by Veena Rao
She brushed her teeth again, this time with her toothbrush, pulled on a pastel yellow tunic and jeans, ran a comb through her hair, and rummaged through her suitcase for the black pouch that held her passport and wallet. When she was ready, she picked Pinky from the middle of her bed and lay down, setting the doll on her belly. She needed reassurance that the lost could be found, that what was yours eventually came back to you. She waited for the grandfather clock in the old part of the house to strike nine times.
Her mind went back to the last two months of her relationship with Cyrus, of living through her deepest fear. Munmun was in love with her husband. She still believed that. Could she have handled that knowledge differently—given her own love for Cyrus its rightful place instead of letting her ego think for her? Allowed her heart to talk to Cyrus rather than her fear? Despite her best efforts to calm herself, she felt desperation rise from her belly, sharp like a serrated knife “Where are you, Cyrus?” she cried. “I need to talk to you, my love.”
A little before nine, she made her way out of Shanti Nilaya, closing the new wrought iron double gate and latching it distractedly behind her. The winding asphalted road up Morgan Hill was glinting in the sun. She imagined again a sixteen-year-old boy at the top of the hill waving at her, the sunlight bouncing off his happy face. Then she saw him. She squinted to make sure he wasn’t a mirage or her imagination, holding her breath so his visage wouldn’t disappear. But he was there even when she finally let out a sharp breath, even after she closed her eyes for a good many seconds and opened them again. He wasn’t sixteen anymore, but Cyrus was making his way down the hill. The smile on his face wasn’t radiant like the sun. It was slow to spread when his eyes fell upon her, as if breaking free from anxious thoughts.
She ran up to him on deer-like feet, almost throwing him off balance when she fell into his arms, knocking away the slim suitcase he held in his hand. She stayed there a long time, feeling the relief in the long release of his breath on her neck, feeling the power of love in the way his hand cradled the back of her head, the other tightly wound around her back. His first words to her, and her first words to him were, “I’m sorry.” They had both uttered those words at the same moment. For now, that was enough.
Chapter 31
She smiled at his handsome face, still deep in sleep. Her fingers were asleep too, entwined in his, over the rhythm of his peacefully heaving chest. It was morning, and they had a lot to do. But for now, she was content to simply glow in the memory of their long, hungry lovemaking in his childhood bed, to fill her heart with his proximity.
Although she had been right about Munmun, her actions had been incredibly immature. He had noticed the attention Munmun was giving him, but hadn’t sensed the reasons attached to it. He was guilty of ignoring the signs that he ought to have addressed, guilty of not understanding Tara’s angst. They had both learned a lesson in trust and honesty, in the power of sharing fears, discussing insecurities.
Two days before the staging of the play, Munmun had stayed back after rehearsals after the cast had left. She had helped Cyrus conjoin, with nails and hammer, two parts of an elaborate backdrop—a garden with flowering bushes, green trees, and a gurgling fountain. It was the last piece to be loaded into the U-Haul truck that Cyrus had rented. He would later drive it across the city to the venue.
She had directed their conversation to personal issues. Her husband had two adult children from his first wife and didn’t want any more. She yearned for a child; she had grown up in a large extended family, and the silence at home was too much to get used to.
He had tried to gently steer the conversation back to the fundraiser. She had taken his disinterest as naivete, a man who had trouble understanding signs, so she had been blunt. Each time she closed her eyes, she told him, he appeared, a playful Krishna to her Radha. He had occupied her mind every minute since the first day of rehearsals. She had never felt a pull quite as primal before. She had put her arms around his neck, burying her face in the fabric of his kurta. He had pulled away from her lock, stepping back, but allowing his hands to rest on her shoulders.
“Munmun, I am sorry, I do hope you’ll find a way to work through your issues with Dr. Das, but I cannot give you what you are looking for.”
“Tara left you when you needed her.”
“It’s a personal matter.”
“She doesn’t need to know. Nobody needs to know.”
