Chapter 4
Sameer Rehani was the bane of my life. My first crush, my first boyfriend, and the one who left me with a broken heart. Back then, it wasn’t difficult to be smitten with him. He was the boy every college girl dreamed of: tall, confident, handsome. A sharp nose under bright, intelligent eyes. A firm jaw that didn’t have to work too hard to support his cocky smile. For, behind the charisma that made him the most desired male on our college campus, bred the arrogance that comes with a lot of money.
He believed the world revolved around him, and it did. That was the power of wealth. A power I could never possess because I could never afford it. We ended up as friends only because his cousin Amar was my friend. Otherwise, high-flying rich boys like Sameer didn’t make friends with small-town girls like me. And this small-town girl had much to lose if she didn’t keep her head in the game and her vagina tucked tight in her pants.
Some people know their calling from a very young age. I wasn’t one of them. Like all bright kids around me, my future path was predetermined. I’d be an engineer, my father had declared, a great one. The first female engineer in our family, one of the very few in our community. I was destined to be a trailblazer. This responsibility, I took very seriously. While I was expected to fulfill my duties, helping Aai cook and clean, I consistently ranked among the top three in my class throughout grade school.
But my earliest fond memory was of my brother teaching me how to use oil paint on canvas. It was a picture of the elephant-headed god, Ganapati. Dada was an art prodigy, proficient in every medium he touched. He could sculpt, mold, paint, and sketch with equal expertise and passion. As a child, he used to help our neighbor build massive statues for the Ganapati festival.
I grew up borrowing his colored pencils and crayons. I wasn’t a serious artist. I dabbled, so I didn’t get any of my own. We didn’t have money for frivolities like individual colors and drawing instruments, but Baba always spared a little for him. Even a cynic could see how good he was. And I imitated him. In particular, I loved the smell of oil paint, the tactility, and how different consistencies and strokes could represent different emotions on a blank canvas. But Dada was the artist. I was a mimic.
That afternoon was the first time Dada had trusted me with his oil paints. It was a rite-of-passage ritual for the little artist in me. With laser focus, I followed his instructions while our mother yelled from the kitchen for me to drink my warm milk. It remained untouched on the table before me, tepid, just the way I liked it. It would be cold and undrinkable, Aai reminded me rather loudly, even though that had never been an issue for me.
When she finally emerged from the kitchen, with the edge of her saree, her padar, tucked in at the waist in war pose, she was an inch away from going goddess Kali on me. Dada, a teenager himself, put his hand out in a shocking display of courage and disobedience, fending her off while I finished my work. Aai was reasonably stumped and gaped at us with wide eyes, which softened quickly when she looked at the makeshift easel before me. What she saw on the canvas, what Dada had stopped her from interrupting, was clear to both. I had talent.
Three years—that was the age gap between Dada and me, just like it was with everyone else around us, thanks to the family planning policies of a young India battling population growth. Hum do, humare do was the motto: The two of us(a heterosexual couple), with the two of ours. Planned at least three years apart for the benefit of the mother’s health. My parents had two children, exactly three years and four months apart: Aditya and Tara, Sun and Star. Both destined to shine in our own light. Except only one of us did.
Like Dada, I had done well on my twelfth exams, enough to get into the College of Technology and Engineering at the M.S. University of Baroda. Enough to be eligible to choose any branch except computers, which had moved to the top of the hierarchy in the last few years. I opted for the next rung, electrical. But the day I returned with the admissions paperwork secure in my hand, I couldn’t sleep. That night, when Aai came to my room before bed, she caught me weeping silently.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, caressing my thick, wavy hair.
“I don’t know why I’m crying, Aai.”
“Did something happen? Did someone touch you inappropriately?” she asked, her back ramrod straight in protective-mother mode.
“No, nothing happened. I was so happy today. I’m going to turn Baba’s dream into a reality. I’ll be the first female engineer in our family.” I burst into inconsolable tears.
Aai moved in and wiped my eyes with her saree. “Do you remember Vinu Mavshi?”
