Louisiana Catch

by Sweta Srivastava Vikram

  “Haha, no, I am just tired.”

  “You do know that this therapy group is a safe space where we can all help each other out, right?”

  “Thank you, I know. Long day at work. How have you been?”

  “Let’s see…. I have dealt with my annoying landlady. My dad is getting shit-faced with some neighbors, and I hurt my back. You do the math.”

  I didn’t understand half of Jay’s Americanisms, and I didn’t want to sound stupid, so I Googled what “shit-faced” meant and wrote back. “Why don’t you move to a different locality?”

  “Locality? You mean neighborhood?” he wrote back promptly.

  “Yes, neighborhood.” I rolled my eyes.

  “I live in Bushwick, Brooklyn. It’s a neighborhood for working class people. Brownstones here are cheap and my father has a good living arrangement with his old landlady. In exchange for lower rents, the woman wants me to do gardening and cook for her three days a week. Money is tight right now.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know.” Jay’s honesty seemed refreshing; in the Indian culture, I didn’t know many who shared much personal information.

  I exchanged pleasantries with a few women on the message board, tiptoeing around their sorrows. Jay barely commented on any chat threads. I noticed he rarely participated in open group chats, aside from assigned therapy hours. Most of us were connected on social media by now. I observed that, like me, Jay didn’t share any profile picture on any of his accounts.

  Lakshmi came up to my room to announce that Mom and Dad’s friends, the Khuranas, were over to say a hello. 10:30 p.m. on a weeknight without calling first. Only in New Delhi.

  “Sorry, guys; I have to go.”

  “Everything OK?” He sent me a direct message.

  “My parents’ friends are over to express their condolences.”

  “You don’t seem thrilled. What’s going on?”

  I took a deep breath. The group and everybody in it was supposed to be a safe space, right? So, I typed, “While I appreciate the support, I mean, how can anyone heal if you are constantly reminded of what is wrong with your life? All I want to do is hide from all of them.”

  “I get it. When my mother died, I grew too numb emotionally to even feel any physical pain for days. I just seemed to sleep more, perhaps to fight off the lingering sadness and give myself my energy back. I hated being around people.”

  He understands. I said a bye to him and changed into a pair of jeans and T-shirt and went into the living room to meet the Khuranas. I hated the way people looked at me—the divorced, motherless woman. Mrs. Khurana, with a glass of gin and tonic in her hands, told me how her widowed nephew in California would be a good guy for me to meet. I looked at Chutney and rolled my eyes. Apparently, I was worth only divorced or widowed men. I wanted to get away from the unpleasant conversations and back to my therapy group where I could talk about Mumma.

  After the Khuranas left, I went up to my room to see if anyone was online. Jay had left me a message. “Can we exchange email ids? Our chats will feel less clinical. :)”

  “Sure. You can reach me here: ahana@gmail.com,” I wrote back.

  “Don’t worry; I am not some creepy guy who is going to stalk you,” he replied right away.

  “I never said anything of the sort.” I messaged him back via direct messaging on our forum.

  “Silence has the deepest voice.”

  Next morning, after finishing my yoga and shower, when I checked my emails, I saw a message from Jay. “This is the last picture I have of my mom.”

  His mom had dark hair, green eyes, and olive skin. I replied. “Where is your family from?”

  “All over. Greek, French, Italian…we didn’t leave much of Europe. He added a smiley at the end.

  “Your mother was beautiful.”

  “The picture was taken two weeks before she passed away.”

  “I am so sorry. What happened?” I could hear my palpitations.

  “My mom was walking home on her way back from work. It was Friday evening; my parents were expecting company. Mom was holding a large cake in her hand and perhaps got distracted and didn’t realize that she was in the blind spot of an SUV.”

  “Did she get hit by the car?” I cringed thinking about it, and then cringed realizing how quickly I was getting comfortable talking about our dead mothers.

  “Yeah, the guy ran over her. She died on the spot.”

