A wave of nausea hit me. I rubbed the empty space on my left hand where my three-carat, princess cut, solitaire diamond, platinum wedding ring used to be. I started to breathe heavily. On some weekends, after brunch, Dev would make me participate in role-playing games. In the very beginning of our marriage, there were times when I had tried to derive pleasure from the attention because I was his wife. But that feeling was short-lived. After forced sex, I would shower and go for long runs without my wedding ring. The open air where I didn’t belong to anyone—I liked it. Running made me feel safe even though late nights in New Delhi were risky. On some days, any place felt more sheltered than my own house.
“You must take care of yourself in all of this, Ahana.”
“I am trying.” I sat on the chaise lounge in the studio’s lobby facing a Buddha statue so no one could see me fight my angst.
Naina spoke loudly. “Bullshit! Your marriage with Dev ended because he was an asshole. Masi died suddenly. Why are you hell-bent on denying yourself any iota of kindness?” Naina rarely could keep it together when she was upset.
“You know that I have spoken with my boss. If the board approves the budget, I will be in NOLA for the conference.”
“Great, but NOLA doesn’t happen until next year. Honey, you still need to see a therapist.” Naina never minced her words. They were like an arrow with a purpose.
“I have you.”
Naina explained that even though she was a psychiatrist, we were too close for her to remain objective with me. “The conference planning and dealing with violence against women will make your anxiety even worse.”
“I can’t, Naina.” I was hesitant.
“Why not?”
“Remember where I live?” The problem was Dad’s position in society and our well-known family, and because I didn’t want to expose myself to New Delhi. “It’s very likely any therapist here would spread rumors, even if it was completely unprofessional to do so, and the gossip would be so rich that everyone would forgive him or her for it.”
Naina didn’t push me too hard, but she told me about some online resources I could consider. Her mentor was moderating one of the online counseling websites.
When I got home that night, after we had eaten a dinner of grilled fish, gourd soup with fennel, and cucumber salad, and everyone had gone to bed, I sat in my pajamas with Athena in my lap. Should I do this? I asked my sweet-tempered companion. Athena barked, and I took that as a yes.
I surfed a few sites for online counseling until I found the one moderated by Naina’s mentor. Something inside me uncramped as I browsed through each page, and I bookmarked the site. I don’t know what it was, but I started to feel a tiny bit of relief.
Naina knew me better than anyone else, as usual.
- 4 -
I still wonder how the universe caught two men from Louisiana and sent them into my life around the same time.
The wounded seek out the wounded—that’s how I met Jay Dubois, my comrade in the online therapy group when I was at the lowest point in my life.
Before logging in for the first time, I sat down and meditated for a few minutes to calm my nerves. I felt nauseated—the way I’d felt after seeing Mumma’s body in the morgue. It hit me, all over again, that I was a motherless woman. I called Lakshmi through the intercom in my room and requested her to make me chamomile tea. “Also, please take Athena out for a walk.”
“Wokay didi. Pleasing to go,” she responded in an eager tone and her adorable broken English.
I found out there were twelve of us in the group: three men and nine women, including the moderator, who was Naina’s mentor. She suggested we could use apps for texting, video chatting, voice messaging, and audio messaging to communicate with each other.
We all signed confidentiality agreements. But it felt lonely opening my life to strangers, clad in my pajamas while sipping chamomile tea. When and how did my life turn this way? I was the one with straight A’s, who had won a scholarship to the university in London and married the most desirable guy in New Delhi. My life used to be perfect, and then it all turned to ashes.
People in the group had lost boyfriends, babies, parents, and siblings. I didn’t want to be around so many sad stories. The tone was intense. It reminded me of the times when I would visit my parents and my dad would be in the middle of some ridiculously noisy project—I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t pull myself away. So I would rub the corner of Mumma’s shirt or kurta.
