Page 10 of The Rules of Playing with Fire

A strange mix of happiness and envy swept over me. I was truly happy for Tara. But this was how I had expected someone in my past to stand up for me and they hadn’t.

“Aunty is usually soft-spoken,” Tara continued, “but she stood up for us against her daughter. Then, to placate Juhi, she arranged to have this party in her honor. But I am blessed, aren’t I? I mean, I can count on one hand the number of women who have such supportive mothers-in-law, and I’m not even married yet.”

“You are blessed, and you deserve it all.” I wrapped my arms around her and held her tight.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, placing a soft kiss on my temple.

Tara had been privy to every detail of my life, and I knew why she had said it.

“I’m genuinely happy for you, Tara,” I said, dismissing her concern. “But it’s been terribly lonely without you. I’m running out of options on how to spend my weekends,” I joked.

“Then move here,” she said with a wink. “With your credentials, you’ll have no trouble finding a great job.”

I sighed. “If only! But tell me about this weekend getaway. Is that still happening?”

Her eyes brightened as she sat upright. “That trip is to celebrate Arvind uncle’s birthday. That’s Mihir’s father. He’s turning sixty-five. Mihir wanted to throw a big party, but Uncle lost his close friend a few months ago, and he thinks it’s morbid to celebrate a birthday in the face of his friend’s death. That’s why we decided to take him away instead.”

“That’s nice. I hope my presence doesn’t make it awkward.”

“Of course not, silly girl. You’re family. Wait till you meet them. They are very nice, Sameer’s parents and Mihir’s.”

“Is Juhi coming too?”

“No, thank goodness. She’ll be away for the wedding,” Tara said with a look of relief. “That’s how we planned it.”

“Maybe I can bake something. A cake?”

“I think Mihir has already ordered a custom one. How about your Greek chicken and potatoes for lunch one day? I’ll make the rice.”

Tara was a planner—and a very good one. It wasn’t a coincidence that she had co-founded a thriving art consultancy firm.

“Come on, I’ll make tea.” She rose to leave. “Then we should start getting ready for the party. We mustn’t be late, or Aunty will never hear the end of it from Juhi.”

When she left, I popped into the shower, then dried my curls before putting on my trusty jeans and a top.

Over tea, we caught each other up on our lives. I had little to share. Most of my days were spent teaching, reading, and writing. I ran, I swam, I cooked, I ate, then I fell asleep, only to repeat it the next day.

It sounded sadder than it was. I was a creature of routine. Managing my attention deficit personality meant that I thrived when I stuck to a routine. I was happiest when I knew what was going to happen next, or at least when I could anticipate it.

It took some navigation and preparation, but I was good at it now. For instance, when I was supposed to dine at a restaurant I’d never been to before, I perused the menu online to narrow down my options. I often encountered anxiety or an out-of-body feeling if I had to make conversation, even small talk, while looking at the menu. Knowing my order ahead of time relieved me of the pressure of decision-making in real-time. It was one of the handy-dandy tools—like my planners, tags, and tabs—that I utilized to manage my impulsive, restless brain.

Predictability was my most useful ally. The greatest setback in my life had happened when I was unable to predict the sudden shift in the winds. That’s when it had all gone downhill.

Tara knew this. Perhaps that’s why she had sent Mihir to pick me up at the airport instead of having me take a cab.

“Alright, go change while I get ready, and then I’ll help you with your makeup,” she said when we had finished our tea around a quarter past five.

While she retreated to her room, I washed and dried the tea mugs and put them back in the drawer. Then I headed to my room and changed into the sparkling gown. I looked in the mirror and flashed a pleased smile before knocking on Tara’s bedroom door.

She answered looking like a movie star in an off-shoulder turquoise blue gown embroidered with delicate pink flowers and green vines. She had chosen to wear traditional Polki jewelry—diamonds—uncut, unpolished, and unfaceted—set in gold foil to reflect light. Only Tara could blend the aesthetics of traditional and contemporary so effortlessly and look spectacular doing it.

I gasped, my mouth gaping. “Whoa! You said it was a simple gathering.”

“It is, and this is simple for that crowd,” she said with an eye roll followed by a chuckle.

After settling me in her makeup chair, she straightened and polished my hair into a glossy cascade. Then she applied layer after layer of things that made my skin brighter and smoother. She shaped and filled my eyebrows, put on a nice subtle eyeshadow, and lined my eyes before treating my long lashes to the caress of mascara. They primed and plumped with pride. I usually stayed away from pure red lipstick, but with Tara’s reassurance, I tried one, and it worked.

She insisted I keep my neck bare and gave me a pair of statement diamond earrings, which sparkled joyfully against the muted shimmer in my dress. Beaming with happiness, I gave her a quick, grateful hug.

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