I looked up at her through my tears. Aunt Vinu was her cousin. “When Vinu got married, I was twelve. I remember feeling thrilled that I would get to wear new clothes and put mehndi on my hands. But when we visited to congratulate her, she looked sad. I thought that’s how it was supposed to be. She’d be leaving her parents’ home soon. My mother asked my sisters and me to stay over to cheer her up. That night, while my older sisters tried to console her, she wept like I hadn’t seen anyone weep before. She wept the whole night and all the way through the wedding day several months later. When I look back now, I know why. She knew she was marrying the wrong man. She’s never been happy. They have nothing in common, and some days he doesn’t even talk to her. She feeds him and takes care of the house, but she has no love. That’s her life. Back then, we didn’t have much choice. Families decided the match for you.”
“Why are you telling me this, Aai?”
“She wept because her subconscious was warning her against a bad decision, and now she’s miserable. I don’t want you to be wedded to something that will make you miserable, Tara. What’s your subconscious telling you that you’re not heeding?”
I bawled at her words, like I had just lost a loved one.
“What do you see yourself doing in a few years? If I ask you who you are at your core, what will you answer me, Rani?” Rani was her pet name for me. Queen.
“I’m an artist.” It was the first time I had acknowledged it, and in an instant, a weight lifted off my chest. In that single breath, I felt like all the pieces of my life had snapped into place. “But art is Dada’s thing. He’s the artist, not me!”
“Yet we made the same mistake with Aditya. But we should learn from our mistakes, shouldn’t we? You get to be who you want to be, my rani, because I didn’t.”
I gasped as she smiled.
That was the day my life changed. Everything good in my life came because I owned my identity as an artist that night.
But when Baba learned about this little development the next morning, he refused to pay for my college because art wasn’t what I was supposed to do with my life. I was throwing my life away on a hobby after everything he had done for us. Behind closed doors, my parents fought. It was the first and only time I heard Aai raise her voice against Baba. When he stormed out of the room, I saw Aai’s smiling face and assumed she had managed to placate him and to convince him to pay if I got in.
And I did get into that coveted program with a partial scholarship. The rest, Baba paid, I assumed. Until my accidental discovery that it was Aai who sold her jewelry to pay for my college. I had once asked to borrow her necklace to wear to a friend’s engagement party. Her first excuse, that she couldn’t find it, quickly turned into a feeble explanation that she had lent it to her youngest sister.
But one keen look at her told me that the usual gold chain around her neck and a set of her solid gold bangles were also missing. Realization struck like a lightning bolt loaded with guilt and shame. I was the reason Aai had to give up her inheritance. But she was a proud woman, so I never mentioned it again and resolved to pick up the rest of my expenses by tutoring kids. Taking my eyes off the target, even for a moment, would mean reducing my parents’ sacrifices to dust.
That’s how Amar and I became friends. I knew him from a couple of courses we had together during the first semester. When I put the word out that I was looking for tutoring jobs, he put me in touch with people he knew in the city. And he really knew people. Within a matter of one week, I had five jobs teaching art and elementary math to kids with families that didn’t haggle over my fees. They even offered to pay extra for additional coaching during examinations. At the end of the first month, with my wallet fat with cash, I took Amar out to dinner to say thank you. His kindness, along with the gentleness of his soul, took me by surprise, and I ended up sharing my story. Then, he peered deeply into my eyes and shared his deepest secret, one that he hadn’t told anyone yet. Some friendships are tethered by the soul, and ours was one of them.
Amar was a good-looking boy, tall and lanky with a head full of bouncing curls. He came from a very rich family but didn’t brag about it. That cast him as weird and invisible. I was a lower-middle class girl who didn’t speak correct English. Whoever said institutions of higher education were meant to level the playing field had clearly missed sending the memo to caste and class elitists and Anglophiles. They judged me by the color of my skin, laughed at my pronunciation, and often asked in coded language if I had gotten in on the “quota” reserved for disadvantaged castes and classes. Because with my English, I couldn’t have been talented enough to get in on my own merit.