He had looked her in the eye and told her firmly, “Munmun, I love my wife very much, and right now, I am terribly worried because she is unreachable. I’d really appreciate it if you would leave.”
Munmun’s face was a mirror as she absorbed the rejection, as it turned the crimson of her bindi beneath the moist of her sweat, the razor sharpness of her breath. “Your wife ought to play Anara. Find her, because I am done.”
He had not attempted to stop her. Instead, he had made a list of people he would need to contact the next morning to cancel the event. The financial losses he would bear, with a personal check to the foundation.
Early the next morning, however, he had received a text message from Munmun:
“I’m sorry I overreacted. I’ll reach the auditorium on time tomorrow.”
During their performance, they concentrated on getting their onstage love story right, their rehearsed lines correct. He had spoken to Nina just before the play and found out that Tara was holed up in her grandparents’ old home, a victim of her own relatives’ archaic attitudes. His focus was on getting through the evening, hopping on the earliest flight to Mangalore, and rushing to Shanti Nilaya. To be a better husband than he had been in the past two months.
Perhaps it was this restlessness that had prompted him to tell Munmun, in the green room after the play, about the Star-Cyrus story, of a love so powerful it had led them to each other after a quarter-century. Perhaps the deep emotions he felt had embellished his narration, like the embroidery on the camel-colored sherwani he wore for the final act. When he was done, Munmun, who had watched his face keenly, almost without blinking while he spoke, rose silently from her perch on the stool, and put her hand on his shoulder.
“You are a fortunate man, Cyrus. Go, find your Star.” Just as suddenly as she had come into their lives, she had vanished, the tinkling of her anklets receding into silence.
The night before, after Cyrus had narrated the happenings of the past week, he had reached for Tara’s hand, pressing it to his chest, as if to reassure himself of her presence. They had left a table light on because they wanted to see each other’s face while they talked in bed.
“The day you told me over the phone that you regretted marrying me, I spent three hours in meditation at the monastery off Dresden Drive. By the end of the evening, I understood who the elephant in the room was, even though you had denied she was the problem. I came home ready to talk about Munmun, convince you that I was never, for a single minute, vulnerable to her attention, that I’d do anything not to threaten our marriage. But you insisted on dealing with your issues alone, and I had to respect that, to give you space and time.”
She sighed. “I let my ego think for me, not my heart.”
She couldn’t find any ill-feeling in her heart toward Munmun anymore. She hadn’t walked in Munmun’s pretty jeweled feet, never seen the emptiness in her beautiful kohl-lined eyes, never seen the yearning in her bosom.
Tara had journeyed deep enough within herself to let go of Munmun.
The Annette Saldanha Home for Children was a large traditional house with a red clay-tiled roof, a spacious portico, and an enormous front yard. It was a larger version of the Shanti Nilaya of Tara’s childhood. The children were playing cricket and volleyball in the yard when Tara arrived with Cyrus. The ones who were watching the matches on the sidelines ran toward their chauffeur-driven Cadillac, encircling it, faces smiling. “Good morning,” they greeted. The older ones offered to carry the canvas bags filled with goodies—individual waxed paper packets of golden laddoos, translucent jilebis, roa
sted cashews, and crispy savory chaklis that Tara had ordered from Zeenat.
Two young women in crisp cotton saris and bright smiles came out to greet the visitors. Cyrus introduced Tara to Jessie and Kala, the wardens of the home, who wrapped their arms around her, smiling broadly. They entered the office; a small square room attached to the verandah with a table and four chairs. On the table were stacked glossy brochures with an appeal in bold blue letters, above various group photos of the children: SPONSOR A CHILD FOR ONLY Rs. 6000 ($150) A YEAR. They were the same flyers that Tara and Cyrus had distributed from their booth at the Festival of India last August. That was when she had made it a habit to push herself beyond her comfort zone.
For a moment, the purpose of her visit sat heavy on her chest. Amma could be a Pied Piper wherever she went. Tara had not inherited that ability; children did not flock to her. She had never truly missed being a mother.
