The Object of Your Affections

by Falguni Kothari

“You didn’t get therapy or grief counseling after Kaivan died?”

  My chest suddenly felt tight and I struggled to breathe.

  “That’s not how it’s done in India. And before you ask, it’s not like in the movies either, where the wailing widow breaks her colored bangles against the walls and wears white all the time. As you see, I’m as colorfully dressed as I used to be.”

  The joke fell flat because Paris looked at me in confusion. So, I told her what the customs for widows had been in India until as recently as my grandmother’s generation, and probably still were in some rural areas. Widows had to live in seclusion, only wear white saris with no ornaments, nothing that could attract another man’s eye, and spend their days at the temple, praying.

  “I didn’t have to do that. I was cocooned by my family and Kaivan’s family. They took care of me, grieved with me. They were all the support I needed.” Maybe I should have sought other forms of therapy and not relied on my family so much.

  It occurred to me too late that I’d been in a perfect position to advocate change for some of the more archaic and unfair customs related to widows that might still be prevalent in India. It shamed me to realize that I’d never given it any thought. If I had, I might have helped others, and maybe I might have found some peace.

  Paris would have thought of it, and would have fought for change while I’d simply wallowed.

  She gave me a long, hard look, but left it alone. “I was made to understand that it was Lily’s way of grieving and coming to terms with the Judge’s absence from her life. Apparently, she feels alone and lost in her widowhood. What utter crap. Lily’s never been alone in her life. She’s a twin, isn’t she? And she and Rachel have always been close. Rachel was already widowed and practically living with them when the Judge died.”

  Paris couldn’t understand that kind of grief because—how could she? And I prayed she never would. Losing a husband transformed you. I was unrecognizable even to myself. I was hard and bitter, clingy and weepy. Needy. Weak. I’d given in to things I shouldn’t have. But then, I’d given in even when Kaivan was alive. The choices I’d made would appall Paris. Somedays, I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror.

  The only place I’d felt the slightest bit at peace in the last two years was when I’d visited Guruji, my family’s spiritual teacher. He’d assured me I’d heal, in my own way and at my own pace. He’d said that the echoes of loss may never stop ringing, but my heart would get used to the noise. I guess in India spiritual teachers took the place of therapists.

  I’d asked him how one might redeem a compromised soul, and he’d said, “Pray.”

  I guzzled down the glass of rosé and poured myself more. I topped off Paris’s glass too. She hadn’t stopped yammering, adding sweeping hand gestures to her tirade. She seemed hyper tonight. More so than usual.

  “Am I right or wrong?” She glared at me, clearly expecting an answer.

  “Umm. About?” I asked sheepishly. “I zoned out.”

  “Naira! I’m spilling my guts here, telling you that my marriage is on the brink of disaster and you can’t be bothered to listen?”

  It took me a second to process that statement. “Whaaat? What the hell are you talking about? I thought we were discussing your mother. What the hell is wrong with your marriage?” I caught her arm before she flung it out again. “Tell me.”

  Paris had my undivided attention now. But for one teensy selfish second, I wondered what would happen to my job offer if Paris and Neal got divorced.

  “Tell me what’s wrong.” I modulated my voice so it wouldn’t come out as a shout. Though, I wanted to shout at her. Scream. Less than three years married and she’d already screwed things up with that sweet man. I wasn’t even surprised.

  “We’re having a bairn.” She made it sound like a death sentence.

  “A barn? What does that mean? You’re buying a barn?” That’s all? That didn’t sound horrid. It was strange though. “And what does it have to do with your marriage not working?”

  Paris’s mouth fell open, then she burst out laughing. I mentally reviewed what we’d both said and failed to understand the joke.

  “Not...not...barn. Though, I suppose that’s next. Bairn. B-a-i-r-n.” She spelled it out, between wheezing and snorting with laughter. “As in baby. We’re having a baby.”

  She was pregnant. My eyes dropped to her flat stomach, and my heart...oh, God. I felt as if she’d stabbed a spike into it.

