Louisiana Catch

by Sweta Srivastava Vikram

  It occurred to me that I had never asked Jay what he did for a living. He alluded to money troubles and not being employed. But I didn’t know any of the specifics about Jay’s life, and I quite liked it. I felt a connection to him based not just on the Salinger quotes or the grief we carried about our dead mothers, but also on the feeling of being alone in a city: bound to it yet different from it.

  He wrote back, “You are doing important work, Ahana. I am so proud of you.”

  “I met a very important socialite in Delhi. You’d think she has everything. But her ex-husband used to lock her up in their house before leaving for work. She escaped because their housekeeper helped her.” I looked around to make sure Dev was nowhere in sight. “How can one human being hurt and try to control another human being?” I ran my tongue over my lips.

  “Some men can be fucking animals. I see wife-beaters and women-abusers and wonder how these fuckers or anyone who hurts women is still alive, but my mother is dead.”

  “Sometimes, when I see mean people alive, I wish I could trade their beating heart for my mumma’s.” I grabbed a glass of champagne that the servers were walking around with and took a big sip. I had a dark side that became enhanced while communicating with Jay. The chats felt like a great emotional release—the way a recovering cigarette addict sneaks in a smoke secretly—that was the level of relaxation I felt.

  I didn’t care about Jay’s gender, age, color, sexual orientation, or marital status. A part of me was grateful for this connection because it was nice to talk about my life with someone I didn’t have to meet and knew only as much as I wanted to share.

  - 6 -

  I didn’t want Rohan to know much about me. He was a smart chap with a razor-sharp tongue and dangerously good looks. Rohan had a way with words that made people believe in him, just like my ex-husband, so I stayed cautious.

  Rohan was a coworker. I didn’t tell him that my mom used to be the leading liver transplant specialist in South Asia, and Dad was the owner of the largest construction company in New Delhi. I didn’t tell Rohan about my mansion in South Delhi. I didn’t share any information about the four servants, two chefs, two gardeners, three chauffeurs, or two errand boys. I didn’t tell him about the rose garden in the front yard or the Balinese furniture in the patio where my family and I sipped chilled wine on summer evenings and relaxed on cold winter nights with a glass of whiskey or red wine while our non-vegetarian chef made different kinds of fresh kebabs and roomali rotis—the Indian paperthin flatbreads—for us, which we ate wrapped in Cashmere shawls and under the stars and candlelight. I didn’t say a word about the lanai decorated with Indonesian furniture where my parents threw fancy dinner parties where people ate gourmet food, bragged about their expensive vacations, flaunted their new diamonds acquired at Cartier, drank a lot of imported wine, and danced until wee hours in the morning. Some of these guests even pretended to care about world problems and offered solutions after downing a few shots of Glenlivet and warming their hands over the bonfire.

  I maintained strong boundaries with Rohan in the beginning.

  * * *

  Rohan spent many hours brainstorming ideas with me. I wanted the conference to be more than just a place where speakers gave their talk about women’s safety and empowerment. “Envision it; I’ll help you implement it,” he had told me right at the very beginning. Pulling up statistics, doing research, working on presentations, rethinking collaborations, Rohan was always there. I found myself feeling grateful, even if my guard was still up.

  “If we raise enough money, we can start sponsoring yoga classes for trauma survivors at domestic violence and sexual assault shelters/NGOs around the world. I ran the idea by my boss and she is willing to speak to the board about it.”

  “Hell, yes!”

  Rohan came up with creative ideas like organizing mobile cafes where speakers could have an informal chat with the attendees. He was forming partnerships with different organizations. That said, Rohan and I argued plenty. We were both invested in the conference but came from different backgrounds. We had different ideas for No Excuse, especially when it came to PR and social media marketing.

  “According to a recent survey of North American journalists and media professionals, 80 percent of journalists believe photos and videos are key ingredients of effective content,” he reiterated when we were on a conference call at 10 p.m. New Delhi time.

  “I don’t want to be in any videos,” I screamed. “Why can’t we hire professionals?” I was alone in the office and my skepticism was echoing in my corner office as well as the large hallways.

