by Veena Rao
Tara wondered if she should greet her. But the woman beat her to it
“Hi! Are you my new neighbor?” she called out. Tara smiled, nodded. The girl was not beautiful—long, slightly hooked nose, deep-set blue eyes—but her smile was dazzling; it suggested a bubbly personality. She walked up to Tara and held out her hand.
“Hi! I am Alyona Patterson. And that is my son Viktor.” She pointed toward the boy who continued to push his scooter, oblivious to his surroundings. Tara noticed that Alyona had an accent that was not American. She didn’t say Victor like the Americans might.
“Hi. I am Tara,” she said, shaking Alyona’s hand.
“My God, you are so tall and beautiful. Are you from India? Indian girls are very beautiful. But they are not tall. How come you are tall?”
Tara smiled politely. “Thank you.” She offered no explanation for being Indian and tall.
“I had a coworker who once brought biryani to work. So delicious! You cook biryani?”
“I’ve never cooked it so far, but my mother has a good recipe.” Tara’s smile broadened.
In the ten minutes that she spent in conversation with Alyona, Tara learned all the basic facts about her life. She was a Russian immigrant and worked as a hairdresser in the little salon called Eclips next to Bharat Bazaar. She had been married to an American, but they divorced last year. Viktor, who was seven years old, lived with her, but spent his vacations with his dad in Charlotte, North Carolina. Tara would see them more often, loitering in the breezeway and in the parking lot, now that Viktor was back from his summer vacation at his dad’s.
Tara was suffused with cheer that evening. Alyona had an easy, warm nature. It was strangely comforting to Tara that Alyona was a foreigner like her and spoke English with an accent. She made a mental note to ask Amma for her biryani recipe.
Tara’s apartment was often the setting for afternoon bonding sessions over hot cups of cardamom-flavored chai. Alyona talked. A lot. She had fair command over the English language, and words tumbled out of her mouth in accented glory. She talked about her former life in Russia, where she had been a lawyer; about her seven-year marriage to Andrew, whom she had met at the Ruby Tuesday in Charlotte where she was a waitress, and he the manager. Her marriage had fallen apart when Andrew left her for another girl he had met at the same restaurant. She spoke about her boss, a Russian woman named Lyudmila, who had taken Alyona under her wing after her divorce, providing her training and a job at her salon, and about the other girls, one an Indian Ismaili, who worked there.
Sanjay was obsessed with elections all fall, watching every presidential debate and every analysis on CNN, until even Tara, who didn’t know much about American politics, was hooked. But Alyona had no interest in who became president. Ironically, Alyona could vote, Sanjay could not. Alyona could also laugh, at the silliest of things. Sanjay did not.
A few times, Tara offered to babysit Viktor after he got back from his after-school program while Alyona ran errands, for which she was rewarded with a hug and a kiss, both from mother and son. Viktor was easy to babysit. He watched the cartoons on PBS or did his homework, while Tara sat next to him reading a magazine. Sometimes Alyona allowed him to bring his Gameboy over, and that usually meant Viktor would be lost to the world, engrossed in his Pokémon games.
Tara loved to hear little Viktor talk, and immersed her curiosity in gleaning whatever tidbits she could from him about life in America. He said, at school, he had chicken nuggets or hot dogs or mac ’n’ cheese with chocolate milk. Mommy also fixed the same kind of dinner every day. But Daddy cooked almost every evening. He baked chicken or fish, put together casseroles, cooked a pot roast or chili, and made fresh salads.
Viktor had a friend, Julian, at school, and sometimes Mommy planned with his mommy to have playdates and sleepovers. Julian lived in a home with a slide and swing in the backyard, and a playful German Shepherd called Max. Sometimes, Julian’s parents had family barbeque nights. They grilled hot dogs and cheeseburgers on an outdoor grill in the backyard, but they didn’t do that so much anymore because it was getting cold outside. Like a patchwork quilt, from Viktor’s accounts, Tara stitched together a fair idea of American life. To this she added the TV show accounts, until an American family birthed in her mind—an amalgamation of the Barone family, the Cosby family, and Julian’s family.
