by Sonia Singh
He turned to me. “Are you breathing through your mouth?”
I stepped away, and reached for the wine bottle to fill my glass, which as usual, had miraculously depleted.
Well, I was drinking for two now.
Tahir opened the oven to check on the lamb, and the smell made my stomach roar.
“So what’s with cooking dinner?”
He took a sip of wine. “You don’t cook, and we both had to eat, so…”
Even wearing a ridiculous red apron, Tahir was a splendid specimen of male anatomy. The arm that held the glass of wine up to his Roman nose was powerful yet slender. My limbs melted, remembering the way he’d caught and pressed me to him last night.
Warm fuzzies took up residence in my stomach.
I owed him an explanation for why I’d pulled away and left the party. “About last night—”
He shut the oven door and slung a dish towel over his shoulder. “First of all, you’re weird, and not in an appealing way. Second of all, neither of us is interested in a relationship with the other; so let’s just agree to lead our own lives without explanation.”
The warm fuzzies inside my stomach twisted into gut-wrenching tapeworms. “Fine. But if you think I’m weird, I highly doubt your definition of normal exists.”
“Fine,” he said.
“Fine.”
“You already said that.”
“Fine…I mean I know.” I took a steadying sip of wine. “Are you going to tell my family about us, or do I have to be the sacrificial Sita?”
He removed two plates from the cupboard. “You know this may be a good time for you to tell your family the same thing you told me.” His lips curled into a mocking grin. “That you’re an independent woman who doesn’t believe in arranged marriage.”
It was clear now that Tahir was going to be of no help with regard to the marriage mess…
I was struck by a strong feeling of déjà vu. Hadn’t I had the exact same thought about him before?
I decided to attend the Kathak show, thereby temporarily appeasing my family. Afterward, I’d hit the streets and try to save the world, or at least parts of Orange County.
Until then—
I consented to help Tahir set the table.
Carrying spoons and forks, I tossed them down along with a pile of napkins, buffet style. “So what’s with you and Nadia? Is she actually helping you find an apartment?”
Instead of telling me to mind my own business, Tahir began placing the fork and spoon neatly beside each plate and folding the paper napkins into flowers. “And why exactly do you care?”
I picked up one of the tissue tulips and raised an eyebrow. I couldn’t decide if the guy was creative or completely anal. “I just feel you should know that Nadia is one warped individual. She doesn’t use protective seat covers in public restrooms. She just plops down. I mean that’s totally disgusting. And she’s a doctor, for God’s sake!”
Slipping on bright red oven mitts that matched his apron, Tahir carried over the main dish and a plate of carryout naan he’d warmed in the oven. “And how do you know what she does in a public restroom.”
“That’s really a long story and not suitable for dinner conversation.”
“Speaking of dinner…”
We took our seats at the table across from each other.
There wasn’t much conversation after that. There we were, two attractive people sharing a delicious meal. It was like a date.
Except I thought he was an asshole, and he thought I was certifiable.
Toward the end of the meal, the fax machine began to beep, and Tahir excused himself from the table.
Leaving the dishes for him, I went upstairs and retrieved my sword.
Grasping the weapon in my hand, I couldn’t help smiling.
Who needed a man when I had this?
I’d stash it in the backseat while Tahir was scrubbing away in the kitchen.
Now I was ready.
Chapter 28
IGNORING TAHIR’S BOASTS of parallel parking excellence, I drove to the Performing Arts Center in Costa Mesa. After all, this was Orange County. Parking was not an issue. Thousands of acres of orange groves had been paved to make way for parking lots.
Mom and Dad were already in their seats, along with their “friends” Aunt Dimple and Uncle Pradeep.
Honestly, did my parents have any social acquaintances that were not blood-related?
Aunt Dimple started waving as soon as we entered the auditorium and kept it up until we were seated.
It was so totally embarrassing.
There were two empty seats between my aunt and a white guy wearing a T-shirt with the words “I” and “Yoga” separated by a big red heart. Tahir ushered me ahead of him and into the seat next to my aunt.
I had a list of things I’d rather do than watch classical Indian dance, like get my cavities filled without those pesky shots of Novocain or go for a dip in the Great Salt Lake immediately after a Brazilian bikini wax.
Aunt Dimple kept craning her head to stare at Tahir and me. My mom shot Tahir a warm smile and me a pinched one. My dad was deep in conversation with my uncle Pradeep. I heard the words “HMO” and “referendum” and tuned out.
Bored with what was happening on my left, I turned to my right in time to hear the yoga lover comment to Tahir, “India is such a beautiful and spiritual place. There’s this mind-blowing mystical energy, this awesome sense of peace.”
“If you ignore all the Hindus and Muslims killing each other,” I said.
“Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” The guy smiled and left.
Tahir shot me a disapproving look. I shrugged, whipped out my cell phone, and began playing games.
By half past eight, the concert still had not started.
Indian standard time.
I don’t know whether it was genetics or what, but Indian people were never on time. I’d grown up watching my mom purposely tell all her Indian guests the party started at seven, just so they’d get there at eight—the actual time.
I looked up from the screen to see that Tahir was still staring at me. “What?”
