I was coming to realize that the longer I stayed away from my family, the clearer my vision got. And the less I confided in them or relied on them, the better off I was.
I was tempted to power off my phone, completely disconnect with the world. But I wasn’t that brave. Besides, Paris would be reaching out if she was going to be super late.
I slung my crossbody bag over my peacoat and began walking toward the Times Square station to take the subway down to Houston Street. Paris and I were meeting for drinks and then dinner at a new vegan restaurant in Greenwich Village. This would be our second meet-up since Lavinia’s wedding, and the first one alone. We’d gotten together on Wednesday night with the NYU gang—everyone except Lavinia who was on her honeymoon in Argentina—at a speakeasy-style pub in the Meatpacking District, and as usual we’d gotten rowdy and shouty and Paris and I hadn’t had a chance to catch up. I couldn’t...wouldn’t explain my situation over the phone. So, tonight’s dinner was important, and perfect since it was Friday night and we’d be able to stay out till late with impunity—unless her husband wanted her home early.
I didn’t know how my friends still did it—the late nights, the drinking and that too after a full day of work. And then manage to get to work on time the next morning. I’d felt haggard all of yesterday after the pub night. I was too old to binge on Girlfriend Cocktails. Too old, tired and gauche at twenty-nine. I wasn’t hip anymore. Had I ever been?
A dog walker hurried past me as I strode down the Avenue of the Americas, herding a pack of nine lapdogs of all shapes and colors. Maybe I could get a dog. A small one. Or a cat. Maybe then I wouldn’t feel so unloved.
If I was being honest, I wasn’t quite prepared for a heart-to-heart with Paris. A simple reunion with an estranged friend would’ve been tricky enough without blubbering neediness all over it. Also, Paris was going to kick my ass for letting things get this bad. And if she agreed to help me, I’d be—I’d certainly feel—indebted to her. Before, I’d been the rock and she the emotional mess. It would cause a tectonic shift in our friendship, never mind that I hated taking favors from anybody. But I didn’t have a choice anymore. My family had left me no choices.
I cut off the phone as soon as it began vibrating and flashing Vinay’s name on the screen. Damn him. Just damn him and his grubby, greedy soul.
Was he being greedy or was he simply looking out for me? Just like my father. They’d both been there for Kaivan and me from the moment he’d gotten in trouble. Of course, they’d recovered their own losses first—Kaivan would’ve done the same if he’d been in their shoes. I shouldn’t be doubting them, second-guessing their motives. I had no proof that Vinay was doing anything wrong. But I couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that something was wrong.
“Stop overthinking. Talk to Paris and figure this out,” I told myself out loud.
The sooner, the better. I’d fallen apart at the lawyer’s office because of one kindly look from James Weinberg and an assurance that he was in my corner. I hadn’t cried in months, so it was understandable, expected, even a welcome relief. Though, I don’t think James had thought so. The poor man hadn’t known what to do with me and had called his assistant inside the conference room to mop me up. I’d already wasted so much of his time today, beginning with arriving late for our meeting. I’d miscalculated how much time it took to walk from SoHo to midtown. I was turning into one of those annoying late-lateefs who had no respect for anyone’s time or schedules.
At least, my meetings with the directors of the three art galleries in SoHo had been less emotional. All three had agreed to carry a few of the pieces of my art collection on consignment. The pieces would be arriving from India any day now. It wouldn’t be money up front, but the sticker price we’d settled on had been higher—much higher than what I’d been quoted in India. Vinay had brought that art dealer to me, and again, I wasn’t sure if the quote had been correct or they’d conspired to con me out of some prized art very cheaply.
The phone rang again and this time it sparked my anger. Though it banked quickly as I checked the display and accepted the call from the worldwide shipping service I’d used.
“Mrs. Naira Dalmia? This is Randy from At Your Doorstep.”
“This is Naira. Is something wrong with the shipment?” I asked, expecting the worst.
