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NAINA PACED AROUND the empty gallery, her high heels clicking against the wooden floor. She was sipping a glass of red wine, her heart filled with the rising and accelerating music of anticipation. Jai was coming to the gallery in a short while to see the Anat Hawass paintings. They were meeting alone for the first time in the New Year, for the first time since she had acknowledged her feelings for him and turned herself upside down.
She put her wrists next to her nose to check her new perfume, but she barely caught a whiff of the luscious scent of tropical flowers with a spicy, citrusy edge. She rushed toward the office area, took the perfume from her bag, and added a little more Ferragamo’s Signorina Ribelle to her wrists and neck. She sat down and looked out of the small window; the night was dark and cloudless, and a full moon beamed in all its glory. She knew the connection between a full moon and madness, held true for centuries, was a myth, but coincidence or not, she was certainly feeling a lot loonier these days.
Naina checked her watch. Fifteen minutes until Jai was due to arrive. Fifteen long minutes. She checked her email. She saw a curatorial proposal from a woman called Mailey, who had been referred by one of Susan’s contacts. Mailey. That was the same name as Amaya’s friend whose cousin had asked Amaya out. Naina glanced at the proposal, something unoriginal about the depiction of women’s bodies in advertisements, and stared at the moon again.
She imagined Amaya holding hands and giggling with a fresh-faced boy with short, cropped hair; she pictured her fixing the tie of a serious investment-banker type in a suit; she envisaged her with a messy-haired, torn-jeans-wearing startup millionaire, clinking champagne glasses in their first-class cabin on a flight to Turks and Caicos.
Such visions had become commonplace, triggered by Amaya’s mentioning of her friend Mailey’s cousin’s interest in her, and multiplied when Amaya described the wonderful qualities of a new male colleague. Since then, her imagination had taken flight, conjuring up all sorts of romantic scenarios for Amaya. Always with someone younger and richer than Jai. The future seemed ripe with male prospects for her daughter.
Naina walked back toward the main gallery space, the lyrical beauty of the paintings around her affecting her almost every time. She stood in front of her favorite: turquoise-and-orange leaves wafting upward, as if they were on their way to a mystical communion with the universe.
Once more, as she had been doing during the preceding few weeks, Naina told herself Jai was not right for Amaya. Jai was too passionate, too capricious, too unconventional, and her daughter was too earnest, too grounded, too lacking in fire. It could never work. It would never work.
She moved away from the paintings and darted around the gallery, sipping her wine.
Jai needed to be with someone like her, she thought, feeling that deliciously sweet certitude that Jai belonged to her—she belonged to Jai. They were soul mates; they were kindred spirits; they were made for each other, the conviction of it hardening inside her like a clay bowl in a kiln.
So what if he was twelve years younger than she? So what? They never felt the age difference when they were together. And didn’t men marry women twenty years younger than themselves . . . and sometimes even younger than that? She had finally found the one, the one who was even more marvelous than the ones in her dreams, the one whose colors only she could match. How could she let that go?
She walked back to the crepuscular office area. She left the light off. Again, she stared at the moon. Of course, there was Amaya. She enshrouded her face in the obliterating darkness of her hands. She could not hurt her daughter.
Haltingly, Naina lifted her head and fixed her eyes on the moon. She thought of Selene, the spectacular Greek goddess of the moon, who drove a silver chariot pulled by two winged horses across the night sky. It was Selene who possessed the power to illuminate the sky after sundown, dispelling the darkness and offering the gift of light to the world so people could still see.
Once more, Naina concluded that it wasn’t going to work out between Amaya and Jai anyway. Her daughter would be hurt, of course; she believed she was in love with Jai, believed that they were right for each other, and seeing her mother with that man would be hard. Initially at least. But Amaya was smart; she was strong; she would see that she and Jai weren’t right for each other and eventually get over it. She was a psychologist after all—she would be able to see things clearly and deal with things sensibly. Sacrifices had to be made.
Naina gulped the last sip of her wine. And Amaya was young and she would find someone else, her own soul mate. She had already had so many suitors. So many prospects. Unlike her mother.
The bell rang. Naina jumped and hid her empty wine glass behind some books. On her desk were two glasses filled with one of Jai’s favorite Malbecs and a plate of Gorgonzola cheese.
She rushed to the front of the gallery and opened the door. Jai was standing there, wearing olive-green corduroy pants and a chocolate brown trench coat that matched his eyes. He looked academic, fuddy-duddy, and hip at the same time. A lovely, quirky mélange. His eyes lit up like rich amber gems. She wanted to hold those eyes in her hands, roll them around on her open palms.
