Louisiana Catch

by Sweta Srivastava Vikram

  “Then why did I reach out?” I ended the message with a smiley.

  Rohan sent me an emoji of a man doing the disco.

  “Paagal.” I got up and went into the kitchen to warm up leftover rice and crawfish étouffée.

  “You can’t have too much fun without me, Matron. Also, given the party animal that you are, thought I should warn you,” there was a wink at the end, “much like Delhi, New Orleans is a city of extremes, especially at night. The city is not only known for its rich history and culture, but also for its notoriously high crime rate. The less you stand out as a tourist, the safer you will be. Be careful!”

  “Thanks for the tip, Brady!”

  “I look forward to seeing you in NYC in three days.”

  “Bye.” I gently tapped the phone against my chin. I wondered what Mumma would have thought about my online friendship with Rohan.

  * * *

  My first week in NYC was about establishing personal rapport with Rohan’s team and as many participants/sponsors as possible in the tristate area. Since Rohan and I worked closely on the conference, both our bosses were thrilled when Rohan suggested he could rearrange his travel schedule to mirror my stay in the United States and work out of New York City for the weeks when I was going to be around.

  Five beautiful days in NOLA with Masi and Mausa, and I flew to NYC over the weekend where my adorably mad “sister,” Naina, awaited my arrival at JFK airport. When we got to the lobby of her high-rise on the upper east side in Manhattan, Naina hugged her doorman, who was probably seven inches taller and fifty pounds lighter than her. “Haven’t see you in a while, Carl. Where ya been?” She introduced me to Carl. We shook hands. In New Delhi, I couldn’t imagine any of us hugging the peon at my dad’s office or our driver Baburao. Lakshmi was like family to us, but she too lived in the outhouse and ate after we were done. At Dev’s house, the staff wasn’t allowed to cook in the same utensils as their bosses.

  There were no memories attached to Mumma in NYC. Naina and Josh were the most perfect hosts. We watched a musical at the Lincoln Center, grabbed Thai food in midtown Manhattan, and ate dessert all the way downtown at Rice to Riches. Cool temperatures and a fresh breeze were refreshing after the October heat in New Delhi. We laughed, ate, explored NYC, and shopped as I continued to battle my jet lag.

  Sunday night, I debated whether to log into my therapy group and whether to check my emails or not. But given the interaction with Dev and the prospect of having to battle with Hedick, I decided to log in and chat with the group but ignore Jay. Of course, Jay was online, but I didn’t initiate a conversation. I had a long, personal chat with Tanya. We came to the realization that I was an over-protected single child. My dependence on my mother was paralyzing. I told her about Dev showing up at the airport. She was shocked my assistant had shared my travel details with my ex. I ended the conversation with “That’s Delhi for you, Tanya.”

  Before I logged out, Jay sent me a note, “What, you come to America and don’t even say a hello?”

  “How did you know?” I replied immediately and then hit my forehead. I was so mad at myself for writing to Jay. It was out of habit.

  “A little birdie told me.” He ended the message with a grin.

  I stood up and double-locked the main door.

  * * *

  On Monday morning, I got into work early, which was Rohan’s PR Agency’s NYC office. Fortunately, Naina’s apartment was twenty blocks from it, so I decided to walk.

  Rohan and I were supposed to meet directly on Monday evening after I finished speaking with an organization that supported the end of acid throwing on women in Asia. We were to meet at a coffee shop near the entrance to Brooklyn Bridge in downtown Manhattan.

  The breeze slightly cut through my skin as I stepped out of the six-train subway stop near the bridge. Autumn in New York was crisp and fresh. It made me nervous. I took my time to readjust my attire, a peacock blue, straight, knee-length skirt with brown-colored knee boots, a crème silk top with a deep neck and orange scarf, brushing away any creases that had sneaked up on me in the train.

  I saw gingko leaves scattered on the streets, and I debated picking them up. I didn’t like showing cleavage, but thanks to Naina’s insistence, my big breasts were nestled comfortably in a Victoria Secret push-up bra that she made me buy. I thought of my cleavage, but I bent over anyway because the leaves were distractingly beautiful. As I did, I noticed a pair of oxblood cordovans a yard from my nose, and I stood halfway up, hair stuck across my face, to see Rohan Brady looking down at me. I stood up immediately, realizing that my cleavage was the first thing in the line of vision.

