by Tara Pammi
Someone really liked pink in the house. The same someone had also been very thoughtful. Along with a small white desk and a chair, there was everything a guest could probably want in the room.
Farah looked out of the window into the small yard beyond.
Rain pelted relentlessly, as it had in the last ten days since she’d arrived in this part of the world. The weather matched the somber mood she hadn’t been able to shake off for months.
But this was her home now – for the next few weeks at least. She was a houseguest in a stranger’s house. Yes, Professor Rao had been a friend of her parents a long time ago, but she was a stranger to Farah.
She was here by her own decision. Not her two well-meaning aunties who’d tried so hard to fill the void that Mama had left. Not the two sets of overprotective grandparents who had gotten over a lifetime of affected antagonism to care for her. Not Papa who was just as much a stranger to her as Professor Rao’s kind husband who had shown her around.
The framed picture she’d placed on the small desk winked back at her.
Mama and her, standing in the balcony of their flat in Hyderabad, grinning like fools.
Go out there and live your life, Farah. Use the brain you have to do something in the world.
She’d made the decision to work with Professor Rao because it would have made Mama happy. Maybe she’d have even been proud of Farah.
It’s what she’d prepared Farah for, all her life. And in the chaos of running away from every familiar face – because Farah had no delusions about what she was doing, it was the one thing she held onto. For the first time in the fourteen months since her life had turned upside down, she was alone.
Here, no interfering relatives surrounded her or choked her with affection. No well-meaning family members fighting over who she belonged with or what she should do, or forcing her to choose whom she loved the most.
A sudden laugh burst forth from her mouth as she imagined Mama rolling her eyes at them all. All her life, she had kept her parents and her in-laws from taking over her life and Farah’s. And not just because they belonged to two distinctly different faiths. No, her mother had been fiercely independent and had always encouraged Farah to make up her own mind.
And that’s what Farah was hoping to do in these few weeks.
Now that she was away from the whole lot of them, maybe she could figure out what the hell she wanted to do and where she wanted to live. Of course, there would still be the question of figuring out how.
Because twenty-three-year-old mathematics genius Farah Ahmed didn’t know how to live life without her mother. She simply didn’t. Her heart felt like a piece of petrified wood in her chest. Even her two half-brothers Javed and Salim and their chaotic antics and their unconditional acceptance of her… nothing could spark even a flicker of joy in her heart.
She was tired of the long, concerned glances Papa sent her. And the guilt that she was being a horrible daughter to the one parent she had left.
As for the other important systems in her body, Farah didn’t remember the last time she’d felt a spark of interest in anyone. Not since she’d dumped her useless lump of a boyfriend and his insecurities after she’d told him that she was bisexual.
Not until this morning…when a wave of lust had rolled through her with such intensity that Farah was still hiding in her bedroom in the basement.
From the girl who’d barged into the bathroom in her undies. A white bra and sky blue tight shorts that had contrasted beautifully against brown skin. Her breasts had been overflowing out of the cups of the bra and her hips had been curvy. She’d had the cutest belly button and…she reminded Farah of a Cadburys chocolate.
Farah had been hiding all morning. Through that girl’s knock at her door at lunchtime, through her stomach eating itself in hunger. Even through the patchy sunlight that had weakly filtered through the window.
Farah had never been able to lie to herself. Not with her mother always going on about emotional intelligence and awareness and all sorts of things others learnt of after they’d unlearned the wrong things they’d been taught to believe from infancy. Things other people went to therapy to figure out.
What she had felt this morning was no small spark. More like an explosion inside of herself.
Courtesy of the girl with the big eyes, soft curves and a crackling presence. Her hair had been tied into that ‘messy bun’ that Farah’s friend had tried to teach her with no success. Baby fat clung to the girl’s cheeks loyally, clearly telling that she wasn’t quite a woman yet. But not a teen either.
She had stared at Farah’s body. As if she wanted to inhale her whole.
Her brown eyes had swept over the length of Farah’s thighs and the curve of her hip that the towel wouldn’t cover and the upper curves of her breasts…kindling pockets of heat over Farah’s skin wherever they touched.
Farah could have covered herself with the towel. But she’d never been modest. More importantly, she had liked how the girl had looked at her.
Even now, as Farah closed her eyes and recalled that gorgeous girl, she could feel that wave of wanting roll through her. Excitement shimmered under her skin at the thought of meeting her.
Suddenly, the nice escape felt like it would be anything but that.
“Is it true, Dad? Is it true that Amma’s new intern’s another math genius?”
Her foot landing softly on the last step, Farah hovered behind the closed door like a thief. The voices were on the other side, and she recognized the one asking the question.
The girl’s voice was pitched low. But what made Farah freeze like a statue in a situation she’d usually avoid was the wealth of pain when the girl asked the matter-of-fact sounding question.
“I don’t know about that, Tara,” the man replied. Professor Rao’s husband. He was completely unaware of the nuance in the girl’s question. “And really, does it matter whether she is a math genius or not? Did you switch off the griddle?”
Big eyes and soft curves and silky skin had a name…Tara.
So this was Tara Muvvala. And she was Professor Rao’s daughter. Of course.
