Her ears perked up when she heard the car door slam. Before the keys could start turning in her lock, she was flinging clothes at the man sleeping beside her.
“What’s the matter?” He asked, roused by her clothing barrage, his Hindi accent thickened with grogginess.
“I am in the autumn of my life, I do not need to be dealing with things like this!” She scoured the floor, searching for her unmentionables.
From downstairs, a voice called out, “Mom? You home?”
They shot each other looks. His one of restrained humor, hers of abject panic.
“How long does it take you to wrap this thing ‘round your head?” She clenched his turban in her fist.
He shrugged lazily, “I don’t know, how long does it take you to get your hair done?”
“Don’t you test me, Patel. You may be the man partaking of my sweet pleasures, but don’t think I’m afraid of unleashing a stereotypical big mamma switch whoopin’ on your tan ass.”
“I love it when you talk dirty.”
“Keep it up! I’ll make you climb out the window using that thing as rope!”
“Just so long as I can use it to get back in later.”
One of the best Indian grocery stores in Memphis is a predominantly African American neighborhood. But, you don’t open up a cuisine-specific food store without clientele looking to buy it. Which means that there is some blending between those two cultures, and I can only imagine what shape those blendings might take.