I realized I was the only Indian in the group. The Americans seemed to be most open about their lives. Interestingly, every single member chose to introduce him- or herself via group texting. No videos, no voices. Once there were only two of us left in the round of introductions, I bit my cuticles. I grew up in a culture where we didn’t share our problems with outsiders. How much was OK to share? I wrote something and erased it. Then wrote again. It seemed like Jay Dubois heard my quandary. He typed, “Looks like I am not the only one drunk typing on this Saturday night, so thank you. I’ll go next.”
I started to laugh and brought my palms together, “God, thank you.”
“Hi, all. I am Jay Dubois. You all are very brave to be seeking help. Like all of you, I lost a loved one suddenly, mother in my case, and now can’t make sense of my life.”
I wiped my glasses and reread his post. He didn’t share any specific details about himself or his mother. But when our moderator pestered him about his whereabouts, he grudgingly admitted that he was from Louisiana but called NYC home. His mother had passed away a few months before Mumma.
Next was my turn. I looked over my shoulder and then typed. “Hi, I am…. My name is…Ahana.” My stomach hurt. I fought a strange sense of suffocation. I looked at Mumma’s photograph on my nightstand.
“Hi, Ahana.” The other members and moderator typed back. I could feel many eyes virtually stare at me. I didn’t know what to write. Hi, I am here because I lost my mother and divorced my husband the same year and now happiness is unable to find me. I poured myself a glass of water from the pitcher on my nightstand. The cream-colored crocheted doily covering it—Mumma had bought it for me in Singapore. I rubbed the doily as though it were a lamp and Mumma would appear and help me.
I took a deep breath. Maybe it was the realization of my anonymity in this medium, but I just started to type. “Do you guys feel broken too, lost, and empty on the inside? Like nothing is worth living for? Have you ever wondered why so many terrible people get to live but the one you loved, died? How is any of this fair?!?!”
I let the text sit in the message window, unfinished and unsent, and wiped my tears with the corner of my nightshirt. It felt cathartic to add a voice to my feelings instead of tiptoe around my agony. I started to erase my message. But the chat technology was new to me; I hit send by mistake.
My face turned red. I floundered around the website, wanting to delete my post, but I couldn’t erase any of it. I screamed softly, Mumma, help me! I took off my glasses and threw them on the bed. I started to pace up and down my room. I kept alternating between the chair in the study and the recliner by the bookshelf. Anything to be away from my laptop and the new world where I had started with a mistake.
I heard a series of ping sounds coming from my laptop. I pulled my hair into a bun, put on my glasses, and collapsed on my bed. I didn’t know what to do so I blabbered mea culpas. “Sorry. Really sorry. This whole faceless-forum is new to me. I should have just asked about the weather!” After I hit send, I hit my forehead. I should have asked about the weather. What am I, British? What the hell is wrong with me? People are sharing personal details and I had nothing better to say. I missed Mumma more than ever. She knew appropriate words for every occasion.
I walked toward the large French windows and drew open the curtains, searching for stars, hoping to get a glimpse of my mother in the sky. I walked back to my bed and covered half of my body. I was ready to call it a night when there was a ping again.
It was like Jay waited to do what needed to be done to ma
ke me feel welcomed. “I’m sick of just liking people. I wish to God I could meet somebody I could respect.” He wrote these lines in his first direct message to me.
I slid out from under my covers and sat up. I introduced myself to a perfect stranger by typing two words real fast. “JD Salinger?”
“Yeah. You a fan too?” There was a grin emoji at the end of his message.
“If reading The Catcher in the Rye ten times qualifies me for one,” I wrote back promptly. I hadn’t felt excitement in a while. I couldn’t believe I was talking to someone who lived in the city where writer J. D. Salinger was born. I felt a smile lurk at the corner of my lips.
“I like it when somebody gets excited about something. It’s nice,” he replied. It was another line from The Catcher in the Rye.
Jay ended the message with, “Ahana, we don’t know each other. But I do know how difficult it is to open to strangers. I am a misfit in my life and where I come from.”
While I didn’t know what he was referring to, I could relate to the feeling. I wanted to help Jay. The loneliness in his voice was discernible.