  I tucked my hair behind my ears, revealing the Mikimoto pearl earrings Mumma had bought for me a few years ago for Diwali. I buttoned my earth-colored jacket and pushed my glasses on the bridge of my nose with my index finger.

  I had expected Rohan to run late. He had told me. “Matron, it’s not that I try to keep everyone waiting. But greatness takes time.”

  Rohan Brady had shown up before me. He was dressed in a pair of dark blue denim jeans, burgundy and beige striped full-sleeved shirt, and a brown-colored fall jacket. He wore too much mousse in his hair. He was wearing his glasses, not contact lenses.

  He stared at me for a few seconds, which made me feel conscious. Rohan wasn’t lecherous, but he was gaping.

  “Ahana? Is that you, Matron?”

  We walked up toward each other. Rohan moved his body forward to give me a hug, but I moved away, gently, not to offend him but to make my stance clear that a handshake was all he was getting that evening. No hugs. No kiss on the cheek. It was as if Rohan were expecting me to be that way. We exchanged a few pleasantries.

  Just when I was feeling relieved that Rohan didn’t try his playboy charm on me, he said, “Did you never consider modeling?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You have the perfect face. And attitude. Definitely the attitude.” He laughed at his own joke, as I stood cold.

  “Brady!”

  “What? I was just….”

  I was annoyed at myself for getting agitated. Why did Rohan get under my skin?

  It was getting nippy and the sun had begun to hide behind the New York City skyline. He blew warm air between his hands and rubbed them together. Being a Delhi girl, I was used to much colder temperatures than Rohan.

  “Grab a coffee?”

  I suggested we walk around with our drinks.

  Just as soon as I ordered my hot chocolate, Rohan said, “Swoon!” He looked faintly bemused, trying to find our old playful groove and forcing it. “One of those women, huh? I’m a café au lait guy myself.”

  I clicked my tongue and told the lady behind the counter that I wanted extra marshmallows.

  “Extra marshmallows? Whoa, a woman after my own heart!”

  I gave him a dirty look.

  Rohan didn’t let me pay. He held the door for me as I walked out of the coffee shop.

  We started to walk toward Brooklyn Bridge. I carefully scooped out a big piece of marshmallow with a spoon, so it wouldn’t stain my clothes, and put it inside my mouth. It was seething hot. It didn’t take Rohan more than thirty seconds to say, “Whoa, Matron. You devoured that marshmallow with utter disregard for decency or propriety.”

  I didn’t think it was funny. Or appropriate—no one was allowed to comment on my appetite except for our help, Lakshmi.

  Rohan seemed jarred by whatever he read in my lack of a response. He quickly dialed it back and retrenched in a different mode of being with me. He pointed to the different buildings and views and explained the history of New York City. He asked whether I was cold and offered his jacket.

  “I am good, thanks.” I smiled.

  But he couldn’t resist. “Are you turning down my chivalry?”

  “Stop it, Brady.” Rohan tried to get a few words in, but I was relentless. “I know you are trying to be nice, but we’ll enjoy the evening more if you can just be yourself, not a PR guy. OK?”<
br />
  “Sorry.” He bit his lower lip.

  Practicing yoga for over a decade had taught me to introspect when at unease, and get to the core of the problem. I realized that Rohan’s personality, to a degree, reminded me of Dev—the right words, the suave moves, the bright eyes, the endless charm. The feeling of dark familiarity in an unfamiliar place rattled me.

  We quietly crossed Brooklyn Bridge, discussing the upcoming conference, when a cyclist, headed from Manhattan toward Brooklyn, rode up close to us on purpose. The suddenness of the cyclist in an unknown place—I thought he was going to grab my breasts or squeeze my buttocks. That’s what an incident like this would mean in Delhi. I lost my balance and clung to Rohan. I turned around to make sure it was just a cyclist and not a mugger. Rohan asked if I was OK. Skeins of hair covered part of my face as I grasped for my bearings.