Kala appeared with four stainless steel tumblers filled with lime sherbet, and before long, they were headed to the large, bright yellow-painted central hall, where the children had gathered to meet the visitors. Cyrus introduced her to the children as their mother. They welcomed her with applause. She raised an unsteady hand to wave back at them, aware of sweat pooling into the thin fabric of her kurta under her arm. The kids quickly diverted their attention and thronged around Cyrus, telling him stories and riddles and jokes. He was without doubt their father; that bond had lit up his eyes like Diwali diyas, as it had theirs. With her, they maintained a polite distance.
From Cyrus, she heard the stories behind the faces. Son of a prostitute who had committed suicide; a daughter who had lost both parents to AIDS; another who was deserted for being female and brought to the home five years later by her grandmother; a son and a daughter who didn’t know whom to go to when their abusive, alcoholic father turned them out of the house after he remarried. Each story uniquely tragic, yet each tragedy veiled in smiles, she thought.
The youngest among the children was four-year-old Mira, whose mother had jumped into a dry well after her father died in a road accident. Tara knew she hadn’t been at the home very long. Mira sat on the floor nearby, enormous eyes on a waif-thin body following Cyrus around the room like Tara had once followed Uncle Anand. When Tara stooped down to pat her cheek, she simply said, “Amma?” It was a question, dark eyes searching Tara’s face.
How did one comfort a four-year-old whose mother was never going to come back? She ought to have known, from her own experience. But Amma and Daddy had come back to claim Tara, to raise her, to love her. She didn’t have to deal with the finality of death; of never seeing a parent’s face, never hearing their voice, never taking their love for granted. That was the absolute reality imprinted on every face at the home. A lifelong feeling, entrenched in her gut, morphed into a question as it twisted its way up—had she taken her parents’ love for granted, been needlessly merciless toward Amma and cold toward Daddy for most of her life?
When Mira tugged at her kurta, an idea came to Tara’s mind. The project would take all day. It would involve going back to Shanti Nilaya, picking up Pinky from her bedroom, peeling off her clothes, washing her thoroughly with shampoo, untangling and brushing her hair until its shine was restored. It would involve going to Hampanakatta to look for fabric and a hand sewing kit to stitch a new dress quickly.
That evening, she wrapped a fully restored Pinky in shining fuchsia gift wrap paper. She and Cyrus watched fascinated, Tara on her knees, as Mira tore open the gift wrap impatiently in the portico. The evening light caught the astonishment in her enormous eyes when they fell on Pinky, whose arms and face were raised to the sky. A smile spread across her thin face as she ran her fingers over Pinky’s violet open eyes, as she gently felt the velvet purple fabric. The rest of the children who had gathered around Mira broke out in cheers.
Tara couldn’t help but claim Mira’s smile for herself; as if she had been finally compensated for the joy that had been taken away from her thirty-two years ago. She stayed on her knees until they felt sore; until after Mira had run in with her prized possession; until, she realized with a start, that the water droplets that were creating wet patches on the cement were her own tears. They were as real as the love she felt in her heart—for Mira, for all her children, for Cyrus, for her family, for the universe, for herself.
Chapter 32
Amma and Daddy met their new son-in-law in their marble-floored sitting room. People surrounded them, like extras in a Bollywood wedding scene, present but barely in the background, curiously looking from a distance, as if at celebrities. Or circus tigers. Most walked deeper into the house, or outside to lounge under the shade of the giant shamiana. Only Vijay, who would have been an active part of the scene, was out at the caterer’s with a last-minute alteration in the wedding lunch menu.
It helped that Cyrus bowed down to touch their feet—first Amma’s, then Daddy’s; that they first connected with their son-in-law physically, a gentle hand over his bent head as blessing, a positive exchange of energy.