“Thank you.”
“I do hope we can become friends one day,” he typed back, ending the sentence with a wink.
I didn’t even want to know his story. I didn’t want to attach myself to him or his life. But I knew one thing: Jay made me feel at ease. I posted a three-line coherent message to the chat group about Mumma and my journey with grief, and then signed off.
* * *
I met New Orleans-based Rohan Brady because of my boss Ms. Shelly Roy. She insisted. “You have to create a social media profile for the upcoming conference. You are the face of our No Excuse campaign. You are the voice behind women not accepting violence.”
“Me? But…why?” I was still feeling flummoxed by the online exposure. I had overdone it on the therapy forum and was still feeling embarrassed, and now Ms. Roy was telling me to create a social media profile. Me? Someone who was totally inept with online communication. I confessed to Ms. Roy that I had no social media profiles.
She got up from her seat. “Ahana, this is 2013! How can you not have a social media presence? You must know social media is important in today’s world. When companies put their money into the kind of event we’re organizing, they want a human connection to tell the story. The face behind women’s empowerment. The face behind social change. The face behind ending women’s violence and not accepting excuses.” She slammed a pen on her table. “How could we have not talked about this?”
“You really think so highly of personal social media accounts, Ms. Roy? I think people share their thirty seconds of glorious moments on social media and make it sound like their entire life is flawless.” I adjusted my glasses as I presented my case, which didn’t even make sense inside my own head. I knew the Arabs had successfully used digital media to exercise freedom of speech and as a space for civic engagement in the 2012 Arab uprisings, but I was scared to put myself out there. Honestly, every step of making myself a public persona was fraught with the terror that Dev would show up and malign it.
She sighed. “This conference brings together the most unlikely people in the best way possible.” Ms. Roy sat on the edge of her table with her glasses perched on the tip of her nose. “You know what you have to do if you want to continue to lead this conference.”
She made a hell of a threat over something minor. Yes, people called her the dragon-lady boss because at 5’ 2”, 68 kilos, and with a penchant for shimmering dresses two inches above her knees, Ms. Roy chose to hiss at people across the hallway as opposed to walk up to them and talk. You could barely see her neck and whatever little was visible, she covered it with a thick, yellow golden chain. She had her quirks, but she had always been supportive of me. What was going on? I didn’t know and couldn’t afford to care. The upcoming conference in NOLA was the only thing I had going for myself in my life. I was intent on keeping it. I sighed, “Fine. I will do so today,” and walked out of her office.
I didn’t know where to begin, so I set up a meeting with the director of brand and content strategy Peter D’souza.
Peter ran a search and pointed at a picture on his laptop screen of a blue-eyed man with a big smile.
“Who is this?”
“Rohan Brady.”
I adjusted my glasses.
“He is important to us, so connect with him over social media.”
I sat confused.
Peter continued, “Rohan works in public relations as the vice president of Client Services at Everyman PR Agency based out of New Orleans. He and his team are handling the public relations aspect of the Annual Women’s Rights Conference as part of their corporate social responsibility.”
“We have Everyman PR doing publicity for a women’s event? Are you serious?”
I moved closer to the computer. Rohan’s hair was perfect, thick, black and drowned in mousse. He looked about 6’ 5” or 6’7”. I pointed toward the screen. “Did one of our interns hire him? I mean, look at him—typical frat boy you see in English movies. I can practically smell his body spray transmitting through the computer screen.” I took a deep breath and looked closely.
“Don’t be fooled by profile pictures on social media, Ahana. People are brands and they have their own strategy for what they share. This guy, Rohan, is considered a genius in his field. Brady became a vice president at his firm before he turned thirty. And he’s won like a billion awards.”
“What happened to the Chicago-based firm that offered to help us?”
“Their management changed.” Peter sighed. “Public relations jobs are like revolving doors.”