For the most part, I refused to let the bigotry and the putdowns rile me. My maternal grandfather had been an anti-caste activist in his village, and I had been brought up with his values. I had learned to deal with the everyday microaggressions, but when I learned that my friend’s roommate at our hostel changed her sheets and washed her clothing if I accidentally touched it, the specter of untouchability rose like an all-consuming monster. I had marched into her room and lectured her on casteist discrimination and the provisions of the Indian Constitution that banned the practice of untouchability, as if irrational beliefs about human inequality could be overcome through logic and reasoning. But their judgment brought us closer—Amar, me, and four other friends who had been similarly marked for our deviation from perceived normalcy.
Sameer’s arrival on the scene a year later drastically changed these dynamics. For one, our group of pariahs was suddenly thrust into the spotlight, with the gorgeous Sameer now hanging out with us. Except for the good looks they shared, Sameer was the polar opposite of Amar. Where Amar was quiet, dignified, and talented, Sameer was flamboyant, cocky, and barely bothered to attend his classes. Where Amar accessed his wealth with humility and grace, Sameer was happy to flash it around. Sameer spent his time chasing women and trouble. Fair maidens from across the university thronged to the fine arts campus to catch a glimpse of the rich, handsome, bad boy from Delhi. For his turn, Sameer, who thrived on attention, encouraged the cortège. It completely wrecked whatever little social life we enjoyed.
The six of us, including Amar, tried our best to avoid him. We’d slip away to the library for our study group or go to the movies on the sly, then make an excuse that it was a spur-of-the-moment decision. One evening, we planned a cookout at Amar’s apartment and “forgot” to inform Sameer. When he finally caught a whiff of our evasive behavior, he took us to task one evening on the steps of our main building.
“Why are you all avoiding me?” he’d asked haughtily.
Instinctively, everyone looked at me, as if it were my de facto job to bell the cat.
“Well, Tara?” he demanded.
“Why me?”
“Everyone’s looking at you, so what do you have to say?” he asked, hands on his hips, an impatient tap in his foot.
“Rehani,” I began patiently. “You’re too popular. We can’t study or hang out without the spectacle of women draped over you.”
There were gasps, followed by a sudden stillness as everyone froze in place. I snarled at them for their betrayal while Sameer gaped at me in disbelief.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you can make other friends, no? You don’t have to be stuck with us just because your cousin is our friend.”
Now Sameer glowered at Amar. “Brutus.”
Amar jumped up. “I’m leaving. Let me know what happens,” he said and walked into the building, his curls catching up with the rhythm of his footsteps.
I let out a theatrical sigh and turned to Sameer. “See, now you’ve upset Amar,” I said, attempting to mimic his antics.
“Cut it out,” he replied pointedly, then sat down beside me while the rest of my friends took the chance to disperse quickly and quietly.
As a group of students walked toward the building, Sameer scooted closer to give them way. When his arms and thighs slid against mine, his pleasant rich-guy scent crossed over, taking me up brazenly and without warning. At the next inhale, I became conscious of my body. My nipples puckered stiff, and my thighs clenched tight to stop the tingling feeling between them. But as my eyes drew to my feet, I saw my brown skin against his glowing light color, my pedestrian clothing, discordant against his expensive faded jeans and name-brand sneakers. My untamed toes retracted into my slingback sandals, bought not at a high-end store or even at a mall but at the bustling city market of Mangal Bazar.
I should’ve walked away that second, but my body had other ideas. I was enjoying the touch of his skin, basking in the titillating sensation of his thigh against mine. When I finally found the conviction to move, he held my hand and stood up with me. A shiver ran through my body as I ended up looking into his face, gazing into his eyes. I quickly sat back down. He followed suit, this time keeping a few inches between us.
“You don’t know how difficult this is for me,” he began. “But… I’m sorry.”
I frowned. “Have you never apologized to anyone before?”
“Never sincerely.” He looked at me, and I hastily took my eyes off his glamorous face.
“We didn’t mean to exclude you. It’s alright to have your exciting life, but you can conduct your extracurriculars when you’re not with us, yes? We can’t spend any quality time as a group because your giggly friends are everywhere, hanging on your every word and falling all over you.” I rolled my eyes.
“Umm, okay?”
