Sanjay did not come in that night either. Sleep did not come to her aid quickly. She wished she hadn’t slept all afternoon. She lay still on her back, her focus on her breathing, on the small heave and fall of her chest. Many a time, this technique had helped relax her mind and put her to sleep. Not tonight. She wondered if she should get up and warm a cup of milk in the microwave. She was so used to the hot milk and banana routine every night. She decided against it. She didn’t want to wake him up, in case he had gone off to sleep in the living room.
No stray dog barked. If the moon was up, she did not see it, because it was eclipsed by the streetlight, thin strips of which slipped into the room through the blinds. The light was just enough to keep the room from darkness. Occasionally, she heard a car pass by. The TV was still on; it was his companion, she had learned.
Again, for the millionth time in three years, she wondered why he had married her if he didn’t like her. And he most certainly didn’t like her. She waited in darkness for the void of sleep. In the meantime, she wallowed in the larger void she felt suspended in. She put her hand over her chest, felt the rhythm of her heart. It was a beat she had known for thirty-one years, and yet, she felt, it was yet to assume meaning.
Tara had almost been engaged once, when she was twenty-four, to a doctor from Bombay, but the alliance had fallen through, because, after rounds of discussions over tea and snacks, and after the elders had planned out the nitty-gritty of a summer wedding, the groom-to-be’s father had demanded a fat dowry. Shaken though he was at being ambushed with the uncouth demand, Daddy had refused to give in.
Amma had cried herself silly, even threatening to go on a hunger strike if Daddy did not change his mind. But Daddy was not one to bow down.
“If the educated amongst us do not take a stand against this evil practice, what hope is there for this society?” he had said.
Amma, mortified at the thought of her innocent daughter being offered as a sacrificial lamb at the altar of social reform, had tried to touch Daddy’s emotional nerve.
“I don’t know of any boy who has refused dowry. Why do we have to be martyrs? Do we love our daughter any less?” She had wept.
“The right man will come. And he will marry my daughter for the right reasons.”
Daddy had his way, as always.
At twenty-four, with fresh-out-of-college idealism running strong in her veins, Tara had shared Daddy’s views. But the years wore on, and no match seemed to click. She had endured humiliating bride-seeing trips, a couple of them out of town—once in Bangalore and the second time in Hyderabad. Most families found her too tall for their boys, others found her too plain. For most young men though, or at least for their parents, Daddy’s no-dowry clause was a deal breaker.
“No dowry. Our son is very progressive,” Sanjay’s father had confirmed to Daddy over the phone the day after the bride-seeing high tea.
“Too progressive to even like his wife,” Tara whispered to the shadows. She turned to look at the digital clock on the bedside table. It was almost three in the morning.
When the birds started to chirp outside—she had no idea what birds, they were not crows or sparrows, but they were just as vocal—and the first signs of dawn filtered into the room, Tara was still awake. She heard the light rustle of footsteps on the carpet; then a light came on. The hallway outside the bedroom was faintly aglow, so she knew he had turned the kitchen light on. She lay still, her mind drained of its nighttime rush of thoughts. When the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted into the room, rich and strong, it jarred her senses and caused a furor in her mind, a whirl of disjointed feelings. She shivered for no reason, so she pulled the duvet up to her chin. She wondered if she should get up and help. She did not. She kept her eyes closed as the footsteps made their way to the bedroom and then on to the bathroom. Melancholy, darker than black coffee, jabbed at her heart.
Silly me, silly me, she repeated to herself. Everything will be okay. She took deep, deep breaths.
“You don’t have to cook for me,” he said before leaving for work. “I am not much into Indian food anyway. I usually eat an early dinner right after work, with my coworkers.”
Tara’s face fell, even as a small part of her brain registered relief. Now, she didn’t have to worry about toning down spices or stressing over what to cook. But he was her husband. Wasn’t he supposed to eat with her?
“Oh! What did you take me to market for, then?” she asked.
“Because I don’t want to deprive you of the foods you are used to.”
“How thoughtful!” Did she just say it out loud? Was her voice laced with sarcasm?
“Are you mocking?” she heard him say.
She bit her lower lip. “No, no. That really was thoughtful of you.”
She was relieved when he let it pass.
“Oh, and you can use the internet on the home computer if you wish. The password is LizSan, L-I-Z-S-A-N,” he spelled it out.
“L-I-Z-S-A-N. Thanks.”
“And that was what I was calling you about yesterday,” he added.
Chapter 4
“Have you settled down? Are you over your jet lag?” Amma asked, on Tara’s sixth day in Atlanta.
Tara had finally learned to make long distance calls to India using a calling card that had eight numbers listed as Atlanta access numbers and a ten-digit PIN; a pretty Asian girl smiled against a red background on the other side.
“Time moves slowly,” Tara replied. “I have trouble sleeping at night, so I end up sleeping all afternoon.”
“Try to stay awake one afternoon. Your body will adjust quickly,” Amma suggested. “Is he okay with you?”
What was she going to tell Amma? “He is very quiet. Like me.”
“Everything is still very new for both, no? It takes time to get to know each other. Did he like the laddoos?”
“Yes,” she lied. He had eaten one laddoo, and she had polished off twenty-four of them, until only three remained. Each laddoo had made her feel good for a few minutes.
“How much of Atlanta have you seen?”
“He took me to the market one day, to the social security office two days later.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he now? Does he work on Saturday also?”
“I think so. He left a while ago.”
“What did you cook for him? Did you use my masala?”
“He said not to cook for him. He doesn’t like Indian food.”
“What?” Amma sounded shocked. “So, what do you do all day? How do you spend your time?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? What do you do, darling?”
“I don’t know, Amma. I don’t know. Let me go now. I don’t want to use up the calling card. I’ll call again soon.”
There was a sniff at the other end. “Keep talking to him, engage him in conversation. Everything will be okay, child. It might take a little time, but all will be well.”
“I know.” Tara had a sudden urge to take a jab at Amma, as if putting her in misery would magically make her feel better; as if happiness were a seesaw of inverse proportions.