Chapter 2
Ireturned home feeling defeated. Dropping my suit jacket on the recliner, I flopped onto the couch as Tara’s words played on repeat in my head. The sorrow in her eyes and the pain in her voice filled me with guilt and regret. I had to come to terms with the hurt I had caused and find a way to heal her broken heart.
And I had to get her back—a goal that seemed slated for failure no matter how I considered it. All I wanted was to stay in and drown myself in Tara’s memories, but today wasn’t a day I could indulge myself. There was never time for that. My father had planned a small gathering at their house, and my presence was required.
Thirteen years ago, my father took everything he had built with my mother and burned it to the ground. To save face, I moved us from Delhi to Dallas, where we made a fresh start. Since then, it had become my burden to restore my family’s name. I made connections and increased my worth through relentless hard work, trying to rebuild the life we knew.
Success demanded persistence and diligence, and I wasn’t hesitant to put in whatever it took. Determined to leave no stone unturned, I even deferred to my father’s whims and ended up on the arm of a beautiful socialite who would make me a household name in Dallas. People called me a savvy businessman and I considered myself a smart, rational decision-maker. But now I felt like I had lost control of the steering wheel.
For years, I had followed Tara’s life from afar, reading her blogs, perusing her website, tracing her move from Baroda to the U.S., where she got her master’s degree, to Rome for another master’s, and back to the East Coast, where she had set up her career. But I never imagined she had held on to us. Now that I knew, I found myself grappling with a strange feeling. Something I hadn’t encountered in a long time. For the first time in thirteen years, I felt happy. I felt like myself.
After a quick shower, I stood before my spacious wardrobe, trying to figure out what to wear. If I showed up in casual clothing or chose the wrong jacket, I’d never hear the end of it. After all, appearances were everything. I had learned early on how to sink beneath the skin of a chameleon, knowing when and how to change my colors to blend in. How to adapt to any situation, to speak effectively across the lines. How to appear disarming before launching that final, deadly attack.
Adaptation was the key to survival in the animal kingdom. If you failed to adapt and change, you perished. You became the prey. It wasn’t by sheer luck that I had acquired three firms over the last six years. Tough decisions required shrewdness and dispassion. My friend Mihir had drilled both traits into me over the years, along with a certain degree of cruelty. I wasn’t quite the ruthless bastard he was, but I was aggressive enough to lead the fourth largest financial conglomerate in the Southwest.
My wedding to my girlfriend Aarti was all that stood between me and becoming the most powerful South Asian in the region. Only now, life had shoved a giant Tara-shaped wrench into the well-oiled machinery I had crafted over the last decade.
The powder blue shirt I chose paired perfectly with the textured navy and grey blazer and my favorite tan brogues. I styled my hair with the meticulousness I had acquired from Mihir. Finally, I spritzed the very expensive cologne that Aarti had gifted me last week. The notes of patchouli didn’t meld with my skin or flatter my personality, but she wanted me to try it anyway. It had only cost a few hundred bucks, after all. She’d unironically told me to discard it if I didn’t like it. After throwing a change of clothes into my small holdall, I pulled out of the garage and merged into the Friday night traffic.
When we moved to the U.S., I made it clear I wouldn’t live under the same roof as my father. It was the only way I could interact with him again. I needed to breathe without his shadow bogging me down. It was bad enough the specter of our past hovered over me every moment, I could do with a little distance from him.
Mom was a different story. I missed having her around, but she refused to live apart from her husband. According to her, it wasn’t the proper thing to do. My buying a place in uptown Dallas, instead of the lush green suburb where they lived was part rebellion, part spite. I didn’t want to be within driving distance of my father. I wanted it to be an effort for me to visit them and for them to see me. It worked. Dad despised city traffic and seldom came over.
Pulling off the highway, I turned and drove to an affluent neighborhood, where well-groomed topiaries ran beside perfectly manicured lawns. I parked my humble Mercedes at the tail end of a line of luxury cars in their driveway, each screaming for attention, vying for style and status. I noted a couple of Teslas in the mix, although in certain circles, the Tesla was seen as a choice of the nouveau riche. It was the difference between toting an LV bag and carrying a discrete Hermès, Aarti had explained. Although her brand-new Audi R8 wasn’t intended as a snub at the electric car, she just loved her Audis. These social events were occasions to project one’s wealth, to establish one’s status in the hierarchy, and my simple car notwithstanding, I was about to land at the top of the food chain.
“Hi Durgaben,” I said fondly and reverently to my parents’ housekeeper when she answered the door.
A sprightly, middle-aged woman, she sported an easy, playful smile that pulled you in with love and kindness. And she had a personality to match. Durgaben had been with my parents since we moved here and meticulously managed their massive house.