“And you hog all the attention in the group. You hijack every conversation. Can you at least try and listen to what the others have to say?”
He gawked at me, his magnificent eyes wide with disbelief.
“What?” I asked at his expression of incredulity.
“No one has ever spoken to me this way.”
“Like what, tell you the truth?” I countered with a defiant frown.
“Something like that. No one has ever called me out on trying to hog all the attention.”
“Do you?”
“Well, of course I do!” he replied. “That’s who I am. That’s how I’ve always been.”
I shrugged. “Friendships are a give and take, no? How can you get attention—willing attention—if you don’t give anyone yours? Why would we be interested in your stories if you have no patience for ours?”
“Are you saying you don’t enjoy my tales of valor?” He let his skin sink into mine with a flirty nudge.
“You’re deflecting, Rehani.” I slipped into Hindi, looking straight into his eyes, and he turned serious. He lifted his shoulders and straightened his back. “I know how you feel about Amar. I can see you’re fond of him, you respect him. But I also see the jealousy in your eyes. In your behavior. Whenever Amar is in the spotlight, at the center of any conversation, you redirect it to yourself. You don’t need to do that.”
He swiftly shifted away, and I felt the heat explode from his body. “Who do you think you are to speak to me this way?”
I could have detonated, blasting him with words he’d never forget. But this was bigger than my ego. This was about the well-being of my friend, and the things I knew about him that Sameer didn’t. Things that could leave emotional scars.
“Amar is my friend. You can walk away if you want. But I’ll say what I need to.”
He didn’t walk away. Although his body stiffened beside mine, he chose to stay.
“Don’t you think it’s odd that everyone wants to be your friend, yet you hang out with possibly the lowest-status group on campus, just because Amar is with us? Sometimes you hurt him and don’t even realize it. You’re a smart guy. You don’t need to be envious of him. You don’t have to feel like you’re living under his shadow and try to outdo him. You can be your own man.”
That struck a raw nerve, because he jumped up and growled at me like a wounded tiger. “You might think you’re the smartest person around, but you aren’t. Stay out of my life and my relationships. Don’t mess with things you can’t handle, girl,” he hissed at me through clenched teeth and stormed off.
That was alright. I was a big girl, and unfortunately such infantilizing language wasn’t the worst thing I had heard.
But he returned in a few seconds, raked a hand through his hair, and plopped down beside me. “Shit, I’m sorry.”
I kept my gaze off him because I wasn’t sure what I would read in those eyes.
“I mean it, Tara. I’m sorry for saying that. I have trouble controlling the nasty from slipping out, but I’m sincere about this apology too.”
I nodded and glanced at him before promptly returning my eyes to my feet.
“Do you love him? Amar?”
It was a loaded question. At that time in India, at least in the society I grew up in, there was only one context in which the word was used. Romantic love. Sexual relations. Not platonic love or friendships. And I wasn’t mature enough to change the discourse. Neither did I have the gumption to flip the script on its head and say, “Yes, he’s my friend and I love him.” So I responded the only way I knew.
“No.”
If there was a singular instance of regret in my life, that would be it. That one word cancelled out the truth of everything I felt for Amar. He was the first male who saw me as a friend, not a girl he would eventually land in bed. Amar respected me and protected me in ways I had experienced only with female friends before. I didn’t know friendships across gender lines could be full of love, respect, and loving touches that didn’t turn into sex. Amar gave me all that, and I had negated it all with a callous “no.”
“He’s my best friend, and I’m looking out for him the same way he looks out for me,” I added, perhaps in a desperate attempt to assuage my guilt.
“Okay,” Sameer said after a few minutes and sat up straight. “Okay. This is a new beginning for me. A fresh start away from home. Maybe it’s time for a new me.”
I smiled. I wasn’t sure how different a new him would be, but it was refreshing to hear him say it.
“And now I’m truly jealous that Amar has you as a friend and I don’t.”
My body turned warm. I didn’t know if it was from the compliment or from his confession that he wanted me in his life.
“Friends?” he asked, extending his hand to me.
That’s when I should’ve said “no”, but I accepted his offer and shook on it.