Lovetorn (20 page)

I rose and flew toward him. I thought he would turn and leave; but he stood there, rooted to the spot, staring. Behind me I heard Toby calling my name. I didn’t even look back.

“Vikram!” I said, nearing him now. “What are you
doing
here?”

His eyes were wide open, the bill of his hat shadowing his face. I saw in my mind’s eye what he just did: the girl he had loved all his life leaning up against another boy, touching his wrist, giggling into his neck. I saw what he had seen, and I hated myself.

He stared at me and said nothing.

“I wanted to see your school,” he said. “To surprise you.” He paused. “Who’s that boy?” he asked. “Is that the flute boy?”

I nodded.

“You seem very friendly with him,” Vikram said. His expression was stern, suspicious. “What is going on?”

“I don’t know, Vikram,” I said. I was crying now, again. “I need to talk to you. Let me go get my bag, then we can walk home.”

I ran back toward the lawn. Toby was right where I had left him, a frown on his face.

“That was him, right?” he said. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” I said. “None of it is your fault. I’m sorry. I have to go.” I slung my bag over my shoulder.

“Want me to come with you?” Toby asked.

“No,” I said, wiping my nose with my hand. “I made this mess. I have to fix it.”

When I got back to where I had left Vikram, he was no longer there.

I ran home, hoping that was where Vikram was headed. The repercussions of what had just happened dawned on me as I sprinted down the street. I had betrayed not just Vikram, but his parents and mine, my grandparents, all my relatives, the family astrologer, the family priest; destroyed a three-decade friendship between two men; and spat on my future. I had broken the promise I had made by wearing his ring, and I had defied an oath made by two friends thirteen years ago as they sat in white wicker chairs and planned their children’s lives.

I had to make this right. I didn’t know how. But I just
had
to.

I tore up the driveway. The front door was unlocked. I rushed in. The house was exactly as I had left it that morning. I was enveloped in silence.

I collapsed onto the couch, put my head in my hands, and cried. He wasn’t here. My first thought was that he had left without saying good-bye.

I lifted my head. On the coffee table, right in front of me, was the Nikon camera. I picked it up and looked around. Through the glass doors leading to the patio I saw him lying on a deck chair, his hands folded in his lap, his eyes closed. His nose was red. He had been crying too.

I slid open the door. It squeaked. He opened his eyes.

I sat down in the chair next to him. I wanted to tell him everything, but no words came out. Because no matter what I said, I would never be able to explain it, never be able to take away the hurt.

“I’m sorry,” I said pathetically. I played with the strap on his camera, weaving it between my fingers.

He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the chair, and leaned forward. He took the camera from my hands.

“What’s going on, Shalu?” he asked. I thought he would sound angrier. But he sounded defeated.

I started crying again.

“I don’t know,” I sobbed. “I’m such a mess. I made a mistake. Please forgive me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about him?” he asked. “We have always told each other everything.”

I shook my head and looked around for a Kleenex.

“I don’t know. There was never a right time. I didn’t know how much he liked me. I didn’t know how much I liked him. I was hoping it would go away. I thought it was crazy, the feelings I had for him. All my life there was only you. And then suddenly there was someone else.”

He took off his cap and scratched his jaw. He stood up, his jeans sagging at the waist, his shirt creased. He walked around the small patio. My eyes followed him.

“I went to your dad’s office the other day,” he said. “Jeremy told me he was hoping your father might stay on an extra year.” His voice was serious now. This whole situation was serious. If we were in India, our families would have been here to mediate. But it was just he and I. It was up to us to figure this out.

He turned around quickly, startling me.

“I don’t know how it’s going to work, Shalu,” he said. I knew what he was saying. I started to cry. This couldn’t end. I couldn’t not have him in my life. I couldn’t let go of him. I wanted to take everything back, everything that had happened these past months, these past days. I wished I had never met Amina. I wished I had never met Toby. I needed Vikram. I had always needed Vikram. Inside, in so many ways, I was still three years old.

He sat down and took my hands. His fingers moved over the smooth surface of my ring.

