Page 29 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

“Not at all. But to know where to begin, I’ll need to know a little more about your family and you,” I said.

He responded to what was a professional request with a mischievous smile that revealed two perfect dimples in his cheeks. “That means we’ll need to meet up again,” he said.

After two more meetings, we drove upstate to his family home so I could see the dimensions and style of the place. It was a perfect day, with a chill in the air and gorgeous fall leaves along the road. Contrary to my first impression, he was a gentle, almost shy man, a pleasant travel companion, funny and genuine. Sharp-witted with a naughty side so subtle, it was easy to miss if one wasn’t paying attention. When I’d looked him up before the meeting, I learned that he had started a healthcare-based software company, which had sold for a few billion dollars, and then founded a startup focused on education.

When we pulled up to the driveway of a giant house, I couldn’t help commenting, “You’re very polite for a person who lives in a mansion. I knew someone rich once who was obnoxious and insufferable.”

He broke into a hearty laugh as he closed the car door behind me and said, “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t actually live here. This is sort of a family home we use during the holidays or when we have out-of-town guests.”

One look at the space, and I knew exactly what it needed. A traditional Raja Ravi Verma-esque portrait in the stately dining room to complement the glittering crystal chandelier. For the living room, which was set to more contemporary tones, I recommended three pieces by newer artists. Each of the several bedrooms had distinctive furniture, which made my job easier than I had imagined. As we turned pages in the portfolio I had brought along, our hands brushed, and he let his touch linger without imposing. My heart did a little flutter before I gently withdrew my hand.

We drove back in contemplative silence, and as he dropped me off at my apartment that chilly autumn night, he asked me out. When I hesitated, he began to apologize.

“Don’t say sorry,” I said. “It’s just that I’m still working for you as a consultant. But I hope you ask me again when I’m done and our contract ends.”

He’d smiled at me, and our relationship had taken a gentle turn.

I placed a video call to him. He also gave me updates about Aai. “Thank you for looking in on her,” I said.

“Hey, we’ve talked about this. I don’t like it when you thank me. I’m doing this for me.”

My heart thumped hard. “How are your parents?” I asked.

That got him talking for another half an hour. He told me about a gathering they had with his extended family at their big house, how everyone raved about the new art, and how he bragged that I had selected each piece personally.

“I wouldn’t stop talking about you until I got a few eyerolls.”

“Enough gushing already,” I rebuked gently. “We’ve known each other for a while. Don’t you think the fascination should’ve worn off by now?”

“Are you kidding? How can anyone who knows you not be fascinated by you?”

“You’re biased. Your opinion doesn’t count,” I argued with a smile.

“Of course I’m biased, darling,” he said with a wink. The dents in his cheeks turned deeper.

Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. I felt like the room had become smaller, the air thicker. My skin felt cold and clammy. I stole a quick calming breath.

“How’s work?” I asked, opting for the ever-handy deflection.

He told me about a new software his company was developing, and I told him about the enigma of the two paintings. He listened politely, but I found myself missing the reaction I had seen on Sameer’s face. Sujit was excited for me, but it wasn’t the same as being excited with me. The same way that I didn’t share his excitement about the new software. I tried to stop myself, but my mind kept drifting to Sameer.

No! This had to stop.

Instead of dwelling on what happened that morning, I redirected my energies to my accounts and answered emails that had accumulated over the last two days. When my stomach rumbled around five, I realized I had skipped lunch. While I fixed a quick snack, my eyes fell on the invitation card to a cocktail party at the Arlington home that evening.

When I received the invitation last week, I had intended to pass on it, but Dr. Hadden stopped by my office to make sure I was going. What does one wear to a cocktail party at the home of an oil baron? I did a quick online search and decided that my black sheath with full-length sleeves would work perfectly. Hitting just above the knee, it had a lace-lined, deep-cut back and a modest neckline.

I queued up my favorite music on the phone—melodious retro Bollywood songs—and began my primping ritual. It was almost meditative. First I straightened my hair into a glossy cascade with a side part. Then I applied sheer makeup, shaped my brows, highlighted my eyes, and swiped on a matte wine lipstick that complimented my brown skin. A pair of strappy kitten heels and diamond studs completed the look. Simple, but chic.

The same way that I played with colors on my canvas, I loved playing with clothing and makeup. My body was my canvas. I had always been an outsider in the art world, whether it was my caste, class, place of origin, or skin color. In the early days when I was starting out, I had erroneously believed that hard work and merit would make everything else irrelevant. But I quickly learned that the world doesn’t work that way. I needed to mark my body in specific ways to find a seat at the table.

I learned to expertly apply makeup, which I came to realize I loved. I also played with my clothing, dressing quirky for artists’ meet-and-greets, donning business formals when I first met my clients. Later, as I established my command over the field in their eyes, I could dress down, casual or playful. And as I did, I had a great laugh, because here I was, a dark-skinned woman from a community whose artistic contributions were denigrated as “the crafts,” handing out proclamations on the value and validity of high art for people with way too much money and clout. It gave me a kick that was beyond what I had ever expected from my work.

But I would be lying if I said I did it all for the thrill, because the fear of being labeled an outsider was an equally strong motivation. Despite everything I had achieved, the feeling that I would be accused of not belonging in that space, in the profession, in the field did not dissipate easily. Identity is a fickle friend. It can desert you at the slightest hint of self-doubt.

To alleviate these fears, I wore designer clothes with an ease I didn’t feel in my heart. I carried a prized saffiano bag that I had gifted myself after my first successful consultation. I could afford more bags now, but I didn’t need them. Because, despite my experimentation with clothing and makeup, I didn’t really change who I was at my core. I only tweaked people’s perceptions of me, like adding a little sugar of playfulness to the milk of my personality. Neither changed its true nature, but made the liquid sweeter, more appealing.

The phrase comes from a Gujarati tale I read as a child, Dudh ma Saakar, “Sugar in the Milk.” The kingdom was Sanjaan, the period circa eighth century CE. Fleeing persecution, Zoroastrians had traveled from Persia to the shores of Gujarat. The leader of the Zoroastrians, a wise priest, sent a messenger to the court of the king Jadi Rana to seek asylum. The king handed him a bowl of milk, filled to the brim. When the messenger came back with the bowl, the Zoroastrian leader added a handful of sugar, stirred it with caution so the milk didn’t spill, then sent it back.

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