“Cyrus, this is Dadda. Please call me when you get this message. Tara is here and would like to speak to you.”
“Maybe he decided to spend a week at the meditation center in North Carolina,” she joked, forcing a bright smile to her face. “How are the children doing? I’d like to visit them soon.”
“I’ll take you any time you want. They are all anxious to meet you.”
Dadda told her she was welcome to stay. The villa was as much hers as it was Cyrus’s. She said she would return with her luggage soon.
He showed her the house. They walked along the passage, peeked into several large rooms with antique furniture. They reached the heart of Cyrus’s childhood, his bedroom. Solid evidences of his life swam into her view. A teakwood dresser stood against one wall, a cupboard and a desk against the other. Above the desk, close to the entrance to the room, hung a prayer printed in papyrus font on handmade beige paper that was shaped like a medieval scroll. It was the prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi.
She crossed her hands across her chest to stop from shivering as she walked deeper into the room, past his four-poster bed covered in a beige embroidered bedspread. She felt his presence, the years he had spent in this room; growing up, learning new things, gaining new experiences, adding layers to his personality.
Back in the sitting room, she waited with Dadda, tormented by the silence of the phone. She felt silly, doing nothing to lift the burden off her chest. A middle-aged maid in a floral knee-length dress brought in tea on a wooden tray. Tara took a few sips from the dainty china cup, then mumbled about having to run errands.
“I’ll be back soon, Dadda,” she promised, giving him a quick hug.
“Don’t worry, my dear. Cyrus is not an irresponsible lad. He will call,” Dadda reassured her.
She walked down the street that led to Morgan Hill, where Cyrus had once walked with her all those years ago. Where he had said good-bye.
She stopped at the little Hanuman shrine at the top of Morgan Hill to ring the bell. For most of her life, her mind had associated temple chimes with loss, with sorrow. Yet, her feet had instinctively led her to the shrine, and her hand had reached up to the slim brass bell that hung from a thick rope. She stood a few seconds looking at the monkey god, painted green, the symbol of strength and perseverance. She was a believer, she knew. She had always been. Even when her prayers hadn’t manifested. Even when her conscious, skeptical mind told her she wasn’t. Even though she hadn’t put her hands together in prayer for most of her life.
The whole of the universe is inside you. To rule yourself is to rule the world. Uncle Anand had been right, as he often was. She joined her hands together now and closed her eyes. A simple acknowledgement of the higher consciousness inside her; a deep love that connected her with her universe. A simple effort to keep her hope strong—stronger than her fears.
The spare key to Shanti Nilaya, which Gangamma often used, was under a laterite brick on which sat a nondescript neem pot in the front yard. Once in, she headed to the new bathroom for a long bath, filling a large bucket with hot water from the geyser, then pouring water over herself out of a plastic mug—a calming ritual from her childhood. She had until nine before businesses would open. Her plan was to go to the currency exchange in Balmatta and get enough rupees to buy her a ticket back to Atlanta.
She brushed her teeth again, this time with her toothbrush, pulled on a pastel yellow tunic and jeans, ran a comb through her hair, and rummaged through her suitcase for the black pouch that held her passport and wallet. When she was ready, she picked Pinky from the middle of her bed and lay down, setting the doll on her belly. She needed reassurance that the lost could be found, that what was yours eventually came back to you. She waited for the grandfather clock in the old part of the house to strike nine times.
Her mind went back to the last two months of her relationship with Cyrus, of living through her deepest fear. Munmun was in love with her husband. She still believed that. Could she have handled that knowledge differently—given her own love for Cyrus its rightful place instead of letting her ego think for her? Allowed her heart to talk to Cyrus rather than her fear? Despite her best efforts to calm herself, she felt desperation rise from her belly, sharp like a serrated knife “Where are you, Cyrus?” she cried. “I need to talk to you, my love.”
A little before nine, she made her way out of Shanti Nilaya, closing the new wrought iron double gate and latching it distractedly behind her. The winding asphalted road up Morgan Hill was glinting in the sun. She imagined again a sixteen-year-old boy at the top of the hill waving at her, the sunlight bouncing off his happy face. Then she saw him. She squinted to make sure he wasn’t a mirage or her imagination, holding her breath so his visage wouldn’t disappear. But he was there even when she finally let out a sharp breath, even after she closed her eyes for a good many seconds and opened them again. He wasn’t sixteen anymore, but Cyrus was making his way down the hill. The smile on his face wasn’t radiant like the sun. It was slow to spread when his eyes fell upon her, as if breaking free from anxious thoughts.
She ran up to him on deer-like feet, almost throwing him off balance when she fell into his arms, knocking away the slim suitcase he held in his hand. She stayed there a long time, feeling the relief in the long release of his breath on her neck, feeling the power of love in the way his hand cradled the back of her head, the other tightly wound around her back. His first words to her, and her first words to him were, “I’m sorry.” They had both uttered those words at the same moment. For now, that was enough.
Chapter 31
She smiled at his handsome face, still deep in sleep. Her fingers were asleep too, entwined in his, over the rhythm of his peacefully heaving chest. It was morning, and they had a lot to do. But for now, she was content to simply glow in the memory of their long, hungry lovemaking in his childhood bed, to fill her heart with his proximity.
Although she had been right about Munmun, her actions had been incredibly immature. He had noticed the attention Munmun was giving him, but hadn’t sensed the reasons attached to it. He was guilty of ignoring the signs that he ought to have addressed, guilty of not understanding Tara’s angst. They had both learned a lesson in trust and honesty, in the power of sharing fears, discussing insecurities.
Two days before the staging of the play, Munmun had stayed back after rehearsals after the cast had left. She had helped Cyrus conjoin, with nails and hammer, two parts of an elaborate backdrop—a garden with flowering bushes, green trees, and a gurgling fountain. It was the last piece to be loaded into the U-Haul truck that Cyrus had rented. He would later drive it across the city to the venue.
She had directed their conversation to personal issues. Her husband had two adult children from his first wife and didn’t want any more. She yearned for a child; she had grown up in a large extended family, and the silence at home was too much to get used to.
He had tried to gently steer the conversation back to the fundraiser. She had taken his disinterest as naivete, a man who had trouble understanding signs, so she had been blunt. Each time she closed her eyes, she told him, he appeared, a playful Krishna to her Radha. He had occupied her mind every minute since the first day of rehearsals. She had never felt a pull quite as primal before. She had put her arms around his neck, burying her face in the fabric of his kurta. He had pulled away from her lock, stepping back, but allowing his hands to rest on her shoulders.