Purple Lotus

by Veena Rao

  “How is it your fault? Yeah, it was my fault. I felt sorry for you, allowed you to stay here, provided for you. Totally my fault. I should have sent you packing a long time ago, before you had the guts to drop your clothes for public entertainment. Do you even have the body to show off in public? Hijra! Eunuch! Yes, that’s right. Do you know that’s the first word that came to my mind when I saw you at Hartsfield–Jackson airport?”

  The insult implied that she was unfeminine, the third gender. It stung. She fluttered her eyes shut as a rush of raw emotion clutched her throat. He moved away, flopped on the sofa, holding his face in his hands.

  “Oh God, you destroyed me today, bitch. I’ve lost the only person I’ve ever cared for. She patched up with her husband and is packing her bags to leave for DC as we speak. I’ve lost everything. Everything.”

  Tara said nothing. A thick silence followed, punctuated with sniffs and sighs from Sanjay. “You know what?” he said after a while, raising his head. “I think you better leave. I don’t think I could bear the sight of you anymore. I’m sorry I married you, I’m sorry I was kind enough to give you refuge all these years.”

  He strode to the front door with purpose, walking past Tara who lay in a heap on the floor, and opened the door with a jerk.

  “Leave.”

  “Sanjay, please.”

  “I said leave.”

  “Sanjay, please, I have nowhere to go.”

  “I said out, woman! If you stay, there’s no telling when I might be tempted to kill you.”

  Tara picked herself from the floor. She walked up to the door slowly, hoping he’d mellow, change his mind. He didn’t.

  “Take your purse with you,” he said.

  Tara walked to her closet, found her bag, and walked to the front door again. For a second, she had contemplated locking herself in the bedroom, but she didn’t trust her instincts; her mind was too frozen to execute a plan. She pleaded again. This time, he grabbed her sore arm and pushed her out the door. She shuddered when he slammed it shut in her face.

  She sat on the top step of the stairwell a long time, hoping Sanjay would open the door, but knowing she’d be too afraid to go back in there if he did. She tried to focus on what to do next. She rummaged through her purse, and luckily, found her cell phone which still had three bars. She tried calling Alyona at work, but got her voice mail. She contemplated calling Vijay, but decided against it.

  Finally, it was time for the yellow-and-black school buses to drop off the elementary school kids back home. When the parents who walked down the stairs to receive their children gave her questioning looks, she pulled herself up and got out of the way. Such an ordinary day for so much drama, for her flimsy semblance of a life to collapse.

  The sun bore down on her, scorching her sore face. Her head throbbed, and her limbs ached. She didn’t know what hurt more—the beating or his insults. She let her feet lead her; her mind was still too much in shock to think of recourse.

  She found her way to the seventh pew, near the side aisle, where she felt as invisible as she wanted to. She had never seen the inside of West Hill Baptist Church before. The sanctuary was a large hall with rows and rows of pews, the backs of which held copies of the Bible. There was one right before her, with a black cover that she touched with light fingers. The pews faced a red-carpeted, two-level pulpit. The lower platform had a table, some chairs, and a lectern. She noticed a piano in the upper level. Her eyes scanned the raised levels, looking for a figure of Jesus on the cross or of Mother Mary with her son. She saw none, only a bare cross high up the wall.

  Tara closed her eyes and found herself in her school chapel, where she had prayed ardently for her mother to be happy again. She saw the gentle face of Mother Mary. She saw Jesus, nailed to the cross at the wrists and feet, a crown of thorns on his head. Jesus who had suffered for everybody, who would make it okay for little Tara’s Amma.

  She fluttered her eyes open. She saw no point in stepping back in time, but stepping ahead was a mystery too dark to see. The nasty ache in her head was an impediment to any clarity of thought. She focused on her breath, on the air that struggled to get to her aching belly and flow out of her burdened chest. The sanctuary smelled mildly of wood and candles, like harmony and warmth. The stained-glass windows, several of them around the hall, filtered the glare of the afternoon sun, bathing her in soft light. And so she sat, a lone lost bundle in the seventh pew, making no plans, thinking no thoughts. When she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder, then another, she was slow to open her eyes. It took her several seconds to remember where she was. Then she saw her—sparkling green eyes on a happy face, a crowning glory of cottony hair. She was peering down at Tara, a buoyant smile on her pink lips.

