“You might get a surprise tonight,” I whispered in his ears.
I was getting bolder—a first for me in my relationships. It was marvelous to see the surprise on Rohan’s face. I felt empowered, being at the conference. I was listening to gruesome stories, but I didn’t personalize them. I was surrounded by serious discussions, but I had carved out space for the man who made me realize that my vulnerabilities only made me stronger. I felt a shift in me and it felt good. In that moment, No Excuse came alive in every cell and pore in my body.
Despite the long day, Rohan and I spent the evening at Naina’s. Masi overfed Josh and Rohan. And Rohan seemed pleased with all the maternal love showered on him.
* * *
The first two days of the conference went seamlessly. People talked about making the event into an annual get-together for the intellectuals, activists, social workers, and everyone who wanted to make the world a safer place for women.
On Thursday evening, the second day of the conference, after drinks with the heads of nonprofits, I went to Naina’s informal sangeet and mehendi ceremony.
“Only in America can there be a rehearsal for sangeet or as you call it, ‘a dance ceremony,’” I had told her laughingly.
“I didn’t want to invite all of Mom and Dad’s friends to the wedding, so we figured an elaborate pre-wedding, pre-sangeet dinner and dance will be ideal for them. We’ll do the mehendi ceremony too that evening, so all the aunties can show off their henna tattoos, jewels, and silk saris.” Naina had rolled her eyes. “But, sangeet will be just family and our friends on Saturday. This way, we get a break on Friday evening to bum out, show Chutney around town, and then have fun on Saturday, the day of the real sangeet,” she had quipped.
* * *
I showed up clad in a red chiffon sari paired with a bright pink, heavily embroidered, short, halter neck blouse ending right below my breasts. My sari was unevenly pleated. Mumma used to help me drape my sari. She would get the accessories sorted out. I would literally just show up to functions and weddings. This was the first time in my life that I had organized an Indian wedding outfit, keeping Rohan’s taste in mind. Love turns us into beautiful clichés.
The guests had yet to arrive. Most of the extended family members were getting dressed or fixing their makeup or getting the final touches on their henna tattoos. I found an alcove next to the dining room with no one around and a full-length mirror. I was standing in a quiet corner, trying to go unnoticed and pinning my sari to the blouse, when Rohan sneaked up behind me. “Aah, so a red sari.” He kissed my neck and then my earlobes. “I like that someone is keeping their promise, but how did you make that happen?” His touch stole my breath and reminded me how every other time in my life someone had touched me, it had been wrong.
I turned around to respond, but the safety pin fell from my hands. The sari slipped from my shoulders and onto the floor. The more I tried rearranging my pallu, the long trailing part of the sari that was draped around and across my shoulders, the more it got entangled in the dozen bangles in my wrists and hair. Rohan quickly bent down to pick up my densely ornamented pallu. I tugged at it tightly and covered my exposed chest.
Pointing at my desi avatar, I whispered, “Tsk! I am not good at any of this. Such a mess, Brady.”
Rohan spun me around; I could see our reflection in the full-length mirror. “You look amazing, and I like your style, Ahana Chopra.” With his chin resting on my shoulders, his body pressed close to mine, and his arms circling around my waist, he moaned weakly, “How did I get so lucky?”
I wanted to breathe Rohan. I inhaled his scent and exhaled all the foul memories Dev had built inside of me. When Dev would travel, he would order me to wear lingerie and stand in front of the mirror in our bedroom. “I am not ordering a woman from a fucking catalog, Ahana. Describe yourself to me so I am turned on. Say, ‘Sir, I am wearing….’” I took a deep breath. Dev was nowhere near me. He was no longer a part of me. Rohan made me a better woman. I had never loved or wanted anyone the way I wanted Rohan.
My right hand gripped Rohan’s hair, pulling him closer. “I have never been happier, Brady.”
Rohan caught my wrists and kissed my palms. Suddenly, he noticed my hands. He turned to face me now. “Matron, how come you got no henna thingy?”
“Because of my talk tomorrow. But I’ll get the mehendi before Naina’s wedding.”
