The Meadow Annual Literary Arts Journal 2018

friend has lessened my worry. The women soon are coaxing us with seconds, and I eat more than I should. Even Tala, who is always careful about what we eat, spoons more ginger beans onto my plate and encourages me to enjoy them. There is much talk of Western food. Even Tala joins in, saying she has worried about Paul getting skinny and needing her to cook for him again. When we are finished I follow the men out to talk on the veranda. Over our conversation I hear the women’s voices chiming through the open doors as they finish eating and clearing the table. “He will be surprised.” Tala’s laughter rises above the rest. “But I’m certain he’s ready.” “He’s in agreement then?” Hashim’s wife joins in. “Kilyani Preekash? This is most exciting.” They are arranging another life, and I smile at the famil- iarity as I lick the coconut and green pea flour from my spoon. Senaiah’s wife steps out onto the veranda to refill our glasses, and I take the opportunity to thank her for a delicious meal and tell her how much I will miss her chendol . She returns to the kitchen and comes back out to offer me mango lassi and tells me she knows how much I’m looking forward to seeing Paul again. She laughs and says that Tala only hopes her son hasn’t become too westernized. The air is warm and rich with the sound of our voices, but it is an evening of leaving friends and too soon it is time to go. Outside the air is tart with lime as Senaiah’s wife gives us cellophane bags with sweet rice wrapped in banana leaves. “For your plane journey,” she says. “Travel safely and reclaim your son.” Tala surprises me by saying a short goodbye and moves quickly past me to hurry down the white stone path to our car. I pause to take in the faces of my friends and feel the warmth of Senaiah’s arm resting on my shoulder a moment longer. It is The Meadow 145