by Veena Rao
She let him talk to her back, as she walked with purpose to the kitchen sink, and dumped Ruth’s brownies into the trash can under it.
Chapter 25
She was vaguely aware that she had been there, in the blackness, for a while. She thought she heard her name being called out. She opened her eyes, tried to move, but her body was tied down to the bed. She heard Amma’s voice near her head. Then she appeared, young, her face bright, yellow sari pallu blowing in the wind.
“Tara, forgive us, angel. It’s time for us to leave,” she said. She wasn’t alone. Cyrus was with her. They were on the train that was pulling out of Mangalore station. They waved at her, her young Amma and the present-day Cyrus. She tried to catch a glimpse of their faces as she ran behind them, but it was so dusty. No, it was not dust, it was smoke, huge gusts of dark smoke, billowing into her eyes. Not again, she cried. She had to stop them. Tara struggled with all her might to open her eyes, but they were shut tightly. She had lost them again.
She woke up with a start. She was alone in her pretty bedroom, gasping, wet with sweat. The smell of fried eggs filled her with relief. It was a Monday morning, and Cyrus was probably downstairs fixing breakfast. Her hands shook as she pushed her damp hair out of her face, as she rubbed her face. She had not had an episode of sleep paralysis since she had left Sanjay.
She cleaned their house all day, because she could not write, could not come up with story ideas. Her nightmare had seemed so real, as did the fear appended to it. But what bothered her more was the fact that it had come back again, invaded her cozy world. She missed the calm of her two years at Sanctuary Hills, where she had rebuilt her life from scratch; where she had firm control over her thoughts, her feelings. Where every day had been about taking a step forward. She wondered now if she had rushed into another relationship before she was ready for it; if she should have given more time for her lacerations to heal; if she should have enjoyed a bit longer the bliss of being self-sufficient, self-worthy.
She fell prey to overthinking as she dusted the blinds, the thoughts returning even as she attempted to push them away. Had Cyrus been faithful to his two former wives? He had been so casual about breaking up with his girlfriend, Giana. Why have a girlfriend if she meant nothing to him? How many other women had he scored with? How easily he had adopted the American dating culture, while she had not so much as gone out with a guy until marriage. They had such different attitudes about sex.
She paused to gaze out the window, to psychoanalyze her dark thoughts—were they justified, or was she overreacting? She simply couldn’t tell; she wasn’t an outside observer. She contemplated having a conversation with him. But what was she going to say? That she didn’t like him enjoying another woman’s company? She didn’t want him to play the role of Jahan? She wanted Munmum out? All these options meant ruining the fundraiser. So unreasonable. She sounded like a basket case jealous wife even framing those questions in her head.
On Friday, he called her at four o’clock to tell her he had to stay behind for happy hour with clients visiting from San Francisco. She watched an entire Bollywood movie that evening without seeing a single scene. Was it really clients from San Francisco or the Odissi dancer who occupied vast tracts of her mind these days? That night, when he stretched an arm out to hold her, she moved away, rolling over, her back to him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I am tired,” she replied.
In the darkness, she felt the gentle pressure of his warm hands move across her strained shoulder, down her back. “Does that feel good?”
“Go to sleep, Cyrus,” she said coldly. “Good night.”
Her eyes misted as she became aware of the invisible wall between them, slicing them from one to two separate individuals. She avoided him in the morning, getting out of the house before he returned from his yoga session at Unity church. She headed to Macy’s at Perimeter Mall, where she spent hours pushing clothes in the clearance racks forward and backward, ultimately buying a bright red blouse she knew she would never wear.
For the rest of the weekend, and every weekend thereafter, she stayed out of the house. She met the sound and light technician at the food court of the Indian mall, went over to the press off North Druid Hills to get delivery of the flyers. She drove all day long, stopping at every Indian temple, grocery store, and restaurant, dropping a handful of flyers at every location or attaching them to glass doors or walls as other event organizers had done. Fortunately, she had designed the flyers herself. It was the faces of the children the fundraiser would benefit that smiled back at her; not the stars of the show holding hands.