The first person to make Farah feel something in over two years and it turned out to be her employer’s daughter. If she were the type, Farah would have given the universe a finger. Or rolled her eyes at the very least.
“Yes, I did. We have enough naan now. And I took the eggplant out of the oven. And yes, it does. To me,” the girl retorted. In a whisper that was full of frustration. “Why can’t the damn girl be a normal student? Why can’t she be an arts major? Why a math genius?”
The silence that followed the question spoke eloquently of her father’s confusion.
Farah frowned. She’d never heard of anyone hating a subject this much. This wasn’t just an inconvenience Tara was protesting against.
“Her parents were friends of your mother a long time ago. She was impressed by the girl’s work on some paper and invited her to stay. Not that your mother needs to justify her reasons to you.”
Tara’s gasp was full of outrage. “I’m not asking her to justify anything.”
“Then why have you been acting as if it’s a chore to organize one dinner for Amma? Why this sullen face when she talks to you? You know, she doesn’t read you as well as I do. And even this…this discussion now when the house is full of guests? I expected better of you.”
“It’s not that she invited someone to stay in our house and forgot to tell us, Dad,” Tara answered.
Her voice wobbled and Farah felt an unbidden echo of understanding, despite the fact that Tara was against Farah staying. Maybe all her father saw was a tantrum but Farah heard something more.
She heard that confusion in Tara’s voice that she herself had felt in the last few months. That confusion then led to isolation – because it felt like no one could understand. Which only led to loneliness, in a vicious cycle.
Farah knew she should open the door, or cough or something…but she couldn’t move. Couldn�
�t stop the curiosity welling within her about Tara.
“It’s not that Amma doesn’t even ask me when I’m the one who has to share the space with them,” Tara continued. “It’s that…”
“What’s this, Tara? You know better than to act like a spoiled, privileged kid. You know better than to say your mother needs your permission before she invites guests over.
How many times have we told you how it feels to arrive in a strange, new country where you know no one? How it feels to say goodbye to your family and friends? These kids travel thousands of miles without a lot of money or any kind of support system in place looking for a better chance at life’s opportunities. The same opportunities you’ve had since day one. The least we can do is offer shelter and a few meals while they settle into life here. You can’t…”
“Oh my God, Dad! I really don’t need that spiel about being grateful. Believe me, I’m reminded every day of what I have–”
“Then act like it, please.”
“–and on a daily basis of what I don’t have,” Tara finished, her voice going lower and lower. “I know! I get it! I just don’t need it rubbed in my face day in, day out.”
“Wait…. What do you mean what you don’t have? Tara, honey, what are you talking about?” Her father’s voice softened, as if he’d realized too late that he’d missed something. A ‘big’ something, Farah was sure. “Did Amma forget something? You know it’s not fair to expect her to remember all the small things, Tara. Please, just tell me.”
“I just…sometimes I wish I wasn’t…”
“What, honey?”
“I just don’t want that fucking math genius in my space, okay? I don’t want her to steal the little… ”
Before Farah could blink or pull in a breath, the door was pulled open from the other side.
The father and daughter duo stared at Farah, shock etched into almost identical faces. She wanted to say something breezy and laugh it off. Pretend like she hadn’t heard every word.
Intentions, no matter how strongly felt, didn’t translate into actions when one was incapable of pretending. Making small talk or laughing things off or saying things to make people feel better had never been her forte to begin with. But after Mama had passed away, it felt as if she’d lost her ability to communicate with the rest of the world.
Mama had been the one with the words. And the love and the heart and…just about everything.
So Farah just stood there and stared back at them. This fucking math genius has lost her words, she wanted to say to Tara with a breezy laugh. But she couldn’t.
The problem with that was that her silence added into their silence and morphed into something Farah couldn’t control. Like an exponential had been let loose. It conveyed a brazen kind of shaming on her part, as if she were holding them to their words and demanding an answer.
The longer she stood there, the deeper shame etched itself into Tara’s features. Her chin trembled and pink streaked her cheeks. She fisted her hands by her sides and then released them. And then with a sound that could have been cry or a grunt, she walked away.
Farah stared after Tara with growing dismay at her own inability to say anything.
After what felt like an eternity, Ravi Uncle’s face broke into a strained smile. “Please excuse what you heard, Farah. Despite how she spoke just now, my daughter knows how to behave. I seem to have missed something that’s bothering her,” he muttered to himself.
Farah shook her head. “Please, uncle. Don’t explain. Are you sure it’s okay for–”
“If I’m to not explain Tara’s tantrum, then you cannot mention any doubts about staying with us. That episode was about us. Not you.”
Farah nodded, even though she didn’t quite understand. It seemed to have to do with her. A lot. The fucking math genius…Tara had said. And yet she also felt a strange kinship with the other girl that defied rationale.
“Good.” For a moment, Ravi Uncle’s gaze trailed after his daughter and then returned to her. “Please, come have dinner. You didn’t eat anything all day.”
Farah followed him through a small corridor and past the coat closet to the large dining room. She was glad to see a few familiar faces from the maths department. Except Steve, who thought he was being welcoming by telling her constantly that she was different from the other Muslims he’d encountered. Because she didn’t wear the hijab.
