Where the Lotus Flowers Grow Read Free

will make your eyes go bad. Men don’t want to marry girls who wear glasses and squint.”
    I chuckled, remembering the way Papa had tilted his pipe, jabbing the mouthpiece into the air with each point he made. “Then Priya’s mother is also a fool. Pity you’re surrounded by so many ridiculous people. Why are you even thinking of marriage at your age?”
    I shrugged, unsure myself, except that movies, clothes, and weddings were the only subjects of conversation among my friends. Unlike my father, I had no desire to be an outcast, so I followed suit.
    He bent to my level, as he always did when he wanted to capture all my attention. “Don’t clutter your mind with nonsense. There are many people who will try to educate you, including me, but you are and will always be your own best teacher. There are many wonderful Indian authors, and you should read them. But don’t limit yourself. Never be afraid to read about other times, other places, other cultures. On the contrary, it won’t cause your eyes to blur, but rather open them wider. The choice is yours, lovely. But I fear you listen to others too readily. That your horizons will be so narrow, you’ll have to squint the rest of your life.”
    “I’ll read it,” I said, more to please him than any real desire on my part. My sister, Hannah, always soaked up everything he said with a reverence I found annoying.
    Hannah. I thought about her every day, but the memories were always tangled with grief. This one was different. She had sat next to me on our worn red couch, a tattered, threadbare blanket wrapped around her, begging me to read Dickens to her. The couch had been my papa’s doing because he invested all his money in us. In our education. But the blanket, I had hated with a passion. My mother had left it, and Hannah clung to it as if it would shelter her from any storm.
    “You won’t understand it,” I said to her with an air of authority I didn’t deserve. My father looked angry then, his eyebrows knitting so tightly they almost joined. He said I was never to speak so disrespectfully to Hannah. His anger subsided as quickly as it came. He led me to the other room. He said in hushed tones we should both try to be more like Hannah. He’d always said Hannah had something special in her spirit that the two of us sorely lacked.
    At the time, I thought he was speaking literally about her extra chromosome. But of course he wasn’t. It was her inner strength—a rare combination of joy, loyalty, and faith. There was nothing cynical or bitter about Hannah. She was the tiniest jewel, but she could bring light to the darkest corners.
    Holding these same words in my hands again made my heart heavy and full at the same time, a bittersweet wave of emotion. My eyes darted across the sentences on a random page, my lips moving to a cadence that was too fast for rhythm. Was I an avid admirer or an addict?
    A clearing throat intruded on my inner monologue, snapping it shut the way I did with the book. My spine straightened with such speed needles shot through my lower back.
    “Is it common for the staff to pilfer through the guest’s belongings?” The deep voice was British.
    British? He was British? I stared into the mirror, watching my body tremble before focusing on the image of him behind me.
    Holy Mother of God.
    I changed my mind.
    He was a god.
    Steam from the bathroom swathed him as he stepped out, a towel looped low around his hips. His naked chest, revealed muscles chiseled to perfection. I’d seen him when he arrived, but I wasn’t paying attention. And now my attention would not go anywhere else. His damp hair, the color a mix of sun with flecks of sand, lay unruly against his head. His expression conveyed annoyance. I pivoted, my bum backing into the bureau. He narrowed his eyes. Green eyes? Brown? They were both. They were neither.
    “I’m waiting for an answer.”
    My fingers clutched the book, digging into the hardback cover, holding it against my