But nothing was wrong. In fact, my shipment had arrived earlier than expected, and Randy would be delivering the six crates and twelve boxes full of artwork to my doorstep. Which meant parts of the collection would be proudly on display in the SoHo galleries within a few days and hopefully would sell soon after that. Perfect. I should get a move on the auction houses too for the collector’s pieces.
“We’ll be there in half an hour,” said Randy.
“Now? Tonight? Oh, but...I’m not at home.” I stopped in my tracks right outside the Olive Garden at Times Square. Luckily no one was walking behind me or I’d have gotten an angry earful.
“Is there someone to accept the shipment? If not, we can take it to the warehouse, and set up a delivery date for next week. Storage will cost you though.”
That did it. “I’ll be home in half an hour.”
I wasn’t about to let a Husain, a Warhol and three bronze artifacts from Ancient India sit in some warehouse somewhere. The whole point in getting this shipment to New York was so it wouldn’t be sitting in a Mumbai warehouse. I needed to sell most of it ASAP. I was strapped for cash and also, it was getting too expensive to care for and insure. I refused to sell the collection to Vinay who couldn’t tell a Raja Ravi Varma work from a Raza. This art collection had been Kaivan’s and my passion: I wanted another passionate art lover to enjoy it.
I double-checked ETA and my address with Randy and hung up the phone. Then I pressed my hands to my chest and tried to absorb everything I’d accomplished in a week and would accomplish in the coming weeks. My friendships were on the mend. And maybe, just maybe my finances too. But at what cost?
Once again, I felt like an object in a time-lapse video, frozen in the center, with bright, colorful New York racing all around. I’d been living inside a time-lapse since the day Kaivan was arrested. So many things had happened that were beyond my control and understanding that I didn’t know how to respond to the world anymore, so I’d stopped responding. Everything triggered a panic attack, so I’d disengaged from everything and everyone, even myself. And now I wondered if I’d be able to reconnect with myself, with life, again.
“Stop being melodramatic,” I said to myself and resumed marching down the street.
I didn’t have time for wishy-washy thoughts. I had to inform Paris about the change in plans. I scrolled through the starred contacts on my phone and clicked on Paris’s name. She picked up on the sixth ring.
“Naira! I was about to leave a message. I’m running late,” she huffed into the phone as if she was actually running. “Are you at the restaurant already?”
“No,” I said, then quickly added, “Look, something’s come up. I’m sorry for doing this again, but can we take a rain check on tonight?”
Silence followed my request. And stillness, as if Paris had suddenly stopped running or even breathing. I’d canceled on her yesterday too. I ran my tongue over my lower lip. I couldn’t just cancel on her for a second time without some explanation.
“I have to go back to the apartment. There’s a shipment coming in and I have to be there to receive it.”
“I see.” Another long silence filled the connection. “Your place on Central Park West?”
It wasn’t my place, per se. Kaivan had bought the apartment as an investment, then transferred the deed to me only months before his arrest. The only reason I was still in possession of it was because it had been rented out, fully furnished, and the tenants had moved out only last month.
“Temporarily my place. The Realtor has scheduled an open house on Sunday and expects the apartment to sell qui
ckly.” I scrunched up my face. “Can we reschedule for tomorrow? I know it’s the weekend and you might have plans with Neal.”
I started down the steps to the subway. If I didn’t hurry, I’d be late.
“Nah...” Paris’s voice trailed off behind a gust of sirens blasting down the road on her end.
“What?” I stopped halfway down the steps of a remodeled subway station, pressing the phone to my ear, which made a bunch of New Yorkers hiss at me in annoyance. “Sorry. Sorry.” I lurched out of their path only to get blasted by the ones coming up the stairs. Subway steps were not the ideal place to stop and chat. “You’re breaking up, Paris. Can you repeat what you said?”
“...not cancel. Need to talk...I’ll come...grab dinner...”