Thanksgiving brought colder climes to Atlanta. The clocks fell back, which meant the days got shorter, and darkness lingered. The trees shed their fall magnificence, and within no time, they became eerie contortions of bare arms that stretched out toward a bitter sky. The low temperatures made it increasingly difficult for Tara to step out. She didn’t have a coat or warm clothes, save for her one light jacket, but she was too embarrassed to ask Sanjay to buy her anything.
“You are stupid!” said Alyona bluntly when she saw Tara shiver, back hunched, arms crossed against her chest, after a short walk to the mailbox one afternoon. “You cook, cook, cook, buy so much grocery. Why you can’t ask for coat? You ask husband today, okay?”
Tara laughed to cover her embarrassment. She had hoped Sanjay would notice her need for a coat and offer to take her to the mall, but Alyona was right, she couldn’t wait any longer.
“Alyona said coats are on sale now,” she broached the subject after they had watched Everybody Loves Raymond that evening.
“What’s with Alyona this and Alyona that?” He sounded irritated. “Do you have to be friends with a hairdresser?”
It was the way he said hairdresser, in the flagrant manner his prejudices showed up. “I thought America is a classless society.” she said sharply.
“There is no such thing as a classless society, not even in communist countries.”
Tara bristled but said nothing after that. It suddenly seemed to her that she had married a Jekyll and Hyde character—the sensitive Sanjay emerged only under the sheets. Outside of it, she still had a cold man to deal with.
“Did you ask Sanjay for coat?” Alyona was on her case again the next afternoon. There was no getting away from her friend’s persistence.
“I didn’t have the chance.”
“You silly girl! Come, I will take you.”
Tara’s eyes widened in alarm. A few quarters, dimes and pennies sitting in a little glass jar were all she could lay her hands on.
“No, no. I will definitely ask him today,” she said.
“I will pay you for babysitting Viktor. You can buy coat.”
“Oh no, I can’t accept money for babysitting Viktor.”
“Yes, you will. Come on now.”
Because Alyona would not take no for an answer, Tara followed her to her Mini Cooper and wrung her hands and chewed on her fingernails during their drive to the thrift store in Decatur. She didn’t know what a thrift store was; she had never heard of one before. The price tags on the coats made her eyes bulge.
“Everything is so cheap!” she exclaimed.
“This is thrift store, silly. All used clothes here,” Alyona giggled.
“Oh! A second-hand store?”
“Yes, dear. Buy a coat, and some sweaters also. You will need them if you want to survive winter.”
The musty smell of mothballs and mildew seemed suddenly stronger, and the clothes on the hangers appeared very secondhand. Not that it mattered—not that she was in a position to let it matter.
Tara returned home with a bag stuffed with two turtleneck sweaters and a black cardigan. She wore her new black woolen coat, which was not a very good idea because it had made her hot and sweaty during their ride back home.
Sanjay was home early from work. She found him on the sofa, still in his office clothes, forearms resting on his thighs, hands clasped together, and something about his expression told her she had tested his patience.
“You got home early today,” she remarked.
“I thought you said you wanted to buy a coat?”
“Oh! I . . . I didn’t know you had heard me.” She perched on the edge of the lo
veseat, trying to think of something to say. She was suddenly so hot, she felt sick. She took off her coat and laid it on her lap.
Sanjay looked at her coat, at the bag that she had just dropped by her feet.
“You went shopping?”
“Alyona took me to the thrift store. I really had no idea you’d be home early to take me shopping”
“Thrift store. Seriously? Thrift store?”
His voice was rising, driving jagged bits of alarm into her heart.
“What did I leave work early for? You couldn’t wait one evening? And thrift store? You disgust me.” He stormed out of the living room. She heard the water run in the bathroom after a while, and she imagined an angry steam thickly cloaking him—like attracting like. She sat on the loveseat feeling weepy.
When he returned to the living room, her voice was still shaky with guilt. “Can I serve dinner?” she asked. He looked fresh after a shower, but his face still had grumpy written over it. He ignored her question and settled on the recliner, a glass of red wine in his hand. He turned on the TV, switched channels.
