Incense and Sensibility Read online

  It took some effort to stop himself from searching his surroundings for his bike. The one that had become as twisted and mangled as his broken spine.

  “They’re taking care of him.” Rico pressed a hand into Yash’s chest to keep him on the gurney.

  Before Yash could respond a woman screamed his name and ran at him.

  Yash knew the woman.

  He couldn’t for the life of him remember her name.

  “Yash, honey. Oh no.” She was sobbing. Mascara ran down her face. She looked like she’d lost someone she loved.

  That’s how I should look. That’s how I should be feeling. But nothing. He felt nothing.

  “Naina, he’s going to be okay,” Rico said.

  Naina. Of course.

  Naina and Yash. Spoken for. The words made him laugh. They made him think of his parents. How would Ma survive it if he died?

  Spoken for. Ma had come up with that label when Yash and Naina had said they wouldn’t get engaged. Ma, who always found a way to make things okay.

  Spoken for. And he’d forgotten her name.

  Naina kept stroking his arm. Then she leaned over and kissed his forehead. Mascara-tinted teardrops splashed onto Yash’s face. A light flashed with a sound Yash knew so well it could wake him from the dead. A camera.

  “Honey, please let them do their job.” Spoken-for Naina sobbed as more cameras clicked.

  “Their job is to make sure Abdul doesn’t die.” He tried to catch Rico’s eye, but Naina had wrapped herself around Yash and he couldn’t see. The smell of her perfume was so strong he couldn’t breathe.

  Twisting in her embrace, he spoke to the paramedic who was clamping a monitor to his finger. “What’s taking so long? That man needs to be in a hospital. Don’t you understand? He has a bullet inside him.” His father was back in his voice.

  “Actually, sir, he doesn’t,” the paramedic said, pressing something into Yash’s shoulder, making it feel like he’d taken an ax to it. “The bullet went through him. You’re the one with the bullet inside you.”

  Chapter Two

  India Dashwood loved her life. She lived for the joy she experienced every time she led a yoga practice and watched her students connect with parts of themselves they had never accessed before.

  “Namaste,” she said to the room filled with twenty glowing faces.

  They had just completed the final session of the two-week long Namaste Yogi camp she’d come to Costa Rica to teach.

  That name always made India cringe, but it wasn’t something she had any control over. Calling yoga students “yogis” was quite a stretch. A yogi was someone who had harnessed their mind and body, so it was never regulated by desire. India had spent her entire life aspiring to this. Growing up in a yoga studio and being raised by a mother and grandmother who were yoga gurus meant India had lived the yogic practice since before she could walk, and she still couldn’t claim the title of yogi.

  “Namaste,” her class chorused back in one harmonious voice. Fifteen days, and the texture of their namastes had changed. India had worked them hard. Relentless breath work, meditation that dug deep, poses that reset bones held long enough to bring out the strength of the very soul. Yoga brought together the entirety of a person’s experience being them. The body, the mind, the consciousness, all brought into awareness and experienced at once. If you gave it time, it gave you a glimpse of your whole self, your very humanness.

  The enthusiasm of their first few days was sweet. The exhaustion of the middle slog that they hit on day seven and struggled through until day thirteen was heartbreaking but hopeful because India knew the outcome. It was this deeply relaxed and rooted “Namaste” that India waited for as she led them through their camp. Her grandmother would be proud.

  They each stopped by to thank her and she pressed her hands together as she thanked them in return. Some of them just wanted her praise, others wanted her reassurance that they could hold on to what they had learned here. She gave each one of them what they needed, what the voice inside her told her would help them best.

  There was very little you had control over in the world. But your own actions, those you could make exactly what you chose to make them. Staying connected to her inner voice was the only way India knew to make sure she kept her actions what they should be.

  After the last of the students had left, India made her way to her suite wrapped in the kind of peace that came with giving a job your all. The resort was located at the edge of a cliff in Punta Quepos overlooking the Pacific coast of Costa Rica. She walked past the infinity pool that dropped into the ocean. Of all the resorts in the Manuel Antonio region this was the only one without a bar.

  Most of her students would be headed to one of the other resorts today, to the places with multiple bars. India didn’t begrudge them their enjoyment. During her retreats, however, she preferred that her students not imbibe, and try to stay vegetarian. The body stayed better focused on itself with food that was easier to digest, and the mind stayed better focused on itself without alcohol messing with the nervous system. You emerged more refreshed and energized after a meditative retreat if you didn’t drink or eat meat; and India had never had a student who didn’t wholeheartedly agree, even if they’d started out trying to prove her wrong.

  Inside her suite, she pulled off the turquoise shrug she’d worn over her white yoga pants and tank and put the kettle on in the kitchenette. Then, she retrieved her phone from her nightstand and let herself out onto the balcony. The coolness of the slate floor soaked into her bare feet. The resort was built on terraces tucked into a hill slope rising from the ocean and the briny sea breeze caught speed at this height and pummeled harder. Her hair caught every bit of salt in the air, making the short cropped strands stiff and heavy against her fingers as she tried to push them back in place.

