by Veena Rao
“So, each time the Russian bitch wants to get laid, you are going to babysit her son?”
“Alyona is not a bitch, and she is not getting laid.” It always irked her, the way he spoke about her friend.
“Right. She is only going to church with the guy. On a Friday evening.”
“She is only planning to have dinner with the guy.”
He sniggered. “Grow up, honey.”
Honey. An endearment uttered for the first time. But said in rancor. Which didn’t make it an endearment at all. Yet, she found herself foolishly, helplessly searching for hidden interpretations.
Alyona returned late, very late. Viktor watched TV, played Pokémon on his Gameboy, played a word game with Tara, and, when he could not keep his eyes open anymore, curled up on the sofa and slept. Tara pulled a fleece throw over the boy and turned off the lights in the living room. Sliding into Sanjay’s favorite spot, the recliner, she prepared to wait. Her many attempts at reaching Sanjay had been futile, until his recorded message—in his deep radio jockey voice—made her nauseous. He had never stayed out this late before. Doubts, suspicions, and anxieties multiplied with each passing hour. She tried to stay with the ebb and flow of air in her lungs, but her mind digressed to a frenzy of thoughts.
Every once in a while, she sat up because she imagined the sound of his key in the front door. When he finally walked in at ten minutes past midnight, she waited in the darkness with bated breath. A light came on in the hallway. She heard him shuffle straight to the bedroom, feet dragging on the carpet. Ghost-like, she followed him there. Sanjay was sprawled on the bed, his shoes still on, reeking of alcohol and stale cigarette smoke.
“Where were you?” she demanded.
He made an attempt to look at her with glazed eyes, and grinned from ear to ear like she had said something funny.
“You didn’t want me at home,” he slurred.
“Where did you go?”
“To the place men go to when they are not wanted at home.”
“Where is that?”
He laughed, closed his eyes. She bent over him and shook him by his shoulders.
“Did you go to a strip club?”
He laughed again, the obtuse, silly laugh of a drunk. Jealousy jabbed at her. She grabbed the front of his shirt and shook him harder “Tell me. Did you go to a strip club?”
“Let go, woman! I went to the bar with a couple of friends.”
Tara let go, relieved.
“Am I getting some love?” he slurred.
“No. There is a kid sleeping in the sitting room.”
Sanjay was snoring before she even got back to the living room.
Tara was upset with Alyona. Upset because she had come back so late to pick up Viktor, and upset because Sanjay had stayed away so late because of her. Besides, she had looked disheveled; hair messy, smudges of eyeliner and mascara below her eyes, and was in her pajamas when she knocked on Tara’s door at two in the morning. She offered no apology, no explanation, and Tara sought none, not when any conversation could wake Sanjay and stir up a hornet’s nest. But the next afternoon, it was the same bright-faced Alyona who knocked on her door, bursting with news.
“Greg is the one,” she announced. He was sweet, kind, considerate, and a wonderful conversationalist. They had hit it off instantly, and spent hours talking.
“You were at the restaurant till two in the morning?” Tara asked, unbelievingly.
Alyona stuck her lower lip out, threw her arms around Tara and buried her face on her shoulder.
“You took him to your apartment?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
Alyona giggled.
“Oh my God, you slept with him?”
“It’s okay. He is perfect guy, and I am in love with him.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“I feel like I know him all my life.”
“Did he call today?”
“Yeah, twice.” She held two fingers up, sunshine on her face. “I am seeing him again tonight.”
Tara hoped Alyona wouldn’t ask her to babysit Viktor again. She didn’t, thankfully, because she wanted Greg to meet her son. Tara felt her annoyance dissipate. Alyona’s excitement was infectious.
“So, did your friend get laid last night?” Sanjay wanted to know that evening. Tara was amused that he was curious enough to remember and ask.
“Alyona is in love with Greg. She is sure he is the one.”
“Aha! See, I told you.”
Tara went red. “It’s not like that.”
“So, what is it like? Ooh, is it love at first sight? When Harry met Sally?”
“It wasn’t love at first sight for Harry and Sally,” she reminded him.