  “For two reasons,” he emphasized. “You are the face of this conference. We sound more credible and authentic if you talk about it. Secondly, we lower our total costs by not hiring a model.”

  “Fine.”

  “Ahana, the video will be powerful. We will broadcast your message to over a million-and-a-half women.”

  “You mean one-and-a-half million?” I rolled my eyes. I wasn’t bold enough to speak up in front of Dev. I refused to make the same mistake with Rohan.

  He laughed. “Haha, always so matronly.”

  I changed the topic. “Brady, I still need that help with my social media presence.”

  “Let’s work on it tomorrow. It’s Thursday night. Don’t you have a date?”

  There was an awkward silence.

  He changed his tone. “How about you play a little with your profiles? And we do a video call your Friday morning, so I can walk you through a few steps. Say about 9 a.m. your time?”

  “Sure, but won’t that affect your Thursday night party plans?” I asked Rohan in a sarcastic voice. I imagined Rohan as this guy who owned a harem: a redhead, a brunette, and a blonde serving him his favorite drink, Sazerac, every evening.

  “Well, it will. I’ll have to let the ladies down easy. But I don’t want you scolding me either, Matron!” He let out a laugh.

  “Idiot!” I said out loud as I hung up.

  * * *

  I asked the driver to pull out the car. On the drive back, I downloaded several social media apps on my phone and played around with them. Once home, I messaged Rohan. Then I took a shower and poured Chutney and myself a glass of pinot noir and posted the picture of the two glasses on Instagram with the caption, “Happy Hour in New Delhi.”

  I could barely sleep that night. I shared quotes on healthy living and women’s rights. Pacing up and down my room, I pondered over ideas for No Excuse. I have no recollection of when I passed out. But I didn’t wake up until Athena licked my face in the morning.

  I looked at my watch; it was 8:30 a.m. “Oh no, I am late.” I called up the kitchen via the intercom, “Lakshmi, chai please.”

  I messaged Rohan. “Sorry; I am running late. Can we defer the video chat by an hour?”

  “Hiya, Matron.” Rohan wrote back promptly with a smiley face at the end. “Partied too much last night?”

  Idiot! “What do you mean?” I pressed my temples.

  “I saw you took my happy hour suggestion. Hot date?”

  “Yuck!” I rubbed my eyes. “How can you even see that picture? I took it at home with my aunt and posted it for myself. Was playing around.”

  “Good thing we are doing the tutorial today.” Rohan ended the note with a wink.

  * * *

  After doing a twenty-minute yoga sequence in my orange lululemon yoga pants and gray tank top, I took a shower and headed to work. The traffic was unusually bad for a Friday morning, so I messaged Rohan, “I am terribly sorry to keep you waiting. I might get further delayed. There has been an accident.”

  “It’s not a problem whatsoever. If you’d like, I can give you a brief introduction over the phone.”

  “Sure.”

  Rohan called. “I browsed through all your social media links.”

  “And?” I brought my eyebrows together.

  “How do I say this? You come across as too matronly.”

  The word stuck in my craw. “W
hat do you mean?” I looked at my sleeveless, loose, polka dot print, knee-length tunic dress and wondered whether it looked too matronly.

  “I mean, I see your attempts to be personal—posting about yoga, tea, and good wine. It’s a great first attempt. But you have shared photos that include no faces, which fails to convey the kind of warmth and intimacy that a good profile uses.”

  I got defensive and fussed with my pearl hoop earrings. “That is why I didn’t want to handle all this social media nonsense.”

  “C’mon; I’ll help you out. In a few weeks, you’ll be the queen of social media.” Rohan spoke with such confidence that I started to believe him too.

  “You were the one who encouraged me about happy hour.”

  “I am flattered that you took my advice.” He paused for a second and continued. “But with your posts about Earl Grey tea and French pinot noir and women’s rights and healthy living, it can make people think that you’ll end up an angry spinster.”