  Her thick, straight, jet-black hair was a gift of her Thai genes, and she was grateful to her birth parents for it, whoever they were. When India was younger she would search her own facial features in the mirror to piece together what they looked like, and wondered where they lived, and if they ever missed her. She did it only rarely. Not often enough to feel like she was betraying her mother, but just enough to bring awareness to the people who’d brought her into the world.

  At sixteen India had finally asked her mother if she had any records that told India something, anything. But keeping true to her nature, Tara Dashwood had saved none of the paperwork. It didn’t matter. India loved her mother more than words could describe. A mother who drowned her children in love, who drowned anyone and anything that crossed her path in love, was hard to not love. Growing up, India remembered not a word of criticism, nor a harsh experience of any sort. Her childhood had been suffused with the sweet scent of incense, the soothing sounds of chanting, and the warmth of being wrapped up in hugs and unconditional acceptance.

  If a serious illness ever befell India or her two siblings (an eventuality Tara never foresaw, because: yoga!), they’d have no idea if it was genetic predisposition. Because Tara had adopted children from three countries with an equal disregard for parental history for all three.

  The kettle whistled and India poured herself a cup of hot water and took it back to the balcony, and finally checked her cell phone. Her mother used technology as little as possible, but as expected, there were missed calls and a string of texts from India’s sister, China. Their brother, Siddhartha, hadn’t checked in, but that wasn’t surprising either. He was off photographing birds-of-paradise in Papua New Guinea, and as Sid loved to say, a cell signal and birds worth photographing didn’t go together.

  Instead of reading through her texts, India called China. Wi-Fi calling meant international calls wouldn’t bankrupt her. These retreats did make more money in a week than a month’s worth of classes at their studio in Palo Alto, but she needed every cent to pay the mountainous debt from recent renovations to her family’s studio.

  “India!” China always answered calls with your name, as though y
ou had to be reminded that caller ID existed.

  “China!” India said, mirroring her tone, and couldn’t hold back the smile that split her face. “All well? Is the studio still standing?”

  China was the one who had goaded India into doing the retreats, because India had never shown any interest in leaving the studio. She loved Palo Alto, loved the studio and their apartment above it that she shared with Tara and China. What was the reason to ever leave? But they’d recently had to renovate the studio because parts of the structure had become hazardous, and renovations in Palo Alto basically cost more than a small Greek island. The reason India knew this was because Sid had checked the prices and suggested they buy the island instead of renovating.

  “Actually, the studio’s crumbled to the ground. It refused to stay standing without you holding it up on your tiny but mighty shoulders.” China enjoyed teasing India, but between how little China cared about anything but her work (which was not teaching yoga or taking care of the family incense business, thank you very much) and the fact that their mother hadn’t been her usual energetic self recently and had been forgetting little things like turning off the stove and locking up, India’s fear was not entirely unjustified.

  “And the classes are going well?” India asked. She couldn’t wait to get back to her students. Their mother’s style of instruction catered to students who were more interested in loving themselves than pushing themselves. This was the point of yoga, obviously, but the point was also growth. Every mind and body was stronger than it believed. And, in Palo Alto—the chosen home of so many tech billionaires—India had learned to braid together self-love with growth so it best benefitted her clients.

  “No, Mom and Tomas suddenly forgot how to teach with you gone,” China said, sounding cheeky enough, but something was off in her tone. India could tell that China’s brain had already moved on to the next thing. “I do miss you, though,” she added, voice suddenly wobbly.

  “Something wrong, Cee?” India was instantly in big-sister mode. Even though China was almost thirty, India would always be three years older. Every time China sounded like something was bothering her, it would always take India instantly back to when China was a toddler who woke up in the middle of the night needing to be held.

  Instead of answering, her sister let out a sob.

  Worry rolled through India, even as she listened carefully to determine if there was any real cause for alarm. “It’s going to be okay. Are you alone? Is it work? Is it Song?” China was equally passionate about her family, her work, the weather, their pug, her new girlfriend.

  “Do you believe it’s possible to burst with love?”

  India relaxed and took a sip of her hot water, a relieved smile nudging at her lips. “You mean physically, like a balloon popping? I’ve never actually heard of a case where that happened.”

  “Funny. But I don’t expect you to understand. It’s just . . . it’s just . . . I’m just filled all the way up, you know? Like my feelings for her are pushing against my skin in every part of me. Even the tips of my fingers tingle with it, India!”

  India dropped into the circular chair bed overlooking the ocean and crossed her legs. “You’re adorable, Cee.”

  “I am, right? So, it’s not strange that someone as perfect as Song likes me?”

  “You’re the one who’s perfect here,” India said, making sure China knew she meant it. If they had to play the who’s-luckier game, anyone who earned her sister’s love was the lucky one. “Has Song decided to stay back?” India tried not to sound worried but she wasn’t sure she succeeded.

  China had recently started seeing Song Ji Woo, who was a famous Korean actor. China was a producer at the Food Network and Song had been a contestant on China’s TV show last season. Problem was, Song had moved to the U.S. only for the show. Just like her choice to be addressed by her last name instead of her first name, being here was a temporary thing she was escaping into. Her life and work were back in South Korea. To say nothing of the fact that Song was quite firmly in the closet and China had been out and proud her whole life.

