Curry Munching with the French Boy

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AN: This is my first Wattpad story so constructive critiscm is appreciated. If I offend anyone, Indian or French, please let me know. Picture of Katrina Kaif on the side. I REALISE MY STORY IS SORT OF LAME. JUST BEAR WITH ME TILL CHAPTER 9.

“Maliha! Put the rotis on the table.” My mother’s voice shouted from the kitchen. I groaned and rolled off my bed. I had 3 younger siblings that my mother could choose to pick on, but no, she had to pick me.

I trudged into the kitchen wearing grey sweatpants and a black tank top…it was a lazy Sunday afternoon anyway. The tiles felt cold on my bare feet and I winced when I stepped into the even colder kitchen.

“Jesus mom, close the windows it’s cold!” I mumbled pulling the kitchen windows closed. Mom was busy standing over the pan, throwing an array of spices into her famous chicken curry.

“I don’t bloody care this is cold, I vant you to put roti on the table, okay?” She said snapping at me in her Indian accent.

“Okay.”

 Learning to be submissive and obedient in an Indian family is the key to a happy, drama-free life. I picked up the plate of steaming rotis and was about to leave the kitchen when my mother called me back.

“Yes mom?”

“Don’t call me mom, okay? You call me Ma. I don’t vant this bloody vhite children influencing you.”

“Mom! You can’t call them white, that’s rude!” I chuckled. I knew she was only playing.

“Vhat they are then? They brown? Black? They vhite. Now jao, your father vill be coming just now.” She scolded, pushing me out of the kitchen.

I set the plate of rotis down on the table and wandered back into the kitchen to help my mother. Soon the front door rattled opened and footsteps could be heard coming from all parts of the house. My father liked to be greeted by all his children the moment he stepped through the door.

I sauntered into the lounge and stood next to my 3 younger siblings. I was the oldest of 4…4 girls to be precise.

“Preeya, stop pulling Gita’s hair.” I scolded my youngest sister who was tugging on my second youngest sister’s hair.

“But Lee, she started it.” Preeya whined. She was 5 years old and an absolute brat. She was cute when she wanted to be, but other than that, she was spoilt rotten.

“What a bunch of little bitches.” My other sister, Diya, muttered under her breath. She was only 2 years younger than me and quite the badass.

“I know right.” I nodded in agreement. Just then my father’s tall frame filled the doorway. For an Indian man he was quite buff. He had thick curly black hair and rich brown skin. His face was always pulled into a stern expression, his tone always sharp and commanding and his mannerisms always fluid and precise. My father (according to my mother) was the height of perfection.

“Good evening, children.” He greeted in a less Indian accent. The fact that my father had studied medicine in the UK was the reason for that.

“Hello daddy!” Preeya squealed, running into my father’s arms. My father’s stern gaze softened and he smiled down at her.

“Were you a good girl today?” he asked. Preeya nodded so hard I thought her head would roll onto the floor.

Definitely would’ve used it to practice volleyball I evilly thought to myself. Next Gita, who was 7, walked up to my dad and placed a kiss on his stubbly face.

“Hi daddy.”

“Hello Gita, did you read that book I gave you?”

“Yes daddy.” She replied politely. Gita was the most pleasant one out of all of us. She was respectful and quiet and always did what was asked of her. My father nodded, pleased with her answer. He then proceeded to give Diya a hug, but she quickly dodged it and opted for a fist pump.