He has an American girlfriend, Yvonne suggested. That was the simplest explanation. Amma vehemently disagreed. Sanjay had asked his parents to find a bride for him. No one had forced him to get married.
Tara’s mind was in a whirl, always in a whirl. She now had a stamp on her forehead that said Abandoned Wife. She imagined a dark veil over her head, woven of shame. She would spend the rest of her life in his house trying to figure out which was worse—the whispers and taunts of all around them, the exaggerated sympathy of relatives, the tears of her mother, or the silent despondency of her father.
Now she looked at her watch. She had remembered to set it to Eastern Time at the immigration line. It was past nine at night. She wondered if Amma and Daddy were up. It was after six thirty in the morning where she came from. She would have to call and tell them she had arrived.
She deposited the laddoos and masalas in the fridge and walked out into the living room. He sat on the recliner, leaning far back, his legs up. The TV was on CNN, but he wasn’t watching, and certainly not working. His eyes were closed. The back of his right hand rested on his forehead, fingers curled in.
She wasn’t sure whether he was asleep and if she should wake him up.
“Sanjay?” she said softly. He opened his eyes with a start.
“Sorry!”
“Oh, uhm, I was relaxing a bit before getting back to work.” He squinted and looked a little sheepish, she thought, as he shifted position on the recliner.
“Can I call Amma? They . . . Amma and Daddy will worry if they don’t hear from me.”
Sanjay helped her dial the number to her maternal home. It was odd, thinking of home as her maternal home. As if she didn’t belong there anymore. As if she were suspended midway between the past and her family’s hopes for her future.
Chapter 3
Tara slipped under the bulky covers of the master bed and rested her head on a soft pillow. She felt better after her warm shower. She had changed into her nightclothes, floral pajamas and a pink T-shirt. It felt good to get out of her jeans and tunic and scrub herself clean. She left the lights on, not knowing when he would come in. Her heart raced in anxiety and anticipation at the thought of him joining her in bed.
She waited a long time until her eyes began to feel heavy. Somewhere in the apartment, a clock ticked, and it was mildly comforting that its mechanical tick-tock sounded the same in this part of the world. She could still hear the faint hum of the TV, although he had turned the volume down low. Her thoughts drifted. At the other end of this vast country was her brother, Vijay, making a mark in a new job. She wondered how far San Jose was. She wondered what Amma was fixing for breakfast. Had Daddy set out on his morning walk? They had both been relieved when she finally boarded her flight to America. She was, too. Three years was a long time to be married and not set eyes on the groom after the wedding month. Why the sudden change of heart? What had prompted the email out of the blue two months ago—a very brief and formal one asking her to scan and send the necessary documents to file for her dependent visa? She and Amma had wondered, with no answers.
“What’s gone is gone. Look ahead and make it work,” was Amma’s advice to her.
Tara’s mind flitted between sleep and wakefulness. How does one make it work, she wondered drowsily. What was required of her? At thirty-one, she was still so utterly clueless about marriage.
She opened her eyes, took a moment to clear the fog inside her head, and was wide awake. The blinds were closed but aglow with the sun outside. The room looked unfamiliar. Of course. She was almost nine thousand miles away from home.
The spot next to her did not look slept in. So, he never had come in. She wondered if he had gone off to sleep on the recliner. He was in the bathroom now. She could hear the shower. She turned her attention to the sound of spattering water. She tried to imagine what he looked like under its stream, naked, with lather on his chest. But the water stopped, and she got up hurriedly to make the bed.
He came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his torso, before she could finish. He was a strapping, strong-armed man with fine chest hair.
“Good morning,” she said softly.
“Good morning,” he said, ruffling his wet hair, not looking at her.
“You did not come in to sleep.”
He ignored her last statement. “Got to rush. I have a meeting at eight.”
“How far is your office?”
“Not too far, but it takes me longer in rush hour traffic. About twenty minutes.”
“What about breakfast? I can make an omelet if you have eggs.”
“Don’t worry. I had oatmeal.” He disappeared into his closet, then stuck his head out.
“Listen, see what you can fix yourself for lunch. There’s some instant noodles, or you can make yourself a sandwich.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll find something,” she said.
“I’ll try to be back a little early in the evening. I’ll take you grocery shopping.”
“Okay.” Tara sat on the bed she had just made. And waited.
He came out of the closet fully dressed. He looked smart in a powder-blue shirt and khaki pants. She had heard so much about software professionals going to work in shorts and T-shirts. Apparently, this software professional was not one among them. She caught the notes of his cologne; they whipped up in her an alchemy of desire, fear, resentment.
When he left, Tara loosened up, relieved to have her space. She opened the glass French door in the living room that led to the balcony and stepped out barefooted. The sun had warmed the wooden floorboards, but the air was still cool and felt good on her skin. She inhaled deeply. How peaceful it was out there. The balcony overlooked a clean, empty road, on the other side of which was a serene red brick structure with a sparkling white steeple tipped with a cross. It was a church, no doubt. A sign near the entrance confirmed this. It read:
WEST HILL BAPTIST CHURCH
SUNDAY WORSHIP: 11 A.M.
BIBLE CLASS: 9:30 A.M.
ALL ARE WELCOME
Past the church, on the other side of the road, were red, brick-fronted homes with green manicured front yards and tall pine trees. One little house looked like a cottage straight out of Enid Blyton’s books. It had a white, wood-paneled exterior and a white picket fence that enclosed a green, grassy yard lined with red flower bushes. She absorbed the newness, the expansiveness of the panoramic view, and tried not to feel alone. Or trapped.
She spent the morning unpacking and arranging her clothes in the guest closet. It felt good to have something to do. She had left most of her Indian dresses behind. Not that she had too many of them. She had never been very interested in dressing up. Yvonne had said she would have no need for Indian clothes, so she had brought only pants, blouses, and tunics. Amma had tried to shove a couple of chiffon saris into her suitcase, but Tara could not be persuaded to leave them there.
When she was done with the arranging, and the closet looked a little fuller, she had exhausted her options for keeping busy. She peered at the stack of books in Sanjay’s study. They were technical manuals, every one of them. Does he not read at all? The manuals, of course, might as well have been in Greek. She was grateful for the copies of Time and Newsweek on the coffee table in the living room. She curled up on the sofa and began to read. The phone rang, its shrillness shattering the silence. It made her jump. She wondered if it was her brother, Vijay, and if she ought to pick up.