by Leah Franqui
“Sorry, gorgeous, the traffic was crazy!” Adam’s voice, confident, smiling, slightly nasal, the same voice that Rachel had heard eagerly describing episodes of Seinfeld in high school, and, later, pontificating about gender binary, rang out in the quiet of the hotel lobby.
“Please, you’re twenty-five minutes late, that’s on time for India!” Rachel said, reaching for him. He hugged her back, and she felt comforted, in the circle of his arms, in the chill of the hotel, in the presence of someone familiar to her.
“What are we drinking?” Adam asked, looking at the menu.
“Everything is usually really sweet—the cocktails, that is.”
“I think we should go classic,” Adam said. “After a long day of crisscrossing the city, I think I understand why the British retreated to their social clubs and doused themselves in gin.”
“Well, honestly, India is a lot easier with a substance in your hand, take it from me,” Rachel said wryly. “It numbs the pain.”
“I can understand that, I think.”
“I mean, look outside, it’s just awful, isn’t it?” Rachel said, laughing.
Adam looked at her strangely. “It’s certainly interesting.”
“Yes, I meant, not awful, but—”
“What can I get you, sir, madam?”
And whatever she was going to say, which she wasn’t even really sure about, was lost as they ordered.
Half an hour later, situated in a cozy corner, gin and tonics in their hands, Adam recounted his day in glorious detail for Rachel, from the snail’s-pace traffic to the confusing Indian mannerisms of the real estate agents showing Adam spaces, to the street food he kept trying to figure out how to eat. Rachel laughed, and sighed, and commented, asking questions, trying to eat up as much of Adam and his conversation—so familiar, so close to normal—as she could get.
“And how are you? How is it, dealing with all this?” Adam asked after describing his reaction to chaat, or Indian snacks, specifically how while eating one, a yogurt-covered lentil cracker, the chili powder and onions had flown directly up his generously-sized nose. Rachel, her cheeks still aching from laughter, took a deep sip.
“Well, I’m not eating dangerous street food, so, better than you!” Rachel giggled.
But Adam’s face turned serious. “Really? Because . . .”
“What?” Rachel asked, her laughter evaporating. Adam never looked serious. They had been friends all their lives but rarely discussed their emotions. He certainly had never before looked at her like he was looking at her now.
“It’s just— I haven’t heard from you in a while. And, um, neither have a lot of other people. All I see are these, like, Instagram photos. And not even your real style, just, like, tea and temples and gratitude. Throwback Thursdays with engagement photos? That’s some basic shit, but it’s all you do. And no one is in the photos with you, other than Dhruv. It’s like you’re totally alone here. To tell you the truth, I’ve been a little worried about you, Rach. You seem a bit . . . off.”
Rachel looked down at her drink, swirling the lemon slice around in the inch of gin and tonic that remained. A passing waiter looked at her, and she gestured for another.
“I don’t think you should use my social media as some kind of indicator of my mental state.”
“That’s the only way I get information about your life. Which is also why I’m worried for you.”
“Worried for me,” she repeated, frowning. “Worried I’ll do what?”
“Just worried. Concerned.”
“I’m not going to slit my wrists or anything, you know.”
“That’s not what I said, but that’s a big leap to take from critiquing your Instagram account. I didn’t know suicide was on the table here.”
“It’s not! No, I just, look, this is hard, being here, but—I’m figuring it out.”
“Of course you are, of course. It’s just, you’re so negative about everything. It’s not like you.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Rachel said stiffly.
“You talk about things with such . . . venom. Like when you were saying earlier that it’s awful out there—”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Come on. You haven’t said one positive thing about India. If you really hate it here so much, I just think it’s not fair of Dhruv to—”
“Yeah. Well. A lot of things aren’t fair about Dhruv, I guess,” Rachel said.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Really, nothing. He’s just not around, he’s been away, and— I’m just . . . really alone. I like being alone—at least, I thought I did. But it’s different when it’s a choice, I guess. This is alone without options. I don’t know anyone; the people I meet, I don’t connect with them. Starting all over again in a new place, people say it’s hard, but I couldn’t have imagined how hard. It’s hard on me, it’s hard on us. It’s just all a lot harder than I thought it would be, really.”
“What did you think moving to India after a shotgun wedding would be?” Adam’s voice was disbelieving.
“It wasn’t a shotgun wedding! And I thought it would be, I don’t know, an adventure? Like some kind of, I don’t know, fun mumblecore movie where the couple, like, has these really amazing experiences? Kind of like a car commercial, one where they’re on the road and everything is charming and inspiring and there’s, like, this music in the background, it’s strings but then some drums at the end. You know what I mean? That’s, um, kind of a little what I hoped it would be like. In my heart,” Rachel said.
“Oh, Rachel. That’s just, that’s so fucking stupid,” Adam said, patting her on the hand.
Rachel burst out laughing. “I guess it is. Oh God, you’re right, it is! I am so fucking stupid, aren’t I?”
And although she tried to contain it, her laughter continued, deep belly laughs, vibrating through her body.