  “Oh my goodness! Did I scare you?” Tara had heard the Southern drawl on TV, but never from a real person. She shook her head.

  “May I sit beside you? Do you mind?”

  Tara shook her head again. She almost wanted to take flight, embarrassed at being caught in a place where she didn’t belong, but something about the elderly woman—in the way warmth reflected in her eyes, in the glorious creases of her face, in the geniality of her words—made her stay.

  “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” The woman sank into the pew beside Tara, examining her face. “Are you hurt?” She took Tara’s limp hand in hers, and patted it softly.

  “I am Ruth Murphy. What’s your name, darling?”

  “Tara,” she whispered.

  “Can you spell it for me?”

  “T-A-R-A”

  “Tara,” Ruth repeated, although it sounded more like Terror. “That’s a pretty name. Where are you from, Tara?”

  “India.”

  “I’ve heard so many good things about India. I’ve always wanted to visit, see the Taj Mahal. Have you seen the Taj Mahal, Tara?”

  Tara shook her head.

  “So, what brought you to our church today?”

  Tara hesitated, ran her free hand through her hair, and, when a sharp pain hit her across her temple, she blurted, “My husband threw me out.”

  She felt a warm, white hand, crisscrossed with translucent green veins, squeeze hers. “Bless your heart. He hurt you before turning you out, didn’t he?”

  Tara nodded.

  “Would you like me to call the police?”

  Tara’s eyes widened in alarm. “No, no!” she said emphatically. “Not the police. Please.”

  “All right, all right. We are not going to the police.” Ruth’s voice was reassuring. “Do you need to see a doctor? Are you hurt? We can go to urgent care. It is just two minutes away.”

  “No, no. I am all right. I just need a painkiller for my headache.”

  “I could take you to CVS, but I have a better plan. How about we go to my place, have a bite to eat, take a painkiller, and relax a bit?”

  Again that rich drawl, words stretched in upward curves beyond Tara’s comprehension. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Let’s go over to my place, my house.”

  Tara understood this time, but wasn’t sure how to respond.

  “Doodlebug will be thrilled to meet you. She loves company.”

  Tara looked at Ruth, a question mark on her face.

  “That’s my little doggie. She loves to meet people.”

  Tara nodded. It was not like she had other options. Alyona was still at work. She didn’t feel close enough to her QVision Tech friends to seek their help.

  Chapter 17

  Ruth Murphy lived down the street in a two-story, four-bedroom Cape Cod cottage with a steep pitched roof and dormer windows. The front yard was a vibrant bouquet—like the owner of the house, thought Tara. Gerbera daisies, azaleas, and day lilies nodded in the light afternoon breeze, secure among the oaks, magnolias, and dogwoods. Ruth pulled her red Oldsmobile up the paved driveway into the two-car garage. They entered the house, past a short hallway, into the kitchen, where polished pine wood met Tara’s eyes, and the mild smell of cinnamon wax and baked bread gre
eted her senses.

  Tara had never been inside an American home before. Ruth ushered her into the family room, a charming interplay of wainscot paneling and old-world furniture, with a glass-and-brass enclosed fireplace that occupied the far wall. Tara slipped into the comfort of a soft fabric sofa and strained her neck to stare silently at a quaint town square scene on a large frame that adorned the wall behind her, as if the clues to her future lurked in the painting.

  Later, after Tara had lunched on pickled cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches, washed it down with coffee so strong it felt like a tall mug of bitterness, finished it off with a large square of homemade brownie, and popped two Advils for her pain, she felt more human again.

  Doodlebug was a child with an ever-smiling face, her mom insisted. To Tara, she was a friendly Yorkshire terrier with a glossy blue-black-tan coat and a moist black button of a nose. Together, dog and woman lounged on a wicker chair in the screened-in porch that overlooked a dry creek and woods past the grassy backyard. From the adjoining deck floated the herbal aromas of potted rosemary, thyme, and parsley, smells so foreign compared to the coriander and mint bunches of Amma’s garden.