  “Barn and bairn. That is insane. You are insane, desi girl.” Paris was still laughing.

  My hands started to shake. My body shut down as if someone had pulled the plug on my life support. My brain wanted to shut down too. Desperately. I knew what was coming, but I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want her to explain, to complain like she used to about marriage, babies, men or mice. I didn’t want to discuss anything about babies.

  “Congratulations. I need to finish packing.” I turned around blindly and walked away. I knew I should’ve gushed over it. Laughed with her. Been happy for her. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t help but think she had the life I was supposed to have. Oh, God. I was a horrible friend.

  I yanked open a closet door in my bedroom and began pulling my clothes off their hangers. At the back of my mind, it registered that I didn’t need to pack my clothes. The movers would deal with them. It was part of their job. But I couldn’t stop myself. I needed to do something to stop my hands from shaking. To stop myself from bawling.

  “Hey. Honey, what’s wrong? What did I say?” She’d followed me into the room, but she wasn’t laughing now.

  I bent my head, squeezed my eyes shut, blocking my tear ducts. I would NOT cry.

  “Naira. Oh, honey.”

  The pity in her voice demolished my meager cache of strength. I collapsed onto the bed, buried my face in a bunch of clothes and cried my heart out. I sat up when every drop of wretchedness had been wrung out. Paris was kneeling by the bed, her hands clasped to her chest as if she was praying.

  “When?” she whispered, her face pasty, colorless, her eyes knowing and glassy from unshed tears.

  Paris rarely cried. She wasn’t weak like me. Or unhealthily emotional.

  I wiped my face with the edge of a silk cocktail dress. It was Kaivan’s favorite dress. I blew my nose on it. What did it matter if I ruined it? Where was I going to wear it? What did any of it matter anymore?

  If not for Kaivan’s parents whose well-being was my responsibility, I’d give away everything, sign away the trust fund. I’d renounce the world like a Jain monk and live in an ashram for the rest of my life. But my husband had meant for me to take care of his parents as he’d meant to keep me safe, and I couldn’t let him down by throwing my life away.

  “A month before your wedding. Six weeks after Kaivan’s arrest.” I curled my hands into fists over my clothes to keep from reaching for the framed photo of Kaivan and me and smashing it to bits. I didn’t know why I’d brought it to New York with me. “I started spotting on the day the CBI took him in for questioning. I was under three months pregnant. We hadn’t told anyone yet, except for our parents. My mother wanted to wait until I’d completed the first trimester to announce the good news—it’s a custom in my family. Also, it’s done because the chances of miscarrying in the first trimester are greater—as proved.

  “The gynecologist prescribed a mild bed rest, advised me to keep off my feet as much as possible. But with Kaivan detained and then arrested, rest just wasn’t an option. I had to arrange for bail. It took five...nearly six weeks to arrange everything. Our accounts had been frozen and I had to...sell stuff, take personal loans to collect enough money. I couldn’t think about the baby or my health. Getting Kaivan out was my priority.”

  My heartbeat was fast and strong. How could my heart still beat when I’d lost her? My perfect little princess.

  Paris cov
ered my hands with hers. “Of course, you had to get him out.”

  Fresh tears leaked from my eyes and dripped down my face. I couldn’t wipe them. Paris was squeezing my hands. She hugged me then, hard, and let me cry on her shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry, honey. So very, very sorry,” she murmured over and over.

  Sorrow always felt never ending, everlasting. But it did in fact end. And I did eventually stop crying. The iceberg on my chest thawed. It would be back, and I’d fall apart again. But for now, I locked myself in the bathroom and splashed water on my face, unclogged my nose. It had become a daily ritual, like bathing.

  When I walked back out, Paris had hung my clothes back in the closet, everything except the snot-riddled cocktail dress. She’d left it in a corner. I’d have to get it laundered.

  “Thank you,” I began, but Paris cut me off.

  “God. Don’t thank me. I wasn’t there for you. I wasn’t there when you were going through hell. I pouted when you said you weren’t coming for my wedding. I pouted and bitched about you for weeks—years. I didn’t even try to find out why you’d bowed out.”

