by Anna Kaling
Arjuna followed her gaze and saw a small boy in a miniature dhoti, lifting a cup to his mouth with both hands and checking anxiously that nothing had dripped into the bright white cloth. The boy looked to his mother for approval, eyes large and black and sparkling like baby Krishna’s. She smiled and kissed his forehead, then pressed his small nose with one finger and hugged him to her.
When Arjuna looked back, Sharanya was biting her lip hard enough to blanche the skin, and her hands were tight fists.
Arjuna made his way through the crowd toward her, but before he reached Sharanya, his mother finished her conversation and called to him. Sharanya jumped at the sound and visibly tried to compose herself.
“Arjuna,” his mother said, as he sat down in front of them. “I was talking to Caitanya Prabhu. He says there is still one date in January free to have the wedding here, on a Friday. The guest limit is three hundred, and they do all the catering. Sounds good, hmm? Sharanya?”
The little boy in the dhoti ran between Arjuna and the women, clutching a puri and holding the bottom of his robe away from the floor. Sharanya gazed after him, then shook herself and replied to Arjuna’s mother.
Arjuna watched the conversation but had no idea what either of them were saying. In his mind he saw Sharanya in her hospital, giving CPR to a child while the nurses gently told her to stop, that it was too late. He saw himself at his desk, preparing his mind to go home to her for another evening of lies with his wife. And he saw Kris, telling a group of happy, giggling children that there was a time to stop listening to their parents.
“Arjuna?”
He focused, and found Sharanya and his mother both standing up. Trying to look like he knew what was happening, he stood, too, and followed them. It took three steps before his mother saw somebody she knew, and struck up another round of “How’s the family? We must meet up soon.”
“Where did you go?” Sharanya asked, stopping beside him.
Arjuna scrambled for an excuse, but his mind was too full to come up with a convincing lie. “I went to the greenhouses. My Tulsi is sick, and a friend has been trying to heal her.”
“Oh, you’ll have to introduce us. I haven’t met any of your friends.”
Arjuna made a noise. Even he wasn’t sure what it was. “Um, where are we going?”
“I knew you weren’t listening.” She shook her head, but she was smiling. “We’re going to look around the wedding marquee, then call my parents and see if they agree we should have the wedding here. Your mum thinks it will be perfect.”
The pleasantries ended, and Arjuna’s mother beckoned them to follow her again. He and Sharanya walked side by side behind her, like school children being taken to the principal’s office.
Part of Arjuna panicked as their route took them by the playground—having his mother, Sharanya, and Kris all within his field of view would surely usher in the apocalypse—but a bigger part of him pulled toward it like a bee drawn to the scent of pollen.
His heart pumped harder as he drew closer to the fence.
Kris wasn’t there.
A few children remained, climbing up ladders and swinging from ropes, but Kris was gone. Arjuna needed him; just a glimpse, a flash of that unruly hair or the curve of his lips, and he would be fine.
Today couldn’t be the last time he saw that face. Maybe Kris’s idea hadn’t been so crazy—maybe they could keep seeing each other even after the wedding. Sharanya didn’t have to know, and what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.
That was bullshit. Lying would never be right, and he couldn’t expect Kris to spend his life as someone’s second priority, like some kind of royal mistress who would never reach the throne.
Couldn’t he? Kris had been his secret for years, hidden from everybody, only allowed to visit when Arjuna said he could, when Arjuna could be sure nobody would find out, on Arjuna’s terms. Everything on Arjuna’s terms. And Kris had known it would always be like that. He accepted that Arjuna would never be seen out with him, never admit what Kris was to him, never put him first.
“Arjuna?”
He had stopped on the path by the playground. His mother and Sharanya both looked back at him from several meters ahead, outside the greenhouses, and in the bright sunshine both of them looked weary behind the smiles.
He was following his mother’s path, but it wasn’t making her any healthier. Following her own mother’s path was making Sharanya more miserable every day.
The brahmacharini who had given him the plant exited the greenhouse and waved at Arjuna before she went into a shed. Kris had obviously told her everything. It was surprising that she could look at Arjuna without scorn.
He walked slowly up the path, feeling like somebody else was controlling his legs. All of his resources were busy in his mind, trying to form words and explanations.
He stopped in front of the greenhouse and took a deep breath. “Sharanya, I need to talk to you.”
KRIS CONTORTED his arms to angles they weren’t designed to reach and tried to scrub the blue streaks off his back. They were an inch out of reach of the shower puff. He turned his back an inch, and his arm turned with it. Like a dog chasing his tail.
He tried bending an arm over his shoulder instead, then jammed the shower puff between his back and the shower wall and shimmied from side to side. Like a dog with worms trying to scratch its butt on the carpet.
He was wishing he had a cat’s dexterity instead when the doorbell rang. He grabbed a pair of jeans and buttoned them up a second before he opened the door.
