Page 7 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

“What’s wrong?” she asked when we were alone.

“Nothing.”

“Is it about the engagement?”

“I don’t love her, Ma.”

I undid the top button on my shirt in an effort to ease the stiffness in my chest. If only it were that easy.

She patted my hand. “I won’t push you into doing anything you don’t want to.” I looked at her. “But make sure you know what you want. Such relationships don’t come by every day. Aarti is smart and determined. And she loves you. I hate myself for thinking like your father, but he’s right. You’ll be taken care of for life.”

“Is that all there is to life?”

She sank onto the couch. We reclined side by side as I reflected on the events that had brought us here.

I dropped my face to hers. “How does Dad still have this confidence after everything he did?”

She shook her head and roused herself. “Well, I’m off to bed.” But two steps out, she stopped and put her hand on my shoulder. “Beta, whatever you decide, make sure you’re faithful to her.” Then she walked away, tall and proud, the pallu of her beautiful saree trailing behind her.

Chapter 3

Tara

Amonth ago, I was excited about this opportunity. Now I was exhausted, and it had only been two weeks. With a dramatic sigh, I crashed onto the couch in my rented, furnished uptown apartment and pulled out my cell phone to call Sona.

Sona Thomas, my closest friend, was a geographer by training and an Assistant Professor of Feminist Studies at a college in Brooklyn. And that told you everything you needed to know about her. Brilliant, wise, street-smart, with a generous side of sass, she was gifted with the patience and impulse control that I lacked.

We shared the kind of bond that women without sisters tend to form, but we had more in common than the mere absence of a female sibling. We shared the same mother tongue, Marathi, although, on account of her father, Sona was also fluent in Malayalam. We had both migrated from Western India, having grown up in the neighboring states of Gujarat and Maharashtra. With so many overlaps in food, language, and culture, we could put a Venn diagram to shame.

So it was a no-brainer that we connected. But it was our uncanny ability to understand and read each other that had brought us closer over the past five years.

“Hey.” Her sweet voice jingled over the phone. “How’s it going there?”

“Okay, considering. I miss home.”

“Already?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Was it him?”

“I’ll tell you. But first, how’s Aai? I called her twice today. She didn’t answer and hasn’t called me back. Just wanted to check with you before I begin to panic.”

Her amused laughter spilled over the phone. “Your mom is fine. I stopped by to see her on my way back from campus. She didn’t want to bother you at work, so my guess is she’ll be calling you later tonight.”

“Thank goodness!”

“Oh, and your knight in shining armor was there too.” That would be my boyfriend, Sujit. “He’d also come to check on her.”

“Stop calling him that. It makes me sound like a damsel in distress.” I slid down the couch.

“As if,” she said with a snort. “Tell me, was it Sameer who bought the painting?”

“Yup, and I saw him. In the flesh.”

“Hmm, so can I start bashing him now, so you feel better?”

I laughed. “We’re way past that age, Sona.”

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