“Okay, whatever. You get my point. When this guy has had enough of her, she is never going to hear from him again. You mark my words.”
Sanjay was right. Greg broke up with Alyona even before spring had officially ended.
“I think we need to see other people,” he had said, after their last time together. Alyona came to Tara’s apartment the next afternoon, demanded hot chai flavored with ginger and cardamom, and sobbed until mascara and eyeliner streaked gray rivers down her cheeks, and the tip of her nose turned red and shiny. Tara’s heart went out to her friend. She didn’t know what she could possibly say to make Alyona feel better. All she could do was sit beside her, gently stroke her hand, rub her back. Poor Alyona. Sanjay could never be so cruel to her, not anymore.
Alyona mourned for a week, then picked herself up and moved on.
Chapter 8
Tara learned about the September 11 attacks from Amma. It started out as just another day. She settled down with her cup of coffee in front of the computer after Sanjay’s hurried exit—he was rushing for an eight o’clock meeting. None of her contacts were on MSN chat, and her inbox was old and clean. With nothing to focus on, she began to notice the little things. The computer had gathered a little dust, especially around the CD-ROM and floppy disk drives. The desk was accumulating a litter of unnecessary things—a planner, notepads, a red diary, sticky notes, two pen holders, a calculator, a candle in a jar. Sanjay liked an immaculate house. She made a mental note to dust and declutter the desk later in the day. She pulled up Indian news websites and scanned the headlines lazily, looking for something interesting to read. Nothing earthshaking had happened that day, so she clicked on the Bollywood news section. Gossip was always interesting.
Then, Amma called, urgency and distress in her voice.
“Tara, turn on the TV, quick!”
“Why? What happened?”
“Quick, watch CNN. I’ll speak to you later.” The line went dead.
Tara ran to the living room and turned on the TV. It took her a few moments to comprehend the scenes that filled the screen. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she watched with horror as the North Tower burned. What was happening? Did people die? Were there people in the airplane?
At 9:03 she watched, paralyzed, as another plane crashed into the World Trade Center’s South Tower. When Amma called her again, the South Tower had collapsed, and Tara was shaking like a leaf, weeping into the phone.
Tara tried to reach Sanjay several times during the day, hoping he’d come back home. Amma had warned her not to step out of the apartment, to be safe, to not call attention to herself. A third hijacked plane had crashed into the Pentagon, a fourth in the fields of Pennsylvania. Alyona and Viktor came over that afternoon, and they huddled together on the sofa, watching CNN, grieving for the thousands who had died a senseless death. Tara was glad for her friend’s company, for some respite from the churning in her gut, for somebody to allay her fears. Where was Sanjay? Was he stuck in traffic? Or in his office?
When Sanjay came home, later than usual, Tara almost broke down again, from relief and the aftershocks of the apprehensions of the day.
“Where were you? I was so worried.”
If he had met her eye, he’d have seen the agitation on her fac
e, in the gray puffs under her eyes. He focused instead on taking his shoes off. “Sorry, I meant to call you, but I got really busy at work.”
“Work? Today? Weren’t all offices closed?”
He ran his hand through his hair. “Terrible thing, the World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks.” He shook his head.
“I worried about you all day.”
“You shouldn’t have. What was going to happen to me here in Atlanta?”
“You could have called me.”
“I know. I am sorry.” He settled on the recliner and turned on the TV, and that was the end of their conversation.
She tried to snuggle into him that night, seeking comfort in the warmth of his arms, in the familiarity of his chest, but he seemed rigid, aloof.
“What’s wrong, Sanjay?” she asked.
“Go to sleep. I am tired. You must be tired, too.”
“I wasn’t trying to seduce you.”
He grunted, eyes still shut, and stayed immobile until she moved away. What a complex man, she thought. After a year of living together, she still had trouble understanding his many moods. Perhaps, this was his way of grieving?