Tara tried again. “Will you be having dinner? I made some minestrone soup to go with garlic bread.”
He kept his eyes glued to the TV and acted like she didn’t exist. She waited an hour for him to say something, anything, before she decided she had to eat before going to bed. She shrank into the kitchen where he couldn’t see her, hunched over her bowl on the counter. Her appetite faded after four spoons of soup and a thin chunk of garlic bread. She was upset that she had upset him. But somewhere at the back of her head, in a little crevice, was a slim happy feeling too. He had made the effort to come early to buy her a coat. If only she hadn’t listened to that foolish Alyona.
Sanjay did not speak to Tara the next day or the day after. Fear burgeoned in her heart. She hoped Sanjay would not ignore her forever. By the time they went to bed the third night after the incident, Tara could take his silence no more; it had left her too high-strung all day. She pulled his rigid arm out with all the strength she could muster, and snuggled into him. He didn’t react.
“I am sorry. Please let it go, no?” she implored. He lay immobile, eyes closed. She slipped her hand under his T-shirt and gently played with his chest hair. He didn’t react, but he didn’t push her hand away either. Encouraged, she played more; her fingers explored, caressed, moved downward, until they disappeared into his shorts. He grabbed her by her shoulders and turned her over. His passion was back, and hers even stronger after the strains and fears of the past three days. She melted into him with all her being.
He did not offer to buy her a coat again. Tara spent the winter wearing the black woolen thrift store coat, which hung a little too loose on her lean frame.
“It is the thought that counts,” Amma said during their next phone chat. “Don’t encourage the Russian girl if he doesn’t like it.”
“But Amma, I don’t have anybody else to talk to.”
“Doesn’t he have any friends?”
“He does, but they don’t ever come home. He goes out with them sometimes.”
“Are they bachelors?”
“I don’t know who they are.”
Tara had once met Sanjay’s coworker. They were on their way home from Publix when Sanjay had made a quick stop at Target to buy a razor. She was sure she hadn’t imagined it—Sanjay was taken aback when the friend called out his name in the parking lot. It was an Indian guy, a little older than Sanjay, with a friendly manner. His name was Avinash, she learned. He worked for the same company as Sanjay, but that was the extent of Sanjay’s introduction.
“This is Tara. She is visiting from India,” Sanjay had grudgingly introduced her to Avinash, who kept glancing in her direction, all smiles, questions bursting from his bespectacled eyes.
Tara had only said hello, when Sanjay had quickly mumbled an excuse about being late for an imaginary engagement and run into Target.
Sanjay was awkward, and it troubled Tara. Was he ashamed of her?
“Why didn’t you say I am your wife?” she had asked him on their way back home.
He was dismissive. “Oh, didn’t I? I thought I had.”
“Why did you say I am visiting from India?”
“Are you nitpicking?”
“Are you ashamed of me?”
“Now you are making me mad.”
She had bitten her lip and looked away.
When Christmas season arrived, little lights mushroomed everywhere. Elves, reindeers, snowmen, Santas—they all came alive each evening, in the front yards of West Hill Road. Pretty wreaths adorned the front doors and windows, and a twinkling, decorated Christmas tree stood inside each home, visible from the road, through the frosted glass windows. The little white house had a nativity scene, much like the Christian homes in Mangalore.
Sanjay took her one evening to see the seventy-foot-tall pine Christmas tree that had been hoisted to the roof of the Lenox Mall in Buckhead. What a magnificent sight it was! Thousands of lights, ornaments, and mirror balls glistened in the night, merging into one glorious, luminous pine shape.
“People come from all over the Southeast to see this tree,” said Sanjay. “The Rich’s tree has been an annual tradition since 1947. Just this year, it was moved from Underground Atlanta to Lenox Mall.”