  No denying it, there was a spark when I touched Rohan’s arms. We both looked at each other and then we didn’t. I had spilled my hot chocolate on the bridge. And as soon as I regained my balance, I apologized to Rohan and let go of his arm. We stood surrounded by a few seconds of silence, and then I tried to break the awkwardness of the moment with a few apologies.

  “You’re basically a sweet girl hidden inside the body of a brave woman trying to make the world a better place—all so selflessly—freaked out like a five-year-old child by a man riding a bike.”

  “I thought he was a mugger.” I lightly hit his arm and checked to make sure my glasses had no scratch.

  He took a sip of his drink. “India isn’t a place for women. But this is New York.”

  The hair at the back of my neck stood up. I pulled myself away. “And you know this because?”

  “My opinions come from a place of experience. I have traveled to India on several occasions.”

  I swallowed as much air as I could because the pressure of unstoppable words gnawed at me. I sat on the bench and stared at the open waters. The sun was spreading its orange branches in the sky. The horizon looked beautiful. I wanted to remember the beautiful sight.

  I rubbed the pendant I was wearing.

  “Is that your mom’s necklace?” Rohan asked.

  I nodded. “How did you know?”

  He smiled. “You were a lucky family that cared about each other.”

  I smiled but didn’t say anything. Before I could ask anything, Rohan turned to me. “Tell me what’s really on your mind.”

  I took a deep breath. “Is India perfect? Not at all. Is it dirty? Yes. Is there poverty? Sure is. Do women get harassed and assaulted?” I bit my lower lip, “Yes, Brady. But no country or culture is perfect. I am not overlooking India’s painful truths. All I am saying is that there is a lot of India to go around; one generalization or description or experience or assumption does disservice to any nation or culture. It’s like me saying that because statistics show that the United States has the most number of serial killers, all American men are violence-seeking, psychotic assholes.”

  Rohan moved up closer. “You are absolutely right.”

  For the remainder of the evening, Rohan and I spoke about the conference. “The theme No Excuse was garnering lots of positive attention. All the media powerhouses were going to be present in New Orleans during the three-day conference. Rohan ran a few ideas for another series of press releases his team was going to send out. We had a leading Hollywood celebrity endorsing our conference and the CEO of a Fortune 500 willing to share her story of surviving an abusive marriage, putting herself through school, and attaining all her success. I touched my earrings, hoping Mumma could hear how far along I had come since she last saw me—I was feeling challenged by my own story, but Dev showing up to the airport had pushed me in the direction of needing to not stay quiet any longer.

  Rohan and I also talked about our dogs, Socrates and Athena, as well as our hobbies. He was a lot calmer. I tried to be a lot more patient with him. I conceded that over the past few months, Rohan had never given me an opportunity to distrust him. Sure, he annoyed me and I had to fight hard the desire to smack him because he teased constantly. But he always remained kind toward me.

  Rohan said, “Despite your tough and strict personality, you care about the small things. You remembered the toys Socrates likes to play with. Like, wow!”

  “What’s the big deal?”

  “I am not used to people caring for me. And definitely not without wanting anything in return. But you are so generous.” He spoke in a serious tone.

  I knew Rohan meant something deep about his life, but I chose not to let my guard down around his innate abilities. This was our first meeting.

  Before we said a goodbye to each other, I handed him a packet.

  “What’s this?” Rohan asked.

  “Laddoos from Delhi.” I smiled at him.

  Unwrapping the box and biting into the decadent, round dessert made with chickpea flour, sugar, ghee, and nuts, Rohan said, “This is heaven. Thank you so much.” The solemnness in his eyes stood out.

  There was a comfortable silence for a few seconds.

  He dusted his hands and said, “Wait, I forgot. I got something for you too.”

  “You didn’t need to.”

  He pulled a box out of his laptop bag. “Oh, I know. But I wanted to. Since beignets would have gotten spoilt between NOLA, LA, and NYC, I got you this authentic beignet mix.”

