A Small Gesture

Mother and daughter at Lakshmi Vilas front table. Fine featured woman in her emerald blouse and glinting frames, slender, average size; the girl was taller already in her mid-teens. One table back and across a rowdy group of three children under six with their younger mother, noisy larking and laughing. Minor pleasant disturbance; no one’s lunch was spoiled here. Returning from hand-washing after her meal the first mother, older and more well-to-do, may have thought she had been called by one of the children. Turning with a smile the woman stopped a moment, took a step or two onward toward her daughter at their table, before turning round again and going up to the other. Leaning over the younger mother she spoke smilingly, pointing at the children. This one so old, that one, and then the third it may have been. The seated younger woman did not meet the other’s eye more than once or twice and briefly, slight blush noticeable on dark skin. Tamil both more than likely, Older a little lighter; Younger wore a bindi on her forehead, loose-collared faded tee. Pointing again, smiling the while, Older spoke some more benediction to the family circle, quieting the children only a little with it. At the register shortly afterward the matter was not difficult to guess. It was easy to guess. Still, one needed to be sure. As expected, the woman did not mind the intrusion. A small gesture, she explained. Lakshmi certainly was cheap. Was it indeed true, as the woman had been told, that one had never seen the like in the West—the West proper? (In Slavic lands someone is always leaping for the bill.) Readers will answer for themselves. Really? the woman wondered; the portrayal on television had given another impression. That was a surprise too. Perhaps the older mother had meant the treating in the bars and restaurants, the Boss’ unexpected, This is on me.