Page 146 of Cakes for the Grump

I level my friends an amused look. They are already planning on how to expand. I wonder if we’ve become unofficial business partners. The idea is a minor daydream in my head—only a blink of a thought—but I’m singing to myself as I finish packing everything away and clean up.

After we head to meet Uncle and Dad at Raja’s Dhaba, a food joint necking one of the side streets close to our apartment. Walking up to it, the surrounding area is an utter mess of clashing vendors where you might find the city’s oldest newsstand, racks of beautiful handcrafted dresses, some of Mumbai’s best and most flavorful jalebis being fried, and a cobbler touting his services with a cardboard sign. The entryway to Raja’s Dhaba is obscured by a guava stall, but once you circle around that, a surprisinglyopen yard covered in tables unveils itself, built on as an extension of ages-ago colonial architecture.

Noor and I are engrossed in a conversation about the benefit of doing platters for future events, so I don’t see them immediately. Uncle, Dad, the families in our apartment building, the market stall-keepers I’m on a first-name basis with, my high school teachers, Dr. Managat…

My community is allhere.

As soon as I notice them, they throw their hands up and yell, “Surprise!”

I’m jolted back, mouth agape.

“A party in your honor,” says Kiren, dragging me forward so I can be embraced.

“She’s a little shocked and has trouble with large displays of emotion,” Noor tells the crowd. “Give her a second.”

By the fourth hug, I’m resuscitated by an outpouring of love. Celebratory sweets are passed around, everyone biting into the fresh jalebis brought in from right outside. I don’t have a chance to eat one myself since my friends pull me to the front of Raja’s Dhaba, pushing me up onto an elevated step.

“Speech,” cries out Uncle.

Cheers fill up the room and I let them wash over me. I’m not even embarrassed or annoyed they’ve planned this secretly or want me to say a few words to everyone. After today, I’ve got so many emotions needing a place to go.

“Thank you.” It’s a punch of two words bursting from my gut.

The crowd of thirty hushes each other so I can be heard.

“You should not go quietly into the night.”

That’s a good line, if the resounding cheers are an indication. But it’s a false one if left alone.

“But I actually wanted to,” I say. “I wanted to stop dreaming. I’m here not because of my own tenacity, but the tenacity of the people around me. I was tired. Exhausted. Willing to give up because I was scared of failing again. I’m saying this to normalize it. It’s okay to break. To rest. To think you’ll never see yourself as you want to be.”

Memories of that despairing time weave through me, and I can certainly see the effect it has on my community. A crowd rouser I am not, but still, I goon.

“I’m lucky and privileged that the people in my life allowed it. They let me rest and quietly took over believing in me when I couldn’t. I’m here because of them. Stand up, please. Uncle. Kiren. Noor.”

I gesture to each of them. “Love. If you say it a few times, it feels like a made-up word. One I thought meant spare the people you care about pain. For so long, I’ve kept anything hard locked inside me. All my difficulties pressurized.” My hand comes up to my chest and becomes a fist. “They sat here, pretending, pretending, pretending even sometimes to myself they didn’t exist.”

“Love,” I say again. “Here. And—in Barcelona I felt it, too.” This part has me sucking a few breaths, but I fumble along, driven to rip off the thin shield left covering my heart. “I’m home here, but I want to be honest. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think of that city. Of what was in it. So I know it won’t be heard, but I want to say thank you to the mornings I had there. The—cakes I made. The laughter I shared, the way it held me safely in its arms, and made it so I could dream… If—Barcelona—was here. I would want it to know I’m dreaming again. That I’ve learned to share not just the parts of myself I think are good enough, but every part of me, even the unsure bits, the complicated bits, the scared and nervous bits. I’m open again.”

“Rita.”

Uncle has wrapped an arm around me.

I look around, my vision wet and glossy. “And I’ve gone on for far too long, and turned this space into a therapy session—oops.”

There is laughter, the sound encouraging.

“One last thing. If I have any advice to give, it’s talking to one another. Share yourselves. It’s a wonderful world out there and a much more hopeful one when we connect.”

“Cheers,” yells Noor, lifting her glass. The gesture prompts others to grab their own. The owner of Raja’s Dhaba sticks a pop bottle in any empty hand.

It takes concentrated effort, but I try to meet the eyes of everyone before more, hoping my expression is radiating gratefulness. I want them to know I’m here in some part because of them.

The college kid who lives on our floor usually blasting rock music shoots me a finger gun, the trio of aunties Uncle and I fondly call the Three Musketeers are clapping enough to vibrate their saris, Dr. Mangat has goneover to stand by Dad, Kiren is attempting to start The Wave as if we’re all attending a rambunctious sports event where I’m the lead player. I avert my eyes with latent embarrassment, as far away as possible, to the fringe of Raja’s Dhaba?—

He’s there.

The hole I thought was inside me, I realize was a chasm. It fills and fills and fills and fills. I’m trembling.