I tried to fill in the blanks. “You’ll come to the apartment and we’ll grab dinner after and talk, is that what you mean?”
“Yes, I want to run something by you. Unless you rather wait until tomorrow?” she said, clear as crystal, finally.
A stupid smile bloomed on my face. But since she couldn’t see it, I said, “Flat number 16B,” to demonstrate my glee at her offer.
“Great. Just getting out of the office. Shouldn’t take me long to get there. Same place we dropped you off on Sunday, right?”
“Yup. See you soon.” I disconnected, thinking the day just kept on improving. At this rate, I’d be floating free in a week.
Famous last words, as pessimists would say.
* * *
By the time Paris arrived at the apartment, I was in full panic mode. I was devastated. No, I was angry beyond compare. I couldn’t believe how gullible I’d been. Again.
I waved her in and we hugged and air-kissed like uppity socialites connecting at a party. No high fives, backslaps or palms pressed to the chest namastes between us now. The namastes had been done in jest mostly—after Paris had wised up to the fact that the greeting wasn’t customary at all. But, for a hot minute back in freshman year, I’d made her believe that all Indians went around bowing and touching each other’s feet.
I checked my phone. No missed calls or messages. This time I was waiting for Vinay’s response, and he was avoiding me. I wanted to hear his explanation for my missing masterpiece. Couldn’t I have one day—just one day when I didn’t have to deal with a new calamity?
“What’s wrong?”
What was right? I wanted to moan. I didn’t know how to tell her that my art collection was missing four items—the Husain and three sixteenth-century bronze sculptures of the Buddha. The eighteen crates and boxes had been packed, sealed and taken away by the shipping guys before my very eyes two weeks ago in Mumbai. They’d been delivered still sealed. But, when Randy had opened the largest crate containing three paintings, just twenty minutes ago, the Husain hadn’t been in it.
I knew in my gut that when asked Vinay would place the blame on At Your Doorstep for either messing up the shipment or stealing from it outright. I knew as well that it would be a lie. But how could I call him out on it without starting an all-out war with my family? Or another scandal? Besides, who would believe me over him? The world saw him as an upstanding businessman while I was the widow of a man the media had labeled a criminal.
“You know, if I’d passed by you on the street, I wouldn’t have recognized you,” I deflected Paris’s question, hoping—praying—Vinay had a plausible explanation for the missing art.
It wasn’t just diversion or flattery, Paris did look amazing in a plum-colored tailored suit and her runway-worthy office bag was to die for. Handbags were my weakness. I hadn’t shopped for one in forever. And gone were the days when I could stroll down Madison or Fifth, pop into any store and buy anything I wanted without checking the price tag.
“Balenciaga.” I ran my fingers over the supple gray skin, loving the texture and the thickness of the Italian leather. The only two places I couldn’t give up the use of animal products were handbags and shoes. “It matches your outfit. Remember how annoyed you’d get when I’d match my shoes to my handbag or accessories? How the mighty have fallen,” I teased.
Paris tsk-tsked on cue. “And you haven’t changed at all. Still into glam shams.”
Oh, but I had changed. Change was inevitable, wasn’t it?
“Why mess with perfection?” I retorted cheekily, trying in vain to dig out the woman I’d once been. “Besides I’m not the only one in designer clothes right now.”
Paris rolled her eyes, stepping over and around the packing materials strewn on the living room floor. Randy and his crew were still opening the last of the crates and boxes in the shipment. There was no place to sit anywhere because the sofas and chairs, even the coffee tables and dining table were piled high with things. Later, I’d sort everything into piles: sell or store.
I felt awfully self-conscious. “Sorry about the mess. I was supposed to declutter the apartment for the showing, but now that the shipment came in, it’s impossible. These paintings and collectibles are for the art galleries. I’ll send them off tomorrow. Those antiques are for an auction house and a private collector.” Minus the artwork Vinay stole. “I’ll have to make it all look like part of the decor.”