  The self-disgust in her eyes stung me.

  “You didn’t know. And I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want you to cancel your wedding or postpone it or not enjoy it. I didn’t want you to worry about me. I wanted you to love every glorious second of your ceremony.”

  We both knew she would have flown to Mumbai if she’d known. We also knew it would have been a disaster if she had. Paris and Kaivan would have fought even through the bars of his jail cell. She would have blamed him for my miscarriage, for our misfortune. She would have begged me to divorce him or leave him to rot in jail and reap the fruits of the seeds he’d sown. And when I would have refused to listen, she would have called me a coward, a doormat or worse. We would have fought. We would have broken each other with words.

  That was why I’d pretended to be fine and lied about what was really going on. I’d pissed off Paris for a short time, but I’d saved our friendship in the bargain.

  * * *

  “I always believed that when you found the right man, you’d want his baby. Sorry, bairn.”

  I shivered as we walked along the western length of Central Park. The bite of cold slapping my face was refreshing, even enjoyable. It kept me in the present. Soon, I’d need gloves and a hat to subdue the effects of inclement weather. But not yet. A loose scarf around my neck, spritzed with Coco Chanel, was enough for now.

  We’d decided—or Paris had—that I’d been boxed in—pun intended, ha ha—in my godown of an apartment for long enough, and I—both of us—could use some fresh air.

  The walk had been just what I’d needed. Being out and about, surrounded by the hyper energy of New York, even at night, I was beginning to feel optimistic again. Hopeful.

  “Are you sure you want to talk about this?” Paris cast a dubious frown my way.

  I nodded. “I’m mostly fine with it. Well, not fine, but I’ve learned to cope.” I flapped my hand in dismissal. “Seriously. I’m good. I was barely pregnant. I don’t despair at the sight of babies or anything. In Mumbai, I even babysat my nephews on weekends.” I smiled to show her I wasn’t simply being brave. Time had lessened the trauma. It still pinched like a fiend, but it wasn’t a debilitating hurt anymore. “I’ll babysit your bairns too, for however many hours you need. For free.” I chuckled. I was getting rather fond of that word. Bairns.

  “Uh-huh. Cute.” She stuck her tongue out at me.

  We were strolling at a snail’s pace, and it took her another half a block to open her heart.

  “About that. I’m not pregnant, so the congrats is premature. However we are in the process of deciding how to get pregnant.”

  “If that’s a euphemism for your sex life, thank you for not getting graphic.”

  She grinned. “It’s not. It means we’re negotiating.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  I’d been curious about Paris’s marriage forever, wondered how it could function with all her rules and goals. If Paris was negotiating having children, already it boded well for Neal. The Paris I’d known had rarely compromised and had been dead set against banal social customs. That Paris wouldn’t have talked to her mother on the phone even once a month, let alone several times a day. So wasn’t this an interesting twist?

  “Let me give some context.” With that, Paris launched into the tale of her and Neal’s sudden and short-lived first engagement. “We met at the RiM—Right is Might—summer fund-raiser, if you recall. Neal was there as a sponsor. He’d donated his artwork for the live auction and he ended up raising half a million dollars in one night. I was there with Toby. Remember him? My fuck buddy all through law school?”

  I smiled as a horse-drawn carriage clip-clopped past us, relishing the sight of a Manhattan classic, and the fact that Paris was as frank as ever.

  I knew parts of the engagement story. Paris had been abnormally moony about Neal from the start. She and I were still chatting on the phone daily then. It was insta-lust between them. They’d spent a good chunk of the night flirting with each other, but they’d each left with the dates they’d brought to the event—which was considerate of them. Paris reached home—alone and animated—and texted Neal. Sexted, more likely, because when Paris wanted something, she went after it. Neal had been equally in thrall. Several flirty texts later, they decided they couldn’t wait a second longer to be together. And how fortunate for them that their lodgings seemed to be within walking distance of each other.