  I tried to keep my shock under check, but I started to sob. I threw up in the garbage can next to the couch. My stomach hurt. Athena started to bark, so I picked her up in my arms. I patted her and got up to drink some water, which was five feet away on my nightstand right next to Mumma’s picture. I held Mumma’s photograph and broke down again.

  After I had washed my face and chewed on fennel seeds to get rid of nausea, I wrote to Jay. “I am so sorry. I know what the sudden loss of a parent can do to us.”

  He didn’t write back. I tried to reach out to him several times, but there was no response. I went to his social media profile, but there were no updates there either. Jay never gave out his phone number, so I couldn’t call. I wanted to help. I knew what it was like to carry pain in the heart all the time without being able to articulate it.

  I figured that, like me, he’d come around again when he felt better.

  * * *

  After trying and failing on several occasions to connect with Rohan Brady over the phone, I wrote, deleted, rewrote, and finally sent a message to him, introducing myself. It was late Friday evening in India, Friday morning in America. Maybe that’s why Rohan wrote back right away. It was a surprisingly nice email, saying he had heard about me and that he was looking forward to working together on the conference. He ended the note with, “Congratulations on being included in the 40 under 40 in the Women’s Herald.”

  Yes, Women’s Herald was considered the equivalent of The Economist in the space of women’s issues and empowerment. I was amazed Rohan had even heard of it.

  “Rohan? That’s an Indian name,” I wrote to him.

  “It’s also Irish,” he replied immediately.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “I expanded your knowledge-base. You’re welcome, :)” he wrote back.

  Right when I was thinking that his message was conceited, he sent a note, “I am part Indian, part Irish.”

  “Your parents have a common enemy,” I replied.

  “The colonial Brits, you mean?” Rohan responded with a smiley emoticon at the end of his message.

  Not everyone understood my sense of humor. Surprisingly, Rohan did in our first interaction.

  “Touché.”

  “I pride my obsession with paneer just as much as I pride my thirst for alcohol, loyalty to the New Orleans Saints, and disgust for baseball.” There was another happy face at the end of his message.

  I rolled my eyes. Wow, this guy really likes his happy faces. And he is comparing cottage cheese to booze to describe his roots! “Great! Let me know what’s the best place to send you the list of speakers I have so far.”

  “Take a moment to slow down.”

  “I am not sure I understand.”

  “You can send me the deliverables on Monday. It’s Friday evening for ya in New Delhi, right? Don’t you have plans for tonight?”

  “What do you know about Delhi nightlife?”

  “My mother was from Mumbai, so I have traveled to plenty of cities in India, madam. I know what clubbing is to Mumbai, house parties with bonfire are to New Delhi. I know there are tons of pretty Indian faces at these parties—that’s the reason the social media hashtag, #whatsnottolike, came into existence.” There was a wink at the end of his message.

  That’s it. Total frat boy. I’d pinned him correctly. I loathed that he flirted with me, but we had to work together.

  “Let me know where I should send you the list,” I wrote, and logged out without saying a bye or fully comprehending what it was about Rohan that irked me. Maybe the charm felt too familiar and r
eminded me of Dev? When Dev was still pursuing me, he had walked up to me during our annual college dance and said, “Of all the faces on campus, my eyes are fixated on the prettiest one! Dance with me.” Next day, the word spread to every college in Delhi University’s North Campus that Dev Khanna was turned down by some tall girl. Dev Khanna was someone everyone in New Delhi said a yes to.

  - 5 -

  Two days after I had connected with Rohan, Jay reached out to me. He was in his garden about 4:30 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, thrilled about some new seeds arriving. “They won’t be peonies—Mom’s favorite flowers were peonies,” he had written. “My mother would say, ‘Peonies provide the awe and wonder that only a seasonal flower can—because we wait most of the year just to catch a glimpse of the local crop for a few days.’”

  I had come home from work early that day. Lakshmi had given me a hot oil head massage. I was about to turn off my electronic items and take a hot shower to get dressed for the first fundraiser for the conference. But instead, I found myself chatting with Jay and not asking about his sudden disappearance from our chat.

