Purple Lotus

by Veena Rao

  “How sad you are. Why did your daddy and mummy leave you behind?” Zeenat asked, with no salutation nor small talk. Tara felt ambushed; she had never been posed this question before.

  “Because I have to go to school,” she said.

  “They took your baby brother with them.”

  “He doesn’t go to school yet.”

  “I think they took him because he is a boy and they love him more.”

  Tara kept her focus on a shiny black-and-yellow millipede that was creeping on the cemented area around the washing stones.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  Tara said nothing.

  “Parents always love boys more. Girls are a burden on their parents. Boys look after them in their old age.”

  “I will look after my parents in their old age,” Tara said defiantly.

  “You will not. Your parents will spend all their money on your dowry. You are not fair like your mummy, so your dowry will be fatter. Then they will be left with nothing. Your brother will have to take care of them.”

  Tara couldn’t let Amma and Daddy love Vijay more simply because they had to pay for her dowry. “I am not getting married,” she said.

  “Yes, you are. All parents get their daughters married. It is their duty.”

  Tara couldn’t argue, now that duty was involved, so she stared at the millipede instead, which was slowly working its way to where Zeenat stood, stopping a few inches away from her black rubber slipper-clad right foot. She was pretty sure she was not a burden on Amma and Daddy. Amma had never said that to her. Ever.

  “Are you jealous of your brother?” asked Zeenat.

  Tara wasn’t sure of what was in her heart for her brother. She rushed toward Zeenat instead.

  “There’s a worm near your foot.”

  The millipede had just started to coil, realizing the danger it was in, when death came suddenly, between damp cement and Tara’s Bata slipper.

  Tara cried for the poor dead worm that night, under the safety of her handloom blanket. Her cruelty had been sudden, and shocking to her. And even though some lives seemed as senseless as death, Tara vowed never to harm another worm again.

  Zeenat was a fascinating storyteller, even in her less than perfect Kannada, and Tara was drawn to her new friend even though she put disturbing thoughts in her head.

  “Do you know why I only go to the madrasa in the evening and not to an English school?” Zeenat asked one day.

  “Because you are a girl?” Tara suggested helpfully.

  “No, no. Do you know that a bee entered my head through my right ear when I was small? The doctors could not get it out. It lives in my head, buzzing about, eating my brain. How can I study with half my brain gone?”

  Tara was horrified. “Will it eat all your brain?”

  Zeenat nodded gravely. “Yes, as I grow up it will eat more and more of my brain until there will be nothing left.”

  Tara could not sleep well that night. She wondered how poor Zeenat lived and looked so pretty with half her brain gone. But the next morning, Zeenat had another riveting story to tell, so the bee flew out of Tara’s head.

  “You know what my Kuwaiti uncle bought me for my birthday? A magic doll. You turn her left arm, and orange candy appears out of her left palm. You turn her right arm, and lemon candy appears out of her right palm.”

  “Really!” Tara cried. “Can I see her?”

  “Sure. I will bring her tomorrow. You can turn her arms if you wish.”

  But tomorrow never came. Each morning Tara asked, and each morning Zeenat slapped her forehead and said, “Oh I forgot. The bee must have eaten the remembering part of my brain.” By the seventh day, Zeenat had changed her mind about bringing the doll.

  “It is a precious doll. I don’t want to break or lose her,” she said. “Why should I take chances for you? Your father is rich. Ask him to buy you a doll from Dubai.”

  Tara looked away to hide her disappointment. “I had a doll,” she whispered. “She got lost.”

  No, Alyona was not like Zeenat. Alyona was generous and loving. She whispered a silent sorry to her Russian friend for making the unfair comparison. Perhaps she had a point. Nadya’s proposition seemed like an easy way to earn some dollars to cover needs other than her daily bread. But she knew Sanjay would be horrified if she told him, and so would her parents. Could she pull it off without telling anybody?

