IRISH LOVESTORY - Guru´s

 

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Guru’s

Every day, I found my thoughts drifting to him. It was relentless, like a quiet poison seeping into my veins. Why had he held my hand, kissed me, whispered promises he never intended to keep? I tried to push him from my mind, to silence the obsession, but it clung stubbornly, unyielding. I sent messages, small and hopeful, only to meet the wall of his silence. Each unanswered note sent a ripple of frustration, anger, and despair through me. Maybe he was dead. Maybe he’d lost his phone. Perhaps he had moved on entirely. I searched for excuses—anything but the truth: that he simply did not care.

Then one evening, as I scrubbed the worn tiles of the bistro floor, two figures appeared at the counter. My blood ran cold. Jack and Tom. The sight of them made my stomach twist. They stared down at me, faces unreadable, but the weight of their disapproval was undeniable.

“Look, Teri, stop sending Jack those messages. It’s annoying,” Tom snapped, voice sharp and low. Jack said nothing. My throat went dry. I nodded, looking anywhere but at him, feeling the sting of humiliation settle deep into my bones.

When they left, the walls of the bistro seemed to close in. I wanted to chase after them, to scream my truth to the empty streets, but the realization struck like a hammer: I had been foolish. Naïve. To hope, to believe, that Jack’s affections had ever been more than a game.

Months passed. I stayed beside Sunny, though life had grown brittle and uncertain. One of his employees had stolen half his business, leaving him bankrupt and desperate. The bistro, which Ringu and I ran, was the only lifeline, the only thing keeping him afloat. Thomastown’s clothing shop and restaurant teetered on collapse, debts piling sky-high. And then the unthinkable: the man responsible chose to end it all. He drank from a bottle of toilet cleaner, leaving the ruin behind. Money lost. Lives shaken. Nothing could reverse it.

I did what I could to buoy Sunny, to steady his fractured spirit. He was kind—patient, gentle, enduring. I could not leave him, though helplessness clung to me like shadow. Our rent soared, our options dwindled, the landlord a relentless predator. Fighting him felt futile, like tilting at windmills.

I took work in Ashgrove, far from the bistro. Small hours, meager pay, but survival demanded sacrifice. Most of the Indian workers around us struggled even more. Locals sneered, spat names at them with cruel ignorance. Seeing Adjit—gentle, quiet, harmless—mocked and laughed at, broke something inside me.

In the midst of struggle, I found a small cottage on the edge of town, hidden in another family’s garden. It was modest, imperfect, but ours. Sunny and I carved out a private little corner, and mornings were soft with Mithu and Mithi’s chirping, our routine comforting in its simplicity.

I carried the household on my shoulders, using my paycheck to keep the roof above us. Sunny never asked, never questioned. He had given me work, shelter, a place in his world—and this was my way of giving back. I believed in him, in us, in the fragile possibility of a life rebuilt from ruins.

One evening, I met Katherine, Sunny’s ex, for a drink. The air was tense but strangely civil. She admitted lingering feelings, confessed her past actions had been driven by fear of losing him. I listened, cautious, measured, careful not to give her power over my heart.

“I never wanted to stand between you and him,” I told her, steadying my voice.

Her laugh was bitter, uneven. “But every time he comes to me, he says he’ll return—that he still loves me.”

I studied her. Honest? Perhaps. But it no longer mattered. Sunny’s care had always been nuanced, sometimes maddening, sometimes protective. He would soothe both sides, tiptoe between worlds to keep peace—but it didn’t diminish my place in his life.

Then, he stunned me further. He had told Katherine I was pregnant.

“You told her what?” My voice rose, disbelief and anger coiling together.

“It was the only way to make her leave you alone,” he muttered, awkward and defensive.

At work, I built friendships with Sorin and Yolana, two Romanians, and Dorka, a Black woman. Together, we endured long hours, grueling work, barely scraping by. I never questioned Sunny’s nights away, nor did I think of Jack. Some desires I learned to lock away, quietly, without complaint.

Months later, the miracle happened. Sunny suggested we open a restaurant. Not just a bistro, but an Indian restaurant, a dream we could craft together. We searched endlessly, traveling from town to town, each small failure building anticipation. And then we found it—a spot in Blessington, perched above the road to Dublin, the reservoir glimmering nearby. A pub below, promising foot traffic, a high ceiling above for our vision.

Sunny made the deal, and I signed papers in Dublin, a one-percent co-owner of what we named Guru’s. Technically, I was insulated from debt, but the gesture mattered—proof that we were building something together.

The following months were relentless. We painted, decorated, arranged tables. Tapestries of Ganesha, golden elephants, glimmering dishes. Sunny hired locals. I learned to assert myself, to manage staff, to wield small authority in this bustling new world. The opening night was a triumph. The papers sang praises, the town marveled, Sunny’s grin captured in photographs.

And yet, life behind the doors of Guru’s was quieter, more intimate. I would visit after shifts, watching the kitchen whirl with energy. Sunny stayed late, counting tills, guarding the restaurant with meticulous care. I savored hot meals he brought back, the warmth of his presence in fleeting moments. Money had not yet arrived in torrents; debts lingered like shadows, but there was hope—fragile, stubborn, unwavering.

And for the first time in a long while, I felt that perhaps, after all the turbulence, we could stand on our feet again. Together.