Page 13 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

“I mean it, Tara. I’m sorry for saying that. I have trouble controlling the nasty from slipping out, but I’m sincere about this apology too.”

I nodded and glanced at him before promptly returning my eyes to my feet.

“Do you love him? Amar?”

It was a loaded question. At that time in India, at least in the society I grew up in, there was only one context in which the word was used. Romantic love. Sexual relations. Not platonic love or friendships. And I wasn’t mature enough to change the discourse. Neither did I have the gumption to flip the script on its head and say, “Yes, he’s my friend and I love him.” So I responded the only way I knew.

“No.”

If there was a singular instance of regret in my life, that would be it. That one word cancelled out the truth of everything I felt for Amar. He was the first male who saw me as a friend, not a girl he would eventually land in bed. Amar respected me and protected me in ways I had experienced only with female friends before. I didn’t know friendships across gender lines could be full of love, respect, and loving touches that didn’t turn into sex. Amar gave me all that, and I had negated it all with a callous “no.”

“He’s my best friend, and I’m looking out for him the same way he looks out for me,” I added, perhaps in a desperate attempt to assuage my guilt.

“Okay,” Sameer said after a few minutes and sat up straight. “Okay. This is a new beginning for me. A fresh start away from home. Maybe it’s time for a new me.”

I smiled. I wasn’t sure how different a new him would be, but it was refreshing to hear him say it.

“And now I’m truly jealous that Amar has you as a friend and I don’t.”

My body turned warm. I didn’t know if it was from the compliment or from his confession that he wanted me in his life.

“Friends?” he asked, extending his hand to me.

That’s when I should’ve said “no”, but I accepted his offer and shook on it.

Chapter 5

Sameer

Tara Kadam is spunky. She’s quirky. She’s brilliant. She’s mine.

She used to be. You messed it up.

I woke with a start, drenched in sweat, breathing heavily, with my heart pounding in my head. It took me a moment to realize I was in my parents’ home, sleeping in a room they called mine, although I had never lived here. I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand. It was 3:02 a.m. I fell back on the bed, trying to recall the dream that had roused me so violently, but all I could remember was a feeling. A sinking feeling of loss and hopelessness. And rage. At Amar for bringing Tara into my life. At Tara for re-entering my life.

I swiped open my phone to view her website. The homepage showed her professional picture in a formal smile. I thumbed the screen for more images. There were several. Most of them were of her art or her side profile as she worked on something. A few were with the co-founder of her art consultancy firm. I kept scrolling. Then I saw it. It was a picture taken in Rome. She laughed uninhibitedly as the wind blew her hair across her face. Her body was bent forward, her nose scrunched from heartfelt laughter. That was the Tara from my memories.

At the sign of first light, I put on my running gear and went for a quick jog around the neighborhood. It was a pleasant morning and running often helped clear my mind of its burdens. Not today. When I returned, the heaviness around my heart persisted. Still, I looked forward to spending time with Mom before Dad woke up.

After a lazy shower, I slipped into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and sprinted down the stairs with my holdall in tow. The scent of paneer paratha wafted to my nose, prompting happy memories from childhood. It smelled like home. I could always count on Mom to give me just the thing I needed.

Durgaben did most of the cooking for them, but whenever I visited, Mom made some of my favorites herself. Lately, the onset of arthritis caused her trouble, but she never denied me the joy of her paneer paratha. The sizzle of oil caramelizing the onions and spicy paneer between thin layers of dough was seductive enough to fully awaken all my senses.

“Hi, Ma,” I said, sliding beside her as she stood by the stove.

“Good morning!” Though still in her nightgown, she looked bright and cheerful. Cooking for her kids always made her happy.

“Smells amazing.” I grabbed a plate from the cabinet and slid a hot-off-the-griddle paratha onto it.

“There’s the spicy mango achar you like,” she said, pointing to a pickle jar on the table behind her. “And Amul butter.”

I smiled and settled at the table. “How long until you join me?”

“Just two more to roll. That way, I won’t have to return to the stove when your father and Durga come for breakfast.”

“I’ll wait for you,” I said, but I knew she’d insist otherwise.

“You start. I’ll join you in two minutes.”

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