Chapter 19
Our paths had crossed and diverged again, like railroad tracks at a junction. We were two trains running at full speed without a care for where the other was headed. Of course we were going to ram into each other at some point. I wanted to hurt. I wanted the pain, but I felt nothing. My heart was in mutiny against my emotions.
Back in my apartment, I flung off my heels as the cell phone whirred in my hand, unusually loud against the jarring silence in my head.
“Hi, Sona,” I said with an upward lilt in my voice, but she didn’t buy my enthusiasm.
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, Sona. I just did a stupid thing and realized my mistake.” I told her how Sameer had consoled me and how I had rushed over after Aai and Sujit left for the airport, only to find him with Aarti. “Like a fool, I stood there, still in my saree, hoping for what?” I wiped my forehead with my free hand. “There was no dignified way to exit. I’m grateful Aarti was kind. But it was like, suddenly something clicked. Sameer and I can never be.”
I heard her exhale.
“I went over to get him back, Sona. To cheat on Sujit the moment he left with my own mother in his care. I’m a horrible person.”
“Don’t say that, love. This is Sameer we’re talking about. When has anything involving him been easy or simple? Just give yourself some time and show yourself some kindness.”
“He said he was happy for Sujit and me, that I deserve to be happy. And yet…”
“And yet?”
I sighed and dropped onto the couch. “And yet, he was the only one who saw my distress. Not Amar, not Sujit, not even Aai. No one else noticed.”
“Maybe he does love you, but not all love is realized in the same way. He loves you enough to let you go and be happy on your own terms.”
“But he just set the terms for me. He pushed me into Sujit’s arms, knowing full well I had gone there for him.”
“That’s what he thought you wanted. Why the heck aren’t you both talking about it?”
“That’s why I went over, to tell him how I feel and to listen to his side, but he was with Aarti.”
She sighed.
“So, what’s the use of having someone care for you so deeply if it’s ephemeral? If it can’t be realized in this lifetime?”
“Books have been written on the subject. However, metaphysics is not my forte, but I’ll be happy to talk at length about the contribution of queer of color spaces to feminist theory if you’re interested.” I heard the shift in her tone from serious to teasing.
“Alright, alright, point taken, Professor Thomas.” I had to smile.
“Thank you, young child. Now tell me, how was the opening? I want details. And how did you like the surprise?”
“I hate you all so much. How could you keep it from me? I thought my heart was going to explode when I saw them walk in.”
I filled her in on the evening, including Dr. Hadden’s commendation and my impromptu speech.
“I’m so proud of you, babe,” she said. “And hey, don’t think too much. You have Sujit. Sameer is your past. Don’t try to erase him. Embrace the power of letting him go.”
“That’s very sound advice, Professor. Alas, my heart and brain don’t operate on the same frequency.”
When I rang Sujit immediately after, the call went directly to voicemail. I left him a text thanking him for the love and support that had helped me get through the evening.
It was also Sameer’s love and faith in my abilities that had put me back on my feet, but I didn’t want to think about him anymore.
I started the week knee-deep in research, trying to figure out the mystery of the two artists while still getting ahead of my work. I felt happier back in my comfort zone, a place where I could stay invisible and sane. I exchanged a few texts with Amar, who was off visiting relatives on the West Coast, but we didn’t bring up Sameer, who had kept his distance since that evening. He did text me early that week to congratulate me on the critical coverage I had received in two local newspapers. So proud of you, his text read, but I underplayed it with a simple Thank you, sans emojis. He had taken the hint, and I didn’t hear back from him for the rest of the week.
By Saturday morning, I had settled into a quiet routine of work and research that I didn’t want to break for the weekend, so I decided to take my work bag to Cups and Cookies.
I was about to leave for the café when I got a call from my brother. I hadn’t spoken to him since I brought Aai over to the U.S., and seeing his number on my phone screen made my heart thud.
It was Saturday evening in India, and he was drunk. He lived in Gujarat, a dry state, so most likely he had been boozing on something cheap because he was too broke to buy decent liquor illegally. Using the choicest of abuses and curses, he accused me of having messed up his life. He recounted how I thought I was better than him, that I had taken away every bit of his happiness, and in a final cruel stroke, even snatched his mother away.
Her love was the only thing helping him cope, and I had stolen it. Unaware that I was in Dallas, he demanded to speak to Aai. I fended him off, threatening to call the police if he tried to contact her, but he was too drunk to realize the absurdity of the threat. My only reassurance was that he didn’t have Aai’s U.S. number. Unless overcome with motherly love, she had shared it with him. The thought terrified me, so I kept him on the line, indulging him as he hurled abuse at me until he passed out and I heard him snore.
