Goddess for Hire

by Sonia Singh

  I lazily held out the small sign inscribed with Tahir’s name, since I had no clue what he looked like, and waited with a flock of people as passengers passed wearily out of customs.

  Personally I wouldn’t set foot in India without a suitcase filled with antibacterial lotion. Last year my family went, along with our neighbors, the Marshalls. Why so many white people insist on dipping their toes in the Ganges is beyond me. So what if a dunk in the river erases all your bad karma? Dead people are cremated there. The Indian government had to introduce a breed of scavenger turtle in the water to dispose of rotting flesh.

  Doesn’t that just make you want to gag?

  I made eye contact with various men of Indian origin, but other than the usual appraising male stares and come-hither smiles, none of them stopped, pointed at the sign, and said, “Namaste. I’m your future husband.”

  “You spelled my last name wrong,” a clipped, precise, male voice said from my right. I turned and felt a rush of undiluted, uninhibited, God-bless-your-DNA, animal lust.

  He was tall, six feet or so, with thick, wavy black hair, flashing black eyes fringed by long lashes, a soft, sensuous mouth, fabulous skin the shade of dark honey, and the type of body that would make half of Hollywood’s top males run crying to their personal trainers.

  “Tahir?” I gasped.

  “My last name is spelled S-A-H-N-I.”

  “Huh?” I looked down to where I’d written, “Tahir Sawney” on the sign. “How was your flight?” I managed to articulate.

  “Beastly,” he said curtly. “Business class has absolutely gone to the dogs. Some bloody passengers caused a fuss demanding buffalo milk, and behind me this swami continually rang and rang for the attendant. After the meal the fool burned a stick of incense in the lavatory, setting off the fire alarm. We nearly had to emergency land in Osaka.”

  “Well you must be exhausted, my car isn’t too far—”

  “Let me clear up a little matter first,” Tahir interrupted. He gazed intently into my eyes. “I have no intention of marrying you. I have hordes of desperate, socially acceptable women chasing me in Delhi, which is part of the reason I’m shifting to LA, and I have no desire to become the object of mother-daughter fervor here. My mum guilted me into meeting you, and though I admit you’re better-looking than most of the girls I’ve seen, I’m a confirmed bachelor until I decide otherwise.”

  My mouth almost dropped open. How dare Tahir preempt my “I don’t want to marry you” speech! “Well for your information, I don’t want to marry you either! I’m an independent woman who doesn’t believe in arranged marriage.” Well one out of two wasn’t bad.

  For a split second I saw surprise flash across his eyes, but then it was gone. “Excellent,” he said. “We understand each other. Now if you don’t mind, I’m not up to walking to your car. Bring it around. I’ll wait here.”

  My mouth tightened. Obviously Tahir was shy around the word “please.” I opened my mouth to object, but fresh air and a few Tahir-free moments proved too tempting. “Fine.” I whirled around and stalked out of the terminal.

  Instead of feeling relieved that he’d effectively solved my problem for me, I was totally pissed off. His accent was sexy though. Tahir was a walking example that not every Indian immigrant sounded like a clerk at a 7-Eleven.

  The sun had long since set. I scanned the area warily for rapists and muggers. LAX had pretty good security, but you never know. A safe male is a castrated male. I walked quickly to my car. The parking lot was brightly lit, but for some reason I felt uneasy. Meeting Tahir had obviously unnerved me.

  I quickly disengaged the alarm and opened the door.

  I wasn’t fast enough.

  An arm snaked around me from behind, and a sweet-smelling cloth was pressed to my nose and mouth. Before I could practice the Jackie Chan move I’d learned in self-defense class, the world disappeared.

  And I faded into black.

  Chapter 4

  “NO, NO, I WANT a Coke. Pepsi is too sweet.”

  My lids were so heavy I could barely open them. The insides of my head ballooned with hideous hangover memories.

  “No Coke. That’s what I’m telling you. It’s a common practice in America to carry one or the other.”

  It was an effort, but I opened my eyes. At first I thought I was in someone’s bedroom, but then I saw a slight Indian man, dressed in a green windbreaker and jeans, rummaging through what was obviously a minibar.