Six weeks after the day of unforgettable tragedies, Tara received a letter in the mail from the Immigration and Naturalization Service. In it was a red, blue, and white card—the ticket to the American dream. UNITED STATES OF AMERICA EMPLOYMENT AUTHORIZATION CARD it declared boldly. She stared at the card long and hard, trying to catch a happy feeling over the din of other thoughts. She was allowed to work. But where? How? She didn’t have a car. She didn’t drive.
Tara preferred words to coding. She had worked for seven years at the news desk of the Morning Herald. A few months before leaving for the US, at Vijay’s insistence, she had trained in computer programming at the Athena Multimedia Institute in Mangalore, barely passing her certification course. Her master’s degree in English literature and work experience with an Indian publication were of no value in America, Vijay had warned her. No media house would want to hire her. They had Americans for those types of jobs. It was the tech jobs that Americans sucked at and needed Indians to fill. But programming had never been her cup of tea. The thought of taking up coding as a real job terrified her.
“I got my work permit yesterday,” she told Alyona the next afternoon. She had not yet told Sanjay, who, in any case, was increasingly busy at work. “It’s a project that is about to go live,” he had explained, of his late nights.
“Yay! Girl, I am so excited!” Alyona high-fived her. “Now you are free. You can buy clothes, makeup, shoes, bags, whatever your heart wants without asking that husband.”
“I don’t know.” Tara studied her hands.
“What, you don’t know?”
“Who will give me a job? I don’t have a car. How will I get to work?”
“I will get you job. You clean houses with my friend Nadya. She has very good cleaning service. She will pay you.”
Tara smiled. Alyona had made cleaning seem like the perfect job. She wondered how her parents might have reacted to Alyona’s suggestion. She thought of her high school years in Falnir, after her family had returned to Mangalore from Dubai. How often had Daddy said in those days, in rage and disappointment each time Tara came home with a poor report card, her math grade circled in red, that she was only suited to wash dishes and clean homes? Amma had, at most such times, cushioned her from Daddy’s ire, promising him that Tara would do better in college, when she didn’t have to study math and science. Amma was right. Tara had done well in college, where she studied English literature, sociology, and psychology. Daddy’s dressing-downs had stopped. Still, it was a lifelong disappointment to him that Tara had not become a doctor or an engineer.
“I have to ask Sanjay,” she said now, not knowing how else to decline her friend’s kind gesture. But Alyona would not take no for an answer. She bustled into Tara’s apartment one afternoon and grabbed hold of her arm.
“Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Nadya is visiting. She is in my apartment.”
Tara’s instincts told her what Nadya’s visit meant.
“No, no, Alyona. I have not discussed the matter with Sanjay yet.”
“We are only going to talk. If you don’t like Nadya’s offer, don’t work.” Alyona led a protesting Tara out of her apartment, down the breezeway, into her own kitchen.
Tara had seldom been to Alyona’s one-bedroom apartment; nine out of ten times it was Alyona charging, gregariousness and all, into hers. The apartment was surprisingly neat for somebody so whimsical. The living room was a cozy interplay of lace and dark wood. A large woven tapestry—a detailed hunting scene with four men and a dog—hung over the beige sofa. Assorted memories and keepsakes populated a bookshelf—a dainty gold-rimmed tea set, a gift from her ex-mother-in-law; four Russian dolls dressed in national costume; a vintage bottle of Coca-Cola; and several framed photos of Viktor.
Nadya sat erect, her expression grave, at the round, glass-top dining table, sipping hot tea from a dainty cup. She was tall, and her profile bore a straight nose with pride. Her hair was short and sandy blond. She wore a knee-length blue dress belted at the waist, and tan mid-calf boots.
“Hello,” she said, rising from the sofa, stretching her hand out to Tara. A faint smile touched her lips, and died before it reached her eyes.
“Hello.” Tara smiled nervously.
Nadya pushed a chair out for Tara, and then set about piling a plate with sushki cookies and dried fruit, which she placed before her. Alyona took the third chair, after she had brought Tara a cup of tea from the kitchen.
Tara nibbled on a dried fig as the conversation turned furiously Russian. She waited, a little bewildered, wondering what negotiations were happening on her behalf.