“I was very hurt when I saw you today, with him. That was the way you used to look at me. But since I’ve been here, you haven’t looked at me like that.”

“Please, Vikram,” I begged. “It’s a stupid mistake. It will never happen again.”

He let go of my hands, wrapped his arms around himself. His brows were knitted together, his eyes earnest, his voice steady now.

“You are my life, my
jaan
,” he said. “You always have been. I have never questioned that we would be together. Not even when you left India. Not even when you got busy with your life here. But
you
have questioned it. Since you have come here, you have questioned it. I don’t blame you. But this is one thing I cannot help you with, Shalu.”

As he spoke, I could only see one image; it was supposed to happen in a year: Vikram and I seated beneath a flower-covered canopy, our hands bound together by red silk thread, a priest reciting Sanskrit prayers. That had been my dream,
our
dream. I couldn’t walk away from it.

“You say you love me, Shalu, and I believe you. I also know that you had no choice but to love me. We did not choose each other. I was lucky that you are the girl for me. But maybe it took your father bringing you here for you to wonder if I was the boy for you.”

“But I do love you, Vikram,” I said.

“Maybe one day I will know that for sure,” he said. “But your life is here now. I want you to have it, whatever makes you happy. I will wait for you until you ask me not to.”

My heart was physically hurting now. I was crying big, heaving sobs. Vikram leaned in again, put his fingers around mine, and gently slipped off my ring. Then he put it in my palm and enclosed my hand around it.

“Keep it,” he said, using his thumbs to wipe away my tears. “But only put it on again if you are ready.”

He stood up, holding me. I was shaking in his arms. He held me, my wet cheek resting against his collarbone. I touched a white button on his shirt. I didn’t want him to leave.

Then I thought of Dada, of the devastation that this would have on our families, our reputations.

“I will take care of everything,” Vikram said, reading my mind. I didn’t ask him what he meant, only knew that he would. He had one hand on each side of my face and was stroking my cheeks. He bent down and kissed my forehead.

The front door was still open, and now Mr. Phil was standing in the doorway. Vikram let go of me, picked up his camera, and walked out.

I stood there, my body reverberating, my heart screeching. What had just happened? Had Vikram left me? Was I without him now, without him for the first time in my life? I looked around. There was nobody there, nobody to tell me I was going to be all right, no grandparents or aunts and uncles to come to my rescue. I felt bare, stripped down, helpless.

I ran upstairs. The door to my mother’s room was open. She was in bed; the TV was on. A Hindi commercial for a henna shampoo was playing: an image of a young bride in red brushing her long, glossy hair. I had grown up with those images. I was supposed to be that girl.

My mother moved over, making room for me. I plopped down on the bed next to her and threw my arms around her neck, crying into her shoulder, a silk rosebud from her nightgown scratching my lip.

“Ma, I need you,” I sobbed.

I felt a tremor of movement in her arms. She sat upright, gathered herself around me, and rocked me gently in her arms. She pulled my tear-soaked hair away from my face. She leaned her lips close to my ear and whispered, “Don’t worry,
beta.
I’m here.”

Late that night I replied to Toby’s texts. Was I okay, he wanted to know. “
What went down?
”

I answered, “
We’ll talk.”

The next week there was a senior-year orientation at school. We arranged to meet there afterward, on the patch of green grass where we had spent so many lunch hours during the summer.

I was already sitting on the grass as Toby walked toward me. His hands, empty of the flute case, swung casually by his sides.

“Hey,” he said, crouching down. “How’s it going?”

I told him what had happened. Afterward he said, “Are you okay?”

“Actually, yes,” I said. He was sitting opposite me now; our knees were touching.

“It’s the first time that Vikram hasn’t been a part of my life,” I said. “After he left I cried for three days. But I think I’m okay now. I don’t know what’s going to happen in the future. But right now I want to be here. I’m happy where I am.”