  That, along with the two double beds, tacky wallpaper, and a shoddy print of San Francisco Bay only a nearsighted person could appreciate, led me to the clever deduction that I was in a hotel room.

  To my right another Indian man, older, with a full head of white hair, dressed in orange robes, peered dubiously over the rim of his glasses at a can of Pepsi.

  “Who are you?” I had meant the question to come out with authority, instead my voice croaked like one of Marge Simpson’s sisters.

  Both men turned and stared at me wide-eyed. “You have awoken,” the man in the orange robes, said. “I humbly apologize for the chloroform. Pepsi?” He held out the can.

  I was about to refuse or spit in his face, but my throat was absolutely parched. I reached for the can, and it was then that I realized my arms were tied to the chair.

  Okay, this was scary.

  Fear welled up inside of me, along with something else—

  I was going to barf.

  Some people scream when they’re scared, some cry, I vomit. When I was six my parents enrolled me in swimming classes at the YMCA knowing I was deathly afraid of water. The swimming instructor was no more sympathetic. She blew her whistle and ordered me into the pool with the others. Two minutes later, she was blowing the whistle again, ordering everyone out. I stayed in while the remains of my breakfast floated around me. Swimming classes were never mentioned again.

  I gagged. Saliva rushed into my mouth. I turned my head and spit onto the carpet. The younger man jumped up from the minibar and grabbed the trash can. He held it under my mouth. “Kindly project the contents here,” he said politely.

  I gagged again, looked at the trash can, then down at the pink cashmere Ralph Lauren top I was wearing. The risk of stains was too great. I shook my head. “I can hold it down.”

  The old man took a step forward. I pressed back into the seat. “Do not be afraid. You misunderstand. The restraints are not for your protection but for ours.”

  “What?”

  “My name is Ramakrishna but you can call me Ram. I am from Calcutta. This is my cousin Sanjay. He lives in a city called Irvine.”

  “Hi,” Sanjay said shyly. “I’m a software engineer. If you ever require help with Windows…”

  Ram continued. “I belong to a sect that worships one deity and one deity only, Kali-Ma, the Dark Goddess.”

  “Right,” I said and subtly continued to test my restraints.

  “Unlike Lord Vishnu, who has resurrected numerous times as a fish, turtle, boar, lion, dwarf, Prince Ram, and Lord Krishna, to save the world from destruction, the goddess’s rise had been foretold but never come to pass. Every night, for hundreds of years, the priests of our temple kept watch on the skies…until the miraculous happened. Thirty years ago a baby girl was born.”

  My legs were untied. If I lured the old man closer, I could get in a pretty good kick to the groin.

  “This baby grew into a beautiful woman. A woman with the body of a lush lotus blossom, with a face as pure and lovely and radiant as the moon.”

  Ram knelt in front of me and winced. “Arthritis.” He looked behind him, and Sanjay quickly got to his knees as well. “After numerous years and thousands of miles, I, your loyal servant, have come to deliver the joyous news that you are the one and only incarnation of the goddess Kali.”

  “Holy shit,” I gasped.

  “Yes,” Ram said seriously.

  Talk about dharma…

  Chapter 5

  AFTER THE INITIAL SHOCK of hearing I was a born-again goddes
s, my head cleared and I realized I was possibly in the company of two of the craziest men this side of the Himalayas. “I don’t believe in reincarnation. How come everybody’s a prince or princess in their past life? Someone had to have been a chambermaid or a dung beetle. Can you explain that?”

  Ram adopted a very thoughtful expression and scratched his chin. “No, I cannot. I have not attained full enlightenment yet. When I reach that stage I will surely tell you the answer.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Can you at least get rid of these restraints? Or do I have to wait for you to attain Nirvana for that, too?”

  “Do you promise not to slaughter us with the force of your divine wrath?”

  I shrugged. “Sure.”

  Ram nodded to Sanjay, who quickly began untying the ropes. After they were removed I toyed with the idea of lunging at them with a leering face just to see if they were truly scared of me, but I was too exhausted.

  Sanjay handed me my Kate Spade bag, and I made a quick examination to see if all the contents were there. M.A.C. compact, two M.A.C. lipsticks, one matte, one frost, cell phone, keys, wallet, and silver Mont Blanc pen. Check. “See you Hindu Smurfs later,” I called, and made for the door.