“Nadya does not speak much English. So let me translate,” Alyona said finally. “She can pay twenty-five dollars for two to three hours work per day, Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday. You help her clean offices near Lindbergh. She will pick you up and drop you.”
Tara cleared her throat. “Alyona, I told you, I haven’t discussed it with Sanjay yet.”
Alyona ignored her. “You make seventy-five dollars a week, three hundred dollars a month, then you go to Macy’s and buy nice clothes and new coat.”
“You look more beautiful,” added Nadya, patting Tara’s hand. This time, her smile reached her gray-blue eyes.
Chapter 9
Tara tried to be as still as possible in bed that night, not wanting to wake Sanjay, who lay on his back, snoring gently. But it was hard to stifle her need to toss and turn when her thoughts were racing in different directions. She felt constricted and conflicted. She was annoyed with Alyona. So pushy, so overbearing, she thought. Why couldn’t she just mind her own business. For some inexplicable reason, she was suddenly reminded of her first friend in Mangalore, a near illiterate Muslim girl, who rarely minded her business; who had also put anxious thoughts in Tara’s head.
Zeenat, the rickshawallah’s daughter lived in the Beary compound down the hill. She came every morning for a measure of cow’s milk, as did three other boys from the neighborhood. Amba and Ammi in the barn were full-uddered and bountiful, so Grandmother Indira dispensed her milk to those in need, like babies and guests, at a few paise a measure.
The first time Tara saw her, which was two days after their arrival at Shanti Nilaya, Zeenat had looked like a fairy in her long printed green skirt that flowed up to her ankles, white long-sleeved cotton blouse, and a purple voile veil over her head. She was very light-skinned and pretty, with pink lips and a pinker tongue, which she kept sticking into the gap between her front teeth.
Tara had said nothing to Zeenat because she appeared older and a few inches taller. Besides, she was strange, staring unblinkingly, first at Tara, then at Amma, then back at Tara as if they were fascinating fairytale creatures.
After Amma left for Dubai, when Grandmother Indira got busy in the barn, and Uncle Anand went out into to
wn, Tara retired behind the wooden clothes stand in her room, hidden behind a wall of clothes, playing with her marbles. She stayed there for hours, lying on her stomach. This was her chamber now. She wished the oxide, red-bordered wall had a hole that led to a tunnel full of wonders. She remembered watching Tom and Jerry cartoons on the green clubhouse lawns with her friends Pippi, Leenika, and Runa. Sadness passed through her like a wave at the memory of her past life. She wished Jerry, the mouse, lived in a hole here. She would visit with him, have high tea with him in a miniature teacup with saucer, and keep him safe from Tom, the cat.
One day, hours after she had made herself comfortable in her hidden chamber, a face framed the foot-long gap between the wall and the stand. It was Zeenat on all fours, so cat-like that Tara almost expected a meow from her.
“Here you are. Hidden like a mouse,” Zeenat said in Kannada, the language Tara’s family spoke. “Your grandmother has been searching all over the house for you. Come out now. Don’t you want to have lunch?”
This was the first time the fairy had spoken. Her voice was too loud for a face so sweet, and her Kannada was accented because she spoke a different language, Beary Bashe, at home. Tara did not ask Zeenat how Grandmother Indira had allowed her in. She came out of hiding and ran toward the kitchen, leaving the fairy to stare at her back.
Zeenat didn’t often cross the threshold into the house, but sometimes, over the weekend, Grandmother Indira allowed her to use their spare granite stone to wash her clothes. The community washing stones in the Beary compound were continually reserved by older women.
From the verandah, peeping between the silver-painted grilles, Tara watched the fairy wash clothes on the granite block beside a clump of colacasias. Zeenat hummed Beary songs as she worked through a large mound of clothes, beating each suds-soaked piece of clothing on the granite block with gusto, wringing the water out of them, and dropping them into a pail of fresh water for rinsing. She often rewarded Tara with broad, toothy smiles. One day, late in August, Zeenat motioned Tara to come out and stand by her as she toiled on a dull yellow sari.