  “Why does that matter?” China tried not to snap, India knew that, but keeping her emotions tempered had never been her sister’s strong suit.

  How could it not matter? If the person you were giving your love and trust to wasn’t interested in giving you theirs, how could that not matter? There was no way to ask China that without sounding disapproving of this great love she was experiencing. So, instead, India said, “It only matters if it matters to you.”

  “I knew you’d do this. How can you of all people not understand that if you love someone, you love someone. It can’t be conditional on what they can give you in return. It’s the journey, not a destination. Isn’t that what you spend your days teaching people?”

  Sure, life, like yoga, was a practice. You stayed in the moment. Lived it with mindful actions. That was the only way to experience it fully and do it justice. That didn’t mean you jumped off a cliff onto rocks just to know how that felt.

  “I’m not saying you can’t have the feelings or that you shouldn’t take joy from them. I just don’t want you to get hurt,” India said gently. The expectations, the hopes, the dreams, all the things China wanted from Song were clear in her voice, in the way she breathed when she talked about her. “You can only live in the moment with yourself. But that’s not what you want. You want those feelings returned.”

  “She returns my feelings.”

  “I know she does. But, sweetheart, she’s not planning to stay.”

  “This isn’t the nineteenth century. Every relationship does not have to end in marriage.”

  “Okay.” Strong as the urge to fix this for her sister was, India knew it wasn’t in her hands.

  “Did you have to ruin it?”

  “No. I’m sorry. I do think you’re great together. And you’re so much more fun when you’re getting some,” she added, needing to diffuse the tension between them.

  That made China laugh. Her sister was quicksilver, her temper burning hot but her need to return to joy even more stubborn. “Hah! Yes, speaking of getting some. The girl is insatiable.” China’s laugh got all husky and India knew her anger was forgotten. “I think I might have set a record. And you know that I’m already somewhat of a legend.”

  “Also somewhat lacking in humility?”

  “I came seven times in one night, India! And I wasn’t the one who came the most number of times.”

  “TMI, Cee!”

  China didn’t care, she filled India in on the details. Which were undoubtedly impressive. India had to admit that she’d never seen her sister this happy. China’s naturally high capacity for joy stretched beautifully at the seams.

  Maybe India didn’t need to worry about Song breaking China’s heart. Only the most foolish person would let feelings so precious slip from their hands. Maybe Song would realize how fortunate she was and the two of them would find a way to be together.

  Once China had caught India up on every single detail of every single thing Song and she had said and done over the past few days, India gently turned the conversation toward their family.

  True to form, Sid hadn’t been in touch with China either. As soon as their brother had access to a network he’d call.

  “Mom canceled her classes yesterday,” China said absently. “Nothing to worry about, though, Tomas picked them up.”

  “Is it her back?” Tara’s upper back had been bothering her for weeks. No matter how much Mom insisted she was okay, recognizing signs of pain was India’s job. She should never have left without making sure that her mother saw the doctor.

  “I think it is. But you know how she is, she will neither confirm nor deny, but her heated buckwheat pad has been going nonstop. She won’t go to the doctor. I tried.”

  Obviously China hadn’t tried hard enough. “I’m canceling next week’s session and coming home.”

  “I hate when you do that.” India knew what China would say next. “Ac
t like you’re the only one who can fix things. Act like you’re the only one who wants to fix things.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing. But Mom has to see the doctor. It’s not a choice.”

  China made an infuriated sound. “I will drag her there if I have to. You don’t have to come home.”

  “You sure?”

  Another infuriated sound. “Of course I’m sure. I get that you run the family business, that you’ve taken it all on because Sid and I weren’t interested, but you do it because you love it, right?”

  “Yes.” The family and the studio were what made her her. It was just that she found it easier to take care of things herself instead of relying on someone else, even her siblings.

  “You know I would help you with the studio if I could bear to,” China said, her distaste at having to do such a thing palpable in her voice.

  India didn’t need another rundown of all the reasons why her life was boring, why she was passionless for toeing the family line. “Mom and I don’t need your help with the studio, we’re fine. It’s just not like Mom to miss classes. She needs to see a doctor. In fact can you call Trisha and run this by her?”

  Trisha Raje was a neurosurgeon, so not quite an internist, but Trisha was one of China’s closest friends. Trisha’s cousin Ashna lived next door to the Dashwoods. The Raje cousins and the Dashwood sisters had been friends for years, their friendships solidifying in adulthood because both families tended to be private and slow to trust strangers.

  “I’ll call Trisha and Mom’s doctor as soon as I get off the phone with you. You stay right where you are and don’t worry about it. You know I can be an adult when I focus really, really hard.”

  India had another week-long corporate gig coming up with a week’s break before it. It was much less work than a full retreat because she just needed to lead morning yoga sessions and then give a couple lectures about stress management and she’d get paid several times as much as the retreat paid. “Thanks. It would be unwise to give up that kind of money.” But something about not taking care of Tara herself didn’t sit right inside her.