“Hello,” she said in her heavy accent. “They are in the backyard. Everyone is waiting for you.”
“How bad is he?”
She shrugged. “Just regular annoyed.” We shared a short, hearty chuckle before she patted my arm. “Go now. Your pretty girlfriend is waiting.”
Out of habit, I squared my shoulders before stepping over the threshold into the sprawling backyard. The place was festooned with lights that stayed up all year to bring cheer to soulless lives. About ten families were scattered in groups. Under the pergola, on a set of plush outdoor sofas, sat the women, chatting and laughing in their rich clothes and subtle, expensive jewelry.
Their eyes scanned me as I walked in. I responded with a cordial wave and smiled at Mom. The younger kids were probably somewhere in the house, busy on their devices. The older ones had gathered around the outdoor bar, from which short bouts of laughter erupted periodically. Mihir was perched on a barstool, silently observing the youthful conversations around him.
I walked up and whispered, “I need to talk to you.”
He responded with his signature single nod and trademark stoic face, then sipped the scotch in his hand.
My father held court at his usual spot on the woven sectional. He loved the attention. He needed it, and he had no trouble getting it. Just like me. Tonight he wore a laidback blazer that was easily more expensive than anything anyone around him was wearing. His thick mane, not quite gray yet, lied about his age. A handsome face concealed the cold blood running through his veins. Only his eyes gave away his viciousness, but he knew how to mask them too. He had a terrifying combination of charm and intimidation that pulled you in effortlessly and held you in awe, despite him. Only Mom knew how to peel away that mask, but he had managed to fool her too that one time.
“Here he is now.” The deliberately loud voice was my father’s passive-aggressive way of announcing I was late. With a grand hand gesture, he beckoned me as if I was a prince being shown off to commoners. “Come, come, my son.”
“Hello,” I said to his companions just as Aarti glided toward me.
“Hey,” I said to her, my voice soft and perfectly measured for the occasion.
“Hey yourself,” she replied as she hugged me and whispered, “I missed you.”
“Sorry. Work, you know.”
“As always,” she chided with a smile, then inhaled me. “You’re wearing the cologne I got you.”
“I knew you’d notice if I didn’t.”
“That’s true,” she said with a playful hand on my chest. “You smell amazing. Do you like it?”
“I like it if you do.” That earned me her brilliant smile.
“Come here, you two.” I heard my father again. “Sit with us. You have all night to mingle. Why, Bhatia sahab, isn’t that right?” he said, roping Aarti’s father into the conversation.
My insides cringed at his pathetic attempt to tease us.
But Mr. Bhatia smiled. “Yes, how’s work, Sameer?”
“Hectic.”
He laughed. “That means it’s going well.”
Reluctantly, I followed Aarti, who had already settled herself between our fathers. I stole a glance at Mom. If she could’ve rolled her eyes amid company, she would’ve. We shared a knowing glance before I took a seat beside Aarti.
Aarti, beautiful and delicate, was my girlfriend via an arranged relationship. She was an heiress to her father’s real estate empire, so the underlying instruction to me was make it work. Not that there was anything wrong with her. She fell far from the stereotype of the vacuous heiress. Intelligent, accomplished, and erudite, she single-handedly managed her father’s expansive businesses. She was also slender, gorgeous, and always elegantly dressed.
This evening, she looked radiant in a salwar-kurta. The light pink and gold of the ankle-length kurta brought out the brown in her eyes. Her hair was styled into effortless, flowing curls. Her makeup was flawless, complete with false eyelashes, pink-hued lips, and matching nails. She was perfect.
But she wasn’t Tara.
My stomach twisted in a knot, as if by admiring my girlfriend, I had somehow strayed. I had lost the feeling in my limbs when I saw Tara that evening. She was always attractive, but she had grown into a beautiful woman, her bronze skin still perfectly smooth and lustrous. She had never used makeup when I knew her in college, not even lip gloss. Now her makeup was immaculate and flattering. Thin liner and light mascara amplified her big, almond eyes without adding drama.
The hair that was once thick, black, and wrapped around my hand most nights was now a glossy, deep brown. The carefully styled waves fell straight down her back, drawing attention to her shapely waist. Her slender form had filled into gorgeous curves. A scar above her left eye, a remnant of a childhood injury, cut into a perfectly shaped brow. Like the dark spot on the moon, the scar defined her. It made her special, more beautiful. I had touched it, kissed it; she had let me.
