Incense and Sensibility

by Sonali Dev

  Chutney, for her part, was out of control, her whining loud and indignant. How dare you leave me for so long? their puppy communicated using every skill at her disposal.

  A smile stretched China’s lips even as tears started streaming down her face. She fell back on the wooden floor and let Chutney have at her.

  “China? Honey?” Tara came down the stairs, face lined with worry. Chutney’s wailing, dialed all the way up, had to have sounded concerning upstairs.

  China sprang up to sitting at their mother’s voice. Tara rushed to her and they wrapped their arms around each other and China broke into sobs in earnest.

  India brought her a glass of water. For a very long time, the three of them sat together in a tangle of wrapped arms, Chutney sitting atop their mess, distributing kisses as she deemed fit.

  “She didn’t want me there,” China said finally.

  Tara looked at India, eyes helpless with anger. India was going to wring Song’s neck.

  “Then she should have told you not to come,” Tara said.

  This made China cry harder. Dear Lord, Song had told her not to come.

  “She tried to tell me. I didn’t listen. I didn’t understand how she could stand to be apart from me when I couldn’t stand it even for a moment. I can’t breathe without her, Mom, I can’t.”

  Tara stroked her back.

  India rubbed her arm.

  “She introduced me to her team as a fan. As a fan!” China’s pitch grew shrill. “As a fan who had chased after her all the way from America. One of them sat me down and gave me a talking-to about stalking laws. Song was right there and she said nothing.” She slid her head into Tara’s lap. “But the pain in her eyes . . . it was terrible. I thought I could be strong enough for both of us. But then she said . . . she said she couldn’t risk everything for me. She’d worked too hard. It would disappoint too many people. Her fans . . . her fans were more important to her than me. America was just a break. I was just a break. When I begged, she just left me there and told her staff to take me to the airport.”

  “It’s her loss, honey,” Tara said, sounding much calmer than India felt. “Her loss.”

  “Then why does it feel like I’ve lost everything, like I’m going to die from the pain? Why does it feel like she needs me to help her, but I just don’t know how?”

  “It has to be her choice,” Tara said. “It’s not help if she doesn’t want it.”

  Before China could respond, the doorknob jiggled and the door flew open.

  Brandy’s tall muscular form filled up the turquoise doorframe. She took in the scene for a stunned second, then spun around as though she’d walked in on them changing their clothes. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  China got off Tara’s lap and sat up, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. She tried to look stoic, which only made her look even more miserable.

  India stood and pulled Tara and China to their feet. “It’s okay, Brandy. China just came home, you can turn around and come on in.”

  Brandy turned around and threw a tortured look at China. “Are you all right? Are you ill? Can I do something?”

  China scooped up Chutney and started walking to the stairs as though she hadn’t even heard Brandy. Then she stopped and turned. “No. But thank you.” She sniffed, unable to stop her tears. “I’m going to try and get some sleep.”

  “Excuse me.” Tara gave Brandy’s shoulder a squeeze and followed China.

  Brandy stood there, her miserable gaze following China. India recognized the longing emanating from her only too well. Suddenly Brandy seemed to remember why she was here and turned to India, and India knew something was very wrong.

  It was one of those moments when the air around you darkens with news you know is coming. Before India knew what she was doing, she had grabbed Brandy by the arm. “What happened? Is Yash okay?”

  Brandy didn’t answer immediately. She stroked India’s hand, soothing her as though she were a skittish kitten.

  “Brandy, please,” India said, unable to keep the desperation out of her voice.

  Please let him be all right. Please.

  “We don’t know where he is. It’s been four hours since he left the hospital after seeing Abdul, and no one has heard from him. The last person he spoke to was Nisha, and now he’s not answering his phone. The family is frantic. I thought maybe you’d know where he is.”

  India pressed a hand to her heart, needing to physically push back the sense of doom. “He hasn’t called me since . . . do you know what happened when he went to see Abdul? Did Arzu say anything?”

  “Just that they had a great visit. She said Yash was ecstatic to see Abdul, and Abdul was too. Yash got a little emotional before he left, when they talked about how well the campaign was going. Arzu said they told him how excited they were that he was going to win and how much they were counting on him. None of that sounds unusual. Yash has been waiting for Abdul to wake up the entire time that I’ve known him. He should be celebrating.”

  India found her hand fisting the material of her yoga top. This was what she’d been dreading. She wasn’t surprised this had happened, but she was surprised by how much it hurt.

  And it was never going to stop hurting. Not ever.

  “I know where he is.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll call you when I find him. Tell his family not to worry.” Grabbing China’s car keys, India ran out the door.

  It took her no time to find the place. Because, idiot that she was, over the years she’d gotten in the habit of coming back here to think.

  The sun had disappeared from the sky and the thickness of the trees along the trail made it even darker. What was Yash thinking? Why was he here alone? There were snakes here. As if on cue, something slithered in the shrubbery next to her and she sped up. India trusted almost every creature in the universe except snakes. Especially snakes she couldn’t see.