“Why did I think this would be easy? Or, or fun? Or well scored? But the thing is, Adam, see, I met someone—”
“Oh my God, tell me all about him,” Adam said. “I think I need another drink, though, if we’re going to talk about your affair!”
“What? No! No, not— I met a woman—”
“Ohhhhhh! I always wondered if you maybe—”
“A friend! You asshole. A new friend. Just listen. This woman who also did the same thing, she moved here, with her husband, an Indian, and I look at her and it’s just, like, she’s happy. And they are having fun. They go out and explore the city together. She— Her name is Fiona, Fifi—”
“That’s a dog’s name.”
“Shut up. Fifi talked about how she understands him better now, all these quirks. Like, how he won’t drink water with ice in it. And now she sees that, here, because it’s actually all part of this ayurvedic thing—”
“Ayur—”
“Indian medical thing. Like, body balance, it’s too complicated, I barely understand it. But the point is, they’ve gotten closer. She knows him better. She’s made this life here, she’s made a community. I don’t have that. I don’t know how to do that like she did. Maybe I don’t have the ability, or maybe this just isn’t a place where I can do that. But I think it would be easier if, well, look, Dhruv and I— I just feel like we are . . . further apart.”
“I mean, you are. You said he’s been away.”
“Even when he’s not, I don’t feel like I get him more fully. I don’t feel like moving here has helped me understand him. You know, his mother is staying with us, and I look at her, and her life, and I feel like I have begun to understand her more and more, but Dhruv? I feel like he’s even more alien to me. Like, coming here, seeing him in context, he makes less sense. Not more.”
“You didn’t really know him all that well before,” Adam reminded her.
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
Rachel had no reply. Adam just looked at her.
“How well does anyone know anyone?” Rachel sighed, gul
ping her gin.
“That is now the second-dumbest thing you’ve ever said.”
Rachel smiled at Adam’s frankness. “I don’t really think it’s so awful out there. I don’t. I don’t mean to be so negative. I actually like a lot of things about Mumbai, really, Adam, I do. Sometimes it feels insane, but, I admire it, too. I like the way life is lived so publicly, here, everywhere. I mean, sometimes I think it must be so difficult, but people just find a way to meet their needs, wherever they are.”
“I know. I watched a guy shave while I was trying to eat my chaat,” Adam said, grinning ruefully.
“It can be hard, and sad, sometimes. I mean, I think people would like more private space, I’m lucky to have it, I know, but it’s also sort of amazing. The way people are so resilient, so able to make do, to get around things, to thrive. I’m doing this voice-over thing, I emailed you about it, and like, the producer, I love him. I love the way he sees the world. The things he’s experienced, the way he’s put it together. I think about how I’ve changed in my life, what has been asked of me, demanded of me, and the spectrum is so small compared to some of the people I meet. The way people have moved from one understanding of the world to another, and stayed sane, stayed gracious—I admire it. It’s not awful, I don’t think that. I promise. I mean, sometimes I do, but India isn’t torture. It is awesome or awful, but in the true sense of the word. It literally fills me with awe.”
“But you aren’t happy.”
Rachel looked away.
“I wish I was here as a tourist,” she said. “I wish I could see all this and have uncomplicated feelings about it. Like I could dip my toes into this, and see it as a part of the world and think about that for a while. I wish I was coming and going.”
“But you aren’t,” Adam said. She looked at him. “You aren’t passing through. Can you do this, if you aren’t just passing through?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. It was awful, to admit that, and she wished it hadn’t been said, but it had, and now she had to live with it. If she hadn’t said it, maybe it wouldn’t have been true. But it was.
“Are you talking about being in India, or being with Dhruv?”
“I don’t know,” she said again. “I thought that this would bring me . . . a sense of myself. Of what I wanted.”
“How? Nothing about your life is a product of your own choices. Or maybe it’s all a product of just one choice.”
“I thought I would be . . . clearer, to myself, here.”
“I think you thought you would know what you wanted when he gave it to you. I think you saw him as a solution. I think that’s why you came here, so he could tell you what your life should be. And now he has, and you don’t like it, and you don’t know what to do with that,” Adam said.
Rachel’s heart caught in her throat. She looked at him.
“Would you like to pretend I didn’t just say any of that?”
She nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
“Another round?” she asked brightly. And Adam, thank God, just nodded, his eyes sad. Adam was the best kind of old friend, Rachel thought. The kind who would tell you what your life was, even though you didn’t want to hear it. The kind you could lie to, the kind who would let you. She wanted someone like that here, with her. She wanted someone who knew her, cared for her, no matter what she was. The person who was supposed to be that was Dhruv. But maybe he wasn’t that, maybe they hadn’t become that for each other, maybe this had all been too fast, and what did that mean, for her? She didn’t want to think about it, not tonight.
“So. Tell me about this mother-in-law staying with you.”
Rachel smiled. Where do I begin? But then she surprised herself.
“She’s teaching me to cook her dishes. And that’s actually . . . nice.”
“So not all bad, then.”
“No. Not all.”
Not at all.
