The characters belong to Colleen Houck, and credit to the magnificent Ms. Antonella Inserra of for suggesting a "May-December romance" between these two in her very funny Tiger's Curse recaps.
This is an alternate universe, so apologies in advance for OOC traits and the many, many liberties I have taken with the source material; having said that – please bear in mind that it is an alternate universe and is, therefore, an extremely crack-y and fluffy vision of what might have been. On that note: Come and dream with me.
Chapter 1: When Their World Begins to Shine
I hate being late. But unfortunately my three-thirty Economics lecture ran over. So, instead of devouring a baked potato smothered in cheese and butter and tuna mayonnaise (trust me, it's awesome) with my name on it, I had to run like hell back to my apartment get changed into clothes Sarah would have called "smart" and walk at a stupid pace into Leicester city centre. So when I arrived at my new job, I arrived late, dishevelled and hungry. Way to make a first impression, Kelsey.
The White Tiger is what I've discovered to be typical of medium budget Indian restaurants in my fifteen years living in England. Until I get inside. Instead of bead curtains and heavy ethnic upholstery everywhere, it's all modern and kinda swanky-looking with a black, impressive, back-lit bar and dark wood lifted by accents of colour. All of a sudden I wonder if I'm way out of my league. My only experience is selling sweaters to old ladies at weekends back home, I'll probably be fired for accidentally pouring curry over someone by the end of the week. A beautiful Indian woman in her early thirties walks over to me.
"Sorry, we're not open yet." She says with a polite smile. Huh. She sounds more local than I do.
"I know." I reply too quickly. "I mean, um, I'm supposed to be starting work here today. I spoke with the manager on the phone...?"
Her smile becomes brilliant and she eyes me with interest.
"That would be me. You must be Kelsey, I'm Priya. I actually manage front-of-house here, my uncle is the manager technically." She holds out a hand and I shake it. "He might be the owner, but we both know that I'm the one who's really in charge." We laugh and I know that we're going to get along just fine.
She shows me how to lay out the cutlery and fold the napkins before leaving me to my own devices to do the other tables, whilst she photocopies my passport in the office. So she can prove to immigration that I'm not a stowaway on a steamer from New York, I guess?
"Sorry about that," she says handing my documentation back to me. "The Border Agency likes to check our staff out from time to time, in case we're hiring illegal immigrants in the kitchen or something." Priya rolls her eyes. "Apparently we Indians like to look after our own."
"That happen a lot?"
"Once every three to six months, they do it to all the Indian and Chinese restaurants in the area – not just us. I guess it must be working, but the novelty wears off after a while..." She trails off, before piercing me with her beautiful amber eyes. "So, you have an American accent and a UK passport. What's the story there?"
Of course that question was coming. It always does when you're the foreigner in the room.
"My Mom was British and my Dad was American, but we lived in Oregon. They died in a car crash when I was five and I came here to live with my Mom's second cousin and her husband. That's it. End of story." Nothing to see here. I shrug and go to put my passport back in my bag. I don't mention the pain of being neither British nor American, or the confusing transatlantic mangle that I think in, or the shame I feel around "real" Americans at the University. No, I don't mention any of that. Over my out cold, dead drunk body.
When I return to Priya, it's as though the previous conversation never happened.
"So, Kelsey. We won't have you waiting tables tonight, instead just greet people at the door and take them to a table, if there's one available. Let one of the other waiters know who's waiting and go back to the desk. If it gets busy, we might have you take drinks orders – but let's not push it."
"So, how many other servers are there?"
"Four, but you won't see them all at the same time. Two of them ought to be arriving soon."
As if on cue, the door opened. But the man that came through the door sure as hell wasn't a waiter. He's Indian and tall, so tall I feel dwarfed by his mere presence in the room (or maybe I'm just too short)? His beard is white and his dark hair striped with silver, with one of those faces that seems only to improve with age. One of those faces that makes "handsome" seem like a second prize handed out to younger men to appease their fragile egos. He approaches Priya and gives her a warm hug, their greetings muttered in a language too complex for me to even guess at. The lines on his face seem to enhance his expression of gentle pleasure. After greeting Priya, he turns his black coffee gaze on me – pinning me to the floor with the fathomless depths of the question in his eyes.
Priya clears her throat and I feel my cheeks warm, realising that I'd been staring into the eyes of a man old enough to be my grandfather way too long.
"Uncle, this is Kelsey Hayes, our new waitress. Kelsey, meet my uncle and the restaurant's owner and manager, Anik Kadam."
I hold my hand out:
"Pleased to meet you, Mr Kadam."
Priya nods at me surreptitiously behind her uncle's back as he shakes my hand. I hope that means that I've passed some kind of test.
"Pleased to meet you too, Miss Hayes." The melodious Indian lilt to his voice and its growling bass notes enhance my internal squee at being addressed with a title for the first time outside of a doctor's or a bank. "So this is your first time working at an Indian restaurant?"
"Yes. Or a restaurant. But Priya's being gentle with me. And the public, she's not letting me loose on them too soon," I joke feebly. Kadam nods, but his smile takes on a concerned quality.
"Do you have any experience with Indian food, or culture?"
"Um... Not really... I know a little..." I shift, feeling very uncomfortable under his increasingly disbelieving stare. "Like Ghandi... And Shiva... And Kali and... Saris and... Arranged marriages... Bollywood.. Okay, it's not much - but I'm willing to learn!" I add quickly, in an attempt to salvage the situation.
Kadam's expression goes from sweet to sour quicker than chantilly cream left out of the fridge all night.
"I should sincerely hope you are, Kelsey." Huh. No more "Miss Hayes" for me.
Priya admonishes him gently in their native tongue. I suspect she's telling him that I'm not at fault for my own upbringing, to give me a chance. The bottom falls out of my stomach. I don't want to lose this job. I need the money. But more than that, I feel awful. I've spent the last twenty years of my life so wrapped up in my own Anglo-American angst that I forgot there was a whole world out there, beyond my own narrow frame of experience. It's as though I've been eating plain white supermarket bread like it's the best and only bread in the world, and all of a sudden someone's pointed to the fresh baguettes, pumpernickel and rye bread in the bakery across the street. I feel stupid and painfully aware of my ignorance. And hungry. Damn bread simile and damn missed dinner.
"E-excuse me?" I interrupt their whispered argument. They stop and stare at me. "I know it's not ideal, but please give me the chance to improve myself. I won't make excuses, I should have done some research before applying here. But I really want to learn and improve myself." Kadam's black coffee stare burns into me, as he tries to assess how genuine I am in my remorse. I hope hours of my life watching Hell's Kitchen eliminations haven't gone to waste.
"Okay, Kelsey." He says eventually. "You'll have you chance to learn." I smile and start to thank him, when he cuts me off: "But. I will be teaching you."
Fuck. That sarcastic little smirk does not mean good things. I knew I shouldn't have mentioned arranged marriages.
Welcome to the first slice of this little experimental cake of crazy, I hope you enjoyed/weren't scarred for life by it! Chapter title comes from "Like An Eagle", from the A.R. Rahman musical Bombay Dreams.