A Christmas tree stood in the hall, branches springing inside the flat and threatening to poke his eye out. It covered the door and extended beyond it as well, the foliage thick and dark green.
“Um,” Kris said. “Points for novelty, but I’m not interested in Avon or the Watchtower.”
“It’s me,” said a muffled voice.
Kris swallowed and gripped the doorframe. “You’re greener than I remember.”
Two of the branches separated, and a pair of dark brown eyes appeared.
Kris ignored the pang in his chest. “What do you want?”
“I brought you a tree.”
“I see that.”
The eyes looked nervous. Nobody spoke for a moment.
Then, in a rush, the voice from the tree said, “I want to decorate it with you. I want us to decorate one every year, and put our presents under it, and watch Oliver and Mary Poppins until the evening is cool enough to put on hideous jumpers. I’ll go to the Christmas party with you. I’ll go anywhere with you, if you’ll have me back. I’ve been a fool.”
“You… really?” Kris pushed the branches farther apart. Half of Arjuna’s nose came into view, but the wood refused to budge any further.
“Really.” Fingers poked out of the foliage, reaching blindly, and Kris grabbed them. Pine needles scratched his skin, and Arjuna held his hand tight. “I know I hurt you. Let you down. Betrayed you. I was a complete arse. But I swear, I’ll spend the rest of our lives trying to make it up to you.”
“You… but… marriage? No?”
“You were a lot more eloquent in the play.”
“Oh God, you saw that?” Kris tried to shove the tree to one side with a knee, but it didn’t budge, and he was unwilling to let go of Arjuna’s hands.
“Yes. Hypothermia suits you. And no, I’m not getting married. Not to anybody but you, anyway. I’ve told her and my parents. Everybody.”
“About us?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus. How did that go?”
“They didn’t take it very well.”
“Yeah, like first-time anal without lube, I imagine.” He paused. “Sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. I hurt a lot of people, and I’ve got a lot to do to make amends. But I’m not hiding anymore, and I’m not hiding you, either. I love you.”
“God, we need to move this damn tree.”
“I think it’s stuck.”
“Then get a damn cha
insaw. I need to see you.”
“Oh, sure, I’ll just pop down to the all-night chainsaw rental store down the road.”
“You were a lot less sarcastic when you were in the closet. Look, you grab the top, I’ll grab the bottom.”
“You’ve got friends round for a foursome?”
Kris snorted, said, “Oh for heaven’s sake,” dropped Arjuna’s hands, and barreled his shoulder into the tree. It dislodged itself from the threshold plate under the door and tipped back, bouncing off the opposite wall and rolling onto the carpet. It filled the width of the corridor and reached almost to the stairs.
They both stared at it. “We can’t leave it there,” said Arjuna. He glanced at Kris, did a double take at his bare chest, and placed a hand on his arm. “Or….”
“Fuck it. It’s festive.” Kris pulled him inside and closed the door.
The moment their lips met, Kris melted. Arjuna groaned from deep in his throat, a sound of longing and bliss and frustration, and Kris pushed him against the wall, needing something stronger than himself for support.
Arjuna laid his palms flat on Kris’s chest, over his heart, and broke the kiss. “I’m sorry.”
“Mm.” Kris resumed the kiss, tugging Arjuna’s shirt from his trousers.
Arjuna broke away again. “I know I broke your trust. I’m going to make it up to you.”
“Yes. Right.” Kris kissed him harder, pushing him into the wall, but he turned his head.
“I didn’t mean the things I said, in the kitchen. I just wanted to make you angry so it would be easier, and—”
“Arjuna?”
“Yes?”
“Shut up and kiss me.”
“Okay.”
He did; right on the neck, where it turned Kris’s bones to jelly.
Kris let his forehead fall onto the wall and savored every touch of Arjuna’s lips.
Until Arjuna said, “What?” and stopped the kisses. Kris lifted his head to administer another scolding. Arjuna was staring over his shoulder, forehead creased.
“What what?” Kris followed his gaze. “Whoa.”
“Did you get a new one?”
“No.” Kris blinked at the plant, standing in front of his window on a side table among empty glasses, books, and a few chocolate bar wrappers.
“How did she get so green in one day?” Arjuna said. “She looked about to crumble when I saw her yesterday.”
“I don’t know. I watered her last night, and I was afraid to sneeze in case she went bald. I… don’t know. I guess she really likes my flat.”
Neither of them spoke for a minute, and then Kris turned his focus from the plant and surveyed the living room. “Is this mess driving you mad?”
“No.” Arjuna put a hand in Kris’s hair. “I realized I like messy.”
“The bedroom is even messier.”
Arjuna kissed him again, and they got a good five or six seconds of tongue action before someone knocked on the door.
Kris growled at the ceiling. “Why, God, do you hate me?” He stomped to the door and opened it. “Yes, hello?”
It was Jackee from the flat next door.