  “But—”

  “I know you hate to cook. Maybe your cousin can make it for ya? She is a NOLA girl too, right?”

  “That’s incredibly sweet of you to bring me this. Thanks, Brady.”

  Right before we parted ways, I turned to him: “You don’t have to pretend with me. You don’t have to try hard. I am comfortable with the Rohan Brady I’ve gotten to know over this past year.”

  - 12 -

  I sat in the chair and opened my purse. I ate two Altoids and looked around Rohan’s temporary office. It was spotless. There was a small basketball net and a bookshelf with books on management, travel, and photography. I got up and picked out a few books without any intention of reading them. I walked back to my seat, put my purse on the empty chair next to me, and busied myself with the folder in hand. The convention center at the hotel in New Orleans where the conference was scheduled had sent over more paperwork.

  Rohan walked in and sat in his chair.

  I kept pulling my fingers. “I see that you’ve lined up six radio interviews for me over the next four days. I don’t like being on television and radio. I don’t like talking to strangers about why this conference means the world to me.” I paced up and down. “Why do you throw all this media stuff my way?”

  “Because you’re the face of the conference. These news outlets help with scalability. Trust me. Just a few more weeks.”

  “But why do I have to talk about my personal life to others?” I tried not to get angry. “Then have them judge me.”

  He looked at me, confused. “No one is judging you, Matron. Truth is, people wonder why women work for these organizations and how common abuse really is.”

  Was Rohan asking me about my life story? The collar of my blouse felt tight.

  Rohan walked closer to me. “You have the right to share only as much as you want. Don’t say anything that makes you uncomfortable. I’ll have Crystal run the latest statistics and give you a spreadsheet so you can talk about numbers. Deflect any unwanted attention. OK?”

  I closed the door behind me.

  * * *

  The next few days were full of meetings with the in-house team. Rohan shared the detailed social media strategy for the three-day conference. We were using hashtags across all social networks for consistency. “I want the conference to trend and the attendees to talk about it weeks before the actual event. Earned media can be powerful.” Rohan recommended doing an inspirational post once a week on those working in the space of women’s empowerment. “Building a community is vital.”

  Ads were running; promos and press releases were starting to surface. Rohan had also
organized for me to appear on some of the big, feminist, and humanitarian talk shows to promote the conference.

  First radio, then television. I was annoyed with Rohan for pushing me out of my comfort zone. On our way to the first out-of-town meeting in Hartford, Connecticut, we got into an argument.

  The plan was for Rohan and me to meet at Grand Central Station, go over the presentation, and then take Metro North to meet with the owner of a food company, a big sponsor for the afternoon vegan and gluten-free snacks during the conference. I was supposed to appear on a local radio show in Connecticut, along with the sponsor.

  It was raining outside, and despite my light, long jacket, a few sprinkles didn’t spare me. I assumed Rohan would be late, so I didn’t look to my right or left and basically took off my coat and wiped myself with pocket tissues. The lacy, black bra underneath my beige, silk blouse was visible now. In all this mayhem, as I bent forward to straighten my skirt and wipe any spots on my blouse, the top button fell off. There I was, standing in one of the most picturesque locations in NYC, with my cleavage protruding again.

  I cursed Rohan under my breath. Something untoward happened every time I had a meeting with him. I looked for a restroom. As I turned my head to the right, I noticed Rohan standing five feet away with an evil grin on his face. He stood with his wet hair and blue eyes, witnessing my every move. His burgundy tie echoed the color my cheeks were about to turn.

  With a tilted, side smile, he walked toward me. “You look beautiful.”

  I didn’t want to encourage him, so I replied with two syllables, “Uh-huh.”

  He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and said, “Take it.”

  I waved my hand. “No, thanks. I have tissues.”

  “I am sure you do. But that’s not why I was offering.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I figured you could wear this as a sarong.”

  “Stop it!” I am sure I growled at him.

  “Matron, we both know you are modest. Wouldn’t want the world to see your…immodest aura!” Rohan had a wicked twinkle in his eyes.

  “What’s your problem?” There was no patience left in me for Rohan’s sassiness that day.