As if she was…Muslim-lite, and therefore more palatable.
On the first day, Farah had mistaken his interest as genuine and had tried to explain that her father’s family were Ahmadi Muslims and none of the women – as far back as seven generations –had worn hijabs. That it didn’t make them any less Muslim.
He hadn’t been interested. Soon, she’d realized that Steve just wanted to pat himself in the back for being a broadminded guy and nothing else. Like her ex-boyfriend, who’d asked inappropriate, even hurtful, questions under the guise of ‘understanding her bisexuality’ as he put it. She had neither the time nor the energy for men like that.
Farah spotted Steve’s broad smile and beckoning hand and instantly changed route. She had to pass by Tara in what was a very narrow squeeze between the table and the wall. Her body zinged at the passing contact, and for a few seconds, she stilled to take a deep breath.
She looked over her shoulder to find Tara staring right back at her. Eyes wide, that mane of dark hair falling to her shoulders like gleaming silk, her glossy, plump lips in an O. She wore a bright yellow kurta and black leggings, with big, swirling jhumkas at her ears. Kajal lined her eyes, turning them bigger and brighter.
Farah jerked her gaze away, feeling as if she’d been electrocuted.
As she neared the huge dining table gleaming under a glass chandelier, the aromas of at least ten different dishes hit her nostrils. There was the usual chicken and paneer in that orange gravy that seemed to represent Desi food in most places. But there were dishes more native to the south of India too. And not just the stuff one could order in a restaurant.
There were gleaming purple eggplants stuffed with spicy paste, steaming hot vadas with coconut chutney and a jar of fresh mango pickle. A huge dish of pulihara and boondi Raita for accompaniment. All things Mama had cooked regularly. Her stepmother had ordered a few of these dishes from restaurants, but nothing tasted as good as home-cooked food. There was also a tray of pasta in white sauce.
Her stomach grumbled loudly enough to embarrass her. But Farah didn’t care. Couldn’t really. Because apparently today was a day of firsts. Her appetite, like everything else, had been missing for months now. Now, it returned with vengeance. For the first time in months, Farah felt a flicker of hope in her chest for herself.
About twenty of them stood around the table as Professor Rao made a quick speech of gratitude. Farah loaded up her plate with plantain bajjis she’d been eying from afar and tomato chutney.
“They’re like Jalapeño poppers – the plantain is slit lengthwise and then deep fried in spicy batter but without the cheese,” Ravi Uncle explained helpfully to the rest of the scared-looking team. Farah was more than happy to eat their share too. If she could eat this many servings, maybe she wasn’t quite dead in her soul yet.
“Who cooked all these dishes?” She asked as a gleaming eggplant melted in her mouth and the spicy, tanginess of the peanut, red chili and tamarind paste filled her mouth.
“My daughter Tara did,” Professor Rao replied, cutting off a fledgling discussion about a research grant. “Except the Pizza and those two dishes,” she said, pointing to the orange gravy dishes Farah didn’t even want to look at. “You will not believe it, but I’m sure she whipped this all up in an hour.”
More than surprised at the talent it would take to put together such a vast array of complex dishes, Farah turned her head to find Tara looking at her mother with such an undisguised ache that she looked away.
There it was again – that look that tugged at Farah.
“Everything is…delicious,” she said. “Thank y
ou.”
Her voice was drowned out by the rest of the team piping up thanks in a flurry of voices. But the girl’s eyes flickered to hers. That chemistry she’d felt earlier arced between them, across the table, even with all the excited conversations flying around them.
Farah swallowed and looked away.
The discussion moved back to departmental politics and who was working over Christmas break. Lulled into a carb coma, Farah stayed put in her chair, letting their voices float over her. Tara inquired after several of the students about their projects, asking after the kids by name, and in one case, promising to hook up a guy called Yang with affordable daytime care for his eighty five year old grandfather that one of Tara’s friends – a man named Jai, provided.
So Tara had not only cooked a generous feast for the dinner, despite her complaints to her father, but it was clear that she genuinely cared about her mother’s student body. There was an obvious camaraderie between her and the students that spoke to affection. Realizing that she’d been right about Tara only made her wary.
“I’ll put some coffee on. Any takers for chai?” Tara asked a while later.
Several students got up to help her. Farah felt an overwhelming urge to follow her but she stayed put. She wasn’t here to make friends or form attachments. That Tara didn’t want Farah in her house would make it easy to keep her own distance.
Somehow, she didn’t quite feel reassured by that.
Tara brought trays of coffee and chai and pumpkin pie and apple pie a little while later. They were promptly consumed by the greedy horde in a matter of minutes.
Farah followed the group as they moved to the living room and were now loudly discussing American Football. She had sat through one game, only because Javed and Salim had begged her. And had found it immensely boring.
The goodbyes began and slowly, the house emptied over the next hour.
Another cup of chai in hand, Farah wandered through the living room, long after the rest of the student body said their goodbyes. Tara had disappeared a while ago, claiming she was tired after last night’s red eye flight.