He had become aware of the shift, the night she had moved away from him. “We miss you at rehearsals; please stay a while,” he implored several times.
“I have things to take care of,” she told him the first time. The other times, she ignored his request. “Is something wrong?” he asked her again and again. When she merely shook her head, he tried hard to lighten the atmosphere with his banter. Let’s meditate together, he suggested. Every time, she came up with an excuse.
On a Wednesday, just ten days before the show, he called from work to tell her that he had heard from Munmun. She wanted to adopt some of their children. He hadn’t conveyed the news casually. She had detected a certain preparedness in his speech, as if he had known she might not take kindly to the news.
“Great,” she replied coldly. “Now, she can be part of our lives forever.”
“Why do I get the sense that you are not very fond of Munmun?”
She was embarrassed that he had guessed her insecurity; that she thought of herself as lesser than Munmun. He had reminded her of who she’d been in her previous life. She took a sharp breath, fortifying her defenses with air. “Here’s what I think, Cyrus. I think I should never have rushed into this marriage. I was so happy rediscovering myself, putting my life together. I regret letting it all go.”
He responded with silence, as if he was too stunned for words. Still, she couldn’t stop her torment from bursting out. “Now, it’s all about your foundation, your team, your play. It’s like I have no individuality left.”
She heard him draw in a deep breath. “I didn’t impose any of it on you. I thought you enjoyed being part of the foundation,” he said finally.
“Heck, no. Not anymore.” Her lips trembled as a sob escaped her throat. She had only seen her husband’s happy side so far, but she could imagine his eyes clouding, his face downcast as he ruminated over her words.
“I’m sorry, Cyrus,” she wept into the phone. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
It was all right, he said after a long moment of silence. They’d discuss it when he got home.
She was afraid he’d rush home, so she fled, driving on the back roads until she reached Alyona’s apartment. Alyona talked more than she listened, her tone light, face shining. She was now engaged to Casper, and tiny diamonds flashed on her left ring finger as she laughed.
“Why you have to think so much? Why you can’t be calm for another week?” Her tone was dismissive. It was as if Alyona needed to believe in the magical, permanent nature of their fairytale because it had revived her belief in love and led her to Casper. She wanted to believe in her own fairytale.
“Because that bitch has found a way to stay permanently in contact with Cyrus by adopting our kids.”
“Listen to me, girl. Don’t push him away. Don’t send him into her arms.”
This was not what Tara had expected to hear from her friend. Her stomach churned as she made her way out of Alyona’s apartment with a quick good-bye hug. She wanted to be calm, to feel nothing. She just didn’t know how. She drove around aimlessly, thinking nothing coherent, the fear in her gut growing. Finally, she slowed down outside their neighborhood park and found a secluded spot to hide herself. It was early September. It wouldn’t get dark until late in the evening, which suited her fine. She was afraid to go back home, to face him, knowing she had wronged him but not knowing
how to right the wrong. They were approaching the final week leading up to the staging of the play. Rehearsals were scheduled every evening beginning Saturday. She couldn’t bear the thought of living through the week.
Her decision to go to Mangalore was impulsive. It surprised her at first; the pull of the home she had given up claim to, the need to see her parents, to wrap herself in parental love that she had branded wanting. The desire grew as the long day faded. A storm can be weathered only from a safe spot, not from its eye, she told herself. She needed time to process her feelings, to think rationally.
She expected to see his car in the garage when she returned, for him to anxiously rush to the door. But he wasn’t in yet. She was too exhausted to analyze what this meant, where he had gone, or why it made her heart heavy with fear even though she had run away from him. When he returned, past eight o’clock, she was on the sofa, still wearing the clothes she had spent the day in. She sat up with a start when she heard the garage door open, and her heart gave yet another lurch when he walked in. His smile was steady and his hug long and warm, but his usual easy manner had vanished.
