Tara couldn’t help but claim Mira’s smile for herself; as if she had been finally compensated for the joy that had been taken away from her thirty-two years ago. She stayed on her knees until they felt sore; until after Mira had run in with her prized possession; until, she realized with a start, that the water droplets that were creating wet patches on the cement were her own tears. They were as real as the love she felt in her heart—for Mira, for all her children, for Cyrus, for her family, for the universe, for herself.
Chapter 32
Amma and Daddy met their new son-in-law in their marble-floored sitting room. People surrounded them, like extras in a Bollywood wedding scene, present but barely in the background, curiously looking from a distance, as if at celebrities. Or circus tigers. Most walked deeper into the house, or outside to lounge under the shade of the giant shamiana. Only Vijay, who would have been an active part of the scene, was out at the caterer’s with a last-minute alteration in the wedding lunch menu.
It helped that Cyrus bowed down to touch their feet—first Amma’s, then Daddy’s; that they first connected with their son-in-law physically, a gentle hand over his bent head as blessing, a positive exchange of energy.
She noticed her parents’ rigid body language at first. Daddy overtly polite, asking about Obama’s prospects in the upcoming elections; Amma focusing entirely on bringing out snacks and tea, piling Cyrus’s plate with vada chutney, fried cashews, and plantain chips. But they warmed up quickly to Cyrus’s easy manner, his ready smile. Before long, Cyrus had promised Amma a one-on-one meditation and cleansing session, a solution for her insomnia, and convinced Daddy of the benefits of surya namaskar, sun salutations. He had wrangled a promise from them that they would visit Atlanta during Christmas.
Daddy had questions about running a charity, an NGO as he called it, and expressed his desire to one day convert Shanti Nilaya into a shelter for the homeless mentally ill. He would call the home Anand Prakash, a place where anand—joy—and prakash—light—would converge to bring dignity to those on the fringes of sanity and of society. Cyrus said their foundation would be happy to partner in this wonderful initiative, help get it off the ground, raise funds in America. Tara had never heard Daddy express this desire before. His altruism thus far had been limited to Rotary Club meetings. It surprised her, this shift, the forming of new perspectives, new attitudes toward life.
“Let’s do it, Daddy,” she said, eyes shining. “It would be a wonderful way to honor Uncle Anand’s life.”
Cyrus was presented with an invitation to their niece’s wedding, a glossy white card with gold lettering, a symbol of Lord Ganesha embossed on the top. “You must come,” Amma said. “Vijay can take you shopping for a sherwani when he returns.” She apologized for the absence of the bride and her parents. They were out at the venue, supervising the decoration, but of course, the invitation had come from them.
She saw the pride on Daddy’s face as he brought out a copy of the Morning Herald from his study, reading glasses perched on his nose, the sheets folded neatly so that Tara’s opinion piece was on the front. “Have you read it yet?” he asked over his glasses, gaze moving from her to Cyrus. “A women’s college in Udupi has nominated Tara for their annual ‘Young Changemaker Award’. You must stay back two more weeks to receive it.”
Cyrus eagerly took the copy from Daddy’s hands. His father had changed his subscription from the Morning Herald to the Times of India, so they hadn’t been able to lay their hands on a copy, he said.
Tara overcame her sudden embarrassment, the urge to tear the sheets away from Cyrus’s hands, to ask him to read the essay later when they were by themselves. After all, it was the power of her words that had changed her universe, even the universe inside her.
They read the essay together, the broadsheet spread across their laps, her parents watching them from the across the room, as if they alone mattered in a house full of wedding guests.
My first act of self-determination at the age of thirty-six made me a pariah. My crime? I walked out of an abusive, loveless marriage. Up until that point, I was only fodder for gossip. First, because I was not good enough, pretty enough, smart enough, outgoing enough to win a husband in an arranged marriage. Next, because the man who married me abandoned me for three years. No reasons were asked of him. It was my fault. I hadn’t tried hard enough to be worthy of him.
Ours is a culture where a man’s word is The Word. So when my ex had a change of heart and sent for me, my family only felt relief. I was packed off to the US, no questions asked. I felt relief too, to escape the torment that our society reserves for an abandoned wife.
When I landed in America, the land of dreams, I already felt like a zero, my sense of self-worth crushed by my own people. It got worse. I was ignored, neglected, denied a wife’s place, and yet, the onus was on me to try harder, to make the marriage work. My ex told me the marriage was a mistake. I begged him not to send me back. If I had returned, they would have branded me an even bigger failure.
It escalated to emotional and physical violence. He was still not answerable to anyone. When he threw me out, I summoned the courage to move on. But my ex had a change of heart and was ready to accept me back. I was told I had no choice but to go back. Good wives make peace with their circumstances; they don’t fight their destiny; they don’t put their own happiness before their family’s reputation, I was told.
Forcing people to get back together does not magically breed love. My ex and I both knew that. There was nothing to bind us together: not love, not affection, not shared interests, not shared dreams.
Initially, there were three of us in our marriage, and I was the irrelevant part. A year into our life together, my ex told me of his great love for his Helen of Troy, with whom he carried on, while I simply existed, invisible, like dust under the carpet. It hurt, because I was not dust under the carpet. Dust is inanimate; it does not have a heart that can bleed for trying and failing.
Then something magical happened to me. One day, five years into a meaningless, miserable marriage, I realized that I deserve better. When I walked out into the unknown, strangely, I wasn’t dying. My spirit was only then finding rebirth. My life in the months that followed was filled with the love and kindness of friends, which was driven by my own courage. I was finally a person with dreams, desires, and many reasons to live. I had finally taken control of my life. Sadly, this basic right is denied to many of us.
To the modern-day keepers of our traditions, I ask: Why is it always the woman who is instructed to try harder to win over her husband, to adjust, to stay silent, to make peace with the injustices she faces? When things go wrong, why can’t she turn to her family? If she finally decides to stand up for herself, why does her family not stand with her? Why is the victim victimized even further? Why are no questions asked of the perpetrator?
I eventually got remarried to my soulmate. If this were a Bollywood movie, that would be the expected happy climax, love triumphing over social dictates, over the baddies, the audience applauding. But Bollywood is make-believe. In real life, a woman who steps out of line blackens her family honor. She is branded an outcast. There is thrill in dragging a woman’s name through the muck by repeating her story to all and sundry. In my case, not only had I dared to remarry for love, but my soulmate was born into a different faith. That was enough scandal to last three generations of my family.