  “I can feel the presence of my mother around me. After chatting with you a couple of days ago, that feeling became more intense.”

  I dissolved on the couch in my room. “You believe that our loved ones hang around after their deaths?”

  He wrote, “I think we should trust our senses and heart when it comes to these things. I don’t think the big question of life and death is unanswerable. The connection will always be there. If you see signs about your mother’s presence, those encounters are a way of saying she will still be around so you needn’t worry about that.”

  “I didn’t think most people believe in the beyond.” I pulled out a purple evening gown from my wardrobe and paired it with the diamond hoop earrings Mumma had gifted me when I joined Freedom Movement. With Mumma gone, every time I needed to feel closer to her, I wore something that she had bought for me, or used one of her accessories.

  “I am not most people.” He made a smiley.

  I didn’t know what to write.

  He wrote, “You there?”

  I played with the earrings. Jay was the only person who believed that I could feel my mumma and that the experience overwhelmed me. He was the only man I knew who was so open about his feelings.

  “Stop doubting yourself just because a lot of people want to tell you that you’re imagining things or whatever. I feel this is completely natural and part of our human senses to figure out the universe.”

  “Thanks for saying that. How did you know I needed to hear those exact words today?” I replied and started to fuss over Athena.

  “It’s our connection.”

  I was aware that while I was decorating one woman for the fundraiser, the other one wanted to curl up and listen to Jay. “My mom could do more tequila shots than Dad and I combined, Ahana. She taught me to smell spices and taste flavors. When I was a little boy, my mom took me grocery shopping with her every Friday. We would bake cakes together every Sunday. There was nothing my mother wouldn’t add bacon and butter to. Even the greens in our house were sinfully delicious. I get my love of hot peppers from my mother. The more I cook, the closer I feel to her.”

  Ahh, no wonder he shares mostly pictures of food and flowers on social media, I thought to myself.

  Jay, like me, was an only child. “As Salinger says, ‘Mothers are all slightly insane.’” I ended with a smiley and picked up my handbag.

  I felt the universe had opened the door to a new friend in my life. I was sharing personal details with a man I didn’t know well when I was depressed, and wanting to keep my emotional struggles a secret from those close to me.

  * * *

  At the fundraiser at Hyatt Regency, one of Delhi’s leading hotels, many socialites showed up in their designer outfits and luxurious, chauffeur-driven cars. We had picked this venue to raise funds for No Excuse because it was in Delhi’s central business district, a twenty-minute drive from Indira Gandhi International airport and ten minutes from the embassies, corporations, and shopping hubs.

  Ms. Roy schmoozed all the bigwigs of New Delhi in her sequined, backless gown. She complimented my strapless gown and open-toed heels. “Classy and conservative, Ahana. Like your diamond hoop earrings.”

  Champagne. Diamonds. Gourmet finger foods—some imported from New Zealand and Japan—served by waiters in white gloves and red turbans. Conversations about shopping in Milan and summer homes in Tuscany felt like a noose around my neck. She introduced me as the face of No Excuse.

  The press had a busy night, but I loathed the limelight. “Violence against women and girls is a grave violation of human rights.” I looked at the two dozen reporters taking notes. “Its impact ranges from immediate to long-term multiple physical, sexual, and mental consequences for women and girls, including death. It negatively affects women’s general wellbeing and prevents women from fully participating in society.”

  The conference was expanding—the scope was constantly being pushed wider and wider, reaching for higher targets and more organizations. And that was Ms. Roy’s fault, because she was a “status-seeker,” and I kept acquiescing because I am a woman who can’t say no. I couldn’t say no to Dev. I couldn’t say no to Mumma.

  I finished the interview only to find at least a dozen women with plunging necklines and Cartier wedding rings trying to probe my personal life. None of them asked about No Excuse. A few, in their drunken stupor, enquired about Mardi Gras in NOLA and whether I was going to attend it while I was there for the conference. Mrs. Singh of House of Silk with her breast implants and poorly executed rhinoplasty had asked me in a hoarse voice, “What’s your story? How did you get involved in fighting violence against women?” Another woman whispered, “She is Dev Khanna’s ex-wife.”

