Page 22 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

“What about Aarti?”

I looked at him and dragged my fingers through my hair. “You know it’s not that straightforward. I can’t jeopardize our future and my family’s fortune. Not again. If things don’t work out with Tara, I’ll lose everything. Right now, I’m still hanging on to the shreds of my life.”

He sipped from his to-go cup, which looked like a toy in his large hand, his eyes peering at me over the rim.

“You don’t approve.”

He kept staring at me with his deep, black eyes, then threw me a light shrug. “It’s not my place to disapprove.”

Damn straight, it wasn’t his call. It was my life, my future on the line.

“Alright, enough with the wallowing.” He stood and patted my shoulder. “Come on, let’s get something to eat.” With strong arms, he pulled me up effortlessly.

“Here’s something that’ll cheer you up,” he said as we walked out of the café. “She still likes you. Tread carefully, though, because she’s hurt and angry. But she showed her soft eyes for you every time she thought you weren’t looking.”

Chapter 8

Tara

Aweek later, I sat in the same booth, staring at an empty seat. I had arrived early, wondering if I’d be sitting across from Rehani, a friend, or Sameer, the boy I had loved. It was the only time I had chosen to put myself first, ahead of my family, my career, my life goals. Like the foolish girl of twenty that I was, I had spun daydreams of our life together, a family with three kids, a Spanish-style bungalow with a large, detached studio in the backyard where we both would work. Careers we’d be proud of. A legacy we’d leave our children. Little did I know I was building castles in the air.

Truthfully, our friendship was never a smooth, easy one because at its heart lay my intense infatuation for him. The furious debates, the incessant discussions, the unnecessary arguments I took on with him were ways of being with him while keeping my feelings at bay. I wanted him, but we were not in the same league. Not by a long shot. The social differences between us were too real, too palpable. Then one day it all changed, when I fell into his arms, literally.

That evening, under the old banyan tree, we sat on a concrete guard heated by the October sun, debating aesthetics, quoting Kant, Hume, Pollock, and Warhol. Our arguments were sophomoric, but they carried the weight of our existential angst. When the shrill call of a bird interrupted our conversation, we looked up to find that the thicket of trees had swallowed the sun.

“We just got scolded by a bird,” I said. “It’s nightfall. The birds are trying to sleep, and we’re bothering them. Come on, let’s go.”

He smiled and leapt off the tall concrete in a valiant jump. In hindsight, it was a mistake to attempt an emulation because I wasn’t nearly as athletic. I realized mid-flight that I was going to miss my landing, but Sameer caught me, breaking a fall that would have injured my ankle or worse. With my body in shock and my heartbeat erratic, I gripped him to steady myself. My chest landed flush against him, his arm around my waist, a pair of beautiful brown eyes gazing down at me. As an electric pulse coursed through my body, I hastily pulled myself away. I couldn’t falter. There was more at stake—not in the least, my self-respect.

“I hate these sandals,” I cried.

He stepped away to observe my feet. “I like them,” he said with his head cocked. “The way your toes peek out. It’s very sexy.”

My heart bubbled, but I tamped it down. “Don’t tell me you have a foot fetish.”

He grinned playfully. “Only yours.”

“Says the playboy to every girl he meets.” I rolled my eyes.

Then, as I heaved my overstuffed bag to my shoulder, my ankle twisted again, only slightly, but enough to compromise my balance. Sameer’s arm was around me again, preventing another fall. It was becoming undignified.

“I’m alright,” I said, promptly shrugging his hands from my shoulders.

“Hey, it’s alright to lean on others sometimes.”

I readjusted the broad strap of my bag and calmly said, “I can’t afford to.”

“It doesn’t make you weak, Tara.”

He always said I saw right through him. I had no clue he saw the real me too. He had just voiced my deepest fear. “I can’t let people think I need help. That I can’t handle it on my own.”

“People who care about you will never think that. Amar doesn’t. I don’t.”

He smiled at me with a warmth that reached his eyes, and I lost all purpose. As I inhaled the night-blooming jasmine studded along the campus wall like a carpet of stars, I said, “I missed dinner. Do you want to eat at the laris outside?”

With shadows of old trees dancing on our bodies in the moonlit night, we walked across the street to the west wall of Sayaji Baug. Every evening, stalls lined the iconic garden, turning it into a popular place for the mingling of minds and bodies. Traffic had thinned out, and the air was breathable. Tantalizing smells of garlic and spices wafted through the air, and the sizzle of oil and water hitting the hot woks and griddles whetted appetites.

A group of high school students gathered over plates of Indo-Chinese noodles, “Schezwan” chicken, and chili paneer, laughing their carefree, youthful laughter. An animated group of poli-sci majors tore into flaky, egg-laden Mughlai parathas while fighting over the validity of a multi-party system for a country as diverse as India. Young couples made little effort to hide the lust in their eyes as they sat around makeshift tables.

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