  Well, they were short.

  “Please wait.” Ram put out a hand to stop me. This time I was ready with the move and had him flat on his back in seconds. Sanjay quickly rushed over. “Please,” Ram rasped. “Why do you refuse to believe you are Kali?”

  I sighed and turned around, keeping my hand firmly on the doorknob. “Where do I start? I haven’t been to the Cerritos Hindu Temple since I was, like, ten. In fact I’m not a religious person at all though I have been known to get down on my knees and thank God when Nordstrom has a sale.”

  Ram grimaced and moved to a chair with Sanjay’s help. “There is a birthmark on your body, shaped like three dots. If you were to join them the figure would resemble a triangle.”

  A slight chill came over me. Wordlessly I pushed up the sleeve of my right arm and bared the mark on my shoulder. Three dots.

  Sanjay stared wide-eyed and pointed. “There, she has it!”

  Ram nodded in a bored way. “Yes, yes, naturally it is there. The mark represents your third eye, the eye of wisdom. Only Shiva and Kali have it. Have you ever been wounded? Seriously ill?”

  I didn’t need to think this one through. I’d never been one of those lucky kids who got to stay home from school because of chicken pox or the flu. In fact I’d never been injured in my life, not a bee sting, not a splinter, not even massive trauma to the head. I’d put it down to overprotective doctor parents, but now I wondered.

  “No,” I said finally.

  Ram studied my face. “Let me ask you another question then. Have you ever felt vengeful?”

  “Who hasn’t? America’s the lawsuit capital of the world,” I pointed out, and went to sit on the bed. The birthmark thing sort of unnerved me, and I wanted to know more.

  “An occasion when you felt anger so powerful it consumed you,” Ram clarified.

  “Well, there was the time my favorite show Dark Shadows was canceled but I wouldn’t characterize myself as vengeful, more implacable.”

  “Are you sure she’s the one?” Sanjay whispered loud enough for me to hear.

  “The astrologer has never been mistaken,” Ram whispered back.

  I was about to tell the Abbott and Costello of the East that I could hear them when, as if summoned, a memory surfaced with startling clarity. “There was this one instance,” I murmured.

  Ram turned to me with an encouraging smile. “Tell us.”

  Chapter 6

  I FELT LIKE a character in a bad movie who suddenly remembers incredibly vital information she somehow coincidentally forgot, until prodded, but that’s how it was. After all, most people can explain away coincidences faster than Joan Rivers reaching for a Botox-laden syringe. “We’d just moved to Newport Beach,” I began, “and some of the neighborhood kids started calling me Gandhi girl.”

  Sanjay handed me a bag of pretzels and a Pepsi from the minibar. “Kids can be cruel.”

  “And surprisingly knowledgeable about historical figures.” I crossed my legs and flicked open the can of soda. “But what do you expect? When you bring chicken tandoori sandwiches to school and everyone else is packing bologna on white, you’re bound to have some peer-adjustment problems.”

  A sharp ringing startled me into stopping. Sanjay reached inside his windbreaker and pulled out his cell phone. “Hello?” His face broke out into a huge smile. “Indira! No I’m not busy.”

  Ram cleared his throat, his face stern. “Sanjay.”

  Sanjay turned away and dropped his voice. “Friday then? It’s a date.” He hung up and straightened, shooting me an apologetic smile.

  “Whatever.” I shrugged and took a sip of Pepsi. “One day the kids were having a contest to see who could jump off the highest point. Determined to prove I was as good, if not better than they were, I shimmied up the side of our house, stood on the top of the garage and yelled, ’Hey losers! Did you know Gandhi could fly?’ They came running.”

  I paused to see if my audience was still paying attention, they were. “I was about to jump when I decided to do something a little more risky and pulled myself up until I was standing on top of our second-story roof. The kids were staring up at me with a mixture of fear and awe. This was my moment. I jumped and landed smoothly on the driveway.”

  A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. “I became sort of a hero after that. I had full access to all the Atari games in the neighborhood.”

  Ram scratched his chin. With his protruding jaw, shock of white hair, and chocolate-colored skin, he resembled a wizened old monkey. “I see.”