“What’s the significance of it?”
“You know, the saying goes that the darker the color of the mehendi, the more your guy loves you.” My cheeks turned the color of a henna tattoo.
Rohan lifted my chin. He traced the lines of my cheekbones. “Ooh, yours will be the darkest then, right?” He grinned proudly, like a troublemaker.
The sound system was on by now. The music was blaring. Glasses were over-flowing with alcohol. The aroma of kebabs impregnated the space. Aunties discussed their diamonds, mothers-in-law, and expensive vacations. Uncles talked about their investments, the money spent on their kids’ ivy-league education, and how well their children were doing.
Funnily, the more I squirmed at the display of hubris, the more Rohan genuinely seemed to enjoy himself. I admired how he fit in everywhere while I was the perpetual misfit. He danced with everyone and quickly took to throwing his limbs like the others in the room.
Chutney had reached New Orleans with her larger than life New Delhi persona and dance moves. She put her embroidered dupatta around Rohan’s neck and danced with him as the song “chunar chunar” played in the background. Rohan was a great dancer, and he picked up new moves in minutes. He indulged her, so politely. I was embarrassed and surprised. For once, I saw Rohan Brady blush, but genuinely blissful. There he was, indulging my aunts, playing with my nieces and nephews, joking and binge-drinking with all the uncles, and partying with the cousins. The natural tendency to draw in people and garner their attention was tattooed on Rohan’s forehead.
Every now and then, he walked up to me with some excuse. “Lighten up, Matron. Join us.”
“Nah. I’m a terrible dancer.”
“Your shimmies aren’t all that bad. I’ve seen them.” He let out a burst of his evil laughter.
“Leave me alone, Brady.” I crossed my hands on my chest.
“See, I can’t do that. I never will.”
* * *
On the last day of the conference, which was the biggest day as all the speakers were convening for the closing, I was scheduled to give my closing remarks. I was nervous and excited, so much so that I had told people in my online therapy group too about my speech. Jay hadn’t said a word, but most others had written encouraging messages, saying they would root for me and send good energy to Room #303 at the time I was supposed to give my talk.
Naina had bought the one-day pass to hear my speech. I thought I saw a NY Jets hat fading into the crowd at the bar. I didn’t know for sure whether it was Jay. When I told Naina, she said, “So what? You’re powerful, and surrounded by powerful women and men who love you. Your mom would be proud.” She massaged my shoulders. “You are a force. You’ve bloomed in this past year, and if you’re still vulnerable at times, this isn’t a bad thing.” Naina reassured me that I had boundaries and discernment now, which I didn’t have before. “Jay probably has no involvement in this anymore because he is a narcissist and might have moved on to some other drama in his life. You’ll be fine, Ahana.”
I was still anxious about Jay when Rohan appeared at the entrance. I waved at him. Rohan walked up to me. “Matron, I am so proud of you. We must raise a toast to your mom tonight. She is the one who started this journey with you.”
I held Rohan’s hand. “I’m glad I got to end it with you next to me.”
Rohan kissed my forehead. “It’s almost time for your talk. Break a leg!”
“You aren’t coming inside, Brady?”
“Are you kidding me? I’m going to sit in the first row and whistle at the end of your speech.”
His voice, laced with unquest
ionable support, gave me the last boost of confidence I needed.
I walked up to the podium. Michael Hedick introduced me. I was very nervous, but focused. I looked around the room. The entire auditorium was filled with speakers, attendees, sponsors, and volunteers. Their faces became blurry. It’s the source of power that Dev and Jay had over me all this time: my own fear. Their smug certainty that I ought to be ashamed of myself, that I was their thing to use and manipulate. My cards were in my hand on the podium, full of the words of my nice, safe speech. But I put them aside. I pushed my glasses closer to my eyes and took a deep breath.
