2. Sujit
SUJIT
T hat evening, I was on my way to the Baccarat with the re-leasing information resting on the seat beside me.
My driver battled against the busy evening traffic, his impatience rising high with every passing minute.
His hand was steady on the horn, but he resisted honking because I disapproved of the impolite act.
“Let it go, Imran, take a breath,” I consoled as I caught him looking at me in the rearview mirror.
“I am breathing. I am calm,” he said with a grin.
“Of course you are.”
“You’ll be late.”
“I’ll apologize. No use stressing about things we have no control over.”
Imran didn’t curse on principle, but that didn’t prevent him from honking. He jammed down the noisemaker on the steering, unleashing his anger in his preferred way.
When I looked at him from above the rim of my glasses, he argued, “Did you see that? That foolish delivery guy on the scooter!”
“Breathe, Imran.”
“Breathing…breathing…breathing.” He was a spirited guy driven by youthful impulses.
Imran was not just a trusted employee who wouldn’t peek at my business papers if I left them in the car or sell that information to my competitors. He was a close confidant, and our relationship was more familial than formal.
I’d never been sold on the idea of the successful lone wolf.
Even when I had taken the riskiest of decisions, I had at least one person who believed in the risk.
Someone who believed in me. I was surrounded by a tight group of trusted friends and allies.
It was an ecosystem that was often informed by mutual benefit, but sometimes by pure, unadulterated human connection.
I smiled at Imran’s back as my gaze darted to the papers beside me.
The owner of SB Real Estate, Ms. Bhatia, had graciously granted me a meeting the next day, but she wanted to meet over a quick drink before we discussed the lease.
My guess was she wanted to size me up to determine her negotiating options.
It was a great tactic and a good opportunity for me to figure out how much pushback I could safely get away with.
The new lease document in my hand quoted three times the rent I’d been paying for the past several years.
That was a lot of money, even for a successful company like mine.
I’d thought of doing a quick Google search about SB Real Estate and its owner, but I didn’t want online information to color my judgment or my impression of her. My instinct was usually pretty vocal and always yammering on, unlike me.
Unfortunately, it had been deceptively silent about Tara. And there I was again, all set to go down that rabbit hole. Luckily, my mother called.
“Kanna!” she cried in her sweet voice like she always did. My mother was quadrilingual, and the Kanna was on account of her proficiency in Tamil.
“Hello, Amma,” I said with a smile, momentarily drowning out Imran’s impatience.
“How are you? Did you like the rava laddoo I sent with Padma?”
“Yes, Amma, I loved it.”
“I wanted to send the punugulu, but Padma said they won’t travel well.”
“She’s right, Amma. They would have gotten all soggy and soft.”
“But you have that fryer gadget, no? You could reheat it to crisp it up,” she argued, and I laughed at her reference to the air fryer that she’d insisted on buying for my kitchen.
“Yes, Amma, but what’s the fun in eating reheated punugulu?” The lentil fritters, like all fritters, were best when eaten hot right out of the fryer.
“I could never out-argue you,” she said with a huff.
“I’ll plan to come over soon. Then you can feed me all the punugulu you want. Also, bobbatlu. It’s been a while since I had that.”
The thought of the sweet stuffed flatbread flooded me with memories of a very happy childhood. As the younger of two kids, I was definitely spoiled.
“Anything you want, Kanna. Just let me know when you plan to come.”
“I will, but can you stop bothering Padma with errands like this? The poor girl spends more time bringing me food from you than she does in her studio.” I was exaggerating, of course, and Amma dismissed it promptly.
“It’s not a bother to bring food to a brother! She knows it,” Amma said in her usual chiding manner whenever I tried to create distance between families and relatives.
Padmaja was my cousin. A budding sculptor, she was Amma’s sister’s daughter, but there was no concept of cousins in our family.
It was all sisters and brothers and uncles and aunts.
Padma frequently traveled to the posh suburban hamlet where her parents and mine resided.
And Amma never failed to send back some delicacy or the other with her for me.
Then I had to arrange for Imran to get it from her so she wouldn’t have to travel all the way from Brooklyn to Manhattan to deliver me homemade food.
Of course, Padma didn’t mind. She kind of expected Amma to do that.
If she didn’t, she would assume that either Amma was sick, or that I was.
And even though she was a few years younger than me, she was the older child, and like everyone else in my extended family, she fussed over me.
“That reminds me,” Amma’s voice in my ear brought me back just as Imran banged his hand on the steering wheel in frustration and boredom. Our eyes met in the rearview mirror, and he grinned sheepishly.
“Yes, I remember,” I said to Amma. “I remember about Padma’s exhibition. You’ve only reminded me nine hundred times,” I teased.
“Indeed, Kanna, because I know how diligent you are about these things. If it wasn’t for Devi, you’d never remember any of the important social events,” she chided.
“That’s not her job, Amma. She’s my professional assistant, not a personal one. I know she’s like family, but don’t bother her with this stuff.”
“She doesn’t mind. Plus, it was Cathy’s idea. She suggested I use Devi’s proximity to you to our advantage. Or something like that.”
I smiled. That definitely sounded like my sister-in-law.
She and Devi had been tight since undergrad.