I thought back to the look on my father’s face when my mother had told him what had happened. His first instinct was to think of Bhushan, his best friend. They had a gentleman’s agreement that their children would one day marry. But then my father had glanced at me, seen my puffy eyes and reddened nose, and given me a slight, awkward hug, like he had done on the first day of school.

“Everything will be okay,” he had said to me. “Whatever will be will be.”

I looked at Toby now.

“Yes,” I said. “I think it will all work out.”

Toby smiled broadly, that big, beautiful smile.

“I won’t be far,” he said. “There’ll be recitals. You can come. I’d love that.”

“I’d love that too,” I answered, smiling back.

The September sky was streaked fiery orange. A sudden, sharp breeze that blew inland from the ocean took my breath away. I drew my shawl tightly across my shoulders and ran ahead to catch up with Sangita.

In front of her walked my mother and father, holding hands. We had driven to Santa Barbara for dinner to celebrate our first anniversary in America. Renuka and her parents had joined us. We had raised glasses of club soda and orange juice and clinked them together, laughing. Afterward, on the way home, my father said he wanted to show my mother something.

“This is beautiful,” my mother said, standing on the pier. The
pallu
of her sari flapped in the wind. Seagulls squawked overhead. My father took off his jacket and wrapped it around my mother’s shoulders. A sailboat was headed back to land. The smell of rusty iron and salty sea lingered in the air.

“It reminds me of something,” my mother said.

“Chowpatty beach in Mumbai, with the girls when they were young,” my father said.

She nodded in agreement and turned to look at us. Even under her sweater, my sister’s arms looked sinewy and muscular. She had made the school swim team. Soon she would compete in regional races.

In my pocket, my phone buzzed, probably Amina again. She and I were on the organizing committee for the Halloween party this year. We were charging an entrance fee. The money was going to help the women in the slums of Calcutta. My father said he would send it personally. Toby was going to be part of the musical lineup. I thought of him now, and a glow lit up my body. I couldn’t wait to see him at rehearsal tomorrow.

My mother turned back toward the ocean, leaning over a railing and lifting her face into the wind. Sangita squealed and ran down a flight of rickety steps to the beach. She had seen a fish ejected from the water by a crashing wave. It was flipping and tossing itself on the wet sand, looking for a way to breathe, a way to live. I ran with her and lifted the spinning, silvery fish by its tail. It pirouetted in my hands. I raised it high and, with a gasp of exhilaration and delight, flung it back into its home.

Glossary

beti/beta (bay-tee)
– usually used toward someone younger; means “dear/darling”

bhai sahib (bye sahb)
– a common way to refer to male acquaintances; literally translates as “brother sir”

bindi (BIHN-dee)
– a decorative mark placed in the middle of the forehead by women

chaat (chawt)
– platter of savory Indian snacks

chacha (chaw-chaw)
– means “father’s brother”—a way to differentiate between a maternal and paternal uncle. Chachi is “father’s brother’s wife.”

chai (chy)
– traditional Indian spiced tea

chikoo (CHIH-kuu)
– popular fruit in India; called sapota in English

choti walli (CHOH-tee WAH-lee)
– literally translates as “the girl with the braid”

dada (DAH-dah)
– usually used to connote paternal grandfather

dadi (DAH-dee)
– usually used to connote paternal grandmother

dals (dawls)
– lentils

desi (DEH-see)
– reference to people from the Indian subcontinent

dhokla (DOH-kluh)
– snack of spicy fermented rice or lentil flour

didi (DEE-dee)
– big sister

Diwali (dih-WAH-lee)
– Indian New Year

dupatta (duh-PUH-tuh)
– long scarf draped over a “salwar kameez” outfit

gopis (GO-pees)
– the maidens that the god Krishna danced with in Hindu mythology

jaan (yaHn)
– means “life”

jalebis (juh-LAY-bees)
– orange-colored dessert shaped like pretzels

jijaji (JEE-juh-jee)
– often used to connote “sister’s husband”

kaju barfi (KAH-joo BUR-fee)
– cashew-nut-based dessert cut into diamond shapes

khandvi (KAHND-vee)
– snack made of chickpea flour and yogurt