“Good afternoon, everyone. I’m Ahana Chopra, the organizer of this conference. But I’m in front of you today simply as a woman who left a marriage two years ago—a marriage where I was complicit in my own repeated rape by my husband, a sadist. It was a ten-year encounter that left me confused and wounded to the depths of my soul. I was very ashamed. I was ashamed that I had ‘allowed this to happen to me.’ For ten years, I asked myself if I had turned my ex-husband into thinking that my body was not my own. That he could violate me whenever he chose because my choices were meaningless. Truth: No is a complete emotion, word, and sentence. Rape is never OK. As a survivor, you are not to blame. It’s OK to be angry, but it isn’t OK to carry shame. Because the only person wrong here is the rapist. I am telling you this dark secret because I want each one of you in this room to know you are safe here. We are together and we are strong. We must call things out and say where things are wrong. Don’t be afraid to use your voice for change. Shame will not exist if you can talk to people who understand your story.”
As soon as those words left my mouth, the burden lifted. The faces in the audience became clear to me. Rohan, out there in the first row, his face full of humility and respect for me, was the first to stand up and applaud. Seated next to Rohan, Naina joined in. In that moment, I understood what Mumma meant by “Forgive yourself, beta; grow from your experiences. Know that you are more than your scars. Believe that you deserve love.”
I took a deep breath as the entire auditorium joined Rohan in giving me a standing ovation. Just like that, Dev and Jay’s power evaporated. The damage they had done, it didn’t matter any longer. I was now too strong for them to hold any control over my life. I finally felt free.
Acknowledgments
Louisiana Catch is dear to my heart for many reasons, so I would like to express my gratitude to the many people who saw me through this book—those who provided support, talked things over, read, wrote, offered comments and assisted in the editing, proofreading and design.
I would like to thank my publisher, Victor R. Volkman, for enabling me to publish this book and encouraging me to write about topics that are uncomfortable and scary but need to be addressed. My editor, Sarah Cypher: Without you, this book wouldn’t be where it is today; thank you for pushing me harder with every round of edits. Doug West, the best book cover designer, aka mind reader, any author could dream of working with.
To my yoga and Ayurveda teachers, spaces and organizations that use my yoga services, especially Exhale to Inhale, and my yoga students: Thank you for making it possible for me to do what I needed to do. Much gratitude to the psychology community for sharing its wisdom and encouraging me to write complicated characters reflective of the real world. Thank you to the lovely team and quiet corners at my co-working space, Grind, where I could revise my book.
I would like to thank Armaan Saxena and Aadil Saxena for their input as I wrote about dating, how men think, and all things dude-ish. Ginormous thanks to friend and writer Nancy Agabian and many of the crew members from her writing workshop, Heightening Stories, where I shared my raw thoughts about Louisiana Catch. Justen Ahren, Poet Laureate of Martha’s Vineyard: Gratitude for creating a safe and nurturing space where I could write, and later edit, Louisiana Catch over the years. Cindy Hochman: Thank you for your ongoing support. Abha Shankar: Thanks for empowering me in more ways than you know. Deepika Mahajan and Aditya Srivastava: Thank you for all the kitchen experiments in perfecting the Sazerac recipe.
Ellen Goldstein, Catherine Jean Prendergast and Kristin Bock: You are the first group of people I read to from Louisiana Catch at Martha’s Vineyard. It was pouring; my eyes were wet. The three of you made me feel so confident about my book. Thank you for raising a toast and for reminding me that relationships are what make us writers.
Leah Zibulsky and Neetal Adkar: The reason I was able to write about loss, grieving and healing in Louisiana Catch is because you both reiterated, at separate times, that I should feel my emotions, without any apologies. Shuchi Sethi and Vivek Yadav: you are friends I can run to with every nascent idea and know that I won’t be judged. Thank you for being there and for your patience as life and this book changed me. Dona Pal: Friend, psychotherapist, fellow traveler and yogi: Thanks a lot for every article, debate, discussion and study about psychology, shared over tea, phone and vacations. Yogita Kulkarni and Kashmina Nath: For twenty-five years you have had my back and laughed at even my bad jokes; I am a lucky woman.
