Page 63 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

Asking for help had always been impossible for me. I wasn’t always fine, but I always ended up fine. What happened on the journey from not-fine to fine was my burden to carry. That day, I decided to share the burden. I needed a shoulder to lean on, and I chose one. I knew I could rely on Sameer.

I managed to walk to the couch and lower myself onto it. How could my own brother say such horrible things to his little sister? I had loved him for most of my life, and he would’ve died for me at one time. How had we gotten here?

When Dada finished high school, I was in the ninth grade. He had scored very well, way beyond what he or Baba had hoped for. He had his heart set on going to an art school, but Baba said it would be a waste of his talent and energies. Just like he would say it to me three years later. But while I got to study art, Dada paid the price.

He went off to one of the best public universities in Mumbai to study civil engineering. Proud, but never happy. He cleared the first semester with a flourish, but every semester after that, he either failed a course or barely managed a passing grade. When I graduated high school, he was repeating his second year. Perhaps it was this resentment that grew into the pot of bile that drowned us both. He thought I was living the life that should’ve rightfully been his, because I certainly wasn’t living the one that would’ve been chosen for me.

My parents had bravely resisted the social pressure to marry me off early like some girls I knew. They let me become my own person. I never had to protest. They kept the snakes at bay, repelling every venomous comment targeted at me. It was this sense of gratitude and obligation that silenced me when Baba declared that I would become an engineer. If Aai hadn’t coaxed me to be forthcoming, I would’ve become an engineer, probably married, with two kids exactly three years apart. I’m sure Dada would have reveled in the predictability of such a life. A stable job, a two-income household, and two kids. But it wasn’t the life I wanted.

When I returned home toward the end of my second year at the art college, Baba had a heart attack. Dada was visiting for the summer, and he never went back to school. The hospital bills piled up fast, but when I offered to quit my studies, it was Dada who convinced me that I was doing well while he was flailing to stay afloat. It was better if he quit his studies and found a job. And he did. He was happy for a few months, but a monotonous, low-skill job with the brilliant mind of an artist was a cocktail for disaster. He began drinking each day after work, but for the most part, Baba had kept him on the straight and narrow.

After Baba passed away five years ago, Dada’s drinking began in earnest. Soon he would be drunk at all hours. Baba had left a surprisingly large sum of life insurance. Dada kept whining to Aai that he could do so much with that money if she would only trust him with it. One day, she gave in, and before long, he had squandered away every last rupee. Soon he was back to square one, except now, Aai was broke too. Baba’s pension was enough for daily expenses but left little for Dada’s wasteful habits. I used to send Aai a little money, maintaining the delicate balance between helping her and respecting her dignity.

Two months before I came to Dallas, I was with Sujit when I got a call from Aai. It was only the second time I was at Sujit’s for the weekend. She was sobbing, trying to tell me she was hurt, but in the same breath, desperate to protect her son. In his drunken state, he had demanded more money, which she had refused because she didn’t have any. In a blind rage, he’d thrown a brass vase that hit her forehead.

Frightened and distraught, she’d locked herself in a room and called me. I was on the next flight to India. She pleaded with me not to call the police on him despite the injuries to her head. I packed her a light bag and brought her back to New York. Her multiple-entry visa from when they had come for my graduation allowed her entry into the country. Now I was protecting her the same way she had protected me all these years.

Chapter 20

Tara

Iwas seated at the edge of the couch when the doorbell rang. Sameer had only taken twelve minutes to arrive. I opened the door and fell against his chest. His touch and smell invoked a familiar, comforting memory that said it was alright to be weak, just for a day. He stepped in and closed the door. I broke into tears, which turned into sobs that escalated to breathless gasps.

Wrapping his arms around me, he let me weep. “It’s okay. Let it all out.”

I wailed some more. Of course, I was no longer ashamed of showing him my tears, not after that evening at the museum. He had scooped me up and consoled me, as if he knew exactly what to do, what I needed.

“Let’s get out of here,” he whispered against my cheek.

“No, I can’t let anyone see me like this.”

“Then let’s go to my place.”

When I tried to step out of his arms, he pulled me closer. “Don’t resist. A change of scene and some fresh air will do you good.” He lifted my chin with his forefinger and smiled. “Come on, I brought my convertible.”

“I hate convertibles,” I said, wiping my eyes with my fingers and the backs of my hands. Some errant tears ran down my arms. “They mess up my hair.”

He laughed. “Fine. We’ll keep the top up and crack a window.”

I blinked away the rest of my tears. “I want ice cream.”

He smiled. “I know just the place. Go change.”

I took two steps, then turned and said, “Just because I’m leaning on you today, doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind about us. I need you as a friend, that’s all.”

“I understand.”

Pulling on a white eyelet dress, I bundled up my hair into a loose bun. I brushed on a light coat of mascara and refreshed my muted red lipstick. I wasn’t dressing up for him. I didn’t go to the grocery store without lipstick.

With the top up and the windows down, he drove us to a local creamery. At ten in the morning, it was deserted. “I wonder why people waste their time on breakfasts and brunches when there’s ice cream.” I snorted as I settled down at a table.

“Yeah, silly people,” he said, using his phone to pay on a fancy register.

I had chosen the biggest cup they had with three flavors that didn’t go together, or so Sameer informed me. I responded with a stink eye.

“Are you sure you don’t want any?” I asked as he pulled out a chair across from me.

“No, I’m one of those silly people who prefer to have breakfast in the morning.”

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