Louisiana Catch

by Sweta Srivastava Vikram

  “How does it matter to you? You do your job.” Naina broke my reverie.

  “His charm feels familiar. I am not sure.” Naina knew about Dev but not the invasive and pertinent details. She never did like him.

  “You don’t need to personalize Rohan’s actions.” Naina paused. “He is not—”

  I interrupted her. “Can you believe that some of these women leave him comments like, ‘Hey, sexy, just give me a chance to work you so I can make everything better! Just feel free to encourage me, baby.’”

  “Log into your social media accounts, Ahana.”

  “Why?”

  “Because this is fun and a great case study for me. Let’s read through Rohan and his female fan club’s posts.”

  I grumbled. Naina paid no heed.

  She spoke excitedly. “Do you notice how Rohan backs down the minute women start suggesting an actual meeting?”

  “That could well be because he has an army of women in his backyard and all the dirt happens there.”

  “You are hilarious, Ahana. What you see isn’t always the truth. What you don’t see is also important.”

  “I feel like you always take up for the men in my life.”

  “Not at all. I was the first person to tear into Dev. I am always on your side. Honey, I am a shrink. I can’t help but see people a certain way. Rohan seems more like the all-talk guy. Yes, a typical PR guy with his slick demeanor, which can be a bit exhausting, but nothing more. My therapist gut tells me that he is protecting himself from something by creating this annoying macho shield.”

  “Puhlease.”

  Naina interrupted, “If Rohan ever misbehaves with you, I’ll kick him in his nuts. He is from my city, after all.”

  “OK, enough of a sermon for the New Year. Now go and enjoy yourself.”

  “I wish you would learn to live a little from this Rohan guy.”

  “I am really not impressed by charming men and flirtatious behavior.”

  “Every man is not Dev. Love you.” Naina hung up.

  I picked up the pen and pressed it against my lower lip until it hurt.

  The phone rang again.

  I answered, assuming it was Naina. “I said I’ll think about it.”

  “Oooh, think about what? Am I calling at a bad moment?”

  It was Rohan. He sounded slightly drunk.

  “I thought it was my cousin.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you. Happy New Year, Matron!” he shouted over the phone.

  “Isn’t it still the thirty-first eve for you, Brady?” I pulled the phone away from my ear.

  “Details, details.”

  “I am sorry. I was taken by surprise to hear from you.”

  “Why?”

  “C’mon; it’s New Year’s Eve. A chap like you is probably partying up in the French Quarter and doing shots—”

  Rohan interrupted me. “Who says I am not doing any of that?”

  “Was I right, or was I right?” I hit the tip of the pen on my third eye.

  “I wish you were here in New Orleans. It’s magical on New Year’s Eve. You can smell festivities and happiness.” Rohan took a selfie and sent it to me.

  “That’s very nice of you to say, but I don’t like to party.” I readjusted my glasses as I looked through the pictures of him and his buddies and very few women. Everyone was formally dressed and sipping on some drink.

  “I am on a private yacht on the Mississippi with a few friends.”

  “Showoff.”

  “Haha, hear me out. The fireworks will start later, but there is an incredible jazz singer onboard whom you would have loved. His music ranges from Sinatra to that weird dude you like, Michael Bubbly.”

  “It’s Bublé.” I changed the topic. “Did you hear back from the printers for the giveaways?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s another reason why I called you. We now have sponsors and printers ready to print tees and tote bags that read No Excuse. You need to finalize the tagline and confirm the total number and we are good to go.”

  “Oh, my God! That’s the best news I have heard all day. Thanks, Brady.” The smallest of things that I thought would add to the whole experience of No Excuse, Rohan got me sponsors for them. I was cognizant that the conference and No Excuse would still be a dream had he not stepped in.

  “How was your New Year’s Eve, Matron?” Rohan asked in the same tone as when he called after the harassment.

  “Spent a quiet evening at home with the family.” The air in the house felt different without Mumma. There was no longer even a faint waft of her in any room.