Paris took stock of the living room, then her eyes traveled back to me and she took stock of me until tiny folds appeared between her brows. “How bad is it?”
How bad was it that I’d been reduced to sell an eight-by-ten photo frame because it was made of silver? I swallowed hard and it hurt. “Bad. I’ll tell you once they leave.”
One of the guys from Randy’s crew came out of the guest room. He smiled, picked up a couple of the water bottles I’d set out for them on the kitchen countertop and strolled away.
“Do you want something to drink?” Paris had come straight from work. The least I could do was be a good hostess.
She shook her head. “No thanks. Need to pee though.”
I directed her to the powder room by the foyer, took her bag and jacket and draped it over the circular marble table that I’d pushed into a corner so I could parade boxes in and out of the apartment without tripping.
“Nice place,” she said. “You shouldn’t have an issue selling it.”
I suppressed a smile. Paris had learned the art of small talk. “That’s what I was told.”
The Realtor, Crystal Lang, was confident the apartment would sell right away. Thank heavens—one less thing to worry about. The first showing was on Sunday, hence the attempted decluttering.
She hesitated at the bathroom door, clearly wanting to say something, but thought the better of it and closed the door.
I guess we were both feeling odd around each other. The old vibe was there, especially when we brought up the past, and yet, there was this new awareness that we didn’t really know each other anymore. I hoped it was temporary.
I retraced my steps, looking around the apartment. It was a nice place—two bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, a den, a kitchen, a separate dining room and a maid’s room. For Manhattan standards, it was a good-sized space, but compared to my twenty-thousand-square-foot penthouse in Mumbai, which had spanned three full floors with two terraces, it was tiny. That flat was no longer my home, either. I’d sold it to pay the banks, and to settle Kaivan’s parents into a small town house northwest of London, close to their daughter in Golders Green. They expected me to join them once I’d settled our affairs here, while my parents expected me to go back to Mumbai and get married again. I wasn’t interested in either of those options.
I poked my head into the guest room and answered Randy’s questions about where the pieces from box number twelve should go. Which room, which pile. I passed by the Warhol on my way to the other bedroom to run a brush through my shoulder-length blunt. It was a blessing Vinay didn’t know art or he’d have taken it too. When would he call? I was ready to jump out of my skin.
The master bedroom was a hodgepodge of personalities. It
seemed every tenant had left their mark on it. I couldn’t understand what Kaivan was thinking, renting this lovely apartment to strangers when it was loaded with expensive art and antiques.
Had thought. My hand froze while applying gloss to my lips. Past tense. Kaivan was past tense now.
I turned away from the mirror, suddenly aching for my husband. How could I miss him even more every day? Shouldn’t I miss him less after two years? Think of him less?
At least living in this apartment didn’t feel as tragic as living in the Mumbai one had. Probably because we’d never lived here together. There were no memories to battle here, no echoes to run from. There were no traces of him to miss or get angry over here. I treated the apartment like a hotel suite, a temporary place to sleep and shower in. I wouldn’t allow myself to look out of the windows, at the sweeping views of Central Park that you could see from almost every room. I wouldn’t let myself get attached to a place like I had my Mumbai home and An Atelier ever again. Or for that matter another person. Attachments only led to suffering.
Paris had known that even as a child. Which made me very curious about how she was managing the art of detachment within her marriage. She hadn’t looked detached at the wedding. In fact, she’d—
The phone buzzed inside my jeans’ pocket. I fished it out and saw it was Sarika calling, not Vinay. The bloody coward was hiding behind his wife’s skirts as usual.
I’d been trained in the Art of Living, and meditated every day. I knew how to influence my mind into calm, focus on my kundalini and find my Zen space. But all my training flew out the window the minute I heard Sarika’s explanation about why her husband had pilfered four pieces from my husband’s—now my—art collection without so much as a by-your-leave.
The Object of Your Affections Page 6