  “Whatever. How do you manage to flirt via social media, Brady, and have these women drool over you?”

  “What women?”

  “Oh, please. I saw your profiles on different platforms.”

  He responded with a wink. “Why? Need help finding a guy?”

  What an asshole! “Really? That’s what you think?”

  He laughed out loud. “Success! You are so fucking Zen all the time that I need to rile you up every now and then to see you are alive.”

  “Sure.” I sat up straight.

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you see or read or hear. Don’t take everything literally. How about I leave you with that?” His tone was serious.

  Just then, a guy started pounding at my car window. We were barely crawling at 12 mph.

  “What was that?” Rohan asked.

  “I will call you back.” I hung up.

  A man on a two-wheeler had unzipped his pants and was touching himself with one hand. With the other, he was pounding at the window to catch my attention. I froze. My driver screamed at the guy, but he was undeterred. The traffic police eventually showed up and took the chap away, but I couldn’t get the image out of my head. Filthy men at every corner.

  I wanted to take a hot shower. I wanted to hide. I told my driver, Baburao, to turn the car around. I messaged Ms. Roy that I was feeling unwell and was going to work from home.

  Dad had left for work. Chutney had gone out to attend a meeting. Lakshmi asked whether I was OK. I gave her my lunchbox with a smile and ran to my room. I threw up. I scrubbed my eyes and washed myself under the hot shower.

  What had happened to New Delhi? This was not the Delhi where I grew up. With friends and family, eating ice cream in Connaught Place. Attending loud summer weddings. My mumma sitting with masis on summer evenings and gossiping about everyone in the family, exchanging stories about their neighbors, in-laws, colleagues, and maidservants. My dad teaching us all how to play cricket. This wasn’t the Delhi where Naina spent her vacations when we were kids. This was no longer the Delhi where I went to college. This couldn’t be the Delhi my parents left London for because they missed it so terribly. I missed the Delhi I wanted to remember.

  * * *

  I sat cross-legged on the couch in my room and tried alternate nostril breathing. “It calms the nervous system, beta.” Mumma would ask me to practice it every time I was triggered.

  In all of this, I forgot to message or call Rohan. It was around 10:30 a.m. New Delhi time when he sent me a text, “Matron, everything OK?”

  I clicked my tongue and hit my forehead. I texted him back and apologized. The minute I told Rohan what had happened, he called me right away. He was extremely nice to me. He made sure I was safe. Rohan’s sudden serious tone made me wonder whether he too was “two men” just like I was “two women,” even if I was just projecting.

  I was really surprised and started to warm up to him, but a few seconds later, he spoke with a grin in his voice, “Matron, glad you’re OK. You’re too classy for some street thug to think he can mess with you.”

  It took me some time to accept that Rohan could be a good man. Yet every now and then he would slip in a sneaky comment, “whatchya up to, Matron?” or “Matron is back,” and that would slam the door on whatever tolerance I felt toward him. But for the most part, he became my sounding board for the conference. He had the right contacts and attitude; people listened to him. In the few months of knowing Rohan, I started to wonder: Is he actually a sexist pig or is everything a projection?

  - 7 -

  It was January 1, 2014. My birthday had passed, and I was coming upon the one-year anniversary of my divorce from Dev. It was also the first day of the New Year and the day of J. D. Salinger’s birth. Every New Year, Mumma would organize an elaborate brunch at home for close friends and family. We would drink mimosas until early afternoon and then play cards on the patio. “If you live correctly, one life is enough, beta,” she would say.

  January 1 was also what Dev called National Sex Day. Before going to my parents for brunch, no matter what time we had returned home from a New Year’s Eve party the night before, Dev insisted I dress up as a sexy nurse. My body didn’t handle alcohol well, or Delhi winters, and for ten years in a row, I pleaded with Dev to let me be. “I am still hung over from the night before, Dev.”

  “That’s what makes it more fun.” He licked my face. “Even when exhausted, you enjoy it, Ahana. I can tell from the way you come alive.” He ran his tongue on my hips.

