Page 57 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

I smiled. “When did you become this dramatic?”

She shrugged. “Another survival tactic.” Her phone had stopped chiming, and she hung around a moment longer.

“You don’t need to worry about surviving anymore, Tara. You’re thriving.”

The exuberant smile that blossomed on her face took us both by surprise. She quickly replaced it with the fake one I had taught her years ago. “I’ll see you at the opening?” she asked.

I thought I spotted a hint of anticipation in her eyes. “Yes, I’m looking forward to seeing your other two pieces.”

She put up a warning finger. “Don’t try to buy them. Let others have a chance to own a Tara Kadam original.”

I raised my palms. “I’ll try, but I can’t promise. If I like them, I’ll outbid the hell off others.”

She rolled her eyes. “Funny, but no one is dying to bid on my work yet.”

“It’s only a matter of time.”

Her dark eyes gazed into mine so hard, I felt my heart take a tumble. “Let’s talk next weekend. Does that work for you?”

I nodded, and we both retreated to our rooms in silence.

Chapter 17

Tara

It was the most important day in my art career, the culmination of my hard work and persistence. Being a consultant was one thing, but being recognized as an artist in my own right was a different high. This was my one chance to shine, to show the world I was worth taking note of. But this could also be my chance to drown. My future as an artist was riding on it because I wouldn’t get a similar opportunity anytime soon. I could not blow this.

Imposter syndrome had stalked me everywhere over the past week as I witnessed the museum come alive with activity. The staff worked around the clock, setting up exhibits, installing descriptions and artist information, and getting the paintings lit to perfection. I snuck in a couple of times on my way to the restoration room and stood in awe at the amount of labor and care involved in the process. The exhibition, showcasing emerging artists like me, promised to attract an ensemble of critics, collectors, and art lovers.

Maybe my anxiety would have been allayed if Sujit and Aai were coming, but Sujit had a conference he couldn’t miss, and Aai didn’t want to travel unaccompanied. If I had known I would be this nervous, I would’ve flown out myself and brought Aai along. But then, I also hadn’t predicted the effect my interactions with Sameer would have on me.

I returned home that afternoon to dress up for the evening. It would be the first time I would wear a saree at a professional event, a tribute to my mother, and her sacrifices that had brought me here. I would stand before an audience that evening as an artist with enough credit to play by my own rules and be taken seriously. The black saree with an antique gold border and turquoise paisley motifs was designed by a dear friend, who paid handloom artists in India a fair price to weave her own unique designs. Her special blend of linen and silk promised long hours of creaseless wear. I paired it with a beaded blue turquoise necklace handcrafted by another friend. I straightened my hair, highlighted my eyes, and swiped on a subtle brown lipstick.

After I applied a final coat of mascara, I flashed my practiced smile in the mirror. The last time I had used that smile, I was standing in the empty corridor with Sameer, ready to tell him everything before my phone began trilling. Perhaps it was our impending talk that added to my nerves this evening. Once I had confessed my past to him, there would be no going back. No way forward too, I suspected, as I dabbed my lips with a tissue to set the color. Then I swiped another coat of the lipstick and repeated the dabbing. Would that end my connection to him?

Tumultuous as our relationship had been, a part of me had always trusted the artist, the critic, the friend in him. I wouldn’t hesitate a moment to put my life in his hands. The only thing I couldn’t trust him with was my heart. Yet it was his warm smile that I saw reflected in the mirror because years ago, it was his critical feedback that helped establish my credentials as an artist.

That year in college, I became the youngest recipient of the Maharaja Fateh Singh Rao Award for the best original oil painting. Later that year, he helped me edit a paper that got nominated for the best undergraduate research at the National Conference on Gender in the Visual Arts. Sameer and I had two major disagreements before I set aside my ego to accept that he was right and made amendments to the paper. Despite the intimate nature of our relationship, he never showed mercy when we debated, and it was this connection that had kept me bound to him all these years.

But being with him had thrust me into the limelight like I had never wanted. This lower-middle-class girl with her imperfect English had suddenly become the envy of the campus. I detested the attention, as if being Sameer’s girlfriend was my only identity. But Sameer never imposed on me. He never coaxed me to change my lifestyle, my wardrobe, or my accent. He respected my space and my friendships. Then there were things that I did learn from him, like how to elegantly wrap spaghetti around a fork and how to savor fine whisky without drowning it in Coke. He showed me how to fake a smile without flashing my teeth, which came in handy as a consultant. It was the same fake smile that I saw in my mirror right now.

Limelight, I didn’t do well under it, and one would be on me tonight. With a thudding heart and sweaty palms, I gave myself a once-over and headed out the door.

Little did I know I’d get the surprise of my life at the reception. It was Sujit and his date, a small woman on his arm, who caused my heart to stop and a small scream to escape my lips.

“Aai! I can’t believe my eyes!” I took her in a big hug and looked through watery eyes at Sujit, who smiled back.

“Surprise!” Aai said in English. “Sujit teach that to me.”

I laughed out loud. “My heart is beating so fast,” I said to her in Marathi. “I’ve spoken to you every day. How did you keep this a secret?”

“Sujit made sure I didn’t accidentally spoil the surprise. Called me every day to remind me,” she said in Marathi, returning his smile. When I relayed it to Sujit, he laughed and gave her a side hug.

“And you!” I cried in complaint. “I’ll deal with you later. I’m…I can’t tell you how happy I am.”

“You look beautiful,” Aai said. “The saree looks perfect on you. I could never miss this proud day.”

As we walked inside, Sujit whispered in my ear, “You look amazing, I can’t wait to get you alone later. That naked waist is killing me.” I looked at his handsome face, and instinctively my eyes darted to Sameer.

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