  Nadya had four girls to help her in her cleaning business, but only two could make it to clean a row of offices off Mountain Valley Way near Lindbergh, three miles away. A third pair of hands would make things easier for Nadya. Tara would be picked up at four thirty in the afternoon and dropped back home by seven thirty at the latest.

  Tara knew she’d be back home much earlier than Sanjay, who got home really late these days. He would probably never find out, if she played it smart. But a wordless whisper at the back of her head put a damper on her devious plan. A marriage was built on honesty and trust. She couldn’t possibly live a double life. But then, he would say no. Toward dawn, from her ceaseless circle of thoughts, her tired mind picked a solution. She would work with Nadya for a week without telling Sanjay or Amma. At the end of the week, if she liked the job, she would talk to Sanjay. Her dilemma resolved, Tara finally turned a few times and slept.

  Nadya was an efficient cleaner and a good teacher, even with the language barrier between them. She gave Tara a pair of yellow latex gloves to put on, and showed her the tricks of the trade. Together they went from office to office, dusted and sanitized the office furniture and equipment, vacuumed the carpet and mopped the floors, cleaned the mirrors and glass surfaces until they shone, emptied and removed the trash. Then they cleaned and disinfected the restrooms.

  Most of the offices were small tech firms, but there was also a tax firm and a law office in the building. The offices were mostly empty by the time they went in to clean. Sometimes they encountered a lone techie or two working away on the computer, who rarely even acknowledged the presence of Nadya, but looked curiously at Tara.

  “An Indian cleaner?” a lanky Indian techie with a goatee commented once, a smirk on his face. Tara turned red. She wished she didn’t have to encounter other Indians at her job. It embarrassed her no end. She stretched her lips into a thin smile and kept her gaze on the job at hand, moving the vacuum quickly around the room.

  “Why don’t you work in a motel instead?” he asked loudly, over the white noise of the vacuum. “You might end up buying one someday, ha-ha.” Tara kept her head down and escaped to the next room as soon as she could.

  Nadya was happy with her trainee’s progress and diligence. By Thursday, she had enough confidence in Tara to allow her to take on some chores independently.

  “Monday, you clean tax office,” she said, as she handed over $75 in cash in a sealed envelope. Tara had finally earned her first dollars in the US. For a while, it made her feel like she had been rewarded for a secret mission of great importance. It was exhilarating, even more so than her first paycheck from the Morning Herald.

  “Thank you, Nadya!” She was genuinely grateful to the grave-faced, kind Russian woman for giving her a sense of self-worth, of freedom, even if it was with a job she was ashamed of doing.

  Nadya’s approval felt like a badge of honor, but Tara still had to tell Sanjay. She thought and rethought of ways to broach the topic. She could wait for him to be in a good mood, but he was so rigid and vacant these days. She could wait until they had made love, but then, they had not made love in over two months. The new project at work was killing him, and Tara wondered why Sanjay’s employers had to slave drive him. Was it even legal?

  On Monday morning, she stood behind the doorway to Sanjay’s closet where he was picking out his clothes after a shower. The booming of her heart, the dryness of her mouth made her feel stupid, as did the fact that she had spent an entire weekend fretting over this conversation.

  “Sanjay?”

  “Mmmm?”

  “Sanjay, Alyona
’s friend has a cleaning agency, and she has kind of offered me a job, and I was wondering. . .”

  He didn’t let her finish.

  “Yeah, it might be a good idea for you to get financially independent.”

  He had not looked in her direction once, as if finding the right pair of socks from the box he was rummaging through were more important. What in the world did he mean by good idea? Did he even pay full attention to what she had said? She felt relief, and a tiny feeling of dejection. Did he not care about what kind of job she took up? Didn’t he care about anything at all anymore?

  She tried again. “I am starting work this afternoon from four thirty to seven thirty in a cleaning agency. As a cleaner.”

  “Good.” He came out into the bedroom and busied himself buttoning up his gray shirt. Tara said nothing more. The feeling of dejection expanded and gave way to anger. It was as if she didn’t exist for this man.