Her diction had evolved from routinely mispronouncing English words to a suitably upper-class British. Although she effortlessly slipped into a discernible American accent in her Rs. But what caught my eye that evening were her full lips, colored in a reddish shade of brown. Seductive but not vulgar. Powerful but playful. It screamed artist. It screamed Tara. Tara…
“…so what do you think?” Aarti’s hand on my thigh yanked me away from Tara.
I gaped at her. “I…I’m sorry. I was someplace else.”
“He’s always preoccupied. Even in his off time.” Her sweet criticism was followed by an exaggerated shake of the head, but she was cute enough to get away with a gesture so frivolous.
Pulling myself upright, I took her hand and smiled. “Sorry, tell me again?”
“I was saying, we should go away for a week or two, somewhere fun. Uncle suggests the Italian coast. Dad says Tahiti or Bora Bora. What do you think?”
My chest constricted. I couldn’t leave now, not with Tara in Dallas. I couldn’t afford to miss a single day of being in the same city as her.
“What’s wrong?” Aarti asked. “Your hands are cold.”
I faked a smile. “Nothing, I’ve had a really long day.”
“You need to unwind. You work too hard,” my father interjected, and every cell in my body reacted with rage.
“Please excuse me a moment.”
I stepped away to pour myself a drink. Two shots of whisky did little to calm my jumpy nerves. I caught Mihir eyeing me with concern as I swigged another gulp, but my mouth was still dry, and the pit of my stomach felt hollow. I couldn’t get Tara off my mind. She was so close, within reach.
I poured more whisky in a glass, dropped in two ice cubes, and rejoined Aarti. Appearances were everything.
I took her hand and smiled at her father before turning to her. “A vacation is a great idea, but the crowds are brutal this time of year. Let’s wait a bit. That way, I’ll be more relaxed at work too.” I kissed her hand.
It was a lie, but I was an expert liar now. It had become second nature, as if it would somehow shield me from pain and hurt.
“That reminds me.” My father dropped his voice. “You should start thinking seriously about a date for your engagement. What you think, Bhatia sahab?”
“Oh, yes, absolutely. The sooner we formalize this relationship, the better.”
Aarti gave me a shy smile, and I gulped down my drink.
“Of course,” I said, unflinching at another lie. “We’ll talk about it?”
She nodded and squeezed my hand.
The hot, humid day had become a cool, pleasant Dallas night, and yet, I couldn’t breathe.
It was past midnight when I kissed Aarti goodbye and watched her car roar out of the driveway. When I returned inside, I found my father lounging in the living room with a drink in his hand. He had already had quite a few. Mom sat across from him on the couch, but they might as well have been on different continents.
“I’ll head home now,” I announced, retrieving the car keys from my pocket.
“Don’t even think about it,” said Mom. “You’re drunk, and you’re not going anywhere. Durga has made up your room.”
I wasn’t drunk, but I didn’t argue. Sharing Saturday morning breakfast with Mom used to be the highlight of my weekends. Usually, she made my favorite, paneer paratha. I dropped down beside her and sank into the couch.
“It was a good party,” my father began softly. When neither of us responded, he jabbed a finger at me. “I don’t need to remind you how important this relationship with the Bhatias is for us.” I continued to ignore him. “You better set a date soon. That girl likes you.”
He scoffed in disbelief at the thought and swilled his drink. This time I was ready with a scowl, but Mom placed her hand on my clenched fist. Let it go.
“And you know what’s at stake here. With their money in our family, no one in the coming seven generations will need to work.” He beamed as he delivered the cliché in Hindi. “And she likes you,” he repeated as if it were the most unbelievable thing in the world. “I did well. If it wasn’t for my charm and connections, you two wouldn’t be together. You have much to thank me for, boy.”
“Go to bed, Pavan,” Mom said sharply before I could respond.
He looked at her, stood up, and hauled himself toward the bedroom.
“What’s wrong?” she asked when we were alone.
“Nothing.”
“Is it about the engagement?”
“I don’t love her, Ma.”
I undid the top button on my shirt in an effort to ease the stiffness in my chest. If only it were that easy.
She patted my hand. “I won’t push you into doing anything you don’t want to.” I looked at her. “But make sure you know what you want. Such relationships don’t come by every day. Aarti is smart and determined. And she loves you. I hate myself for thinking like your father, but he’s right. You’ll be taken care of for life.”
“Is that all there is to life?”
She sank onto the couch. We reclined side by side as I reflected on the events that had brought us here.
I dropped my face to hers. “How does Dad still have this confidence after everything he did?”
She shook her head and roused herself. “Well, I’m off to bed.” But two steps out, she stopped and put her hand on my shoulder. “Beta, whatever you decide, make sure you’re faithful to her.” Then she walked away, tall and proud, the pallu of her beautiful saree trailing behind her.