“Hello, Madam Butterfly,” Jai said in that low, slow voice he used whenever they were alone together. That voice, the hue of blushing burgundy, that feel of raw silk. Gosh, how she had missed him. But Madam Butterfly, she just registered. What did he mean by that?
Now, unabashedly, he ran his eyes over her fitted black top and full chiffon skirt with butterfly-like forms all around the hem. As goose bumps speckled her skin, a warmth coated her face and she understood what he had meant. She laughed, louder than usual, but this time she didn’t care.
“Butterflies suit you. I think they represent color and joy, just like you.”
“Thank you,” Naina said, meeting his eyes. “That’s a lovely compliment.”
He looked at her as if he were taking in every detail of her face, just as she was taking in every detail of his face. The jagged scars, the long eyelashes, the thin, wide lips. They held each other’s gaze. In Naina’s imagination, the wood burned and the fire crackled and the smoke seared every sensible thought in her head. All cares vanished into the smoky air. She pictured herself clasping those hands, those fingers like a violin’s strings, and those palms barely touched by the lines of fate.
But she too stood there, tracing the outlines of her pendant.
Jai’s eyes went to the pendant in the middle of the deep V of her blouse, just above her cleavage.
“Ah, it’s that Wiccan spider pendant,” he noted, his eyes still on her chest. “So, who are you looking to ensnare in your web, Madam Butterfly?”
Naina laughed and tilted her head. “Oh, some poor, unsuspecting person . . . Just a second, please.”
She went to her office and returned with a tray with the Gorgonzola cheese and the wine. She offered a glass to Jai. With the glass in hand, Jai stared at the paintings, his expression serious and cryptic, seemingly blocking out everyone and everything from his thoughts.
Naina was especially uncomfortable in moments like this, like a random tourist trying to get access to a citadel. “What do you think of the work?”
“I’m not sure.” His expression was still impenetrable.
She waited impatiently as he examined the other work. She was so keen for Jai to appreciate these paintings, the first works that had earned the gallery praise in the art world, thanks to her efforts. She was so excited to show him the reviews.
“Actually,” Jai said, after he finished his tour of the show, his face opening up, “I think these paintings are growing on me.” A smile touched his lips. “I think I like them.”
“I’m so glad,” Naina said, smiling broadly.
“You know, when you told me about the show, I didn’t think I would like the work because I wasn’t sure how I would feel about Arabic calligraphy-inspired paintings.”
“Then why did you want to come and see them?” Naina tossed her head back and put one hand on her hip.
“Because I was intrigued.” He cocked his head, his voice sounding like the bass notes of a jazz guitar and as tactile as fabric. “Because I sensed they were interesting. And when I first glanced at them I still wasn’t sure how I felt . . . But now that I’ve spent some time with them, I’ve decided that I like them . . . In life, and this might be clichéd but still deserves to be said, one has to have an open mind . . . you think you will like something and then you don’t. And you don’t think you will like something and then you do. Life is filled with all sorts of surprises, isn’t it?”
Naina tightly and carefully held on to every word, as if they were precious rubies in danger of slipping away. She continued looking at Jai expectantly, certain he was only pausing and going to say more. Surely, he was talking about more than just the art. Right now, he was going to say something that was going to change everything. Excitement shot up in her like a bird taking flight.
Instead, he turned toward one of the paintings, the one that looked like a beehive. “I really like this one. The colors are so radiant and it’s just so idiosyncratic.”
Naina dropped her head and crossed her hands against her chest.
“Hey, what’s the matter with you?” Jai said, his voice twirling slightly with levity. “Am I going to get the see those wonderful reviews I’ve heard about or not?”
“I’m . . . I’m fine.” Naina silently commanded herself to smile. “Of course, of course, I’ll get them right now . . . Can I refill your glass?”
Naina was glad to be back in her office for a few minutes to collect herself. Just because he hadn’t said anything at that moment didn’t mean he wasn’t going to. It was a complicated situation and probably needed some time to work itself out. Every signal he was giving her was positive; every signal he gave her suggested he felt the same way as she did.
Naina stepped out into the gallery, smiling daintily at Jai as she handed him the reviews. Then, she went to get a couple of chairs from the office.
Soon, they were sitting adjacent to each other, leaning forward in their chairs, their knees pointed toward each other, her legs neatly crossed, his spread slightly apart. Their feet just inches apart.
Sitting so close to Jai, Naina could again take in his distinct scent. The smell of the hills of Shimla. Of pristine, nippy air invigorating the senses.
“I like the descriptor ‘fanciful’ that this reviewer mentions. But I think the work is more whimsical than fanciful.” Jai placed a closed hand on one side of his face and looked directly at Naina, his lips impishly curling. “The work is more like a whimsical fantasy, I think, sort of like its champion, the lovely Madam Butterfly.”