  That winter, from the money she earned, Tara bought herself a new tan coat, some new clothes, and a pair of black leather ankle boots that made her look taller than Sanjay. With Alyona, she indulged in shopping for deals at the after-Thanksgiving Day sales. The two women spent an entire morning store-hopping at the mall and shrieked at the bargain prices. Then, they had Chinese lunch at the food court. She had never shopped at a mall before, not in the one-and-a-half years that she had lived in Atlanta. She sat in the food court with her friend, her shopping bags by her feet, pricking her flimsy plastic fork into chunks of orange chicken and fried rice, and laughed with abandon, despite her aching feet. It was fun to do something for herself.

  A week before the Christmas weekend, Alyona prevailed upon Tara to get a hair makeover. “I will make you look sexy,” she promised, “Like Marilyn Monroe.”

  “Nobody can help my hair,” Tara protested. “It’s useless trying. My grandmother gave up trying to tame it.”

  Alyona would hear none of that. “You come to my salon. We’ll see.”

  Tara was wrong. In Alyona’s expert hands, her hair became shorter, more even, and her dense curls framed her face, giving her soft features a sassier look. Her hair was now surprisingly more manageable.

  “See I told you. You look like different person,” Alyona said. “Next time, we give you highlights.”

  Tara was glad she had listened to her friend. She felt smarter and prettier, and she was anxious to see Sanjay’s reaction. He took the wind out of her sails. He didn’t react.

  “Sanjay, you like my new hairstyle?” she asked him finally, but only after they were in bed, in semi-darkness.

  “Nice.”

  She rolled over to her side, facing him. “You noticed?”

  “Yeah.”

  She tried to snuggle into him, but he remained rigid. “I am tired. Go to sleep. Nice hair, yeah.”

  It had been a long time, and Tara felt good about herself that night, and she was in no mood to let Sanjay have his way. She slid her hand inside his shorts and stroked him. He tried to push her hand away, but it was too late. He was breathing harder. She pulled his shorts down. Her mouth took over from her hand.

  “You are seducing me,” he protested, before surrendering meekly. It was good to have her way sometimes.

  Alyona had reason to have a spring in her step that winter. She was going out with a suave American who opened doors for her, carried her bags, and made her feel like a princess. Derek Quinn was floor manager at Nordstrom in the Perimeter Mall, and he carried the polish of a sales executive outside of his job.

  “Derek is the one,” she had declared, after their third date. “He makes me feel very special.”

  “I am very happy for you.” In her heart, Tara didn’t trust Derek as much as Alyona did. By now, she was inclined to second Sanjay’s thoughts about dating men, but she said nothing to discourage her friend. But then, perhaps Tara’s reservations were unfounded, because by spring, Alyona was spending more of her spare time, little Viktor in tow, at Derek’s home in Chamblee Dunwoody, and Tara saw less of her in the afternoons.

  Tara continued cleaning every office room and restroom with zest, aiming for perfection each day. But she wished she could work all seven days of the week. Sanjay’s late nights continued; it was as if they were man and wife only on the apartment lease. On her off days, Tara felt a vacuum build within her toward afternoon, when she often caught herself filling with gloom. Where was she going? Was there a rainbow at the end of this all? Was Sanjay really busy or was he staying away on purpose? He had not once made the first move in bed in the past six months. Was he dealing with issues that she was not aware of?

  Chapter 10

  The rap on the door was loud and urgent; Tara almost jumped out of her skin. It was a hot, late summer evening, and she had not ventured out on her walk even at eight thirty in the evening. She peered out of the peephole, her heart racing, and was relieved to see Alyona, her nose longer through the concave lens, face bobbing up and down.

  Tara opened the door with a quick jerk. “Hi! Is something wrong?”

  “Tara!” Alyona grabbed her by the arm and made a dash to the living room. She collapsed into the sofa, dragging Tara down with her.

  “What is it?” Tara scanned her friend’s restless face.

  “I don’t know how to say.” Alyona fiddled with her fingers.

  “Say what?” Tara frowned. Alyona was never short of words. “What happened?”

