Kaho na pyar hai
Kaho na pyar hai
Haan tumse pyar hai
Ke tumse pyar hai
Say you love me,
Say you love me,
Yes, I love you
Yes, I love you
She mutilated the song, going from verse to chorus to verse, over and over again, her mind a tangle of thoughts. Did she love her husband at all? She would, if only he’d make it easier. Love wasn’t a shower head; it didn’t just automatically pour out of your heart because your parents decided you would be together for life. Why did Sanjay make himself so unlovable? To what end?
She turned off the water stream and stepped out of the shower. Low, muffled voices reached her ears. She listened keenly, her stomach in knots, ear against the door. She heard faint drawls, but then she heard music. It was the TV. She did not remember turning on the TV at all. Was Sanjay back? She quickly dried herself and dressed in her sweaty clothes; she regretted not taking fresh ones into the bathroom. She opened the bathroom door an inch and peeped out cautiously.
“Sanjay? Are you back?” she called out.
“Yup, it’s me.” That was most certainly Sanjay’s deep voice.
She tiptoed into her closet and changed into fresh clothes—floral culottes and a gray top.
“So, you are a bathroom singer,” he said, when she came out to the living room, her damp hair brushed into place. She blushed.
“I had no idea you’d be back so early.”
“I thought we could talk.”
“Talk? About what?” Talk? Sanjay never talked. Did he mean a chitchat kind of talk or a serious discussion? Why was his face so grave?
“Never mind. It can wait.”
It can wait? So it wasn’t chitchat? She knotted the end of her top with nervous fingers. She sat on the loveseat, because he had taken the three-seater. She could hold back no more.
“You don’t like me.” She had meant that to be a question, but it sounded like an indictment.
He looked taken aback but recovered quickly.
“I have nothing against you. I barely even know you.” At least his voice was passive, even gentle, she thought. “It’s just the whole arranged marriage thing. I’ve never really believed in it.”
“So why did you get married?”
“It was part impulse, part giving in to my parents’ wish.”
“Oh!” Tara looked down at her hands, her heart sinking.
“I am not a cruel person, but I don’t see how this can work. We are so different from each other.”
“But we are married now.” She hoped her angst had not reached her voice, that she had not sounded imploring.
“I know, and I am deeply sorry about that. I didn’t set out to ruin somebody’s life. I wish I had thought through it better.” He closed his eyes, rubbing his temples with the tips of his long fingers.
A weird thought crossed her mind before she lost it to her sinking heart. He was being the kindest she had known him to be, when he was saying the cruelest things.
But he wasn’t done yet. “I am sorry. But you are free to leave. It might be the best thing to do.”
She stared at him. “I am not leaving.” Her voice was throaty. “Please, I cannot go back.”
He sighed, looked away, and studied the carpet. The silence gnawed into her, so she chewed on her lower lip until she tasted blood.
“All right,” he said finally. “You will get your green card in less than two years. Perhaps you can hang in until then. A green card will open up possibilities for you, and you don’t even have to go back to India.”
How nice he sounded, spouting dispassionate, practical ideas for her future—a future that he did not see himself in.
“Why did you apply for my green card? Why did you send me a visa?” she asked.
“I was giving it a try.”
“But you haven’t tried.”
His lips moved; he started to say something but stopped. “I can’t,” he said instead.
She got up and lumbered into the kitchen. She opened the fridge and stuffed her mouth with two laddoos from the box, then shuffled with purpose to the bedroom. She flopped on her back, rested her forearm over her forehead. She noticed that the vent puffed icy air directly onto her face; that the ceiling had a sprinkler to subdue flames. Insignificant things to notice when her life was falling apart.
“Useless observations of a useless person,” she muttered. She put a hand to her chest and moaned. It felt like a nail was lodged in her heart. The hurt was not new to her. She was a magnet to nails. The first one had been driven into her soul a long time ago—after only twenty-one months at Shanti Nilaya.
Life had established a set pattern. She went to school, had Parle-G biscuits dunked in tea that Grandmother Indira served her when she got back home, and when it didn’t rain, Uncle Anand took her and her baby brother, Vijay, up the hilltop for an outing.
They sat on granite rocks in a grassy clearing near the banyan tree and watched Vijay, who ran around in glee, picking pebbles and plucking grass. Tara was in awe of the tree, of its massive arms, its hanging ropelike roots. The banyan tree was the kalpavriksh, Amma had told her once; the divine, wish-fulfilling tree. Tara was too afraid to sit under it, but from a distance, she closed her eyes and wished fervently for Daddy to send for her, Amma, and Vijay to Dubai.
Beautiful Amma now looked more thin than statuesque; her collarbones jutted out above the hemline of her blouse, making an unsightly hollow between them. Her face, once a lovely portrait of class, was now a contrast of dark shadows and ashen skin. Daddy had still not sent for them. She fretted, became depressed, and no longer slept soundly, tossing and turning and sighing for most part each night.
Because Amma no longer painted her toenails, Tara painted them for her, applying scarlet vertical strokes. It bothered Tara that Amma was sad. She wished she had a magic wand that would make Daddy send their tickets to Dubai, so Amma could go back to being happy.
Each night, after sunset, Grandfather Madhava led the devotional before the numerous frames of gods and goddesses in the inner hall of Shanti Nilaya. Everyone joined in, singing Kannada bhajans, as Grandfather Madhava did aarti to the gods with a brass lamp lit with five cotton wicks soaked in ghee. At the end of the ritual, they prostrated themselves before the deities, praying for good health and the wellbeing of their clan. Tara bowed before the gods, kneeling and bent over, head touching the floor, hoping to please the gods with her earnestness.
“Oh God, please make Daddy send us tickets to Dubai soon. Please make Amma happy again.”
Several afternoons at school, after their lunch break, she went to the school chapel. She knelt before the figure of Jesus on the cross, locked her fingers in front of her chest like she had seen the nuns do, and repeated her prayer to the Christian gods.
“Oh Jesus, oh Mother Mary, please take us to Dubai.”
Amma did not leave the gods alone either; she even attempted to bribe them, as grown-ups often did. She and Grandfather Madhava made trips to the temple towns in the district. They went to the Kateel temple of Sri Durga Parameshwari and prayed to the feminine creative form in the inner sanctum. They visited the Subramanya temple of the Lord of Serpents, beseeching the celestial being, through a puja performed by the temple priest, to rid her family of any sarpa dosha, curse of the serpents. Every temple they went to, Amma promised puja sponsorships or special offerings to the gods if her prayers came true.