Naina felt her cheeks burn and she giggled. She twirled some strands of her hair. “So is that what you think of me, a whimsical fantasy?” The real world was quickly receding and she was entering something out of one of Anat Hawass’s paintings—a universe with an indecipherable script that adhered to no rules or regulations, not even gravity, she was flying away to meet the radiant, floating clouds in the sky.
“Maybe. Perhaps . . .” Jai leaned forward and spread his legs further apart. “Isn’t fantasy a wonderful thing? It allows you copious, uncensored pleasures in the mind, made all the more delicious by the fact that they can never materialize. Do you know what Dr. Seuss once said? ‘Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living, it’s a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope.’”
Naina’s hands were loosely on her knees as were Jai’s on his. So close to each other. She could almost feel the smooth, hairless skin on the back of his hands. It was just the two of them in this universe with the flying indecipherable script.
She was going to do it. She was going to touch him. She was going to breezily stroke his fingers and knuckles. She stretched out her hand and placed it above his.
But it would not move. It remained in mid-air, limp yet frozen.
“Is this some kind of yoga pose, Madam Butterfly?”
She abruptly stepped out of the world of flying cryptic script. Back into the gallery with the old steam pipe in the corner, with the giggling voices in the hallway . . . and with her daughter’s boyfriend.
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” Naina playfully tapped him and drew back her hand. “I was just stretching, that’s all.”
If Jai didn’t believe her, he didn’t let it show. He didn’t bring it up again and they continued bantering and talking for about a half hour, then Jai got up and said he had a dinner and needed to leave.
––––––––
“ARE YOU PLANNING to make yarn?” Jai asked, arching his thin eyebrows as he watched Naina roll her newly bought wooden spindles in her hand. “I could be wrong, but you don’t seem like the yarn-making type.”
Naina laughed. “You’re right. I’m not.”
It was an unusually warm day in February, and Jai was sitting as close to Naina on a bench in Washington Square Park without actually touching her body; he moved his face closer to hers. “Then why did you buy the spindles? And pay sixty-eight dollars for something that doesn’t look worth even thirty dollars to me. Are you collecting spindles?”
Naina could feel his warm breath from his nostrils, going in and out, in and out. The force of life repeating itself, over and over again. The force of Jai’s life. She could barely breathe.
“No, I’m not collecting spindles.” She stared at the small wooden spindles with totem-like birds painted on them. They had looked beautiful just a few minutes earlier, but now she wasn’t so sure. “Actually, I don’t know why I bought them . . . And you’re probably right, I paid way too much.” She looked at Jai, pulled down the edge of her short dress, which had ridden up dangerously close to her thighs, and smiled. “I’m horrible at bargaining, but what’s done is done . . .” She gazed up at the sky, a sweet blue, the color of a baby boy onesie and pint-sized pajamas and socks. “Ah, this breeze is so beautiful, who would think we are in the dead of winter?”
The temperature had soared above seventy-five degrees—a fifty-year record high for the month of February—and the entire city was in a good mood, as if it were the season of lights and gifts and new beginnings again. An assortment of people were hanging out in shorts and T-shirts, sweat dribbling down their bodies. On the southwest corner of the park, all the chess tables were taken and there were lines of people waiting for their turn to play against one of the expert amateurs who made their living playing chess in the Park. Faint sounds of jazz were coming from the nearby fountain and some bodies were sprawled on the dry grass.
Somehow, the day was further confirmation of what Naina had come to believe—things did not always happen on a linear prescribed path. There could be summer in winter, winter in summer, fall in summer. Anything could happen. At any time.
“Do you know lapses of reason are quite common in this weather?”
Jai faced her. “In this weather?”
“Yes,” she said, fluttering her eyelids and dramatically moving her hands. “Pleasant weather can be quite detrimental to a person’s judgement. I read an article in the New Yorker by some researcher . . . I can’t remember his name now . . . but he did a study that showed that good weather led to a ‘disconcerting lapse in thoughtfulness.’” She shrugged.
Jai laughed, a richer, riper, grainier laugh than usual. His head was tilted back just a little, and his mouth was open, revealing those perfectly set white teeth. It sounded like something rippling from deep in his chest, not just from his throat, as it normally did.
The laugh entered Naina’s body through pores that expectantly opened and enlarged when she was around Jai, and lodged itself in her body—obliterating fear, submerging guilt, washing out shame.
Naina laughed too, just like him.
“I’ve never heard of that before,” Jai said. “How do you come up with all this zany stuff?”
“I don’t know,” Naina said in a girlish voice. “I just do . . . You probably think I’m completely crazy, don’t you?”