“Is this your tree?” she demanded, waving at the eight-foot pine blocking the hall.
“No. It just wandered in.”
She gave a sarcastic smile. “Hilarious. When are you going to move it?”
Kris put on a thinking-hard expression and glanced at Arjuna. “In about an hour.”
Arjuna walked to the door and put an arm around Kris, looking neither self-conscious or guilty. “Make it two.”
Jackee looked from one to the other of them, wide-eyed.
“Merry Christmas,” said Kris and shut the door in her face.
ARJUNA SQUEEZED Kris’s hand. Kris squeezed back and let go. As much as he wanted Arjuna’s touch, he had to make the right impression.
Arjuna’s mother opened the door with her husband standing behind her. She stepped aside and held the door open wide. If Kris wanted to be uncharitable, he’d say it was wide enough that there was no chance of him brushing against her as he walked inside.
Nobody spoke until they were all sitting in the living room, Mr. and Mrs. Shah on the sofa, Kris and Arjuna in armchairs at opposite ends of the room.
Mrs. Shah straightened up and made a visible effort to smile. “So, Kris. What do you do?”
Kris’s palms began to sweat like a tap had been turned on. He cleared his throat. “I work in a garden center. Selling plants and things.”
The Shahs looked at each other expressionlessly. Kris sank farther into his chair.
“Well, what was your degree in?” Mrs. Shah asked, with the air of somebody prepared to give a second chance.
“Uh… I left school when I was sixteen. I’m not the academic type. Our doctor said I was dyslexic. My mum said I was thick.” He smiled, but it went down like a tree in a landslide. The Shahs exchanged looks again, and Mr. Shah shifted in his seat.
Arjuna met Kris’s eyes. Kris breathed in deep through his nose. He could do this.
“And how is your mother?” Mrs. Shah asked. Her smile had become fixed.
“Um, I don’t know. She hasn’t spoken to me in twelve years. Since I said I was g—” Too late; the word hung in the air, expanding like a bubble about to burst. Mrs. Shah sucked in a sharp breath and held it.
Kris tensed his calves, ready to stand up and leave. He only hoped Arjuna would go with him.
“Do you love our son?” said Mr. Shah abruptly. Startled, Kris looked at him properly for the first time. Arjuna took after his mother, but he had his father’s eyes.
Now was the time for Kris to say something clever and impressive and win their hearts. But he’d never been one for great speeches. Or even mediocre speeches.
So he simply said, “Yes. I’d do anything for him.”
Without looking, he knew Arjuna was going red.
The Shahs watched him without expression. Kris slid a hand in his pocket and gripped his car keys.
A breeze whipped the curtains. Nobody moved.
Kris scrambled for something to say, but then Mrs. Shah stood up. “Come on, then. I’ll show you my secret recipe for dal sambar. Arjuna has never got the hang of it.”
Kris was stunned for a moment, then gathered his wits and followed Mrs. Shah to the kitchen. As he passed Arjuna, their fingers brushed together and squeezed for an instant.
“I’m not a very good cook,” he said, standing by a pristine white counter as Mrs. Shah tied an apron around her waist.
“Yet. Give me a few months with you and you’ll be cooking feasts for the family. Now, tell me about this garden center.”
ANNA KALING writes international contemporary romance, usually set in Britain and featuring lots of tea, rain, and passive-aggressive queuing. By day she writes about concrete erections for a construction firm, and by night she… well, never mind.
When not writing, she’s probably watching bad monster movies like Grabbers, featuring alien octopi that can only be fought by drunk people, or Super Shark, featuring the immortal exchange: “The sharks can fly!” “That’s bad.”
Or she might be playing her favorite games, including Plague, in which one must create a disease that wipes out humanity. She finds it inspirational.
Anna lives in London. She’s so British that she went through an entire operation too polite to mention the anesthetic hadn’t worked. She’s usually being sat on by a cat: either Charlie, who will only eat fresh chicken breast warmed to blood temperature and who bullies her to go to bed at 9:00 p.m. each night, or Pepper, who is as socially awkward as Anna and thinks everybody wants to stare right at her butt. Anna doesn’t shove her butt in people’s faces, but she does usually end up talking about the best pimple-popping videos at dinner parties. Serves them right for inviting her.
Anna would love to hear from you, especially if you have any bad monster movies or pimple-popping videos to share.
Twitter: @AnnaKaling
Email: anna@annak
aling.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/annakalingauthor
By Anna Kaling
Tulsi Vivah
Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS
www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Published by
DREAMSPINNER PRESS
5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886 USA
www.dreamspinnerpress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Tulsi Vivah
© 2018 Anna Kaling.
Cover Art
© 2018 Adrian Nicholas.
[email protected]
Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.
All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or www.dreamspinnerpress.com.
Digital ISBN: 978-1-64405-048-4
Digital eBook published December 2018
v. 1.0
Printed in the United States of America