“The show is about to start,” he whispered.
“Get a clue.” Nevertheless, I put my phone away.
Searching for something else to do, I called the Goddess Within and decided to check out Tahir’s aura.
Pulse-pounding red.
I don’t know what I’d been expecting. A black aura with horns maybe?
Definitely not scarlet passion, heat, desire…
The responding lurch in my body was immediate and powerful, and I forced myself to turn away.
I didn’t throw myself at men. I walked over them. Unlike some women—
“Hi, Tahir!”
Nadia stood in the aisle, smiling brightly.
Oozing fake chirpiness, she sat down in the empty seat next to him. “I’m so glad I got a ticket!”
“It’s Kathak, not U2,” I pointed out. “And someone is sitting there.”
Nadia glared at me, then at the yoga guy, who stopped in the aisle and stared confusedly at his seat.
“Hi,” he said in a pleasant voice.
“I’m taking your seat,” Nadia snapped. She handed him a ticket. “You can have mine.”
He took the ticket and folded his hands over it. “Namaste.”
Nadia scowled at his retreating back. “Hare Krishna Hippie Freak.”
I couldn’t keep the disgust from my voice. “God, you’re so rude.”
Nadia leaned forward. “And you aren’t?”
“Ladies.” Tahir pushed us back. “The show is starting.”
With a final glare at each other we settled into our seats.
“You should be careful,” Aunt Dimple whispered in my ear. “I think Nadia is interested in Tahir. Of course,” she added, “we’d be happy if either of you ended up with him. He will be quite a good addition to the family.”
Wondering what sort of mental defect made me choose to live
at home, I slid down into my seat.
The curtains parted.
It was halfway through the show, and I had no clue what was happening on stage.
My Malevolent Meter was also still.
Great, and just when I was looking for a break.
I suppose I could sum up the performance as a lot of intricate hand movements, a lot of heavy ankle bells, and a lot of black eyeliner. Even the solo male dancer had on eyeliner. It made his eye movements appear really exaggerated, which I think was the point.
I knew that the performance tonight revolved around the god Krishna and his soul mate Radha, but that was all. It was too dark to look at my Playbill.
Krishna’s mother, obviously hearing rumors of what had happened to the baby Moses over on the next continent, hid her infant son with a childless couple, a goatherd and his wife. Krishna grew up frolicking along the banks of the river with comely fetching gopis or milkmaids. By this time milkmaids and cowherds alike had figured out that Krishna was a god and the human incarnate of Vishnu, the preserver of Hinduism. All the gopis were in love with him, but the one who caught his eye was married, and her name was Radha.
Not to sound blasphemous, but frolicking along the banks of the river with a beautiful married woman might have been okay for Krishna, but around here extramarital affairs get pretty messy. Radha’s husband would have lost half his goat herd in California’s divorce court.
Around me the audience suddenly held their collective breath. Okay, something was happening.
I really needed to figure out what the big deal was.
I turned to Tahir and saw him wiping at the corner of his eye.
The dude was crying!
I turned back to the stage. I didn’t want Tahir to know I had seen him.
Was I an insensitive person? I flashed back to the scene in Pretty Woman when Richard Gere took Julia Roberts to the opera. By the end of the performance she’s crying, and he’s utterly moved by her tears. In her place, I would have fallen asleep, and Richard would have dumped my sorry ass back on the street corner where he’d found me.
I sneaked another peek at Tahir. His eyes were still bright.
Okay, so Krishna and Radha were the ultimate symbol of love.
And yet…
In today’s time even if true love managed to exist, nagging over money, substandard sex, psychotic sugar-addicted children, vexing in-laws, and work stress would beat it down. Otherwise, why would we have our Dr. Phils and our Judge Judys?
I mean, come on!
The auditorium lights flickered on.
Intermission. Thank God!
I was dying of thirst.
Now, if only I knew how to manifest myself a Cherry Coke…
Chapter 29
I’D SWEAR THERE WERE more people in the lobby circling the snack tables than there’d been inside the auditorium watching the show.
Typical Indians.
“That was really, really, really beautiful!” Nadia squeaked, smiling up at Tahir.
Aunt Dimple was looking at me and inclining her head toward Tahir.
Super unsubtle.
What was I supposed to do? Push the plates of pakodas and sweets off one of the snack tables, throw Tahir down, and have my way with him?
Wisely I settled for a smile. “You really are fond of Kathak.”
“Music and dance move me,” he replied.
Tell me about it. I’d seen the tears.
“Such a cultured young man,” Aunt Dimple crowed. “Right, Maya?”
Five pairs of eyes looked from me to Tahir. Mom and Aunt Dimple shot looks of approval, my dad and uncle shot looks of obliviousness, and Nadia’s eyes shot deadly, belladonna-tipped, hemlock-laced, arsenic-sugared darts right at me.
And then—
“This is her?” A disbelieving female voice said from behind me.
I turned and was confronted by Ram’s cousin Sanjay and a very skinny Indian woman wearing glasses, her black hair scraped back into a tight bun. Her eyebrows curved up in disbelief. “This is Kali?”