  There was some light from her phone flashlight, but she had it on the lowest setting because, one, she didn’t want to attract snakes, and two, she didn’t want to run out of charge. She would need the light to come back down the mountain. She’d need the phone if Yash was hurt. God, what if he was hurt? Surely he would have called someone if he wasn’t hurt.

  She broke into a run, flip-flopped feet slipping and sliding on the gravelly path. If she had stopped to think, changing into sneakers would have been the smart thing to do when she knew climbing a mountain was involved.

  Yash had carried a lantern when he’d brought her here the night before Nisha’s wedding. A camping lantern with the kind of white light that mirrored the moonlight and picked out the glitter in their clothes. It had turned the sequins on her ghaghra into a million stars that merged seamlessly with the silver threaded through his kurta, the endless universe of possibility inside them reflected around them.

  In all the times she’d come back here by herself, India had never let herself think about the magic of that night. She’d told herself her being here had nothing to do with him. It was simply a beautiful place. The one good thing she’d gotten out of being taken for a fool.

  As she emerged into the clearing at the end of the trail, India held up her phone and pointed the flashlight at the rocky cliff they had sat on. It was the end of the trail, a spot from which you got a bird’s-eye view of the Raje estate, his childhood home, with all of Woodside wrapped around it like a too-expensive blanket. She had expected to see his form silhouetted against the perfectly round moon.

  He wasn’t there.

  How could this be? “Where are you, Yash?” she whispered into the darkness. “Where are you?”

  “India?” He sat up. He’d been lying on his back on the rock, legs swinging over the cliff.

  A sob escaped her, relief, so much relief, and so much love for this man who was here, feeling alone in the world. Because of her. Because doing the right thing meant something to him. His eyes hitched on her and his shoulders slumped.

  Going to him, she
dropped down on the rock next to him and crossed her legs. Their knees touched. The light from her phone fell on his face.

  Yash Raje in every one of his avatars was a thing of wonder. As a brother, a son, a friend, a public servant. Compassionate, charming, courageous, with terrible eating habits. Who with half a heart could resist any of that? But a self-aware Yash? That was someone India had not one defense against. In this Yash, who saw himself and his world with this brutal, humble clarity, in this Yash she had lost herself completely.

  It was all right there, shining in his defeated face. His silver-streaked hair fell across his forehead. His eyes creased with pain. His mouth, made for putting people at ease, pursed and turned downward.

  Don’t be in pain, she wanted to tell him. I understand. But she couldn’t say the words just yet. She didn’t want to understand. Not just yet.

  For a little bit longer she wanted to pretend that they were possible. That he didn’t have to give up everything he’d ever wanted and let everyone down to be with her.

  He leaned toward her and she leaned toward him. Their foreheads touched like some ancient ritual between fallen warriors.

  “India!” he said suddenly, a gasp that made all the pain in his face flood his voice. “What the hell?” He reached for her feet; the light from her phone had fallen on them. They were covered in blood.

  She hadn’t noticed, but they’d probably been scratched up when she ran up the trail in her flip-flops. Now that she saw the blood, she felt the sting.

  With trembling fingers, he stroked her feet. Her bleeding feet, of all things, broke him. His shoulders started to shake and sobs escaped him.

  “Yash, it’s okay, it’s okay,” she said, pushing his hair off his forehead. “It doesn’t hurt. It’s okay. They’re just scratches.”

  He couldn’t stop crying, so much shame in his sobs she couldn’t bear it.

  Letting her feet go, he started to unbutton his shirt, and pulled it off, leaving behind a white cotton inner shirt that glowed in the moonlight and hugged his lean athletic form. This was Yash the way she saw him, the way he always let her see him, the armor of expensive clothing never a shield.

  Before she could stop him, he pressed the rich, almost silken cotton onto her scratched-up feet, so much tenderness in the act it sliced open other parts of her.

  “How could you climb the trail in flip-flops?”

  “You were out here by yourself in the dark,” she said. She shouldn’t have, because he folded over, his head pressing against the wadded-up shirt, and gave in to his sobs, body and soul.

  Her own body reached for him, leaning over him and holding him. “It’s okay,” she kept saying. “It’s okay.”

  “When did you turn into a liar?” He straightened up and lifted the shirt, wincing at the dots of blood. Then he reached for a bottle of water and she had to smile.

  “You remembered to bring water?”

  He drizzled water on her feet, washing the dirt and the streaks of blood, checking for cuts, dabbing and wiping as though the sheer strength of his focus might heal them, heal all that was ripped up.

  “It really doesn’t hurt.” She cupped his jaw and brought his gaze up to hers. Touching him this way, as though he were hers to touch, how was she going to give this up? Sensation burst on the palm of her hand, sparks danced in her heart. “They’re barely scratches. You didn’t have to ruin your shirt.”

  “How did you even remember this place? How did you find it after all these years?”

  She bit down on her lip, unable to devastate him even more.

  “India,” he said, voice still gruff with tears, gray eyes catching every bit of moonlight. “Please. Tell me. Don’t hide things from me. I need to know. I need to know everything in your heart. I need to save it up. Please. I can’t do this otherwise.” I can’t let you go.

  She saw that last part in his eyes.