* * *
I felt wrecked by the time I got home. I was tired from being two women all day. At dinner, Dad didn’t say a word and Chutney tried to cut the tension by regurgitating unhumorous details of her bureaucratic workday now that her sabbatical was over. I excused myself and went up to my room. Athena followed behind.
As I changed into my pajamas and sat with a book in my recliner, I saw my laptop peeking out from behind a couch pillow. I dragged it into my lap. There was a message alert—Jay. I remembered my humiliation the night before in the forum and ignored it; instead, I sat at my desk and started researching Rohan.
Thirty-five-year-old, blue-eyed Rohan Brady certainly seemed like a character whom women seemed to love. His outlandishly way-too-confident social media posts and frat uniform—OK, pastel shirts and trousers—made me cringe. “Lakshmi, please mint tea,” I ordered over the intercom. I stretched my arms over my head. Rohan handled the alcohol and cigarette clients for his company, which meant many of his pictures posted online were taken at parties and events. Does he ever sleep? He paraded his chiseled jaw and the dimple on his chin in every profile picture on social media. “Who dat? Who dat? Who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints?” he chanted and ranted all over social platforms. Rohan shamelessly attributed his habit of drinking Sazerac, a whiskey-cocktail, to being a New Orleans native and a Saints fan. I didn’t grow up in America, but my understanding of the frat culture was that it’s associated with hyper-masculinity and the related violence against women. I dreaded interacting with this guy.
I got up from my desk and called out to Lakshmi, “Why is the tea taking so long?”
“Sorry, didi. Coming wonly now.” Lakshmi entered my room with a nod and big smile.
“Thank you.” I gave her a set of multi-colored kohl pencil liners I had picked up at the mall. “Share them with your daughter.” I smiled at her. She shook her head like a pendulum and said a billion thank yous.
I sipped on the tea and continued my investigation. Party animal Rohan lived in the Central Business District. I texted Naina and enquired about Rohan’s neighborhood. She said, “Dude, I have lots of friends in CBD. Fancy area with bars and restaurants nearby. Why do you ask?” I told her I was doing research for my upcoming conference. She said. “You’d love it there. Most buildings there have art, rooftop hot tubs, a fancy gym, a business
center….”
Rohan was a complete Southerner when it came to his charm. None of the women in his social media universe seemed to mind when he flirted with them. If anything, Ms. Pamela, a blonde supermodel from Miami, sent him a tweet with kisses.
Rohan wrote back. “Where ya been, gorgeous?”
She responded with, “I feel so lonely. The world has crushed my ‘big’ spirit.”
Rohan egged her on. “I’m never more than a single tweet away, so tell me what’s got you down?”
Ms. Pamela signed off her tweets with “xoxo,” but I chose to read it as “I am a ho.”
I sank in my chair: Was I really stuck organizing a feminist conference with a seeming womanizer and misogynist? No one at work saw it except me—yet it’s what his social media profile said about him, and the message was negative. No Excuse was about giving women a voice and fighting violence against them. Is Freedom Movement even devoted to the cause?
Perhaps Ms. Roy was pursuing initiatives that looked good on paper, but their success was questionable. I, like many others, suspected that Ms. Roy was a social climber, who took the job to rub elbows with socialites and Bollywood celebrities at fundraisers. It was about the status, not about the mission.
There was no way out because Ms. Roy had given me an ultimatum. So I suspected that Everyman PR was simply the lowest bidder for conference publicity. Frankly, I was a tad bit curious to understand the hypocrisy of a sexist pig collecting money to help put together a women’s conference, but I guessed I would find out soon enough.
* * *
I spent the rest of the week trying to schedule a meeting with Rohan, but I only managed to speak to his assistant, Crystal. I was annoyed at everyone at work, and perhaps because I was feeling more raw than usual at the end of the day, I sat on the couch and logged in again into our therapy forum.
“Look who is here.” Jay posted on the message board after he saw I was online.
I said a hello to the members who were online.
“Somebody has been busy.” He sent me a direct message with a grin emoji at the end.
Louisiana Catch Page 4