  I didn’t want to think about Dev. And I couldn’t deal with the emptiness of our house or the pity of Mumma’s friends calling us over for a meal. It was my mother’s tradition, and if I couldn’t stop others from starting a new tradition to welcome the New Year, I would at least not participate in it. So, on January 1, after an in-house yoga practice in the patio, the place where I’d last chatted with Mumma, I got dressed in four layers and left for work at 6 a.m.

  The temperature had dropped to below freezing in the morning. The dense fog had descended upon the city and reduced visibility to fifty-five yards. I drove slowly because there were several accidents on the road. Mumma would often crib about Delhi winters. “You cannot even escape the city easily in these ridiculous temperatures with all the cancelled trains and delayed flights.”

  There was no one in the office when I got in around 6:55 a.m. I ordered chai and a grilled vegetable cheese sandwich from a health food store across the street. The beauty of Delhi—delicious food was never too far away, no matter what time or day of the year it was.

  * * *

  After about thirty minutes, I played some Frank Sinatra and reworked the internal newsletter for our organization. I also needed to work on a report updating the board members about the conference in New Orleans. Even though many aspects of the conference needed to be dealt with, we now had over a dozen confirmed speakers for the event from North America, Asia, Africa, Australia, and South America. Rohan had managed to get us sponsors and 100 percent funding for the speakers. It was a big deal. This conference was unique and important because it would not just create awareness about violence against women but would help fight it, teach women how to defend themselves, and help relocate female survivors of violence. I didn’t know how to fight or defend myself in my marriage, but I was determined to help other women not stay stuck in abusive relationships. It would mobilize women and connect them to a global community. The conference would create an accessible platform for the victims and survivors. Sure, there was a lot of work ahead of us, but things were shaping up. The prospects and potential were incredible. They kept me awake at night and hopeful during the day.

  I must have been in the office for an hour or two when the phone rang.

  “Happy New Year, sis. Get onto FaceTime.” Naina must have called home and found out that I was in the office.

  “Isn’t it a little too early for you to be drunk?” I looked at my watch as I dialed into FaceTime.

  “Oh shush, morality police.” Naina wa
ved at me while clad in her chic, short sequined dress. “I am calling to tell you that I have made an observation about your Rohan Brady after following his social media posts.”

  “Why would you look up Rohan? Also, eew!” I cringed as I put my phone on the table and held the iPad with both hands. “He is not my anything.”

  “Shut it. Rohan has great sex hair.”

  I had no clue what that meant.

  She rolled her eyes at me. “It’s that messy and tousled kinda hair. You look at Rohan’s hair and it feels like he just had sex.”

  “That’s probably because he always has sex. All the time.” I put my papers in an organized pile.

  “What is your issue with him?” Naina asked. “The man has fun and isn’t lying about it. He gets my respect as long as he respects you.”

  “He is probably a horny pig.”

  “Nun Ahana, he is a guy who likes women. Just because you aren’t getting any, don’t be a hater.”

  “UGH.”

  She interrupted me. “Seriously, though, he works in PR. Did it ever occur to you that he has this online persona as a strategy?”

  “But…”

  “Many of my clients are PR people, and they have this pressure to be a certain way. They have loud, outgoing, exaggerated personalities but can be lonely on the inside.”

  I tried to get in a word, but she wouldn’t let me.

  “Rohan has never misbehaved with you. You’re the one who told me that women love to flirt with him. What he does in his personal life is not for you to judge. Also, your morality standards might be different from his. He is American and you have Indian roots. There are cultural differences.”

  “Naina, men like Rohan assume women are all the same—they drool over him and envy his almond-shaped eyes.”

  “What women? What men?”

  I ignored part of her question. “It’s mostly those perverse kinds of women who are thrilled to get focused yet detached attention from a good-looking guy.”

  “You are kidding, right?”

  “I cannot even begin to tell you how much mollycoddling a guy like Rohan needs, Naina.” Dev enjoyed being the object of female attention on every occasion. The more women flirted with him, the higher was his sex drive and the rougher he was with me in bed.