Misappropriated Attention

I thought about him all last evening, and I couldn’t stop thinking about him today. I finally had to admit that he would be with me for a while, and I just had to settle in with it and see it through.

We ate at Ajanta Indian Restaurant last evening. After my trip to India and Nepal, their cuisine had grown on me, and when my husband suggested we go there on my one-night-a week off from cooking, I enthusiastically agreed. The garlic naan bread and dahl soup alone would make it worthwhile.

I was seated against a wall with my husband facing me. The tables had white linens, and the atmosphere was warm and friendly. A few yards across from me, the angelic face of a young boy came into my view. How could a little boy be so handsome, with a perfect haircut framing his face with two big brown eyes and porcelain skin? I wanted to hug him, kiss both his sweet cheeks. As my view zoomed out from his face, I noticed the specialized stroller he was in at a table with family members. His gorgeous eyes kept looking around at the ceiling as his neck rested on a nested padding designed for him. He had limited mobility and little range of motion in his hands which would ball into tender, soft fists and sporadically contract.

It dawned on me I was paying more attention to this child than to the menu choices, and the Nepalese waiter was allowing us extra time to make up our minds.

I pulled my eyes back to the menu to help my husband decide which dishes we might share and which we would order for ourselves. Once decided, the waiter appeared and described a tempting arugula stone-fruit salad on a base of whipped ricotta which was not on the menu. It didn’t sound Indian to me, but we were intrigued and ordered it to share. When we were done ordering the rest, we entered into political small talk. There was no shortage of that. Every day brought another crises or a host of inane decisions at the government level. 

My attention kept being drawn back to my little guy. I watched his mother and grandmother take turns stroking and caressing his arms and whispering sweet things to him. He showed no reaction, but he seemed comfortable, mute, but comfortable. It was difficult for me to disengage from him. At one point, his mother placed a specialized bib under his chin in preparation of his meal. 

I had to confess to my husband why my eyes kept wandering away from our table and conversation to another place. I prefaced my confession with a request that he not turn around to look at the cherub just then. He agreed and nodded as though he understood the situation. I imagine he’s used to my unusual requests by now. We settled in to await our garlic naan.

The boy’s mother was gently touching his lips with a rubber-tipped teaspoon of food. He opened his mouth and allowed her to place the food in it. He appeared to be chewing, automatically, keeping most of the food in his mouth. She kept encouraging him with smiles and compliments.

Our naan arrived none too soon, and my attention reverted back to our table. The small triangular slices of naan were evenly spaced on a serving plate, and in the center was a small bowl with a pungent green dipping sauce. The scent of garlic and the green condiment for the naan appealed to me, and I indulged with gusto.

Was the boy enjoying his meal? Could he savor it? Chew it? He had beautiful white teeth.

Soon our arugula salad arrived, and we helped ourselves to the mixture of sliced peaches and plums nestled on a bed of whipped ricotta cheese. Nothing Indian about this course, but tasty nonetheless. We reflected on so many of our friends who had recently left us and how they had left a gaping hole in our hearts.

The mother of the young boy was now offering him what appeared to be water by inserting a sippy cup spout in his mouth, which he accepted easily. He never rejected her approaches and implied suggestions. Was he even capable of rejecting them? 

Soon our second course of a mound of brown rice topped with fried onion strips on a plate with a small aluminum cup of dahl soup with scattered chives on top arrived. The soup drew comparisons to the dahl soup at Everest Kitchen, a Nepalese restaurant down at the bottom of Solano Avenue, the same street as Ajanta is on. We were shrewd in comparing them.

The young boy’s bib came off easily by gently pulling it forward. His meal was over. I hoped he enjoyed it. His mother rubbed his tummy and chest, and he reacted with what I detected was a hint of a smile. Could he experience happiness, joy, tender love? What was my fascination with him?

As our meal ended, and we were awaiting the check, I looked again at the table near us and wondered as only a parent could what the boy would miss in life. He’d never ride a bicycle, play with toys, engage in sports, make friends, go to prom, study, play the piano, nor graduate. I decided to end the list, although I could have gone on forever. And then my thoughts shifted to his mother and what her life must be like. She appeared young, determined, patient, loving, and highly committed. She had given birth to one of the most beautiful children I had ever seen. Her husband, if indeed he was, was seated at the other end of the table and had nothing to do with the boy. It was all on her. 

This dinner had become memorable to me, not for the naan or dahl soup, but for the courage, love, and loving commitment I had witnessed. The boy’s beauty and his mother’s love meshed into an unbreakable bond I would remember forever.

As we finished paying the bill and stood to leave, I took my last look at my little boy and longed to wish his mother and him well, but restrained myself from approaching them. It would have been so wrong. My husband now had the opportunity to look at the object of my affection before we left, and he did.

Outside on the sidewalk, my husband said, “He is indeed beautiful. I understand.”

After hearing this validation, my eyes moistened up, and we walked to our car.

(Published by Central Texas Writers Society 2026)