  Doodlebug jumped from Tara’s lap to her feet and back, madly wagging her tail, begging to be indulged, which Tara did, stroking her soft head, petting her under her chin. Doodlebug responded with happy noises and a dripping tongue, and Tara smiled as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

  The back porch opened into the family room where Ruth spent time making calls, talking to the church pastor, and then, based on his references, to some other folks. Tara watched the older woman’s animated face from her vantage point, at the way she blinked her eyes in rapt attention, absentmindedly tapping her wooden pen on her writing pad, then responding with a stream of words spoken with wide-mouthed cadence, words utterly lost on Tara.

  It shocked her, every now and then, that she felt no earthshaking fear or sadness, as if her problem were too enormous to infiltrate into her. Each time the horrors of the day started to play back in her head, Doodlebug would put a paw on her knee or a wet nose near her arm, and reality would go over to a corner and wait.

  When Ruth finished her calls, Tara walked up to her and said, “Miss Murphy, my friend Alyona must be back from work. Would you please drop me to her place?”

  “Call me Ruth. Make me feel young.” Ruth’s warm smile crinkled her eyes. “Where does Alyona live?”

  “She is my neighbor.”

  “Does she live on the same floor as you?”

  Tara nodded.

  “How about we invite Alyona over for dinner tonight? I am sure she will enjoy my pot roast.”

  Tara hesitated. “I’ve already troubled you enough.”

  “Doodlebug and I love company, don’t we, Doodlebug?” The Yorkshire terrier wagged her tail happily. “We don’t know what frame of mind your husband is in. We are not sure you are safe walking into a place where he can see you. How about you give this old woman company tonight? Tomorrow, we will find you some legal help.”

  Tara strained to understand Ruth, she watched her lips intently. “Legal help?”

  “Yes, I just spoke to Joe Crawley, an attorney known to our pastor, David. Joe says there are several groups in DeKalb County that offer free legal help to victims of domestic abuse.” She took Tara’s hand and motioned her to sit beside her. “I have a couple of numbers. Tomorrow, we will fix up an appointment, pay a visit to one of these centers.”

  And suddenly, the boulder that stood waiting in a corner came rolling toward Tara. She shook a little as she tried to grapple with the complexities unfolding before her. She felt ignorant; she knew so little, understood so little.

  “Will Sanjay—my husband, Sanjay, will he be in trouble?”

  “He deserves to be in trouble, don’t you think?”

  Tara shook her head vigorously. “Will he be arrested? I don’t want him to be arrested, please, Miss Murphy.”

  Ruth patted her forearm kindly. Doodlebug, sensing Tara’s agitation, licked her face.

  “He has never hit me before. This was the only time.”

  “Do you want to go back to him?”

  Tara contemplated the question. She closed her eyes. An image appeared before her, like an apparition. Sanjay, unhinged, his face contorted in rage, spewing insults. “Hijra! When I saw you at Hartsfield–Jackson airport, that’s the first word that came to my mind.” She felt his kicks to her abdomen, the blows to her head, to her face, the twisting of her arm, her screams. She covered her face in her hands, shook her head.

  “It’s okay.” Ruth stroked her hair. “It’s okay, honey. Do you have a job?”

  “I work only part time cleaning offices.” Somehow, the embarrassing secret that she had kept hidden from her family and Indian friends seemed safe with Ruth. She didn’t think Ruth would judge her, look down on her, or laugh at the menial nature of her job.

  “Do you make enough to live on your own?”

  Tara shook her head. “I go to an IT training institute in the mornings. I am training to get certification in quality assurance.”

  “So, until you are certified and get a job in computers, you will need help to begin afresh. That’s what we will discuss with the advocate at the legal center.”

  “So, Sanjay will not be arrested if we seek help from the legal center?”

  “Not unless that is what you want. We will only discuss your options. You don’t have to act on any of them.”

  Tara nodded. Her instinct told her she could trust sweet Ruth, a stranger until that morning, to do what was best for her. “All right, Miss Murphy.”

  “Ruth.”