After Devi joined the workforce, Cathy went to business school, where she met my brother.
Since Tara, everyone in my family had been treating me with kid gloves, especially the women.
That included Devi, who traversed that boundary between personal and professional with impeccable ease.
“Here’s Nannagaaru now,” Amma said, handing the phone off to Dad.
“Hey, Dad,” I said, often forgetting that Amma preferred us to call him Nanna. But Dad was our first friend, mine, and my brother, Srijan’s.
“How are you? I know you’re probably busy, but I just wanted to say hi,” he said, always consciously aware of our time and commitments.
“Doing well, Dad. How’s your new book coming along?” I asked.
“Slowly,” he said with a chuckle that was the best sound in the world.
“Wish I could help, but you know my understanding of math is elementary compared to yours.”
“That’s not important. What’s important is what you do with the knowledge you have, and I’d say you’re doing pretty well,” he said with another soft chuckle.
That made me smile from the bottom of my heart. Despite the freedom my parents had given us, it was no secret that both Srijan and I lived for their praise. Their accolades meant more to us than any of the numerous awards I’d received over the years.
“Thanks, Nanna,” I said, granting him the respect he deserved.
“Ah, your mother wants to speak to you again,” he said and disappeared from the line before I could say bye.
“About Padma’s exhibition,” Amma said, back on the line. “Buy something of hers to support her. And get me something for my gudi.” That would be the room that housed her altar. Her sanctum sanctorum.
“Yes, Amma, I will.”
There was a brief silence before she spoke again. “I also spoke to her about redoing the vacation home,” she said.
“Amma, I’ve said it several times. Just because Tara is out of my life, it doesn’t mean I’m getting rid of the pieces she chose for us. She did a very good job. Those paintings are unique and perfect for that space.”
“I know, Kanna, but they’ll remind you of her every time, no? It’s better to get rid of those memories to move on.”
Tempted as I was to tell her that Tara had sent me the wedding invitation, I knew the kind of trouble it would open up.
In addition to admonishments for Tara’s actions, it was bound to unleash another tsunami of sympathy and pity for me.
I would receive more phone calls from the entire extended family than I’d be able to handle, probably more food and desserts than I could eat in a month. It was best to keep my mouth shut.
It had been an impossible task to explain to my family that I didn’t carry any ill will toward Tara and that she was a good person who had been honest with me.
Yes, she had broken my heart and shattered my ego, as my family surmised.
But that was on account of my own foolishness in flaunting her before them without warning her.
Now, all they saw was poor, injured Sujit, and wanted to eliminate everything Tara-related from my life.
When Amma and Cathy learned that I was still in touch with Tara’s friend, Sona, who was also a friend now, they lectured me on how I needed to distance myself from her, so I didn’t think of Tara.
They stretched their imagination to assume that I saw Sona as a substitute for Tara.
Watching too much television and reading too many pop psychology books had ruined their perspective on how friendships grow and thrive.
I still had my friendship with Sona. I also had my friendship with Tara’s mother, who texted me about the progress she was making in learning English.
She hoped to someday be able to converse effectively with me in the language.
I saw no reason to let my relationship with Tara undermine my friendships with either of those women, and I didn’t.
Of course, I didn’t tell that to Amma or Cathy, although I suspected Devi was aware of it, but that no one else knew about it reassured me of her discretion.
“Kanna?” I heard Amma again.
“I’ve moved on, Amma,” I lied. “And I won’t get rid of those paintings. It would disrespect the artists if I let my relationship with Tara determine their worth to me.”
Amma sighed. “You and your Nanna are two peas in a pod. This is exactly the kind of philosophical stuff he would say.”
“Well, he’s a philosopher,” I said amicably. “Math is a philosophy like he says, and he’s kind of a badass at it.”
“Tsk, don’t use such words,” she reprimanded. “Your father is a monk, if anything.”
“That he is,” I said and hoped our conversation would end now. Amma took the hint and said, “Alright, I’ll let you go. Don’t forget Padma’s exhibition.”
“I won’t because you’ll remind me again several more times, and I know you’ve had Devi add it to my calendar.”
She laughed in her sweet voice before hanging up.
Imran had resigned to the traffic that had turned into a parking lot and turned on his favorite retro radio channel. Sweet Hindi melodies resounded in the quiet car. While I got busy replying to emails on my phone, Imran managed to breach the thicket of the evening rush, and we reached the hotel.
I walked in toward the bar where Ms. Bhatia would meet me, as her assistant had informed Devi.
Sitting at the bar was a tall woman, her back straight, and long legs crossed gracefully under the counter.
Glossy black hair, straight as her posture, ran down to her waist. I saw her thumbing her phone while a glass of red wine sat before her, possibly untouched.
The slender fingers on her lean hand looked uncharacteristically powerful from this distance.
Quick scenarios ran through my head, much like a simulation. I played around with multiple variables—my first approach, her first impression of me, my perception of her—all of which would chart the course of our subsequent interactions and determine my negotiation tactic.
It all faded away like a cloud of smoke in the wind when I approached her and said, “Ms. Bhatia, Sujit Rao.”
She turned to me with a smile, which quickly disappeared as she left her seat and stood tall to face me.
Before me, in the flesh, stood Sameer’s ex-fiancée.