  “The first year is always the roughest. The first set of holidays without the people you love are cruel. But things get better.” He hiccupped.

  I realized I didn’t want to know, or to share any more. Running my hands through my hair, I said, “I don’t want to keep you any longer. Enjoy your party and have a safe start to the New Year, Brady!”

  “Find me on television near Jackson Square, eagerly counting down the time until New Year arrives.” He paused for a second. “You are the reason behind this conference. You must share your voice with those attending. Every person present at the conference will have a stake in the discussion that takes place, if it comes from you, the creator of this event.”

  As we both hung up, I muddled over the idea of needing to give a speech, but I felt stymied because of my own marital experience as well as divorce.

  - 8 -

  On my way back home from a late night meeting, the car broke down. While Baburao, our driver, waited for the mechanic, I decided to head back home. Ten-year-high April temperature, in New Delhi, at 44.9-degrees Celsius or as Naina would describe it, “112 degrees fucking Fahrenheit,” the heat wave was making me nauseous. Plus, I had a severe headache from possible dehydration. Metro seemed like the safest and fastest choice at the time compared to an auto rickshaw or taxi.

  When I entered the women’s compartment in the New Delhi metro, it was virtually empty. Despite the air conditioning in the train, it felt hot, and I had trouble breathing. By the time winter ended in Delhi, my lungs would forget what clean air used to be like. I pulled away my scarf and started to fan myself. Suddenly, three men barged in. They started singing songs and making obscene gestures. I cowered at the sight of them. They sat beside me. I had sample jute gift bags in hand for the conference along with my handbag. I tried to cover my chest with them. Every time I got up from my seat, they too would stand up. I could hear my palpitations. Finally, I decided to get off the train; one of the men slapped my breasts and the other pinched my buttocks. I was disgusted and angry to my bones, but my screams dissolved in my mouth. The four women in the compartment said nothing to the men harassing me.

  Once I got home, I scrubbed myself with sandalwood soap and cried in the shower. Men at home—my ex-husband—and men outside had treated me with such disrespect, I couldn’t handle it. “You are a cunt who enjoys the touching, so don’t fucking pretend,” Dev had told me right before our family Diwali puja where we prayed to Lakshmi—the goddess of wealth, fortune, power, luxury, beauty, fertility, and auspiciousness. How obediently he bowed his head in front of an idol but mistreated me, his wife, referred to as Lakshmi in Hindu homes.

  I sat in a corner and meditated to calm myself down. There were messages from Jay and Rohan.

  Rohan wrote, “Hey, just tried to call. When you have a moment, look at the draft of the invite for the standing advisory groups made up of gender experts from government, NGOs, women’s groups, and academia. Once I have your OK, my team can start reaching out. We have a rich list of experts from across the globe. I’ll share that list in a separate email.”

  Jay’s email said that he was feeling low and in need of a friend.

  I sent them both a message apologizing about the delay and explaining the abbreviated version of the Delhi Metro happenings.

  Jay wrote back instantly. “You need someone to make sure you are safe. I wish I were there with you, babe.”


  I had told Jay several times not to address me as ‘babe.’ “I said, it makes me uncomfortable.”

  Jay didn’t pay heed. “You needn’t worry. I’m the kind of man who will fight to the death for but never lay a hand on his close female friends because I think the friendship is too precious.”

  Rohan called me up a couple of hours later when I was eating dinner with Dad and Chutney.

  “I’m glad you’re not still exploring the wonders of the Delhi train system,” he teased.

  “Whatever!” I shouted at Rohan over the phone.

  Dad and Chutney looked at me. I quietly excused myself from the dining table.

  “Sorry I couldn’t call sooner.” Rohan was kind.

  I shrugged. “I don’t care about your shitty excuses, Brady. Why did you call?”

  “Honestly, to make sure you are OK, Matron.”

  “Oh yeah?” I was tongue-tied.

  “You would be better off if you could ignore it all, but I know you cannot. But you can’t engage these creepy guys in the Delhi metro or anywhere. That will just make them even worse. You need to make sure you are safe. Don’t empower these assholes. Next time, kick the man in his nuts and let him know about the infamous wrath of the Matron.”