Twenty-One
The eggplant that they had made together had turned out well, and Swati had had some for dinner, with fresh rice she had steamed. Tomorrow was Diwali, but she could already hear fireworks and the howls of stray dogs, who hated the sound. Pops assaulted her ears, too, and she shut the windows. Rachel liked to leave everything open, unafraid of what might enter, but Swati wanted everything contained, safe. Who knew what might enter one’s house? Insects, bats, birds, yes, but also spirits, bad intentions, evil eyes. The world was not a safe place, and it needed to be shut out.
But Swati’s head wasn’t a safe place, either. She couldn’t stop thinking about Arjun, no matter what she did. Perhaps something had flown in through the window and was in her now.
Growing up, some girls she knew had made eyes at Bengali boys on the way to school or conducted illicit romances in their minds with Muslim men they met on the bus. One friend had had a passionate yearlong affair that had consisted entirely of notes dropped into school bags. Although the two never said a word to each other in person, the relationship was epic, and much discussed among her circle at lunchtime.
But Swati had never thought of such things. She was obedient, and it never would have occurred to her to be another way. When she thought about Rishi Kapoor, from the movie, or anything like that, she imagined a black mark striking out his face, his eyes, erasing that part of him that had been so interesting to her.
It was her obedience, her lack of fast morals, that had made Vinod interested in her. While the movies of the day had portrayed vampy heroines, their eyes thick with kohl and secrets, which tantalized Vinod and his peers, for wives they wanted good girls, decent girls. When he had sat in front of her parents, his family on one side, hers on the other, the day they had met, he had asked for someone obedient, someone who could cook well, who carried herself modestly, someone with good morals to teach their children. In return, she had gotten the dignity of married life, complete with full sets of gold bangles to wear under the greedy eyes of unmarried friends. It was, she had felt, a fair exchange.
Her wedding night had been terrifying. For the girls who had dreamed of romance, burning with passion for strangers around them or boys they knew, perhaps they understood better what was happening, perhaps they had thought enough about it, or read more about it, or asked more questions, so it was almost like they knew what to do. But Swati had none of their imagined experience.
In later years, reading about passion, she would try to understand how the body could want something that wasn’t food or sleep, how she might ache and long for the touch of another person. She had never experienced it with Vinod. She had shut that away, the way her mother had wanted her to. Instead, she felt a kind of moral superiority, a spiritual cleansing, that she was above such things, that she always had been.
But now her mind swam with sex. She felt saturated with passion, and her every movement set off a chain reaction all over her body. She had never been so aware of her body before, and it horrified her. She was like a teenager in the body of an old woman. What a troubling idea.
She was meeting Arjun the next day. She had hoped that with the festival he would forget that he had asked to see her and that she hadn’t given him a direct no. But he had not. The soles of her feet tingled and her hands turned to ice at the thought. She would be brief with him, brisk, businesslike, and dismiss him firmly. She wouldn’t even go. No, she had to, that would be rude. But she refused to let any part of herself enjoy it. She would be a wall of no, and he would wither in front of her determination. If only he weren’t so attractive. If only he weren’t an adult male. She was ill accustomed to saying no to either of those two things, let alone both in the same location.
She opened the refrigerator and placed the little remaining eggplant inside. She could see a bottle of wine Rachel had opened. It was half-full. She looked at it, wondering. Perhaps drinking something would cool down the fire she felt inside. But it could also make it worse. Didn’t alcohol turn men into animals, bring out their brutal lusts? She would chance it. Rachel always said she could hav
e whatever she wanted. It was only grape juice, after all, it wasn’t like real drinking, was it?
She sat down with a glass and turned on the television, but none of her serials were on. Maybe Rachel would come back soon and tell her about Magda’s Moment. It was not as good a story as her current favorite serial, which followed a beautiful young widow who longed to marry the love of her life but who was shut up in a widows’ colony in Benares, but it was still diverting.
However, the wine made her sleepy. She didn’t want to sleep, didn’t want to dream again of Arjun. He was so unsuitable—well, any man was unsuitable for her, but he was Bunny’s son, he was an adulterer, he wasn’t even nice. Still, she wanted to know what it would feel like for his lips to kiss her neck. Oh, what was wrong with her? Her body had been so contained, so appropriate for so long, and now its demands were all-consuming. She downed the glass and poured another. She did feel tired, but it seemed to be helping clear her head. But it made her even more tired. Perhaps she could close her eyes for a moment, just for a rest, she wouldn’t fall asleep, no, but just rest, that couldn’t hurt, could it?
And then she was dreaming. Arjun was looking at her, but he was in one of Rishi Kapoor’s costumes from Kabhi Kabhie, and he was chasing her through the snow. She wanted him to catch her, but she also didn’t, and then they lay together in the snow, just like in the movie. It was cold all around her, but Arjun could keep her warm, but he wouldn’t, he made her chase him this time, and she didn’t want to, but she knew she must. She was so close, he was almost in her arms, and he ran backward, beckoning her, come, come, and she reached out her hand—
She was awakened by the sound of the door opening. She had fallen asleep on the couch, her empty glass in her hand. She woke up, started, and dropped the glass, looking up at Rachel as it shattered. Rachel looked down at it and flushed.
“Another glass. Of course.”
She stomped over to the kitchen to get the broom.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that, I can clean it.”