Crap!
Sanjay quickly got down on one knee, yanking the dubious woman down with him. “Jai Ma Kali! This is my girlfriend, Indira.” He paused, and added in a serious tone, “And the battle against the forces of evil, how does it go?”
I shoved back the desire to kick Sanjay in the face and glanced over my shoulder at Tahir and my family. I laughed uncomfortably.
“Did he just call you Kali?” Tahir asked.
“It’s a role-playing game, right, Sanjay?” Still on bended knee, Indira beside him, Sanjay stared up at me blankly. “He’s Shiva, and I’m Kali.”
My dad scratched his cheek. “Shiva? I thought you said his name was Sanjay?”
Aunt Dimple shuddered. “Kali? Why would you want to be her? Sarasvati is the Goddess of Art and Culture—much better and prettier. Some say I look—”
“Excuse me.” I yanked Sanjay to his feet and dragged him away. Indira trotted after us, then diverged and headed for the snack table.
When we were at a safe distance, I grabbed him by the front of his shirt. “Who else have you told about this?”
“Just Indira,” Sanjay said, puzzled. “But why would you want to hide such glorious news from your family?”
“We have issues,” I snapped.
“But Kali-Ma—”
“Just call me Maya, okay?”
“As you wish.”
Indira came up sipping a Coke.
Speaking of Cokes…
“Where’s Ram?” I asked.
“Sanjay and I are on a date. Ram was not invited,” Indira said defensively. “Besides, he comes with us everywhere!”
“Now Indu,” Sanjay pleaded. “He is my elder and family.”
“Don’t ‘Indu’ me!” Indira’s eyes blazed. “Bringing him salsa dancing was the last straw! I left India because I was tired of having chaperones on my dates.”
“Indira is a chemical engineer,” Sanjay bragged.
She scowled. “Don’t change the subject.”
“But Ind—” he stopped at her look. “Ram stayed at home tonight, didn’t he?”
“Only because he wanted to watch Sex and the City.”
I was about to beat a retreat from their bickering when—
Ugh.
Malevolence at three o’clock.
I spun in that direction—and faced a door marked BACKSTAGE.
A security guard stood at attention.
One of the female dancers ran lightly across the floor, ankle bells tinkling, and the guard stepped aside to let her through.
Ugh.
I was getting past that guard.
This was the distraction I’d been waiting for.
Chapter 30
THE FIRST THING I DID was retrieve my sword from the car.
Tomorrow I was going sheath shopping.
I envisioned black leather with a few silver bells, like the ones the Kathak dancers wore, added to the strap.
It was all about accessorizing.
Then I called the Goddess Within for like the 223rd time that day—although I did love doing it outside. Just so I could see my trademark lightning flash across the sky.
Shazam! There it went.
By the time I returned to the lobby, it was empty. Intermission had ended.
Seeing me, the guard smiled.
Then his eyes fell on the sword.
He reached for the gun in his holster. “Hold on right there!”
The guy was packing a bit much for an Indian dance concert.
Even though it had proved less than reliable, I hit him with the Goddess Gaze. “Let me through…just be cool, man…relax.”
Confucius could not have said it better.
A drowsy smile spread over his face. “Relax.” He slumped back against the wall, slowly slid to the floor, and fell asleep.
Huh.
Time to wonder why it happened later. Maybe I’d curl up with a copy of Metaphysics for Dummies or something.
>
Yanking open the door, I stepped through.
The scariest thing backstage was the way the fluorescent lighting mixed with the brown shag carpeting.
I had a nose for wickedness and followed it down the hall. The sounds of pounding feet and music accompanied my footsteps.
The Green Room was empty. So were the dressing rooms. That left only one more place to look.
Would malevolence be waiting in the wings?
Pushing the door open quietly, I stepped into the darkened interior.
Two female dancers slipped offstage, shot me a curious look, and began whispering in a corner. I recognized them as playing two of Krishna’s gopis.
Wrongness wrapped around me.
It wasn’t coming from the women. I went to the curtain and peered through at the remaining performers on stage.
Nothing.
This was Stanley Kubrick confusing.
“What the hell’s going on?” I murmured.
“Shh!” One of the dancers put her finger to her lips.
“Sorry.”
“Shh!” the other said.
With the “Shh Sisters” shooting me dirty looks, I inspected every inch of the area, trying to determine the source of malevolence. My search was penetrated by periodic and sharp shh-ing.
Finally, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and centered myself.
“Shh!”
Oh come on!
Ignoring everything around me, I tried to focus. A lifelong fan of sugar and high-action Hollywood block-busters, I was the Queen of Distraction, but I forced myself to concentrate.
The image came to me with Kodak clarity.
Right above my head was a system of pipes…
And one of them was leaking.
Gas had accumulated in the ceiling. And just to make things extra exciting, an electrical short circuit was on the way.
I had to get everyone out.
Thanks to the efficient Universe, there was still time.
I opened my eyes.
Malevolence. But not a person. I didn’t know I could sense stuff like that. I guess I could now function as a sort of disaster early-warning system for things like gas leaks, earthquakes, the release of a Tom Arnold movie…