She noticed her parents’ rigid body language at first. Daddy overtly polite, asking about Obama’s prospects in the upcoming elections; Amma focusing entirely on bringing out snacks and tea, piling Cyrus’s plate with vada chutney, fried cashews, and plantain chips. But they warmed up quickly to Cyrus’s easy manner, his ready smile. Before long, Cyrus had promised Amma a one-on-one meditation and cleansing session, a solution for her insomnia, and convinced Daddy of the benefits of surya namaskar, sun salutations. He had wrangled a promise from them that they would visit Atlanta during Christmas.
Daddy had questions about running a charity, an NGO as he called it, and expressed his desire to one day convert Shanti Nilaya into a shelter for the homeless mentally ill. He would call the home Anand Prakash, a place where anand—joy—and prakash—light—would converge to bring dignity to those on the fringes of sanity and of society. Cyrus said their foundation would be happy to partner in this wonderful initiative, help get it off the ground, raise funds in America. Tara had never heard Daddy express this desire before. His altruism thus far had been limited to Rotary Club meetings. It surprised her, this shift, the forming of new perspectives, new attitudes toward life.
“Let’s do it, Daddy,” she said, eyes shining. “It would be a wonderful way to honor Uncle Anand’s life.”
Cyrus was presented with an invitation to their niece’s wedding, a glossy white card with gold lettering, a symbol of Lord Ganesha embossed on the top. “You must come,” Amma said. “Vijay can take you shopping for a sherwani when he returns.” She apologized for the absence of the bride and her parents. They were out at the venue, supervising the decoration, but of course, the invitation had come from them.
She saw the pride on Daddy’s face as he brought out a copy of the Morning Herald from his study, reading glasses perched on his nose, the sheets folded neatly so that Tara’s opinion piece was on the front. “Have you read it yet?” he asked over his glasses, gaze moving from her to Cyrus. “A women’s college in Udupi has nominated Tara for their annual ‘Young Changemaker Award’. You must stay back two more weeks to receive it.”
Cyrus eagerly took the copy from Daddy’s hands. His father had changed his subscription from the Morning Herald to the Times of India, so they hadn’t been able to lay their hands on a copy, he said.
Tara overcame her sudden embarrassment, the urge to tear the sheets away from Cyrus’s hands, to ask him to read the essay later when they were by themselves. After all, it was the power of her words that had changed her universe, even the universe inside her.
They read the essay together, the broadsheet spread across their laps, her parents watching them from the across the room, as if they alone mattered in a house full of wedding guests.
My first act of self-determination at the age of thirty-six made me a pariah. My crime? I walked out of an abusive, loveless marriage. Up until that point, I was only fodder for gossip. First, because I was not good enough, pretty enough, s
mart enough, outgoing enough to win a husband in an arranged marriage. Next, because the man who married me abandoned me for three years. No reasons were asked of him. It was my fault. I hadn’t tried hard enough to be worthy of him.
Ours is a culture where a man’s word is The Word. So when my ex had a change of heart and sent for me, my family only felt relief. I was packed off to the US, no questions asked. I felt relief too, to escape the torment that our society reserves for an abandoned wife.
When I landed in America, the land of dreams, I already felt like a zero, my sense of self-worth crushed by my own people. It got worse. I was ignored, neglected, denied a wife’s place, and yet, the onus was on me to try harder, to make the marriage work. My ex told me the marriage was a mistake. I begged him not to send me back. If I had returned, they would have branded me an even bigger failure.
It escalated to emotional and physical violence. He was still not answerable to anyone. When he threw me out, I summoned the courage to move on. But my ex had a change of heart and was ready to accept me back. I was told I had no choice but to go back. Good wives make peace with their circumstances; they don’t fight their destiny; they don’t put their own happiness before their family’s reputation, I was told.
Forcing people to get back together does not magically breed love. My ex and I both knew that. There was nothing to bind us together: not love, not affection, not shared interests, not shared dreams.
Initially, there were three of us in our marriage, and I was the irrelevant part. A year into our life together, my ex told me of his great love for his Helen of Troy, with whom he carried on, while I simply existed, invisible, like dust under the carpet. It hurt, because I was not dust under the carpet. Dust is inanimate; it does not have a heart that can bleed for trying and failing.