She told him at dinner, as they sat across each other at the kitchen table, leftovers from last night between them. “There is nothing left for me to do. The venue is booked, the tickets are sold, the backdrops are ready, the sound and light guy is hired. You guys won’t have any trouble on my account, I can assure you of that.”
He reacted with the furrowing of his brows. “When will you be back?”
“I don’t know, Cyrus.”
“Star, what’s bothering you?”
She kept her gaze to her plate. “I need some alone time to figure things out.”
“Why do you feel the need to leave?”
“I don’t want to discuss it.”
“I really think we ought to.”
“And I don’t.”
His face had never been this grim before. She hoped for his expression to soften, for him to implore her to stay, tell her he’d miss her, that he needed her on the big day. And yet she said, “I need to figure this out myself.”
Words that ended their conversation.
Her heart was heavy when she went up to the tree house one last time early the next morning. She sat cross-legged on the red mattress looking out into the calm, shimmering lake. She would miss this space, the symbol of their symbiosis, a melding of their childhood fantasies. Meditating, talking, laughing, fooling around; it had seemed possible for a while to be carefree like birds.
He gave her a ride to Hartsfield–Jackson airport on Saturday, acting like all was well in his world, relating his conversation with Dadda that morning—a roof at the home needed repairs; Mira, their four-year-old, was still not talking; the children were in the middle of midterm exams. She listened without hearing, without turning to look at him. His detachment, his lightness of spirit was crushing her chest with its heft. His good-bye hug contained no special sentimentality, or maybe it was she who was stiff. When she disappeared into the long security check line, she didn’t turn back to wave at him. She was afraid he’d be gone, that she’d freed him.
Chapter 26
Amma and Daddy had created a paradise right in the middle of the city, in a lane where conspicuous display of wealth was the unwritten rule. The Raj bungalow had lush lawns and flowers in the front and a wide concrete driveway leading to an ornate, carved teakwood front door.
She had windblown hair and a queasy face when she rang the bell. Her return after eight long years should have been a joyful one. Instead, she was a bundle of nerves. She had prepped herself for all kinds of reactions from her parents, but she hadn’t been prepared to be met by a houseful of stunned relatives. She smiled weakly at a distant male cousin who opened the door, quickly taking off her shoes and entering noiselessly on the marble floor. She kept her head down, but noticed several relatives lounging on the ornate Italian furniture in the living room, their chatter turning to silence at the sight of her.
Amma was in the kitchen, grating a fresh coconut on a countertop grater and chatting with her younger sister, Nanda.
“Oh, Tara,” Aunty Nanda exclaimed, a bejeweled hand flying to cover her open mouth. The coconut in Amma’s hand dropped to the floor; a cracking sound, scattering white, moist flecks on the shiny marble. Tara picked the shaggy half coconut off the floor and placed it on the counter.
“Why didn’t you inform us you are coming?” Amma asked, eyes wide open in shock, made more dramatic by the dark circles under them.
Tara felt a rush of bile burn the back of her throat. She turned around and fled to the bathroom attached to her room upstairs. She took her time, throwing up, then cleaning herself with a cold shower in the green-tiled bath. Amma was waiting for her, clutching a small metal tray that held a tall glass of lime sherbet, when she emerged from the bathroom.
“Why is everybody here?” Tara asked, without looking at Amma, focusing on lifting her suitcase and setting it on the bed; opening, then unbuckling it to rummage for fresh clothes.
“Why didn’t you tell us you are coming?” Amma had recovered from her initial shock, but her voice was still a hoarse whisper.
“I am sorry if I embarrassed you, Amma. I’ll leave.”
“Don’t be silly. That’s not what I meant.” Amma thrust the glass of sherbet in Tara’s direction. “Drink. You will feel refreshed.”
Tara accepted the glass, took a sip of the salty-sweet-tangy drink. “Why are they all here?” she asked again.
