Page 16 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

Colorful fabric banners were strung from bamboo poles erected around the open courtyard of our college campus, flapping against the jubilant fall breeze. Cascades of string lights added a festive glow. At the center of the courtyard stood a dais for the musicians, decked with garlands of marigolds and roses. The gaiety, the frenzy, the hullaballoo were a little over the top for me, though perfectly normal for the city. Tara told me that the College of Fine Arts was known for its garba, a traditional folk dance of the region, sans modern musical instruments, microphones, or speakers. Students hosted the traditional dance played to the rhythm of the harmonium, the dhol, and the tambourine.

I had been waiting with Amar, both of us wearing kurta and Indian leggings, when Tara walked in with her friends, looking completely different in her embroidered flared lehenga and blouse, chaniya choli. Her usual simplicity of “the girl next door” was transformed into the seductiveness of an enchantress.

Her narrow, long waist was deliciously naked to the curve of her hips except for the breadth of the dupatta on her right shoulder and draped over the midriff. Her hips swayed with the flow of her full-length skirt like they never did in her baggy pants. Deep red lips, kajal-rimmed eyes. Big earrings that bounced gleefully with every step she took. A pair of three-pronged chains ran from her ears to hook into a flirty, messy bun. A long necklace of oxidized silver swung over the swell of her gorgeous breasts. She wore a black bindi on her forehead and three dainty black dots in the shape of an inverted triangle on her chin.

I had never been much of a kinkster, but watching her that night aroused delightful fantasies in me. Smearing the kohl dots off her chin with my forehead as I slid down to dip my tongue into her navel, just below that delicate waist chain. Naughty earrings and boisterous anklets responding with a different tones and cadence to my deep thrusts into her naked body. My hands clasping her perfect, round breasts, her bangles clinking against my ear as she clutched my hair hard until I cried out in pleasure.

When I turned to the campus wall to adjust myself, Amar broke into a smile that was equal parts amused and nasty. “Careful, brother. You might seriously want to reconsider that.”

I had just enough time to mouth him a “fuck you” before Tara approached us, and he burst out laughing.

“Navratri is my favorite festival.” She told me when we had danced ourselves into exhaustion, our bodies glistening with sweat, shuddering gently in the light chill. I sat with her on a thick concrete tree guard around a Peepal. Our friends had exited the garba circle to fetch water and snacks, but I stayed behind. Despite my mediocre dancing skills, I followed her as she dashed, jumped, and twirled, chasing that final beat of the drums.

“You’re a terrific dancer,” I said.

A sweet smile rippled across her red lips, and I felt a thrill run up my thighs.

“I love garba, but that’s only partly why I enjoy the festival.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s a celebration of femininity and female power. You know the songs we play during these nine nights, the garba and raas songs?”

“The songs are in Gujarati, I didn’t understand a word.”

She smiled again. “They fall under two main categories: songs of worship for the Mother Goddess and songs of love and desire for Lord Krishna.”

I nodded.

“Mother Goddess is Adi Shakti, the original source of energy, of nurture, and of life on this earth. She symbolizes everything that is good. That’s what we celebrate.”

I nodded again. The heat from her body, her intoxicating smell—not her usual rose, but a seductive amber—hit me hard. I swallowed and tried not to stare at her lips.

“But the songs addressed to Krishna acknowledge women’s unabashed, unapologetic desire.”

“Yeah?”

“They talk about women lusting for Krishna, moaning about wanting to spend more time with him. They sing about losing themselves to the sound of his flute, bickering for exclusivity when he was tomcatting around… you know, like you. Even the so-called modern songs are about love and female desire. Just imagine, the same people who celebrate Radha’s affair with Krishna are the ones who criticize women for falling in love and having sex.” She rolled her eyes like she did, playfully, gracefully.

“Sounds familiar. Women are always fighting over me.” Except the one I wanted.

“You wish,” she said with a playful scoff.

I slid my hand next to hers on the concrete, and for the first time, she didn’t recoil. Her touch sent a happy thrill down my spine. We had been friends for a few months, but unlike her friendship with Amar and the other guys we hung out with, we hadn’t breached into the physical. Unlike the others, we didn’t nudge each other after a joke, casually fling an arm over the shoulder while we sipped tea at the stall, or give a low five, which I learned was something they did a lot in this part of the country. Even after an accidental touch, she would apologize. Always an awkwardness, as if we secretly liked each other but were too afraid to confess, in case it messed up what we had. And I had certainly messed it up.

The smell of coffee in my face pulled my attention back to John. “Here you go, Sam,” he said, smiling with his newly aligned teeth. “Freshly brewed. It’s a different blend. I think you’ll like it.”

“It certainly smells promising.” With a smile, I grabbed the cup from the counter, and as I turned, I caught Tara hastily shifting her gaze from me to the laptop before her.

I smiled and walked over. “Mind if I join you?”

“Arey deva!” she cried in Marathi, and I had been with her long enough to know what that meant.

“Invoking God, I see. Was that a cry for help or a cry of exasperation, Ms. Kadam?”

“Knock it off, Rehani.”

“Oh, we aren’t playing anymore?”

---