  “Your Sanjay. He is having affair!” Alyona blurted.

  Tara stared at her friend blankly, her mind registered nothing.

  “I saw him with blonde girl at Nordstrom. He bought her boots. I checked same model after they left. It cost a hundred twenty dollars! He bought her boots for a hundred twenty dollars!”

  A shiver emanated in Tara’s chest; it clasped her heart and squeezed it, but her mind jumped into defensive mode. Surely, there had to be another explanation.

  “But Sanjay is busy with his project. It must be somebody who looks like him.”

  “Not possible, I saw him from this much distance.” Alyona held her arms out to indicate a few feet.

  “Did he see you?”

  “I don’t think so. He was busy looking into her eyes and talking, laughing, talking, laughing, rubbing her back, touching her arm.”

  “It must be a colleague.”

  “Tara!” Alyona grabbed Tara’s shoulders. “This girl is his lover, I tell you. Why he would buy boots for coworker? Derek saw him at checkout register. Sanjay used his credit card.”

  The ice in her chest spread rapidly, its hold on her intensifying until she felt breathless and bent over, coughing. She gladly accepted the glass of water Alyona brought her, but gagged on a little sip, suddenly sick. She ran to the bathroom and bent over the toilet, waiting in a daze. She retched, then again and again, with little output. Alyona had followed her to the bathroom and was rubbing her back, talking incessantly. Tara’s mind blocked her out.

  “Tara, come, lie down, dear,” she heard her say, finally.

  She lay in bed, Alyona rubbing her feet, a warm cup of chamomile tea by her on the bedside table. The sickness subsided after a while; only a sharp, shooting pain remained, now steadfast and unperturbed by its physical manifestations. She wondered how she was ever going to survive pain of this magnitude.

  “He buys her brand name boots for a hundred twenty dollars. You buy twenty-dollar boots at Payless. He shops for her at Nordstrom, you buy at thrift stores. Your man is an ass!” Alyona’s diatribe continued, her voice pitched high and thin in anger. Tara closed her eyes and crossed her hands over her aching chest. She wished Alyona would leave her alone.

  “Is she beautiful?” she asked her at last, not wanting to know, yet unable to resist asking.

  “Blonde, big boobs, nice shape, nice clothes. But all fake. Not real beauty like you.”

  Alyona’s words speared her heart; she felt hot blood rush to her face. Sweat beads emerged on her forehead.

  “You think Sanjay sleeps with her?”

  Alyon
a went quiet, then asked her if she would like more tea. “Alyona. Answer me.”

  “Hush now. You need to get some sleep.”

  “You think he does, don’t you?”

  “She is all fake, all dolled-up. Some stupid men like that.”

  Tara closed her eyes again. It was vivid, her mental imagery of Sanjay naked, having sex with a pretty, buxom blonde. She gasped for breath; the wetness on her neck trickled into the sheet. Tara was not blonde or shapely or buxom—she was just a very average looking loser who had begged Sanjay to keep her.

  The chamomile tea calmed her nerves a little, and she finally dozed off, temporarily escaping reality. She woke up with a start when the light came on in the bedroom. He stood at the door, perhaps surprised to find her bedraggled in damp sheets. He searched her face but said nothing. She looked away, unable to even bear the sight of him. He went to his closet to undress, then disappeared into the bathroom. She waited, her heart racing, until she heard the running water of the shower. She rushed wildly, on rickety feet, to his closet. She fumbled through the breast pocket of the cream shirt he had worn that day. The faint, lingering smell of his cologne hit her senses, making her pain come raw again. She searched his pants, and found the cell phone she was looking for.

  Her fingers were clumsy as she flipped it open and pushed up the arrow with two clicks to select text messages. She clicked again, and a series of messages popped up. They were incriminating, most of them. The last message in the sent folder was to Liz and it had been sent at 10:32 pm, perhaps after he’d parked his car. “Nothing trumps making you smile. G’night. Love you.”

  She clicked Liz’s message which had come in at 10:20. “Love my new boots. Kiss kiss.”