Tara imagined a group of gods, blue-skinned, shiny gold crowns on their heads, seated on majestic thrones in a regal court nestled among cottony clouds, laughing at Amma’s plight.
“Amma, don’t be sad,” she said. “You have me and Vijay.”
Amma sighed. “Yes, Tara. You two are the only reasons I am still alive.”
In March 1977, the cosmic balance finally shifted, and a blue-skinned god smiled a condescending smile, held his radiant hand up, and said, of the innumerable prayers offered to him: tathastu, so be it. Or so it seemed.
The prime minister finally lifted emergency rule. Amma’s personal emergency also ended. Daddy’s letter arrived. The shadows that Tara had come to accept on Amma’s face disappeared, banished by good news. Daddy would send for them soon, Amma said. His letter had promised her that.
“When Amma? When are we going?” she asked.
“Very soon, Tara.”
“Will I have friends there?”
“Yes, you will have friends there. Maybe it will be like back home.”
“Will the bathroom have a bathtub? Will there be ACs in the bedrooms? Will there be a clubhouse?”
Amma laughed.
“You will have to ask Daddy all those questions,” she said. “I have not been to Dubai yet.”
“Will I have to go to a Dubai school?”
“Yes, Tara.”
Tara wasn’t happy with the idea of changing schools again. But she wasn’t going to worry about that now. She snuggled up to Amma at night, the comfort of her sari against her skin, thinking about Dubai and the little characters she made up in her mind that populated the desert city. She saw soaring buildings, gleaming foreign cars on wide roads, and sparkling homes with abundant date palms in the yard. When she imagined friends, they were usually her old friends Pippi, Leenika, and Runa. And even though she thought she was too old to play with dolls, they appeared on their own, on neat little shelves in her room. They had shiny golden hair and violet-blue eyes; they were the sisters, friends, and twins of Pinky.
It made her feel a little guilty that she rarely saw Daddy in her imaginary world. She saw other men—a white-uniformed chauffeur, a gardener dressed nicely in pants and shirt, and lots of Arab men in flowing robes and headgear in the open markets—but Daddy, he was always away at the office. But it was just as well, she found out when Daddy’s next letter arrived, because Daddy did not think about her. He thought about Amma and the son he had never seen. But he did not think about Tara.
When Amma, teary-eyed, gently broke the news to her, all Tara could do was bury her face in Amma’s sari and lay very stunned and very still and wonder if there was a way to go back into her mother’s womb, or to hide in her suitcase when she left. There was little use in pleading, begging, or crying. Tara wasn’t six anymore. She knew Amma did as Daddy commanded. But she had to know, so she asked, stifling the urge to scream out the hurt and fear from her lungs.
“For your own good, Tara,” Amma replied tearfully, drawing Tara close to her bosom. “The schools in Dubai are not up to Indian standards. Someday, when you are a doctor or engineer, you will thank Daddy for this decision.”
“Why does Vijay get to go with you?”
“Because he is still a baby. He is not in school yet, no?”
Amma wept all night before their departure. She would miss her sweet daughter every single minute, but Daddy needed her as he found his feet in a new country, she said. It would be a tough life in a desert country, where the heat was oppressive, and they did not know many people. Of course, Tara would visit during the holidays. Amma and Daddy would come home to visit their little angel often.
It was curtain call for Tara’s pretend Dubai world. The sharp edifices of her imaginings crumbled like Parle-G biscuits dropped in hot tea, until there was nothing left but desert sand; miles of it stretched ahead of her. Weren’t families meant to be together? We two, ours two, like in the family planning advertisements? Why did Amma and Vijay get to fly to the happy world, while she had to stay back? How could God do this to his little children? What was the use of prayers?
Chapter 6
She suddenly understood when the taxi driver whispered in her ear, “It’s the same story. Always the same story. Don’t you get it?”
Tara opened her eyes in panic. She tried to move, but her body felt like a ton of bricks. She tried to scream, but no voice emerged. The taxi driver’s voice grew louder as she struggled to move her fingers. “Your parents had your brother. Your husband has another woman. Don’t you get it?”
She felt breathless from her efforts. She struggled to open her mouth to let in more air, but her airways felt constricted. She could see the ceiling, the vent, the sprinkler, but she sensed that she was in prison, under solitary confinement.
He whispered something else, this time from the foot of the bed. She couldn’t hear him; she had all her focus on trying to open her mouth. She finally managed guttural sounds.
“Aaah, aaah, aaah.”
“Tara? Tara, what happened?” He was bent over her, shaking her arm. It wasn’t the taxi driver. It was Sanjay. She sat bolt upright, gulping in air.
“You were making strange noises,” he said.
She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.
“Did you have a nightmare?” He sat on the edge of the bed. “Are you okay?”
She blinked and stared at her hands, her breath rugged and wheezy. “Is there another woman?”
“What?”
“Is there another woman in your life?” she rasped.
“No.”
She looked at him, and she was neither shy nor afraid. He kept his gaze on her as she probed his eyes. Did she see honesty in them?
“Then why won’t you try?” she asked.
He stretched his arms out. She blinked and looked away.
“Come,” he said, leaning forward, gathering her in his arms, leaving her stupefied through the haze of her mind.
He felt so masculine and tender, and she felt so confused and heartbroken, that the tears started to pour. They rolled down her eyes in torrents, racked her slender frame, and wet his linen shirt. He rubbed her back gently, patiently, until she had exhausted her tears.
His arms felt warm and secure, as if their conversation of a couple of hours ago had not happened, and she didn’t want to ever move away. She wiped the tears away from her face with the pads of her fingers. He hooked a forefinger under her chin, and lifted her face up, until they were face to face.
“Hush now.” His voice was gentle. He kissed her forehead softly. She closed her eyes. He stroked her cheek with a thumb. Warmth arose in her, and her skin burned. He outlined her moist lips with his forefinger; she felt his lips pressing into them. She parted them, allowed him to claim her mouth. She kissed him fiercely, hungrily, not conscious of the soft moaning sounds that were erupting in her throat. He was burning, too. He had never kissed her before, not once during the four nights they had spent together in Mangalore.
He slid his hand under her top and rubbed the concave small of her back. She unbuttoned his shirt and caressed the fine hairs of his chest.
“Take that thing off,” he whispered. She pulled her blouse over the top of her head and yanked it free, while he took his shirt off. She was suddenly conscious of being exposed in a bra. But he quickly closed the gap between them. He was on top of her, kissing the hollow of her neck, the valley between her small perky breasts, her taut belly. For once, she let go of all abandon, unleashing her deep longings. She led him on with her recklessness. They made love with the ardor of lovers.