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CHAPTER 5

“Aaargh! Help! Help!” screamed Tara trying to get up and run. Her mind screamed escape. Her knees and palms were probably scrapped. They were stinging. She wished she was religious and had picked up some bhajans from Shekhar or hymns from her mother. She had always gravitated to the agnostic end of the spectrum. She wished she had her purse with the pepper spray with her. Mumbai the city that never sleeps looked a little bit lost and shrouded in darkness today.  Power cuts, she cursed as she looked around in panic hoping for help. This is the end, she thought bitterly as the looked up at the supposed attacker. Car horns beeped at a distance, a stray dog barked and the humid air was laced with scents of the night jasmine. Tara stared at the figure in front of her as the lights flicked on the pavement.

“Shekhar! You? I was scared for a moment,” Tara gasped instinctively reaching out for his hand and pulling herself up. “What are you doing here? Where is Roohi? Please don’t tell me you left her alone in the apartment.” Tara could feel the panic filling her up. She may not be a hands-on mother but she did love that little girl of hers. She squinted into the darkness to look into the face of the stranger her husband had morphed into. Shekhar spotted a bewildered look – the look brought out the long lost love rushing to the surface. Tara longed to push that baseball cap that seemed to be struck on his head these days and run her hand through the rough curly mane Shekhar sported before he lost all his hair. She wanted to put her arms around him and assure him everything will be right. Instead she shook him. “Shekhar! Shekhar! Can you hear me? What are you doing here?”

“Tara….. I was concerned,” Shekhar mumbled as he pulled off his cap and rubbed his bald scalp. “I came looking for you. We need to get back to Roohi. I left her at the guard house,” he stated walking away in long strides towards their home. Tara looked flummoxed. What just happened here? she wondered watching the receding back of her husband and his footsteps fading away into darkness.

Tara started moving keeping her eyes fixed on Shekhar. He was running his right hand over his head yet again. He seems to do it every time he was nervous, thought Tara. The panic and the adrenaline were now wearing off and her logical reasoning skills seemed to have made a comeback. She pushed herself to keep Shekhar in sight as she followed his trail.

“I wish I can put a finger on the problem. I smell disaster. My instincts rarely fail,” Tara mumbled to herself as she walked homewards. Roohi seemed fine – more than fine. Was Shekhar in trouble? Well more trouble than usual, she corrected herself. Maybe she should talk to her contacts and find a couple of interesting projects for Shekhar. Something to get him out of those awful track pants and home. He seemed to be glued to the couch and his laptop these days. Roohi seemed to be the only person who could draw him out not that she attempted. My relationship with Shekhar ended soon after it started, she acknowledged bitterly.  The scary encounter combined with her work pressure and THAT tattoo on the non-conformist photo journalist Jennifer’s hand set her mind in overdrive mode.  It took tumbling down into the past. Not now, she ordered her tremulous thoughts as she stepped inside home to the sounds of giggling laughs coming from Roohi’s bedroom.

Popping her head inside the pink and purple room with posters of Hannah Montana and Harry Potter, she willed her voice to remain calm as she enquired “All is well? Roohi? Shekhar?” There was silence. I seem to freeze the atmosphere she thought uneasily before continuing, “I got a splitting headache and am off to bed. Goodnight darlings.”

Minutes later, slipping into the cool comforts of her bed, Tara’s mind swirled out of control. Dwelling on past was something Tara rarely did these days. She didn’t have the luxury of time on her side to ruminate about the past. The present and the future challenges at work engulfed her. It almost asphyxiated her and she preferred it that way. Her phone vibrated against the palm of her hand and she glanced at the illuminated screen signalling an incoming message from Jennifer thanking her. She groaned in frustration as the past came gushing – unchecked and uncontrolled. Moments and memories pushed back and shuttered away engulfed her.