  Neal took over Paris’s life from then on. She finished law school, received her Juris Doctor. She spent the summer volunteering at RiM, working at Smith, Stone and Smith, and studying for the bar exam, all the while marinating in a sweet romantic haze. Paris had become lost in an exciting new life that summer while I had been trying to hold on to mine.

  Kaivan’s businesses had begun to implode. He’d made a bad call on an investment, and had been up to his ears trying to reverse the loss. He didn’t tell me anything at first. He pretended everything was fine in our life. We holidayed in Europe as usual. He didn’t want me worried because I was on a mission to get pregnant.

  Paris and I had been absorbed in our own little universes that summer. We’d started to drift apart and we hadn’t even realized.

  “It happened so fast. Meeting him, falling for him, getting engaged, then breaking it off. Then the second proposal—well, it was more of a mutual proposition that time. He said and did all the right things. I told him I didn’t want children. I didn’t mince words and still he stayed. He understood—understands me.” Paris laughed and sighed and shrugged on the same breath. “It would have been foolish not to marry him.”

  Our shoulders were touching and I felt her happiness, her wonder, roll into me. “I wish I’d been there to see it. See you fall. Stumble. Be a fool in love.” But I did see it, could see it even now when she looked at her husband. And it made me so happy...and so envious.

  She sniffed, shooting me a sideways glance. “Do you miss him?”

  My heart, blooming with happiness a question ago, wanted to shrivel up and die. But I wouldn’t let it. “I don’t want to talk about him. Can we talk about you? About happy things?”

  We came to a stop at the edge of Central Park West and Columbus. We’d planned to part ways there and go back or forward to our respective domiciles. But we weren’t done talking. I didn’t want the night to end. I pointed to a bench on the sidewalk and we sat, facing each other.

  Paris ran her fingers through her long hair, then twisted it over one shoulder. “Where was I? Oh, ha! The whirlwind affair. I honestly thought it would break off.” The streetlamp cast a yellowish light on her amazement.

  “The affair?” I nodded in complete understanding. I’d also thought the gemstone baron would be just another notch in Paris’s revolving door of affairs. A rich novelty.
I’d thought how could he be serious, either? He’d just broken his engagement to Simran after going out with her for five years and being engaged to her for one. So, I hadn’t paid attention when Paris had spoken of Neal that summer. I should’ve realized he was an aberration simply by the number of times she’d brought his name up in conversation.

  “All of it. Every stage of it. When we started sleeping together, I thought—oh, we are so going to burn ourselves out in one week. Then one week became two months and I thought—that’s it. I’ll get bored now. But I didn’t get bored, and neither did he. And now here we are, halfway through our third year of marriage.” She shrugged helplessly. “Everything happened so fast. We didn’t give ourselves room to change our minds. What if...once the dust settles, once our marriage becomes routine and stale, we realize that it isn’t all that amazing? What if we change our minds about stuff we’ve agreed upon? It happens. People change their minds. They start resenting each other. And, let’s be honest, Neal and I have nothing in common besides sex.”

  And there she was. Overthinking, pessimistic Paris.

  I wagged my finger in her face. “I knew it. I knew you were going to self-sabotage your marriage.” God. I wanted to smack her. Hard.

  Her back went ruler stiff. “What? Rubbish. I’m telling you what I think. What I feel. What if Kaivan didn’t want kids and you—?” She slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes stricken.

  I pulled her hand away. “It’s okay. Really.”

  “No, it’s not. God. I’m sorry for bringing this up. Just forget the whole thing. Okay?”

  I sighed. Yes, thinking of my miscarriage was painful, and knowing I’d never have children of my own pinched my soul. But the wonder of sharing personal agonies and worries with my bestie overshadowed the pain.

  “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve talked to someone without a filter? Without weighing my words or gauging their reactions to my words? I’ve not bared my soul for a long, long time.” My eyes filled up, but this time my heart didn’t weigh heavy. I needed this talk as much as she did. “Nothing you say will upset me, Paris. What’ll hurt is if you don’t.”