Five minutes later, still standing in the same spot where I had answered his call, my skin turned numb. My hands began to tremble. I needed to sit down, but I couldn’t move.
I tried breathing like Sameer had shown me that evening. I took deep breaths and closed my eyes to Sameer’s image. I saw him holding out his hand for me. I grabbed it and steadied myself. I was still holding on to him when my other hand began to vibrate. With a jerk, I looked at the phone. It was Sameer. By sheer reflex, before I could stop myself, I answered the call.
“Hello,” I said blankly.
“Hey, it’s me. I’m sorry to call, but I’m meeting Mihir at Cups. I was wondering if you could join us. We have an interesting proposition for you.”
I heard his voice but not his words. All I took in was Sameer, confident and reassuring, telling me I was loved.
“Tara? Are you there?”
“Yes.” My voice cracked as a tear rolled down my cheek, and I heard his breath quicken.
“Tara, do you want me to come over? Just say the word.”
“Yes,” I said again, my voice still small.
“Give me twenty minutes. I’ll be there, I promise.”
“Okay.”
Asking for help had always been impossible for me. I wasn’t always fine, but I always ended up fine. What happened on the journey from not-fine to fine was my burden to carry. That day, I decided to share the burden. I needed a shoulder to lean on, and I chose one. I knew I could rely on Sameer.
I managed to walk to the couch and lower myself onto it. How could my own brother say such horrible things to his little sister? I had loved him for most of my life, and he would’ve died for me at one time. How had we gotten here?
When Dada finished high school, I was in the ninth grade. He had scored very well, way beyond what he or Baba had hoped for. He had his heart set on going to an art school, but Baba said it would be a waste of his talent and energies. Just like he would say it to me three years later. But while I got to study art, Dada paid the price.
He went off to one of the best public universities in Mumbai to study civil engineering. Proud, but never happy. He cleared the first semester with a flourish, but every semester after that, he either failed a course or barely managed a passing grade. When I graduated high school, he was repeating his second year. Perhaps it was this resentment that grew into the pot of bile that drowned us both. He thought I was living the life that should’ve rightfully been his, because I certainly wasn’t living the one that would’ve been chosen for me.
My parents had bravely resisted the social pressure to marry me off early like some girls I knew. They let me become my own person. I never had to protest. They kept the snakes at bay, repelling every venomous comment targeted at me. It was this sense of gratitude and obligation that silenced me when Baba declared that I would become an engineer. If Aai hadn’t coaxed me to be forthcoming, I would’ve become an engineer, probably married, with two kids exactly three years apart. I’m sure Dada would have reveled in the predictability of such a life. A stable job, a two-income household, and two kids. But it wasn’t the life I wanted.
When I returned home toward the end of my second year at the art college, Baba had a heart attack. Dada was visiting for the summer, and he never went back to school. The hospital bills piled up fast, but when I offered to quit my studies, it was Dada who convinced me that I was doing well while he was flailing to stay afloat. It was better if he quit his studies and found a job. And he did. He was happy for a few months, but a monotonous, low-skill job with the brilliant mind of an artist was a cocktail for disaster. He began drinking each day after work, but for the most part, Baba had kept him on the straight and narrow.
After Baba passed away five years ago, Dada’s drinking began in earnest. Soon he would be drunk at all hours. Baba had left a surprisingly large sum of life insurance. Dada kept whining to Aai that he could do so much with that money if she would only trust him with it. One day, she gave in, and before long, he had squandered away every last rupee. Soon he was back to square one, except now, Aai was broke too. Baba’s pension was enough for daily expenses but left little for Dada’s wasteful habits. I used to send Aai a little money, maintaining the delicate balance between helping her and respecting her dignity.
Two months before I came to Dallas, I was with Sujit when I got a call from Aai. It was only the second time I was at Sujit’s for the weekend. She was sobbing, trying to tell me she was hurt, but in the same breath, desperate to protect her son. In his drunken state, he had demanded more money, which she had refused because she didn’t have any. In a blind rage, he’d thrown a brass vase that hit her forehead.
Frightened and distraught, she’d locked herself in a room and called me. I was on the next flight to India. She pleaded with me not to call the police on him despite the injuries to her head. I packed her a light bag and brought her back to New York. Her multiple-entry visa from when they had come for my graduation allowed her entry into the country. Now I was protecting her the same way she had protected me all these years.