  Tara managed a feeble smile. “Thank you, Ruth, for everything.”

  At supper time, Tara was helping Ruth set the table for dinner, laying floral, gold-rimmed china over green-and-wine maple-leaf-patterned placemats, when Dottie Payton, who lived next door, walked in through the kitchen door. She studied Tara with curious eyes before stretching out her hand.

  “Hello, hello! I am Dottie; nice to meet you.”

  Dottie reminded Tara of Agatha Christie’s detective, Miss Marple, with her perfectly curled salt-and-pepper hair, crisp sea-green pant suit, flat tan pumps, and inquisitive blue eyes. Before the end of the evening, Tara had learned that Dottie and Ruth were as thick as thieves—but they belonged to different poles. Dottie was yin to Ruth’s yang. Ruth was impulsive, Dottie weighed matters carefully. Ruth was the doer, Dottie the thinker. With Ruth, words flowed in a rapid torrent, or so it seemed to Tara. Dottie spoke slowly, enunciating each word, so Tara understood her better. But they concurred over one thing—that their opposite natures were an advantage in their daily adventures. They argued, teased, and laughed at each other’s expense, but “it was all in good fun,” insisted Ruth. Dottie fussed at Ruth for leaving her behind at the church clothes closet that morning, while she drove Tara home.

  “She left me behind to do all the sorting, folding, pricing—all the dirty work by myself,” she complained.

  “Well Dottie, it seems like God favored me over you, didn’t he? He put me at a place where I could see Tara. He knew I needed to be with her.”

  Dottie grudgingly agreed.

  At six thirty, Alyona bustled in with Viktor. Tara was relieved to see them, familiar faces in a sea of newness. She threw her arms around Alyona, sinking her face into her shoulder. She felt weepy in Alyona’s comforting bear hug.

  “You are not going back to him. You are not,” Alyona said. Tara nodded in agreement.

  Chapter 18

  Tara slept fitfully during the night, waking up in a cold sweat in Ruth’s guest bedroom, repeatedly tossing aside the wine-colored blanket, then covering herself. Like an old scratchy tape recorder, her mind kept returning to the big events of the day. The bigger shock, however, was to wake up again and again and find herself in a stranger’s bedroom—a stranger so far removed from her normal existence.

  She dozed off again when dawn began to break. Sanjay
was back, towering over her, peering down into her wide-open eyes, face blazing dark red, as she cowered under the sheets. He pinned her down on the bed, pressed her chest with his bare hands, until she could breathe no longer.

  “Hijra,” he whispered in her ear, then roared in laughter, as he squeezed all air out of her lungs. “Die, Hijra.”

  Tara tried to scream, but the guttural sounds died in her throat. She tried to move, to get away from him, but her arms were paralyzed.

  “Terror,” he laughed. “Terror.”

  “Tara!” Tara opened her eyes with a start. Ruth had drawn open the pretty floral curtains to allow a golden day into the room. She was bent over Tara, gently stroking her moist forehead.

  “There, there. It’s all right. Did you have a nightmare?”

  The strong smell of coffee and the warm aroma of sausage and eggs wafted up, rekindling Tara’s senses, slowly waking her up. She wasn’t able to eat much though, her nerves and the churning of her gut getting the better of her.

  By the time she approached the women’s legal center with Ruth and Dottie later that morning, her nighttime apprehensions had subsided, and she was eager to get it over with, whatever it was that had to be gotten over with. Her heart still beat like a boom box, nonetheless. They were at the right number, but there was no sign displayed anywhere that told them they had arrived at the correct address. Besides, the building looked like a single-story home, not a legal center, and the front door was locked. The only giveaway was the intercom mounted on the front wall beside the door. Ruth buzzed the intercom and spoke into it. It turned out they were at the right place.

  The women’s advocate at the center, who went simply by the name Kendra, was a thirty-something African American woman, with shoulder-length hair that was styled straight and a cobalt blue blouse over a black pencil skirt. A warm smile lit her face, but her manner was businesslike. Ruth and Dottie took turns explaining Tara’s case to her. Kendra listened with patience, made notes on her pad, and asked Tara a few pertinent questions before coming up with a plan for her.