  The need to lean over and kiss him was a storm inside her, but if she let herself do it, how would she ever let him go? “I continued to come here over the years whenever I needed to think.”

  His wet eyes darkened. So much regret. “I wish I had known. I wish I had known that you had sat here, breathed this air.” His thumb stroked the arch of her foot. “I wish I had—”

  “Yash, listen, you know how I said that you still felt like your life was not your own, that it was not the same as your life actually not being your own? I was wrong. That was my anger talking.” My need for you. “Too many people believe in you. Too many people need you to change things for them. They need you.”

  “But I need you.” Their foreheads were touching again, their breaths kissing. “God, I need you. I don’t know how to let you go again.”

  “You do. That’s why you’re sitting here. That’s why you came here and not to me. I’m not blaming you. I’m just telling you that you and I both know what you have to do.”

  He pulled away. “Is it really wrong to choose what I want? To choose us?”

  “No. It’s not wrong. But you won’t. It’s not who you are. You’ll find a way to dull the hurt of doing what everyone else needs you to do,” she said with more heat than she’d allowed herself until now. She would too. They both would, because this wasn’t a movie, this was real life, and real life didn’t end when you couldn’t have what you wanted.

  Her words shook him, but his hands stayed gentle on her feet, still dabbing and stroking. “Is that what you think of me?”

  “It’s what I know about you. I know you want to fight for us. I believe that. I do. You think fighting for things is what makes you you, but that’s only half of it. You can’t make decisions that center only on your wants. You care about what everyone else wants. You care. That’s what sets you apart. That’s what makes you a public servant and not a politician. You want to change things for everyone. A person who puts his own gains ahead of others can never do that.”

  This time it took him longer to answer. His thumb was still stroking her foot, and his gaze moved from her eyes to her lips, potent as worshipful kisses. He was a man weighing his life, documenting his losses.

  “I do want that,” he said, as though it took his life to say it. “I can’t leave things that bother me alone. I can’t not fix something that I know is broken. I’ve never been able to. I have to at least try.”

  She knew. But his words were still knives to her heart. “You have to change things. You will.”

  That meant he had to win the election, and that meant he couldn’t break up with Naina. Of all the emotions in the world, India never allowed herself to feel jealousy. It ate through love. It was the opposite of trust, and love was trust.

  There was no getting away from the fact that she was going to lose Yash, but the fact that someone who had used his need to help against him made her livid.

  He let go of her feet for a moment and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I thought we had a shot.” His fingers brushed the sensitive shell of her ear, and a shiver ran across her skin.

  “We both wanted to believe that we did. But then you went to see Abdul and realized what was at stake.”

  If she’d run a knife through his chest he would have looked less distraught. The fact that she understood broke his heart, and seeing how badly he needed someone to understand broke hers.

  All those people in his life and he didn’t trust a single one of them enough to share the things that he wanted only for himself, things that weren’t tied up with the wants and needs of others. How was she going to let him go when he felt so alone in his world? How was she going to process the anger it made her feel?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  People around him had always understood what Yash wanted, and helped him get it. But no one had ever understood what he needed. Not like this. The fact that India understood what seeing Abdul conscious again had done to him, without him having to say a word about it, wrecked him.

  God, she really was perfect. Perfect for him.

  He hadn’t realized quite how much he
needed the way she saw through him. Now that he’d had this with her, this freedom to not have to hide, how was he going to let it go?

  How do you understand?

  She caught the question in his eyes and it hit her hard too.

  Breaking eye contact, Yash looked down at her feet. He’d been clutching them like a lifeline. Dots of blood kept reappearing along the scratches. The sight of her bloody feet had shattered something inside him. He’d never cried in front of anyone his whole adult life. With her he’d already lost track of how many times he’d let his tears fall.

  Finding a clean patch on his shirt, he dabbed at the blood as though the act were penance. It wasn’t. There was no atonement for hurting her. Again. For leaving her. Again.

  How badly he wanted to shield her from himself and the hurt he was causing was going to push him over the edge. How badly he wanted to stay with her forever, felt like madness.

  “Tell me about your visit with Abdul,” she said, so gently that he knew she was trying to tug him away from the abyss.

  Everything he’d felt poured out of him, the excitement of seeing Abdul sitting up, holding his daughter, flirting with his wife. India smiled, refusing to spill the tears he saw shining in her eyes, while he couldn’t stop dabbing at her wounds, spilling tears on them. All these metaphors for hurt and healing twisted and wove around them, tightening with enough force that it cut off his breath.

  “I didn’t come here because I didn’t want to come to you,” he said finally. “I came here because I didn’t know how else to keep from coming to you. Because this need to come to you first, to tell you first, to not know what to do without you, I don’t know what to do with it.”

  “Yash, please,” she said. “Please.” Her hand pressed against her chest again. He kept making it worse, and he couldn’t stop.

  “I never came back here,” he said. “After I brought you here that night, I never let myself come back here.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut as though trying to absorb the enormity of that. “It’s terrible that our time together took something so precious from you. I don’t want that, Yash, I don’t want you to lose things because of your guilt.”