radiant under a full moon. Hidden amidst the vibrant landscapes were subtle hints of George—a shadowy figure, his silhouette in the moonlight.

“Ma! I’m home, are you ready?” Alina called. In the studio she placed her arms around her mother’s waist. “I cannot wait to go back to Srinagar. Wajid and Suraj Uncle have been calling nonstop. All the details are final. But you know me, I will have to go and see.”

Sharmila smiled. “You know, when I see your face now, I can see what my mother used to say about brides. You have the roop now, the bridal glow. Makes my heart so happy, my child.”

“Oh, before I forget!” Alina said. “Do you remember that red pashmina shawl you bought me? I meant to tell you that I’ve been in touch with them, and I have a wonderful present for you too, Ma. From Emilio and me. A custom shawl that I think you will love.” Before Sharmila could respond, Alina kissed her on the forehead and went outside to call Emilio.

“Emilio, she looks so sad. Maybe I should tell her.”

“No, no,” Emilio said. “Don’t worry. Everything will be okay. Now listen to me: we have a few more things left to do.”

Emilio gave her a list of final arrangements to make, including calling the owner of the Qayaam Gah resort to ensure that all would go as planned. She did what was on the list, then went back to her room to check her luggage and get dressed for the trip back to her parents’ homeland. Her mind kept wandering over the last few months. She had noticed distinct changes in her mother’s moods and, more importantly, the more subtle changes in her art that Sharmila had tried to hide. But Alina could clearly see Sharmila’s heartbreak bleeding onto the canvas, raw and unfiltered. Her new paintings were beautiful but had subdued energy about them. Alina had tried to coax her mother into speaking of her emotions, but Sharmila remained stoic, brushing away her daughter’s concern with a faint smile.

Alina wished she could do something. She felt partially responsible for her mother’s heartbreak. If only she had not been angry with her regarding her father. If only she had at least made an effort to get her and George to talk. There were so manyif onlys. If only it wasn’t too late. But then she thought—maybe it wasn’t.

Last night, at a final dinner with Emilio’s family, Sharmila and his mom walked in with the pasta, all ready to eat.

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