  I pulled my glasses off and left them on the buffet in the dining room. I knew what Rohan was saying was nothing that other men hadn’t explained to me before—but the energy of Rohan’s conversation was what disarmed me. He didn’t make the harassment my fault; he arrived at a punchline that empowered me.

  “Or better yet…we can call you ‘The Lady Nutcracker.’”

  I burst out laughing. “Thanks for the laugh, Brady. And for checking in.”

  “Thanks for treating me as your very personal joker.”

  “Paagal.”

  Rohan repeated the word ‘paagal’ in a strong American accent, which made it sound like ‘Paygal.’

  “What does that mean? Is that a PayPal service for exotic dancers? And why would you ever think I had any business with such a thing?” Rohan sounded offended.

  “Paagal means mad in Hindi.”

  “Oh, all right. I learned a new Hindi word today. You take good care of yourself, Matron.”

  “Sure, Grandpa,” I blurted out.

  “So, she does have a sense of humor!” Rohan laughed. “Game on, Nutcracker.”

  * * *

  I was at the Asia Pacific Women’s Conference in Sydney, and with the time difference, I was unable to speak with Rohan or exchange emails with Jay during those seven days. The trip was hectic, and whatever free time I had, I spent catching up on all the paperwork for the NOLA conference and with my dad’s sister’s family.

  My new, bigger goal was to partner with governments, UN agencies, civil society organizations, and other institutions to advocate for ending violence, increasing awareness of the causes and consequences of violence, and building the capacity of partners to prevent and respond to violence. I just had to convince the other organizations that my nonprofit in India was ready for the big league. Sydney was where No Excuse could go from a big deal to a huge deal, thanks to participation by a few global women’s initiatives with political connections. The conference was covered by all the leading print magazines and television channels. I silently worried about my exposure to Dev, but I stayed focused because Rohan’s boss, Michael Hedick, was present at the conference. “Watch out for Hedick; he is a backseat driver,” Rohan warned me.

  Dracula was an ego-centric man with sexist ideals. Michael had no qualms taking credit for the work he hadn’t done, especially if a woman was in charge. No wonder Rohan and his team nicknamed him “Dracula.”

  I’d met Hedick on a few occasions when he had traveled to New Delhi. He was intense and unpredictable, and his intensity made everyone around him feel guilty of something they weren’t responsible for. Michael loved eating garlic naan with butter chicken. And he would sweat, like a hosepipe burst in his body, after eating raw green chilis with onions with all his Indian meals. Yeah, that was the other thing that I remembered about Michael: Didn’t matter the season, he constantly wiped his forehead. His shirt was soaking wet around the armpits.

  I thought these things about Hedick while feeling the need to be articulate. The pressure was double because Dracula was hovering…at meetings, in the cafeteria, at the time I was rehearsing my presentation on victim advocacy, or even sipping a cup of Earl Grey. His constant presence brought on added pressure; his motives were never clear.

  Safe Voice, a powerful, feminist organization in the United States that helped rape survivors with rapid access to health clinics, decided to support Freedom Movement after my presentation. “Good morning, ladies and gentleman. I am here today to speak about one of the most pervasive violations of human rights in the world: violence against women. Seventy percent of women in some countries still face physical and/or sexual violence in their lifetime. Sexual offences take away a woman’s worth.” I swallowed air. Over three dozen pairs of eyes were on me. I took a sip of water. “Sexual violence is an extreme manifestation of gender inequality and systemic gender-based discrimination—it can have tremendous costs to communities, nations, and societies. Survivors of sexual violence need to have access to medical treatment, forensic services, crisis counseling, and longer-term psychotherapy. Not all countries offer this option. Research shows that over 85 percent of victims don’t know about the options. No Excuse intends to raise awareness and start a dialogue across the globe and share information about rights and options to help victims make informed choices, no matter where they live.

