Page 9 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

Aai had refused to move from Brooklyn to Dallas, to relocate again. Despite my worry for her living on her own, I had to applaud her grit and feel grateful that she could express herself freely now. She didn’t have many chances to do that in the past.

In our rather conservative community in a small town on the outskirts of Baroda in western India, women were seen as less worthy than men. But my father had dreamed of raising an educated, independent daughter.

“Be famous. Be powerful. Don’t live and die in obscurity,” he’d tell me.

People ridiculed him for sending me to an English school alongside my brother. Daughters are strangers, they said. Daughters get married and become part of another family, so give them just enough education to land them a good husband. Any more than that, and it was money down the drain, an investment that would never pay off. But my father defied all norms and expectations to give me everything he couldn’t afford. An ardent supporter, a true champion, he stretched himself thin trying to give me the right opportunities. He raised me to be strong-willed, self-reliant, and outspoken, but didn’t extend the same rights to his wife. He expected her unquestioned obedience while rejoicing in all the ways that I challenged him.

It wasn’t that Aai couldn’t speak to him or contradict him. But there were things she could talk about and things she couldn’t. They often bickered about the right amount of money to gift a certain relative or how to budget the household, but always within the privacy of the home and never in front of a non-family member. The rising prices of meat and vegetables, inching steadily toward unaffordability, were a recurring theme in our home, but the discussions never touched the sacred parameters of politics or economics. Women didn’t understand these things. Well, women of Aai’s generation didn’t, my father held. And if they did, they should keep their opinions to themselves. Such was the paradox of a man who fought against his family and his community to hold all doors open for his daughter.

But Aai had always been smart and industrious, and within two months of being in the U.S., she had become unprecedentedly independent. When she first arrived, she felt stifled by her tenuous grasp of English. But I took her everywhere, waiting patiently while she spoke in her broken language, until she found her confidence. She realized that despite the erroneous tenses and misplaced pronouns, most people understood her if they made an effort. Those who had no patience for her, she ignored. I loved her for that.

Last month, before I left Brooklyn, Sona helped me persuade her to join us at the local salon. Its owner, a fellow Indian immigrant, had mastered the secret art of coaxing recalcitrant women of my mother’s age to agree to eyebrow threading and a facial massage. Aai had never looked better, and I felt a deep contentment then. I was finally at a place where I didn’t need to worry about her.

I reheated the previous night’s leftovers for a light dinner. A sad situation for a Friday evening, but I didn’t have the energy or the motivation to explore the city solo. Then there was the other thing consuming my thoughts. Seeing Sameer again had muddled my head and confused my heart in ways I had not anticipated.

To stop myself from dwelling on the past, I placed a video call to Sujit. It rang for a while before he answered with dripping hair.

“Hey!” That soft voice, those kind eyes, brought me an instant sense of calm. Seeing Sujit felt like home. With Sameer, it was always heat and agitation. All fire and brimstone.

“Hi there. Are you working out? You look all hot and sweaty,” I said.

“No, just got out of the shower. I’m wet, not sweaty.”

“So… you’re naked?”

“Yes, very naked and very wet.” When he smiled, his deep dimples set off the laugh lines around his eyes. He was a shy, bashful man, and I never missed a chance to tease him about it.

“Show me your chest.” He blushed, then moved the phone away from his body to show me his wet, naked torso.

“Mmm.” I summoned the deep, seductive voice I rarely used. “Wish I was there.”

“Okay, you have to stop. I’m already getting a little too worked up.”

“Can you show me how much?”

“No, I’ll save myself the embarrassment.”

I laughed but didn’t yield. “I could’ve helped you out, you know. Maybe with a warm oral compress?”

“Damn! You know you’re killing me, right?” he said, wiping his hair.

“Yes,” I said, then softly added, “I miss you.”

“Me too.” He smiled. “Especially on the weekends. I feel lost without you here.”

“You know what I miss the most? It’s your smell.”

He laughed. “That’s a weird thing to miss.”

“No, it’s the most natural thing. We’re animals, first and foremost.”

I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply to recall his scent. A heady, woodsy fragrance filled my head, and my heart rumbled at a recent memory. Sameer’s full lips, the way he looked right through me and saw everything. My face turned warm, and my pulse quickened. I gasped and opened my eyes, my heart hammering as if I had been caught cheating.

“Well, go put on some clothes, then call me,” I said, suddenly anxious to get off the call.

“Actually, I’m going out to dinner. Talk to you tomorrow?”

“Tsk-tsk. I’ve been gone only two weeks, and you’re already going out on dates.”

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