Page 44 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

“Neither of us would do that to you.”

“I know.”

“You’re a knucklehead.”

“I know that too.”

“Wise up, Sameer.” He delivered in his brusque, pithy manner.

“I’m trying,” I managed feebly.

It wasn’t the first time I had let my insecurities get the better of me. In fact, that’s how our story began. I met Tara in college through Amar. Tall, slender, and dusky with perfect, gentle curves, she always wore the same kind of clothes: a short t-shirt or top over loose-fitting cotton or linen pants that showed off just a sliver of her waist. She smelled like delicate roses in an evening breeze. Gorgeous as she was today, but unaware and unconcerned with it. Despite her allure, the ugly truth was that I initially wanted her only because I was jealous of her close relationship with Amar.

My first cousin on my dad’s side, Amar was a few months older, and we had grown up together. Quiet and polite, even as a child, he had a generous heart and a mind that was wise beyond his young years. An old soul, they called him. He never answered back, never broke a toy, let alone a rule, never roughhoused. We grew up like siblings, but I soon began to glean how much more my parents, sister, and everyone else loved him over me. Mom never had a bad word to say about him. I, on the other hand, was bratty and mouthy. And while Mom’s parenting philosophy didn’t include aggressive verbal or physical assaults, she never failed to take a stern tone with me, one that she never used with Amar.

Despite our rivalry, however, I loved Amar immensely, and he loved me selflessly. It was my family’s behavior toward him that irked me. The closer we grew, the more resentful I became. Because, although he never suggested it through words or behavior, I knew he was seen as the worthy son. I was the black sheep.

Amar and I were both good artists with a keen eye. When Amar declared that he was going to an art college after high school, he broke ranks with his father, one of the most prominent lawyers in the city, who had hoped Amar would join him at his firm. Tauji was upset but ultimately supported Amar’s decision. More reason for me to feel envious. Not only did I lack the vision to choose a vocation for myself, but I also lacked the courage to imagine a life without the cocoon of my father’s wealth. I cowered and took a more traditional approach, opting to study chemistry like my father. I wasn’t necessarily interested in the field but thought a science degree would come in handy when I took over his pharmaceutical business.

What I had miscalculated was the correlation between intelligence and hard work. With a complete but grossly misplaced faith in my abilities, I spent the year smoking weed and engaging in mindless sex. I picked fights with goons of the college in a bid to become the big, bad boy on campus. Of course, I ended up in the hospital a couple of times, but that didn’t deter me. I continued with my pigheaded behavior until the college kicked me out at the end of the first year.

Deeply ashamed, my parents paid a huge amount in donations to get me a seat at the art college in Baroda the following year. They hoped Amar would keep an eye on me. But the more insidious reason was that they didn’t know many people in the city, so it wouldn’t hurt their social reputation if I continued with my disgraceful behavior. Just another option in the repertoire of the wealthy—ship your difficult kid to an obscure city or a foreign land to take the heat off the family.

But now that I was head-to-head with Amar, I had come in ready to sabotage him. I knew he was better than me in every possible way, so I chose to become who he wouldn’t be. I bedded my first woman in Baroda within two days of my arrival and thus took my new identity. I was a playboy—rich, visible, available.

Meanwhile, Amar hung out with his nondescript group of friends. They went to cheap, standalone theaters with suspect air conditioning at a time when multiplex theaters were erected in every corner of the city. They traveled in autorickshaws, while I drove Dad’s car. They ate at roadside food stalls and drank tea at roadside stands. But when I saw how close the six of them were, jealousy reared its venomous head again. Their friendship wasn’t loud and braggart but soft, gentle, and caring. They didn’t need to blow money to have fun and feel connected.

I couldn’t stand to see Amar happy when I wasn’t. I wanted what he had. I wanted Tara. It was petty, but that’s who I was until she called me out on it one evening.

When I accosted her for excluding me from their group gatherings, she not only had the balls to point out my disconcerting behavior but actually used the words jealous and envious. As if I’d handed her the script to my life. In what became a moment of reckoning for me, she called bullshit on my confidence, my bravado and flamboyance. She said I could be my own man and didn’t need to live under Amar’s shadow. My wealth, the car, my clothes meant nothing to her. She only saw what I was capable of achieving on my own merit. It was the first time anyone had shown faith in me, and it shook me to my core.

I stormed off, angry at being seen so clearly. But almost instantly, I craved the validation she was gifting me. I could be who she thought I was. Suddenly, I saw who she was too. A goddess with a philosopher’s mind, Saraswati herself; a loyal friend who loved and protected her people with the same fierce dignity she showed for herself. I took a chance and asked her point-blank if she was in love with Amar. To my surprise, she uttered the word I was silently praying for, “No.” At that moment, everything changed.

A year before, if someone had joked that I’d be enamored with a simple, small-town girl who wore no makeup and whose English accent left much to be desired, I would’ve wagered my dad’s shiny new car. I was a rock fan, while she reveled in mainstream Bollywood music, a clear déclassé in the eyes of the Indian rich. We came from two completely different worlds. But that strong, fierce girl was no joke. She could cut you down to size, even in her less-than-perfect English, because she was brilliant. And it wasn’t that she couldn’t speak the language. Her English was grammatically on point because she was an avid reader, but she hadn’t had many occasions to converse, so her pronunciations didn’t always land.

The first time we had sex, she mispronounced condom. Jarring as it sounded to my unaccustomed ear, when I saw her in the dim light of my table lamp, it became superfluous. Those beautiful eyes, rife with desire, saw me and liked what they saw. I often felt naked beneath her gaze. It was a heady feeling, the freedom of being who I wanted to be—tender and vulnerable, angry and impatient.

That magical night, after we flopped onto my rumpled bed, naked, exhausted, and satisfied, she threw in a quick, clinical lecture to inform me that not all women bleed during their first intercourse. And it shouldn’t hurt to the point of agony unless there is a medical reason or a case of gravely mismatched genitalia, which is very rare. And that lube could play a very important role in pleasure.

“So, was it good for you?” I said, picking up the tube of lube and placing it on the side stand.

She smiled with a hand on my heart. “What you did with your tongue was amazing. I never expected to have such a strong orgasm my first time.”

“If this was your first time, how do you know what orgasms feel like?” I asked like a typical nineteen-year-old fool.

She frowned. “What, do you think only boys DIY?”

“No,” I cried feebly. “Can I confess something? It’s the first time I’ve done that with my tongue.”

“Oh, so I was your guinea pig?”

I laughed. “Or maybe I was saving it for someone special.”

“No, you weren’t. You were scared.”

I groaned. “Why don’t you ever let me live my lies?”

She smiled and closed her eyes.

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