  I thought of Mumma and missed her so much. I was ecstatic, so I called up Ms. Roy. “We will throw a party once you are back, Ahana. Good job.” But on the last day of the conference, I found out that the executive director at Safe Voice, Anna Smith, whom I had negotiated with, was considering passing the project to Rohan’s unlikeable boss Michael Hedick. This meant effectively I had to plan a feminist conference under the advice of a mansplaining pig. I was angry and disappointed. Ms. Roy tried to placate me. “No Excuse is getting international support because of your efforts, Ahana,” but that wasn’t enough for me.

  Before checking out of the hotel in Sydney, I looked at my personal messages and listened to the answering service on the mobile phone. There was a voicemail and a couple of emails from Rohan saying, “Hope you are out partying like a rock star, stoned and smashed. Just wanted to make sure the young studs you are partying with in Sydney are doing OK. :)”

  I shook my head.

  As I sat in the cab and headed to the airport, my phone rang. It was Rohan. “One of the largest modeling agencies has decided to showcase their models at a fundraiser in NOLA, which means we can raise more money for the conference. This is good news, Matron. You have worked for this event and it’s amazing how it’s all shaping up.”

  While he gave me credit, I knew Rohan had contacts in the modeling world, and we couldn’t have landed this opportunity without his help. But he never said, “I got us…” It was always a team thing with him. He stayed with “we.”

  “Turned on your charm, Brady, and got one of your harem models to walk the ramp?” I teased him.

  “Do you really enjoy turning every discussion we have into a tease about my character?”

  “I was joking.” I felt it hit too hard, too carelessly. But before I could fix it, Rohan shot back.

  “You make me sound like a bad person. I hope I’m not half as terrible as some harem-keeping weirdo you imagine I am. Do you really see me in that terrible light?”

  “Sorry; I was teasing you. We wouldn’t have this opportunity had it not been for you. It’s all you, Rohan.” I tried to sweet-talk him, and not very tactfully, I think.

  “Mwahahaha.” He let out an evil laugh. “You think you are the only one who can joke?”

  “That’s not fair, Brady. I really thought—”

  “What? That I was heartbroken with your opinion of me? I’m a stud and I know it.”

/>   “You are such a pig! I am hanging up now.”

  “Don’t go, Matron from Scoldingsville.”

  “I am still in Sydney. Listening to your jibes on this international call is going to cost me a lot.”

  “Sorry; I’ll hang up. Enjoy your stay and party up. If you have the time, meet with my buddy Steve and his wife Melanie. They moved there a few years ago from NOLA. They’ll be great company. Melanie, too, like you, carries her yoga mat everywhere. You guys can go OM-ing together. Hahaha.”

  “You talk so much nonsense, Brady. Bye.”

  “Bye, Matron. Going to Cafe Du Monde later today. Will eat a beignet or two for you. Also, hope Hedick hasn’t been a complete dick.”

  I didn’t tell Rohan about Michael Hedick’s slimy move. I wanted to talk about it when I was slightly less emotional about the news. I did notice how my humor got sharp when I was feeling emotional, and maybe it was the same for Rohan. Rohan respected that we both needed space. But he, maybe, needed to know that the lag in communication wasn’t because he had been abandoned.

  * * *

  As I relaxed in Singapore Airline’s lounge in Sydney, I logged into the therapy message chat room. One of the members, Anita, who was the wife of a diplomat and joined the therapy group after she lost her newborn, had gotten drunk and asked all her expectant friends on social media to share pictures of their pregnant bellies. Her husband got upset and accused her of jeopardizing his career by sharing such posts. Los Angeles-based Tanya, who was grieving her dead boyfriend Paul, said that she had begun to believe in love and second chances again. I privately congratulated Tanya and asked Anita whether I could be of any help. Jay noticed that I was on the chat group so he sent me a note: “Stop ignoring me and start checking your emails. :)”

  The minute I logged into my emails, I noticed there were six messages from him. “I miss my buddy. Where are you? Got bored of my friendship? Did you see what Tanya the crazy cat lady posted? Stay away from her, babe. She is a bit of a psycho. :)”