Page 11 of Journey to You

She’d loved listening to her parents chat over dinner, their tales of adventure, the story of how they met. She’d always craved a once in a lifetime romance like theirs. Sadly, Richard hadn’t come close to her romantic fantasy and she’d given up hope of ever finding it.

“Hey, are you okay?” He asked, concern furrowing his brow.

She nodded and bit down hard on her bottom lip to stop it quivering. “I still miss my mum.”

He hesitated, before reaching out to capture her hand again. “Tell me about her.”

Tell him what? How her mum used to braid her waist length hair into plaits every day for school, never once snagging the brush or rushing her? How Adhira concocted an Indian feast out of rice, lentils, a few spices, and little else? How Adhira had loved her, protected her, been there for her in every way after her dad died?

Tamara couldn’t put half of what she felt into words, let alone articulate the devastating sadness reaching down to her soul that she was on this train and Adhira wasn’t.

Ethan squeezed her hand, his compassionate expression encouraging. “Tell me one of the favourite things you used to do together.”

“Watch Bollywood films.”

The memory alleviated some of the sadness permeating her thoughts as she remembered many Sunday afternoons curled on the worn, suede couch in the family room, a plate ofjalebis, milkburfiandMysore pak—delicious Indian sweets made with loads of sugar, milk, and butter—between them, as they were riveted to the latest Shah Rukh Khan blockbuster—India’s equivalent to Brad Pitt. They’d laugh at the over the top theatrics, sigh at the dramatic romance, and natter about the beautiful, vibrant saris.

Raised in Melbourne with an Aussie dad, Tamara never felt any real connection to India, even though her mum’s Goan blood flowed in her veins. But for those precious Sunday afternoons, she’d been transported to another world; a world filled with exotic people and vibrant colour and mystical magic.

“What else?”

“We loved going to the beach.”

Ethan’s gentle encouragement had her wanting to talk about memories she’d long submerged, memories she only resurrected in the privacy of her room at night when she’d occasionally cry herself to sleep.

Richard’s sympathy had been short-lived. He’d told her to get over her grief and focus on more important things, like hosting yet another dinner party for his friends.

That had been three years ago, three long years as their marriage continued its downward spiral, as her famous husband revealed a cruel side that to this day left her questioning her judgement in marrying someone like him in the first place.

Ethan must’ve sensed her withdrawal, because he tugged lightly on her hand. “Any particular beach you loved?”

She shook her head, the corners of her mouth curving upwards for the first time since she’d started reminiscing about her mum. “It wasn’t the location as such. Anywhere would do as long as there was sand and sun and ocean.”

They’d visited most of the beaches along the Great Ocean Road after her dad had died: Anglesea, Torquay, Lorne, Apollo Bay. She’d known why. The beach reminded Adhira of meeting Harrison, Tamara’s dad, for the first time, the story she’d heard so many times.

Her mum had been trying to hold onto precious memories, maybe recreate them in her head, but whatever the reason, Tamara had been happy to go along for the ride. They’d made a great team and she would’ve given anything for her mum to pop into the dining car right now with a wide smile on her face and her hair perched in a messy bun on top of her head.

“Sounds great.”

“It’s why I’m spending a week in Goa after the train. It was to be the highlight of our trip.” She took a sip of water, cleared her throat of emotion. “My folks met on Colva Beach. Dad was an Aussie backpacker taking a gap year after med school, Mum was working for one of the hotels there.”

She sighed, and swirled the water in her glass. “Love at first sight apparently. My dad used to call mum his exotic princess from the far east, mum used to say dad was full of crap.”

“Why didn’t she ever go back after he passed away?”

Shrugging, she toyed with her cutlery, the familiar guilt gnawing at her. “Because of me, I guess. She wanted me to have every opportunity education-wise, wanted to raise me as an Australian as my dad would’ve wanted.”

“But you’re half Indian too? This country is a part of who you are.”

She stared at his hand over hers, so strong, so tanned, so comforting, and the sting of tears burned anew. “Honestly? I don’t know who I am any more.”

The admission sounded as lost, as forlorn, as she felt almost every minute of every day.

She’d vocalised her greatest fear.

She lost her identity when she married Richard and became the perfect wife he wanted. She’d ignored her wants and needs in favour of satisfying his. She’d submerged her cultural background because of his obsession with fitting in with everyone else. She’d been playing a role forever: first the dutiful wife, then the grieving widow.

An act. All of it.

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