Chapter 5
Tara Kadam is spunky. She’s quirky. She’s brilliant. She’s mine.
She used to be. You messed it up.
I woke with a start, drenched in sweat, breathing heavily, with my heart pounding in my head. It took me a moment to realize I was in my parents’ home, sleeping in a room they called mine, although I had never lived here. I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand. It was 3:02 a.m. I fell back on the bed, trying to recall the dream that had roused me so violently, but all I could remember was a feeling. A sinking feeling of loss and hopelessness. And rage. At Amar for bringing Tara into my life. At Tara for re-entering my life.
I swiped open my phone to view her website. The homepage showed her professional picture in a formal smile. I thumbed the screen for more images. There were several. Most of them were of her art or her side profile as she worked on something. A few were with the co-founder of her art consultancy firm. I kept scrolling. Then I saw it. It was a picture taken in Rome. She laughed uninhibitedly as the wind blew her hair across her face. Her body was bent forward, her nose scrunched from heartfelt laughter. That was the Tara from my memories.
At the sign of first light, I put on my running gear and went for a quick jog around the neighborhood. It was a pleasant morning and running often helped clear my mind of its burdens. Not today. When I returned, the heaviness around my heart persisted. Still, I looked forward to spending time with Mom before Dad woke up.
After a lazy shower, I slipped into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and sprinted down the stairs with my holdall in tow. The scent of paneer paratha wafted to my nose, prompting happy memories from childhood. It smelled like home. I could always count on Mom to give me just the thing I needed.
Durgaben did most of the cooking for them, but whenever I visited, Mom made some of my favorites herself. Lately, the onset of arthritis caused her trouble, but she never denied me the joy of her paneer paratha. The sizzle of oil caramelizing the onions and spicy paneer between thin layers of dough was seductive enough to fully awaken all my senses.
“Hi, Ma,” I said, sliding beside her as she stood by the stove.
“Good morning!” Though still in her nightgown, she looked bright and cheerful. Cooking for her kids always made her happy.
“Smells amazing.” I grabbed a plate from the cabinet and slid a hot-off-the-griddle paratha onto it.
“There’s the spicy mango achar you like,” she said, pointing to a pickle jar on the table behind her. “And Amul butter.”
I smiled and settled at the table. “How long until you join me?”
“Just two more to roll. That way, I won’t have to return to the stove when your father and Durga come for breakfast.”
“I’ll wait for you,” I said, but I knew she’d insist otherwise.
“You start. I’ll join you in two minutes.”
I chuckled. Growing up, two minutes used to be her standard reply to all my questions.
How long will you be?Two minutes.
I’m hungry. Is the food ready?Two minutes.
I am bored, Ma. Can we leave?Two minutes.
“What’s funny?” She turned around with a smile.
“Nothing.” I smiled back. “Has he been sleeping in these days?”
“Sometimes.” She returned to the griddle. “Depends on how much he’s had to drink.”
“Do you ever talk about his drinking?”
“No.” She looked back at me with the rolling pin in her hand. “I don’t bother.”
And she resumed rolling. Old habits die hard. Mom had always been hardworking and meticulous. I wondered how she put up with my father’s haphazard habits and dubious scruples. I looked at her and felt a twinge of sorrow for the woman who was compared to a flower in her younger days.
“Come Ma, I want to eat with you. We can talk.”
She removed the last paratha from the griddle and covered the leftover dough and paneer mixture before settling down at the table. “Okay, I’m done.”
“Mmm, this is good,” she said after taking a bite of the paratha dipped generously in the spicy pickle.
“Of course it is. You made it.”
“You’re a sweet talker like your father.” It wasn’t a compliment. It was an instruction to rein it in. “Have you talked to Juhi lately?”
“No.” I chewed.
“Call her sometime. She’s alone there.” My sister Juhi lived in Australia with her loving husband and his family. But since none of us were close to her, she was alone in Mom’s book. But I didn’t argue. “Okay.”
Juhi had married and moved to Melbourne just before the mountain collapsed and buried us alive. She still didn’t know the full extent of what Mom and I had gone through. And she didn’t know the truth about how much money it cost me to keep our past at bay.
“Is there something you want to talk about?” Mom asked.
“No,” I blurted. “Why?”
“You were jumpy all evening.”
My chest tightened. If anyone could understand what I was going through, it would be her, but I couldn’t bring myself to talk about Tara. “It’s about the engagement.”
She looked at me with soft eyes as we continued eating. “Don’t let anyone pressure you, Sameer. Take your time. You shouldn’t rush into marriage if you’re not ready.”
I changed my mind. I could use her advice, but just as I opened my mouth, my father’s heavy voice carried from the living room.
“We’re in the kitchen,” Mom called out. “Join us for breakfast if you want. Durga, can you please make chai?”
Durgaben emerged with a fresh face and put a saucepan on the stove.
And just like that, the moment was gone. I would’ve spilled my heart out to Mom if we’d had a moment more, but things work out the way they’re supposed to. Case in point: Tara’s re-entry into my life. My mind drifted to her as I nursed my coffee. Despite her outright rejection and hurtful accusations, all I wanted was to see her again. I craved that happy feeling. If only I’d had the courage to tell her everything years ago, we wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be faking affection for Aarti while secretly pining for Tara. The familiar feeling in my chest returned as I thought about my impending engagement.
As if on cue, my father walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table.
I instinctively stood. “I’m off now. Thank you for the paratha, Mom.” I kissed her on the cheek. “And thank you, Durgaben, as always, for everything you do.” I pulled her into a side hug.
“When will I see you next?” Mom asked.
“Hopefully soon. I’ll call you.”
“You haven’t had your tea yet,” my father cried.
“He doesn’t drink chai, Rehani bhai. He is a coffee drinker.” Durgaben’s cheeky response made my day. I gave her a warm smile, picked up my bag, and jumped into the car.
My family’s housekeeper knew me better than my dad, but that hadn’t always been the case. Although my sister, the firstborn, was the apple of his eye, we used to be close. We were like friends. He was the one who allowed me my first cigarette and showed me how to drink responsibly. He taught me how to drive and let me borrow his expensive cars even when I only had a learner’s permit.
He was strict, but not a disciplinarian. His rules were ad hoc. He insisted on following them when it was convenient for him, when they worked in his favor. Other times, he encouraged us to give the world a big middle finger and do what we wanted. My mother was the one who ensured our stable emotional and intellectual development. She had rules, and her rules were rigid. She didn’t impose too many of them, though, because they stifled creativity, she argued. But she wouldn’t tolerate lies and insolence. All her rules revolved around those two principles. That I was a fantastic liar now was thanks to my father. It was a gift that kept on giving, transforming me into a person I hardly recognized anymore.
I shook off my dark thoughts and commanded my car’s system to dial Mihir.
His sleepy voice responded. “Hello.”
“It’s me. Are you still sleeping?”
“What time is it?”
“Nine thirty.”
“It’s Sunday,” he said with a groan.
“It’s Saturday.”
“It’s the weekend. Let me sleep.”
“All right, but I still need to talk to you. Call me when you’re up.”
He hummed an affirmative.
“Is Abby with you this weekend?” I inquired about his current girlfriend.
“No,” he mumbled. “Let me sleep.”
I scoffed and disconnected. At the next red light, I texted him that I would be at our usual coffee shop if he woke up and wanted a pick-me-up.