To my three musketeers, Jaya Sharan, Nirav Patel and Rashi Baid: Over the decades, you have seen me fall down and stand back up; you have witnessed my heartbreak and my broken pieces come together. You have held my hand when I didn’t know I needed support. Thank you for always being there no matter what is going on in your lives. Thank you for defending my truth and giving me the courage always to remain authentic. I am indebted to you.
Dad, you recently said to me, “I am proud of you for being fearless and for standing up for your stories and principles.” You have no idea how much that means to me in a world where writers are often shunned for speaking their minds. Thank you! To my brother, Shantanu; sister-in-law, Jyothi; and nieces, Diya and Sana: I am grateful to you for celebrating my writing journey with wholeheartedness over the years. My cousins and cousins-in-law, especially Vinita, Jyotika, Jyotsna, Rakesh, Manoj and Arup: I love it that you look for an excuse to pop open champagne for me. I am blessed to have you in my life.
Above all, a big thank you to my dearest husband, Anudit. What would I do without your incredible heart? Thanks for supporting and encouraging me, despite all the time this book took me away from you and home. But now that I am back, I bet you are worried about football Sundays. Joking aside, it takes a lot to support a wife who is a writer and tackles issues of social change. Thank you for your unshaken faith and for letting me be me.
Last but not least: I beg forgiveness of all those who have been with me over the course of the years and whose names I have failed to mention. You are, with gratitude, in my prayers and good wishes.
About the Author
Sweta Srivastava Vikram (www.swetavikram.com), featured by Asian Fusion as “one of the most influential Asians of our time,” is an award-winning author of eleven books, five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, mindfulness writing coach, wellness columnist, global speaker, and certified yoga and Ayurveda holistic health counselor. Sweta’s work has appeared in The New York Times and other publications across nine countries on three continents. Louisiana Catch (Modern History Press) is her debut US novel.
Born in India, Sweta spent her formative years between the Indian Himalayas, North Africa, and the United States collecting and sharing stories. A graduate of Columbia University, she also teaches the power of yoga, Ayurveda, and mindful living to female trauma survivors, writers and artists, busy women, entrepreneurs, and business professionals in her avatar as the CEO-Founder of NimmiLife (www.nimmilife.com). She also uses her holistic wellness training to combine creative writing strategies with Ayurveda and yoga to help poets and writers improve their writing.
She lives in Queens, New York, with her husband, Anudit. You can find her on: Twitter (@swetavikram), Instagram (@SwetaVikram), and Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/Words.By.Sweta) and her own blog www.SwetaVikram.com.
Saris and a Single Malt is a moving collection of poems written by a daughter for and about her mother. The book spans the t
ime from when the poet receives a phone call in New York City that her mother is in a hospital in New Delhi, to the time she carries out her mother’s last rites. The poems chronicle the author’s physical and emotional journey as she flies to India, tries to fight the inevitable, and succumbs to the grief of living in a motherless world. This collection will move you, astound you, and make you hug your loved ones.
“There are few books like Saris and a Single Malt in which the loss of a mother, a homeland, and the self come together in a sustained elegy.”
—Justen Ahren, Director Noepe Center, author A Strange Catechism
“In life, as in poetry, one must come from the heart. Sweta Vikram has done both with touching eloquence. Her work resonates deeply within one's deepest emotional sacristy.”
—Sharon Kapp, Owner & Founder, Houston Yoga & Ayurvedic Wellness Center
“Saris and a Single Malt is a fitting and delightful tribute of a writer daughter to her affectionate mother which goes deep into the minds of all children who love their moms.”
—K. V. Dominic, English language poet, critic, short-story writer, and editor from Kerala, India
Sweta Srivastava Vikram, featured by Asian Fusion as “one of the most influential Asians of our time,” is an award-winning writer, Pushcart Prize nominee, author of ten books, and a wellness practitioner. A graduate of Columbia University, Sweta performs her work, teaches creative writing workshops, and gives talks at universities and schools across the globe.
Learn more at www.swetavikram.com
ISBN 978-1-61599-294-2
Louisiana Catch Page 31