Tara looked around her. Some of the hundreds of visitors who came every year were here tonight, looking at the tree with as much interest as she was. Inside the mall, little kids flocked around a rotund Santa who sat on his throne in a white fence enclosure, a kid on his lap, smiling benevolently for the cameras. Some of the Christmas spirit was rubbing on to her, even though she wondered what the festival actually meant for Americans, beyond the lights.
Alyona’s wreath was old and slightly misshapen, and her tiny tree was fake and had built-in lights. Viktor had left for his dad’s for the holidays, so Alyona had no plans to celebrate at home. Two days before Christmas, the owner of Eclips Salon hosted a party for all her employees, with fruit punch, olivje salad, salami sandwiches and lymonnyk pies.
That evening, Alyona arrived with Tara’s share of the party goodies, and a Christmas gift—a small square box wrapped in shiny red paper with a gold bow stuck to the top. Tara smiled happily for Alyona’s gleaming digital camera, holding her wrapped gift lovingly against her cheek. Her smile widened when she opened the box. She loved the tiny, shiny turquoise earrings set in white metal, more so because they were a gift. She picked up one earring, held it against her ear, and the stone and metal radiated the joy she felt across her face.
“Thank you!” she whispered with moist eyes. “I shall treasure these earrings forever. This is the first gift I have received in America.”
She was rewarded for her gratitude with whoops of joy and a warm bear hug. Tara wondered what she would give Alyona in return. She had no money to buy her friend a gift, and she could not ask Sanjay. She pondered over it all evening. Then she had a brainwave.
On Christmas Eve, she took a large casserole filled with chicken biryani over to Alyona’s. The culinary adventure had taken four calls to Amma for consultation and guidance, and two major crises of confidence. It was an elaborate dish that called for the chicken to be marinated and cooked in a gentle blend of spices, the rice undercooked just right and lightly folded into the curried chicken in layers, and the mixture baked in the oven until it came out fluffy, aromatic, and multicolored. In the end, the rice was a little too dry, the chicken a little overcooked, and she had added a little too much salt, but Alyona savored every morsel like it was the most delicious food she had ever eaten.
The holiday season had done wonders for Tara’s spirits, but the rest of winter had been depressing. She hated how her black coat weighed on her shoulders every time she went out. The first three months of the New Year were dreary: the trees bare, their boughs melancholy, the sun setting at five o’clock.
So when spring arrived in a burst of vivid exuberance, it was a season of revival in her, all around her. Purpl
e, pink, and white flowers bloomed in every yard, the grass turned green with new life, and even the trees that lined West Hill Road were a riot of colors.
It was a season of rejuvenation for Alyona also, who dropped in one afternoon, her eyes dancing more than usual, her voice dripping excitement.
“I have a date!” she announced. “Please, please, please help me go.”
A handsome customer with thick wavy blonde hair, had asked for her business card last week. Alyona didn’t make anything of it, didn’t expect to hear from the guy. But he had called in the afternoon and asked her out, sending Alyona into a tizzy.
“How can I help?” asked Tara, smiling.
“Can you babysit Viktor on Friday night? Please say yes, please say yes!” Alyona had her hands clasped like in prayer, and the most imploring look on her face, but for Tara, it was hardly a straight, simple matter. She was in a quandary. She didn’t know how Sanjay would react to having young Viktor at home while he was around. But then, she didn’t know how to say no to Alyona, who had been so helpful to her.
“Sure,” she said, trying way too hard to sound cheerful. She had three days to worry about what she was going to tell Sanjay.
“What happens on a first date?” she asked, as Alyona did a noisy chicken dance, and stomped the living room carpet.
“Nothing happens. I’ll meet him at restaurant. We talk over dinner. If I like him, I will let him kiss me on my cheek. That is all. Then I come back home and wait for his call.”
Tara’s heart turned mellow with good wishes for Alyona. She told Sanjay, when she couldn’t not tell him any longer. Alyona’s big evening was less than twenty-four hours away, and within an hour they would go to bed. He reacted the way she thought he would. At first, he grunted, eyes glued to the laptop. Then he chewed his cud slowly, deliberately. When he finally looked up, a scowl on his face, she knew that to be a precursor to an hour of unpleasantness.