“You have to come Tara. No excuses. I missed seeing you all of last year. I do understand your mother is not well but you didn’t even turn up for the engagement party. I am sending the invitation and a flight ticket to Delhi. I want you at my wedding before you start your career at Lucky One Media,” Roopa ordered her. Tara had just signed the adoption papers and was overwhelmed. She longed to be held. She wanted the comforts of a caring partner, a friend or just some random stranger. Someone to assure her things will be fine. Her own mother refused to acknowledge her pregnancy even though they lived in the same one-bedroom flat the past 6 months. She felt abandoned. Karma, she thought.

She made it to Delhi just to get away from the guilt and the accusing looks her mother threw at her. She fell into the wedding chaos with ease. She wanted to look her best. She accompanied Roopa to hair stylist and chopped off her long, curly locks – her best feature. She now sported a pixie cut and owned a hair straightener. 

Her hands reached to flick that strand of hair that routinely fell on her eyes. Shekhar had found it sexy when she did that. The pixie haircut stayed with her for the past 9 years. She added a colouring regime at the recommendation of her stylist when the first greys popped out but she kept the style. It became her signature. Her identity. Proof of her transformation from the rather naive girl with a riot of curls to a shrewd career woman. The new Tara was born at the wedding. “I did it. I am strong and can do anything. I have proved it,” she announced to artificially chilled air filling the space.

For Roopa’s wedding she wore her maroon sari. A bindi, jhumkas and a long chain completed her look. She looked beautiful and she knew it. “I freaking hate wearing a sari. I am never going to wear one again,” she muttered adjusting the slippery pallu of sari for what seemed like the millionth time in the past hour as she stood taking in deep breaths of the flower-scented air. “Never say never pretty lady. You look lovely in that maroon sari,”  said a strange nasal voice right next to her. She mentally groaned at the thought of yet another flirting Romeo trying his luck at a wedding.Weddings were never her scene. They brought out the worst in people. Prying eyes, wandering hands, big egos, bigger wardrobes, crazy families and over-the-top extravagance. She turned to face pearly whites and a big smile flashing at her. “Hi! I am Shekhar,” said the voice attached to smile. Tara took in the man in front of her – average height, sharp noise, closely cropped black curly hair, a neatly trimmed French beard on an angular face. “Shekhar from Bombay. A wordsmith. A beatnik. Friend of the groom,” he reintroduced himself holding his hand out. Tara flicked the hair off her eye. The new hairstyle needs some getting used to, she thought as she debated if she should respond. She almost turned to her heel but that never-fading smile on Shekhar’s face stopped her. Grudgingly she introduced herself ,“Tara also from Bombay. The bride’s best friend from college.” “Aahan! Another media professional in the making I see. Good to meet you Ms.Tara and please do not abandon the sari. You look absolutely gorgeous. You absolutely rock the look,” Shekhar murmured gripping Tara’s hand and his smile grew wider.

The smile is the only thing that remains the same, thought Tara coming back to the present. Why did I even think I can survive this?

Shekhar with his wide smile, overly large ears and thin-framed glasses declared her pretty. He made her smile. He made her forget the cold metal bed at the hospital. The brutal pain that send waves through her body. The screams she swallowed and the utter bleakness that filled her. He made up for the attitude dished on her by the nurse for the crime of being a woman giving up her child. Most of all he made her forget the blood. The red splashes and strains that seemed to have soaked her soul. The soul she gave up. She refused to see the child.  Shekhar with his verbose nature and serene smiles calmed her. The claiming part came much later.

Tara smiled. Not all memories are bitter. Are they? She got married to Shekhar in her maroon sari. He had patiently stood with her, proposing with a steadfast frequency till he wore her down. Over cups of coffee sweetened with sugar and cream, Shekhar crept into her life. She remained aloof and rarely shared her secrets with him. But on the night her mother passed away the strong walls she put in around herself broke. She had said YES.

She tossed and turned. Sleep eluded her. She pulled out her phone to check her emails and social media sites. She couldn’t concentrate. Where had that Shekhar gone? What went wrong? “We don’t even share the same bed these days,” she muttered as she sat up on her bed. The hum of the AC was the only sound she could hear. In the stillness of the night, she heard the other voice in her mind uttering words that sealed her dreams.

“Too late for an abortion. You are now 18 weeks pregnant.” 

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