  Obviously my story wasn’t the heavenly example he was expecting. So maybe it didn’t compare to Clark Kent twirling tractors at the age of five, but at least it was something. I jumped up. “Hey! That’s a distance of like, twenty-five feet! No one can do that without protection and not get hurt, but that day I knew I could. It was weird.”

  “I think it sounds somewhat miraculous,” Sanjay said in a comforting voice.

  “Damn straight it does!” I was about to continue when it occurred to me my stance had changed from arguing why I wasn’t a goddess to why I was. I shot Ram a suspicious look. He was smiling. I placed a hand on my hip and tossed back my hair. No one could do sassy and outraged better. “You tricked me!”

  Ram blinked his eyes innocently. “The priests of my temple do not indulge in trickery.”

  I picked up my bag. “I don’t know why I’m still here. This is all a mistake. Birthmark aside, you’ve got the wrong chick.”

  Ram opened his mouth to protest, but I held up my hand and silenced him. “In sixth grade Dana Padilla called my mom a clown because she picked me up from school dressed in a sari. Know what I did? I paid Stephanie Dawson, the tallest and widest girl in our class, twenty bucks to beat the shit out of Dana while I watched. Aren’t divine beings supposed to be gentle and nurturing? I totally enjoyed watching Dana get her ass kicked, and that hardly sounds like the actions of a goddess.”

  Ram leaped to his feet, his voice booming out. “Not the actions of a goddess? Kali-Ma is the Goddess of Destruction! She is the bringer of death so that life may resurrect!” He threw out his arms. “Kali is womb and tomb, giver of life and devourer of her children.”

  I curled my lip. Devourer of her children? Didn’t sound too appealing.

  Ram’s face was alight with joy and a feverish excitement. “The Dark Mother gives life to us all. Jai Ma Kali!”

  “Long live mother Kali,” Sanjay translated for me.

  “I know what it means,” I snapped. My bag suddenly felt like it weighed a ton. I wanted to go home and crawl into bed. “I’m leaving.”

  Ram quickly scribbled a number on the notepad provided by the hotel and tore off the sheet, handing it to me. “I cannot afford this lovely Holiday Inn room. I will be staying with Sanjay.” He shot his cousin a
disapproving sidelong glance. “Even though I have seen shanties in Bombay more accommodating than his flat.” Sanjay’s lower lip trembled, but Ram ignored it. “Please call me when you are ready for your lesson.”

  Lesson? I took the paper and stuffed it in my purse. Ram was getting quite adept at reading my expressions, and spoke up before I could leave. “You are still doubtful. Tomorrow after you are rested, go outside, close your eyes, and call the Goddess Within. See the power flowing up from your womb and radiating down from your third eye. You will have your proof.”

  “Your car is on parking level one, C2,” Sanjay added, and handed me the ticket.

  I was about to leave when the most obvious question struck me. “Wait, how’d you guys know I’d be at the airport today?”

  “Sanjay was under strict orders to follow you around until I arrived and ascertained you were indeed the One,” Ram explained.

  “You were following me?” I turned to Sanjay. “I didn’t even see you.”

  Sanjay grabbed the bag of pretzels and popped one in his mouth. “It’s fortunate you’re Kali and thus protected from harm.”

  “Why?”

  “Because”—he paused and grabbed another pretzel—“you’re one god-awful driver.”

  Chapter 7

  "TEN BUCKS,” the thin, pimply-faced, male attendant said in a sleepy voice.

  I handed over the bill and jammed out of the underground garage. I’d been kidnapped, drugged, and now I was getting screwed up the butt for parking.

  On top of that Sanjay had rudely criticized my driving. Was that any way to treat a goddess? So what if I drove with my cell phone in one hand and a Frappuccino in the other? Most Southern Californians did the same.

  I sped down Sepulveda Boulevard, miraculously free of airport traffic. This particular Holiday Inn was right next to LAX. So Ram and Sanjay didn’t go very far.

  I couldn’t believe no one noticed two Indian men, one dressed in orange robes, smuggling an unconscious body into a car and out of the airport parking garage. I imagined Ram and Sanjay casually strolling through the hotel lobby, my comatose form propped up between them. Hadn’t that rated at least one raised eyebrow from the concierge?