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Every other week one of the aunties from the Indian Association came over to help Mamma dye her roots black while Papa was at work. He was under the impression she still had her youthful color.
“Usne kuch kiya?”
Did he do anything?
“Mujhse bas ek vada karo,
Just make me a promise
Dimple’s eyes widened, and then she turned to him, grinning. Oof. It was like getting punched in the diaphragm when she turned the wattage to full on that thing.
His eyes reminded her of old apothecary bottles, deep brown, when the sunlight hit them and turned them almost amber.
it was a kind of magic, being here in this antiques store with a boy whose eyes were just the right shade of honey.
Even though this was the first day he’d spent any kind of extended time with Dimple, he felt like he already knew her. Like they were continuing a conversation they’d left off.
Your spirits are already friends. What a load of hippie BS.
When you think about it, our families are back in India, about eight thousand miles away. And they’re still so intricately connected to us. We have their names, their rituals, their traditions. Their dreams sit behind our eyelids. I think it’s beautiful.”
There was something about people who were that secure; they made you feel better about yourself, like they accepted you for everything you were, imperfections and all.
Distance was the promise of safety.
A serious gift that
he didn’t seem to like to share with people. Dimple knew why now… it was so intimate. He became someone else, stripped down, unself-conscious, unaware. She’d seen what his soul was made of.
Dimple felt a thrill that he’d actually listened to her. That somehow, some way, she seemed to have power over this boy.
“Kismet.”
Destiny/fate
He saw in her eyes that she truly believed it, that she felt he had this great gift to offer the world and how it’d be a tragedy if he didn’t, and a surge of affection threatened to flatten him.
Rishi studied everything there was to study in her face—every curve and line and shade of color.
Immediately, before she could stop it, that famous Emily Brontë quote popped into her head: “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”
Pour cultiver le mystère.
To cultivate mystery
Rishi had heard once you were attracted to someone, your brain could actually rewire itself and make you think all kinds of sucky things about them were perfect. And then, once you’d been together awhile, bam. The gauzy lust-curtain fell away and you realized you’d married an alligator with bad breath.
“I thought you were the loveliest bookworm I’d ever seen in my life.”
You looked like a flower, with that angelic halo of curls around you.
he was like a pop song you thought you couldn’t stand, but found yourself humming in the shower anyway.
“Trying to be a part of my life? You know, the same could be said about head lice. Or termites. Or botulism. Those bacteria are just trying to be a part of our lives!”
She was like a tortillon, a blending brush, melting harsh lines into gentler curves.
It’s like you have this paintbrush, dipped in brilliant mauves and teals and golds, and you just totally redid my monochromatic life. I need you; I need your paintbrush.” He