Amma sat on the edge of the bed, wiped her sweaty face with the pallu of her beige handloom sari. She looked thinner, which made the skin on her face sit a little looser, especially around her jowls. Aunty Nanda’s daughter Nina was getting married next week, she said. “Since the family lives in Bangalore, Daddy graciously offered to host the bridal party at our home.”
“I thought you said you and Daddy don’t go to community functions. How are you hosting a wedding here?”
Amma sighed. “It is a family wedding, Tara. Who else does Nanda have?”
“So, you regained your family honor? By cutting me off?”
“It is not like that.” There was no conviction in Amma’s words, and she quickly changed the direction of their conversation “I just need to know you are all right. Why did you come alone?”
“I have some work related to the foundation we run.” The white lie had come to Tara’s lips easily, and with it, a reminder of the work she had abandoned midway. She pressed a white knuckle to her lips to stop their trembling.
Amma sighed. “Take a rest now. I can send your lunch up when it is ready, if you wish. So much left to do. Only four days left for the ceremonies to begin.”
Her room did not stir any old attachments in her chest. Maybe it was the new sage green on the walls or the new floral bedspread. She had been away eight years, long enough to erase some memories. There were signs her room was occupied by some of the guests. The dresser was messy; a hair dryer and flat-iron straightener jostled for space with lipsticks, compacts, and eye makeup. Three large suitcases lay flat on the marble floor, clothes peeping out from them. Her own slim Delsey stood out, as if it didn’t belong in the room.
She looked out the French window into the garden below. It was a riot of colors: rows of potted marigolds, zinnias, dahlias, petunias, and colorful crotons set against a high, whitewashed compound wall. She looked away, suddenly blinded by the charged memory of the tree house she had left behind.
Amma served an early lunch—parboiled rice, fish curry, and green beans. Tara ate ravenously sitting at the desk in her room, filling the wide-mouthed pit inside her with food. She fell asleep in her old bed, and she was vaguely aware of Amma stroking her hair, kissing her forehead, pulling a light handloom blanket over her feet. Then she fell into blackness, heavy, dreamless. She slept all afternoon, and it took Amma several minutes to wake her up three hours later for tea and snacks.
“Come down,” she said. “You cannot stay here all day.”
> Tara met Aunty Nanda and her daughter Nina, the bride, at the round glass-topped kitchen table, where they were nibbling crunchy banana chips with their tea and complaining about the tailor who had ruined a Kanjeevaram silk sari blouse. She took the spot next to Nina. Amma poured tea from a stainless steel pot, pushed the bone china cup in front of her. Tara’s head still felt like it was inside a foggy dark tunnel; she eagerly took a sip of Amma’s milky sweet brew.
Aunty Nanda looked youthful in her floral handloom salwar kameez, her thick, slick hair pulled back with a wide barrette. Nina, in tight jeans and a short yellow top, looked nothing like the gawky sixteen-year-old Tara had last seen. Her face was arresting and bright; her hair, inherited from her mother, fell straight down her back like a sheet of black silk.
“What are you wearing to the wedding?” she asked Tara. Her voice had a breathless quality to it, as if her excitement could not be contained.
“Oh, I didn’t bring anything dressy. I had no idea you were getting married.” From the corner of her eye, Tara caught Aunty Nanda and Amma exchange looks. Shame coursed through her; then anger at feeling shame. She breathed in the hot steam from her cup, a sharp open-mouthed gasp.
“Actually, I am not invited to your wedding, Nina.” She smiled a tight-lipped smile at her young cousin. “Didn’t you know?”
Nina’s eyes widened, she put a warm hand over Tara’s forearm. “Of course you are invited. You are family.”
Aunty Nanda cleared her throat, as if to get the appropriate words out. “The boy’s side is from Bangalore; they don’t know the story,” she said at last. “Why take risks, we thought.”
Why risk inviting an outcast, Aunty Nanda had meant. Tara turned to look at Amma, who had buried her face in her sari pallu, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. She wondered if she could find a little bravery inside her to hold her head up, even as shame filled her with no restraint and burned her face.
