There was a slight flurry of movement. Abbu half-stood and blinked, looking rattled and then sat down again. Munni Aunty glared at him. I was staring fixedly at the woman, and she returned my stare calmly, looking slightly defiant.

“Sit, sit,” Munni Aunty gestured with her hands to the seat beside Abbu.

I glanced at Abbu. He was sweating profusely all of a sudden. Feeling sorry for him but also annoyed at Munni Aunty’s obvious machinations, I stood up and, with a tight smile, offered my seat to the woman.

I heard Munni Aunty’s “tch” as I sat down next to Abbu and the woman slid into the seat next to her. Saud was staring into a glass of water, oblivious to everything that was happening. I sensed Abbu stiffening a little beside me and thought that children shouldn’t have to witness such moments where omnipotent beings like parents were reduced to nervous wrecks.

Abbu kept his hands in his lap, and he was turning his watch over and over. I put my hand on his to stop him.

Munni Aunty started the longest monologue in the history of our family.

“Sulaiman Bhai, do you know? Nafisa used to be a businesswoman. She was single-handedly running a very successful boutique in Fraser Town. Even with a small child, she managed to make a huge success out of it. So many women used to come to her because she would have the latest designs from Dubai and Karachi. None of this Commercial Street nonsense for her, mind you. Even I had bought a few sets from her a few years back. Then her husband passed away and it was really so admirable how she continued at the shop, even though she became a widow. But her mother wasn’t keeping well and her mother used to look after her son and recently her mother passed away so she had to shut down the shop. She hasn’t shut it entirely. She’s still getting customers who come home directly to her. She’s just finding it hard to manage on her own now, as some of the girls who were working with her suddenly had to leave.”

Pause for breath.

“Nafisa, did you know? Sulaiman Bhai is the managing director of a very successful company. Not many men in our families are as educated as he is or go as far as he has gone. You know how it is in our families, na? Boys rarely care about getting educated because they know family business is there waiting for them. But not Sulaiman Bhai. He studied hard and got an MBA, I think. And then he has his own apartment here and there are some ancestral lands also near Mysore and Tumkur. His kids are all grown up and Maria here will be married soon. Saud, of course, doesn’t need any looking after so you won’t have any problem. There’s an excellent school near their house where both of them are going and I think you can enrol your son there as well. It will all work out for the best.”

Munni Aunty leaned forward and took a sip of water.

The waiter had brought a plate of sliced cucumber and onions but no one had touched it. He lingered near us, pen and pad in hand, hoping to write down our order. Beyond him, the restaurant teemed with waiters walking back and forth, holding trays of food and plates, and people talking loudly with each other, at each other, laughing raucously. We were in a bubble of sorts, one that kept growing thicker and harder as Munni Aunty continued talking. The back of my neck felt hot and itchy. I scratched it, subduing the activity temporarily but it flared up again.

Abbu looked like he would rather be anywhere but here. I sensed that he wasn’t happy with the way this was going. Serves you right for agreeing to this, I thought furiously.

Nafisa was not looking at any of us. She, too, seemed embarrassed and she stared down at her lap.

Only Munni Aunty didn’t seem to have realised that her attempt at matchmaking was a colossal disaster.

“Haan, get us some appetisers first,” she told the waiter, who turned from Abbu to look at her. Pen poised over the pad, he still waited.

“What appetisers, madam?” he asked.

“Arrey, get us one plate of chicken tikka and one plate of kalmi kabab,” Munni Aunty said.

The waiter jotted something ever so briefly, and then nodded and walked away.

“So what do you think?” Munni Aunty addressed no one in particular.

I fiddled with the fork at my place setting and looked at Abbu. His face was drawn. How could Munni Aunty expect Abbu to give an answer immediately? I hoped that wasn’t what she meant.

Saud seemed to have just understood what was going on. He looked at Abbu and me, and shook his head slowly, his eyes stricken. Since he was sitting beside Munni Aunty, she couldn’t make out the silent communication between the three of us.

“I really think this is a good idea. So nice that both of you agreed to come and meet here informally instead of doing it the old route where we’d have to speak to the elders and all. This is so much more convenient, na?” she asked, addressing Nafisa. Nafisa merely continued staring into her lap.

Munni Aunty was clearly not happy with the progress.

The waiter placed a plate of the appetisers before us. The orange-red chicken tikkas glistened with butter and a light sprinkling of masala over them. Munni Aunty waved away the waiter, who would have served us, and I wondered how soon I could take a piece without looking impolite.

Munni Aunty picked up a piece for herself and bit into its luscious fullness. With her mouth full, she continued, “After all, Sulaiman Bhai, how much longer will you wait for that woman? It’s not like she’s going to come back or anything, na? I mean, she did leave with another man, right?” She sucked on the tips of her fingers.

Cymbals crashed around in my head. I was only aware of my desire to get away. I stood up and breathing heavily, spoke to Munni Aunty, “Just shut up. Don’t you ever talk about my mother that way!”

I stalked away, feeling hot tears pool in my eyes and slip down my face. Once I was outside the restaurant, I had no idea where our car had been parked. So feeling foolish, I sat down on the steps where Saud joined me. He sat down beside me and I realised he was trembling. No words were spoken but I had a measure of comfort from his presence. I blinked at the tears and brushed them away impatiently with the back of my fingers and sniffled.

Abbu came out, his face thunderous and closed. No one said a word as we waited for the car to be brought to the entrance.

With my head against the backrest, I closed my eyes and wondered how the chicken tikka would have tasted.

Excerpted with permission from When She Went Away, Andaleeb Wajid, Duckbill Books.