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“When her parents screamed at each other in front of the whole family, in front of her cousins, she had learned not to care about the shame. This had been different. Rico saw her as strong. With Rico she got to be self-possessed, like her mother. Droll and humorous, like her father. She got to be a version of herself unstained by irreparable pathos, because he gave her the gift of not coloring his vision with sympathy like everyone else in her life. It had meant everything. Especially when all the stories of his childhood had felt so wholesome, his parents' love for each other and him so undamaged.”

“Rico wasn't just a friend, wasn't just Yash's media wiz. He was dating Yash's sister. Technically Ashna was his cousin but Yash only ever thought of her as his sister. Rico was family. Ashna was happy. It had been years since Yash had seen her happy. Just this morning Yash had teased Rico about his intentions toward his sister. I intend to let Ash use my body for her shagging pleasure for the rest of my life, mate.”

“You can all relax. I do not need to see a therapist. I most certainly do not need to see some woo-woo yoga self-help life-coach guru person who manufactures incense in the middle of Palo Alto and travels around the world lecturing people about how to breathe." The attention of the room shifted to him like a spotlight. Every brow rose. The silence was so intense he could hear himself breathing. Not in the correct way, no doubt, but who needed training on how to breathe? What kind of scam was that? "I only know those things about her because I've heard Ashna mention them so many times." Actually, he knew because he'd read about India in the Daily Post last month. It was his job to read the local papers. Ashna frowned at him. She had never mentioned India around him until now and her narrowed eyes told him exactly how well she knew this. But she kept her mouth shut. Which meant Yash was in more trouble than if she'd said something. "Then you'll agree that I know what I'm talking about. It won't hurt to meet her once," Ashna said. Was that a threat in her eyes?”

“He could smell the readiness of onion in every one of its stages of cooking and knew exactly what stage worked best for each dish. He could identify the exact rapidity with which milk had to boil before adding the lemon to make the cheese curd separate into paneer. He could sense exactly when to add the tomatoes to tie together the onion, garlic, and ginger so that the curry came together perfectly with the oil separating from it in syrupy rivulets.”

“The good news was that he wasn't sixteen anymore and he had this, his art. His food. And if this dinner continued to go the way it was going, if Mrs. Raje stood by her word and gave DJ the contract for her son's fund-raising dinner next month based on tonight's success... well, then they'd be fine. Mrs. Raje had been more impressed thus far. Everything from the steamed momos to the dum biryani had turned out just so. The mayor of San Francisco had even asked to speak to DJ after tasting the California blue crab with bitter coconut cream and tucked DJ's card into his wallet. Only dessert remained, and dessert was DJ's crowning glory, his true love. With sugar he could make love to taste buds, make adult humans sob. The reason Mina Raje had given him, a foreigner and a newbie, a shot at tonight was his Arabica bean gelato with dark caramel. DJ had created the dessert for her after spending a week researching her. Not just her favorite restaurants, but where she shopped, how she wore her clothes, what made her laugh, even the perfume she wore and how much. The taste buds drew from who you were. How you reacted to taste as a sense was a culmination of how you processed the world, the most primal form of how you interacted with your environment. It was DJ's greatest strength and weakness, needing to know what exact note of flavor unfurled a person. His need to find that chord and strum it was bone deep.”

“She looked at the gold-appointed dashboard. "It's cute." "The gas guzzler thanks you," he said, not bothering to curb his sarcasm. "She's probably never carried an outstanding surgeon before." Her only response was a weary look. Obviously, he wasn't the only one dreading the afternoon ahead. But there was something so tired about her eyes that despite himself he felt like an arse. What was it about this woman that made him want to be a prick? Oh yeah, it was the fact that she was a callous snob and she made him feel like- what was the phrase?- ah, the hired help.”

“Have you heard of Emma?" "DJ's sister Emma Caine? The hot artist?" He disappeared for a second, then came back with jeans on and finished zipping them up. Why on earth did he think their relationship was close enough for him to be pulling on clothes in front of her? "No, it's a book. The one DJ's sister was named after." Trisha's boyfriend DJ's name was Darcy James. And his sister's name was Emma. Evidently their mother had been a big Jane Austen fan. "By Jane Austen." "Right, I remember Emma mentioning that. Isn't Jane Austen that Darcy chick? Isn't he the one that Brit actor played who all the aunties were gaga over? Colin Farrell?" Naina did it: she rubbed her hand across her face like someone who needed to erase this entire conversation from existence. "So... in the book Emma---which has nothing to do with Darcy, who is from Pride and Prejudice---Emma is an overindulged, albeit well-meaning, brat who is looking for matchmaking projects so she can feel good about herself while filling all that empty time she has on her overprivileged hands.”

“The Dashwoods came here from England in the 1930s and never moved." "Then a young man from India came into their lives and lived here in the 1940s. Can you imagine what his life here might have been like? My mother tells stories of when she moved here forty years ago, and even that seems wildly brave to me sometimes. The fact that my parents chose to leave their home and come to a place where they were so different from everyone. I can't imagine leaving California ever.”