“Think?” Jai uttered the word in one upward stroke, his eyes wide and chocolatey, and flickering with amusement. “I know you are, Madam Butterfly.” He placed his hand on her forearm and squeezed it ever so slightly.
Her skin jumped, spun, and did the triple-step as if it were swing dancing. It was the most physical contact they had ever had with each other. The other times had just been brief handshakes and the one time she had playfully slapped his hand. But this time felt like a real touch, a touch of intimacy, a touch of wanting greater intimacy. His hand was finally where it belonged—on her skin. Again he was propelling her toward him, inviting her into his orbit. More directly than he had ever done before. Her skin did another vigorous swing dance-like turn and then drew itself inward, creating a hollow bowl waiting to be filled with a banquet of amorous delights.
His hand was still on her forearm and his eyes were still twinkling with amusement. How long had it been?
Suddenly, quickly, Naina moved her face closer to his, reaching for his lips.
Jai stopped her and shook her by the shoulders. “What do you think you are doing? Are you crazy? Are you totally out of your mind? Don’t you realize I’m your daughter’s boyfriend?”
His hands were rough and menacing like those of a nun when you did something wrong. His words were slaps on her face.
She was rapidly sinking and shrinking, sinking and shrinking, sinking and shrinking, sinking and shrinking, until she was an infinitesimal insect on the ground and Jai was this large, powerful human looking down at her disgusting insignificance. She wished the ground would just open and swallow her up the way it had swallowed Sita in the epic Ramayana.
She sat there with her shaking arms crossed protectively against her bosom, her face burning and downcast, unable to say a word.
“I can’t believe you would do this, Naina.” Jai stood up and towered over her like a police dog. “I just can’t. Hit on your daughter’s boyfriend? What the fuck? What kind of person are you anyway? And, what kind of person do you think I am? Some asshole who wants a woman and her mother at the same time?”
Naina buried her face in her hands, unable to bear the humiliation tearing her apart like a mob of greedy moths ripping wool sweaters. Stripping the wool of mad dreams, foolish hopes, and deluded self-worth. She wept, despite her best efforts not to, and she sank her face deeper into her palms to muffle its graceless sound.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I thought, I thought . . .” Naina whispered, softly and meekly.
“Thought what?” Jai thrust his face toward her. “That I might be interested in having an affair with my girlfriend’s mother?”
Each word was hard, staccato, and stinging. Like her mother’s slaps. One, two, three, four, five, six.
Naina hadn’t been able to look at him, but then something stirred in her, something solid, something deeply embedded and impervious to all the ups and downs of circumstances and emotions, pushing her forward, compelling her to stand up for herself, to speak up.
“But I didn’t . . . I didn’t . . . make the whole thing up,” Naina said, her voice wavering. “You . . . You . . . did lead me to think you felt the same way . . .”
“I led you to think I felt the same way? I did? Me?” Jai thrust his face closer to hers in the manner of a bully.
She couldn’t help but raise her head and glance at him. His eyes were no longer delicious balls of chocolate, but angry puddles of dirt in a Delhi slum during the monsoon. His fingers were no longer strings of a violin; instead they were thin rods meant to discipline errant students in Catholic Schools. His chin, which she had never really paid attention to, jutted out in an unsightly, pointy shape, like that of her grandmother who tut-tutted at every little thing.
“How? How? How did I lead you on? By treating you as a friend?”
Naina continued to sink and shrink, sink and shrink, sink and shrink. She felt as if she had no center of gravity and could topple anytime. Ordinary objects took on bizarre shapes and proportions and evoked strange emotions.
So that’s all she was to him. A friend. Merely a friend. And what was she really? A witch, a bitch, a madwoman with a harlot’s itch. A sinful, wanton mother who shamelessly trespassed all boundaries of decency and propriety, chasing not true love, but a depraved, self-indulgent delusion.
She could feel the tears forming once more and reached again for the blanket of her hands.
“Please leave,” Naina said in between sobs. “Please leave . . . I’m so sorry.”
“Hang on,” Jai said, his voice as sharp as knife. “I hope you’re not going to tell Amaya any of this. I’m not going to let you ruin my relationship. I couldn’t stand to think of Amaya knowing that her mother is—”
“Amaya won’t know anything.” Naina saw an image of her bad, evil self, resembling that of the wicked stepmother in Snow White fastening her daughter’s laces with extraordinary severity to asphyxiate her. It seared her. “And, Jai, please, please, please don’t tell her anything.”
“Goodbye,” Jai said, his rapid footfalls disappearing on the busy sidewalk as Naina continued to cry alone in Washington Park on the most beautiful day of that winter.