  I suspected that Ms. Roy was letting me lead the growing conference because my name—and even the hint of scandal around it—had some attention-getting cachet. It hurt a lot. While I knew there were other women out there in a similar boat, New Delhi didn’t allow me the freedom to speak up, which added to my brokenness. Nothing in New Delhi was safe or private. My past wouldn’t let me move forward.

  I was relieved to be going to America because it meant I would be putting half of the planet between myself and Dev. I was afraid of my worst fears and handling them without Mumma. Lo and behold, they came true: Dev was drinking whiskey, surrounded by a group of older women, all paying attention to every single word that came out of his mouth. The hair at the back of my neck stood up. I remembered when I had decided to switch careers—go from investment banking to work for Freedom Movement, Dev had ridiculed my decision. Mumma stood by me. “Change is the only constant, beta. Do what feels right in your heart.”

  She even told Dev to shut up. Indian moms-in-law are extremely accommodating and respectful of their sons-in-law, but when he mocked me at a party for quitting my cushy job in finance, she stepped in. I quietly walked out of the get-together and sat in the gazebo.

  Mumma showed up. “If your compassion doesn’t include you, then it’s not true compassion, beta.”

  I hugged her and wailed until my bones ached. I didn’t hold back my tears or words.

  While Mumma was the reason I fought for my dignity and asked Dev for a divorce, I wish she had taught me to stand up for myself instead of becoming my voice.

  * * *

  When we love someone, the memories we make with them are treasures. But when someone hurts us and breaks our heart, all the memories about them become nightmares.

  Dev started to walk in my direction. I froze. He tapped his collarbones with his thumb and let out a sinister smile. I almost threw up. Seeing Dev and not having Mumma around made me feel powerless. Seeing Dev and finding my body respond to his signal, even if unwillingly, made me feel hopeless. What are you, Pavlov’s dog, Ahana? I clenched my left fist.

  Dev must have been less than a foot away when my phone pinged and broke the spell. It was a message from Ja
y. “I spent last Saturday at a nursery in Coney Island. Want to see what I did?”

  “I am so happy to hear from you!!!” I wrote back with tears in my eyes and a smile on my face. I preferred talking to Jay rather than to the whole group because he was good at keeping track of my schedule. Plus, it helped that he was always available to chat when I needed to talk to someone. He had remembered I would be at the fundraiser and probably bored.

  “Glad I could make your day. :)” Jay wrote back.

  That was the first time I ended my message with three hearts.

  Dev suddenly showed up from behind and whispered, “You’re making it all up, Ahana. You enjoyed it.” Even before I could turn around, he walked away. I was so rattled that I stood behind a large plant, hoping nobody would notice me. Wishful thinking. Ms. Roy spotted me and waved. “Ahana, I need you to come and meet Mr. and Mrs. Diwan.” Once I was closer, she whispered, “They own several hotels in the South Extension area and Faridabad. They like to support faces like yours. Let’s get you in front of them.”

  I couldn’t believe Ms. Roy.

  She rolled her eyes. “You are intelligent and capable, but it doesn’t hurt that you are good-looking. It brings us money.” She sipped her champagne and introduced me to the Diwans. Mrs. Asha Diwan must have worn a five-carat solitaire diamond pendant. I assumed that she would only talk about their yacht trips in the Mediterranean. But it turned out that she had survived an abusive marriage and met her second husband, Mr. Diwan, when she was helping build homes in Nepal. She shared a fierce passion for supporting women. She was a graduate of the London School of Economics; we discussed in depth our respective London days.

  By the end of the night, the couple had donated $100,000, and I had learned not to label people by their appearances. Mrs. Diwan offered to connect me to three other organizations that helped female survivors of domestic violence by rehabilitating, educating, and giving them creative training.

  I apologized to Jay about leaving the conversation midway.

  “I wish I were this busy,” he replied with a smiley.