“You think he does, don’t you?”
“She is all fake, all dolled-up. Some stupid men like that.”
Tara closed her eyes again. It was vivid, her mental imagery of Sanjay naked, having sex with a pretty, buxom blonde. She gasped for breath; the wetness on her neck trickled into the sheet. Tara was not blonde or shapely or buxom—she was just a very average looking loser who had begged Sanjay to keep her.
The chamomile tea calmed her nerves a little, and she finally dozed off, temporarily escaping reality. She woke up with a start when the light came on in the bedroom. He stood at the door, perhaps surprised to find her bedraggled in damp sheets. He searched her face but said nothing. She looked away, unable to even bear the sight of him. He went to his closet to undress, then disappeared into the bathroom. She waited, her heart racing, until she heard the running water of the shower. She rushed wildly, on rickety feet, to his closet. She fumbled through the breast pocket of the cream shirt he had worn that day. The faint, lingering smell of his cologne hit her senses, making her pain come raw again. She searched his pants, and found the cell phone she was looking for.
Her fingers were clumsy as she flipped it open and pushed up the arrow with two clicks to select text messages. She clicked again, and a series of messages popped up. They were incriminating, most of them. The last message in the sent folder was to Liz and it had been sent at 10:32 pm, perhaps after he’d parked his car. “Nothing trumps making you smile. G’night. Love you.”
She clicked Liz’s message which had come in at 10:20. “Love my new boots. Kiss kiss.”
Tara pushed the back button and opened another message from the list. It was from Liz. “Still in my birthday suit, missing you already . . . xo xo.”
She flung the phone into the laundry heap and ran out toward the front door. She found her flip-flops in the shoe closet, slipped impatiently into them, threw the front door open, and dashed out into the night. Down the stairs she rushed on weightless legs, and kept running until she was out on the road. She crossed the road into the church compound, as if with purpose. She had not joined her hands together in prayer since school, but she tried to yank open the large double doors to the sanctuary, frenzied in her effort. Her upper lip curled in, her teeth gnashed; deep troubled sounds erupted from her throat. But the doors stayed shut. She gave up, defeated, panting, her fingers sore, and sank onto the uppermost step leading up to the sanctuary. She bent over and buried her wet, sweaty face in her thighs. The tears finally came. They emerged in fits and starts before they grew to a steady flow. They purged her, then fed her more sorrow. It was a clear, warm night. A quiet, luminous moon, the same one from her childhood, was the sole witness to her coming apart.
It was almost dawn. A bird started to call from the church roof, and Tara could see the outlines of her apartment buildings opposite the road. It seemed like the beginning of just another day, but she had crossed a bridge that had collapsed after her. She sat spent, her tears dried up. She had to go back home, to her broken life; she had nowhere else to go. She pulled herself up and walked slowly out of the church compound. Her head throbbed with dull pain; the events of the night had triggered a migraine attack.
The front door was locked. She remembered leaving it open when she took flight last night. She hesitated before knocking. If only she could flee, and not come back.
He ushered her in and quickly closed the door behind her. She could not bring herself to look at him. She walked into the living room, shook off her flip flops and lay down on the sofa, face up. She stared unseeingly at the ceiling.
“Where did you go?” He had followed her to the living room and stood near the loveseat, arms crossed over his chest. She ignored him.
“Woman, you had me worried, I almost called the cops. And what did you do with my cell phone?”
She turned her gaze toward him. His forehead was furrowed, his brow creased into a frown. His eyes looked heavy as if he had stayed awake all night.
She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She cleared her throat and tried again.
“I suppose you’ve figured out that your dirty little secret is out?” Her voice sounded hoarse, raspy.
She heard him sigh as he lowered himself into the loveseat. He rubbed his face, ran his fingers through his hair.
“And why exactly did you go through my cell phone?” His voice was high-pitched, defensive.
Tara ignored his question. He sat staring at the edge of the coffee table, chewing his lower lip. The silence between them reached a crescendo.
“I am human too,” she heard herself say at last.
He ruminated her statement for a while, eyes still on the edge of the coffee table. “You chose to stay. It was your choice.”
“I am your wife.”
“It was never my intention to hurt you.”
“Why did you marry me?”
He raised his eyes to look at her. “We’ve been through this before. It was a mistake.”
Tara felt a lump in her throat. “After two years, you still think of it as a mistake?”
He remained silent.
She slid her feet down and sat up straight on the sofa. She felt tears sting her eyes again.
“Sanjay,” she whispered. Her voice trembled with anguish. “When you made love to me, didn’t you feel anything, anything at all in your heart for me?”
He turned his face away.
“Please tell me you felt some love for me,” she implored, tears streaming down her cheeks.
He slammed his fists on the hand rests of the loveseat, pulled himself up, and silently strode out the front door. In a fit, Tara grabbed the copy of Time magazine that lay within her reach on the coffee table, and flung it wildly at his retreating back. It missed him by several inches, hit the wall with a crack, and lay limp on the floor by the coat closet. She slithered down to the carpet and slumped over, weeping.
She lay on the carpet, face down on her forearms, drifting between blackness, dreams, and grief. Somewhere, bells jingled; they were on Amma’s feet, and she appeared looking young and beautiful, with Vijay in her arms. She waved from the train that was pulling out of Mangalore Station. “Bye, Tara, my sweet angel. We will be back soon.” Amma’s sari puffed and billowed as the train moved away.
Tara ran after the train as fast as her little feet could carry her. “Amma, don’t leave me,” she pleaded. But Amma was gone; she had vanished into the countryside like a mirage.
She woke up from her nightmare with a start, but before long another childhood memory came calling.
“See how your daddy and mummy abandoned you,” Zeenat’s harsh words rang in her ears. “Your mummy eats mutton every day, wears new saris, and has lots and lots of new gold. What do you have? Nothing.”
Zeenat wasn’t washing clothes that day. It was a Sunday evening, and they were at the back of the house, playing hopscotch hidden behind a mango tree, because Grandfather Madhava didn’t approve of Tara playing with a rickshawallah’s daughter.
Tara wished her friend would go back to her wild stories. She loved listening to them. But she hated it when Zeenat talked about Amma and Daddy.
“When Amma and Daddy come to visit, they will bring me new frocks,” she said defiantly.
“You have too much faith in your parents,” Zeenat said, shaking her head, as she hopped from square to square, her long cinnamon brown skirt pulled up to reveal fair bare feet. “I feel sad for you. For all you know, they might never come back. Then you will have to live here forever. I am only giving you fair warning.”