A Bollywood Affair (19 page)

Mili looked happy—Mili’s signature brand of happiness. She must’ve been ten in this picture and she already looked world-weary and wise. She had never had a childhood. He swallowed the painful lump that lodged in his throat. But he didn’t stop. The other two photographs were black and white. One of an older couple—the man wore a huge turban and an uppity landowner expression, the woman was the same one from the other picture, only younger. The other of a much younger couple—the man dressed in a starched white shirt and pleated pants. The woman in a bright floral sari, her head covered, but her face smiling. The man held a baby and they both stared at the baby as if she were a miracle. This picture was the most worn. As if it had been handled a lot over the years. Touched and embraced and held close.

He put the pictures back in the envelope. He hesitated before picking up the sheet of greenish paper tucked into a plastic sleeve. It was almost in tatters, the paper of such poor quality it crumbled along the folds and frayed along the edges. The three-lion insignia of the Democratic Republic of India had faded to gray. Below the emblem in bold letters it said in three languages,
Certificate of Marriage.
Emblazoned across the bottom was a red stamp of the Village Panch Council of Balpur.

Samir tucked the envelope with the pictures all the way to the bottom of the bag. He threw another cursory glance around the room, but he knew there would be no copies of legal papers.

Back in the living room, he removed the three Post-it notes from his pocket and stuck them on the marriage certificate before he slipped it into his laptop bag. Then he opened up his laptop and threw himself into his story, allowing himself to think of nothing else.

21

M
ili stormed into the computer lab. She probably limped, but ever since that phone call yesterday everything she did felt like a storm. A storm followed by a flood and then back again. Virat had married someone else. Amazingly, she hadn’t cried. Not once. If there ever was a miracle this was it. But she felt as dry as the Gobi desert, as hot as the sun that painted mirages across the sand dunes. And in her heart was a sandstorm. The raging need to do something, anything, consumed her. She needed to have consequence, to matter.

Yesterday she had spent doing anything she could to keep from thinking, from going back home. She had stayed late at the Institute, thankful for the proposal they were sending out, and had almost spent the entire night at the library catching up on her assignments. The thought of going home to Samir was unthinkable. She wanted Samir to have no part in this. Good thing he was so lost in his script.

This morning she had gone home just long enough to shower. She had almost checked up on Samir but all she was able to do was walk up to his door and then leave without knocking. But today the ache inside her refused to be ignored, today her agitation was so bad, she had to do something to stem it. The foundation of her life was gone. But what was more horrific than the pain of losing something she had held so close, so long was the bleeding sense of relief. A sense of relief that tore out her heart almost as much as the guilt of feeling it.

She checked out a computer. Some girls from one of her classes came up to her, eager to chat. She was amazed at her own calm as she chatted with them for a few minutes. They wanted her applied sociology notes. She pulled out her notebook and gave it to them to make copies and they left.

She logged into the computer and, just as Ridhi had suggested, she Googled Sara Veluri. Nothing.

She tried every possible spelling of
Veluri.
Still nothing. She tried every possible spelling of
Sara,
every possible combination of the first and last name. Not one single Sara Veluri, not one Sarah Veluri. Nothing. She tried several other search engines. Still nothing.

She knew she was missing some crucial part of the puzzle. But she couldn’t put her finger on it. She closed her eyes. Her head rested on his shoulder
. I remember how she felt. Not how she looked, but how she felt. I remember her name, Sara. Sara Willis.

She typed Sara Willis.

Bingo.

Four Sarah Willises and five Sara Willises came up in Ohio, Michigan, and Indiana. She jotted the names down and took them to the office.

The office was empty. She turned on the lights, breathed in the old wood smell, and settled into her chair. Then, pulling out the sheet of paper, she started making calls.

The first Sarah Willis was a college student at Ohio State University, who sounded a little drunk at six in the evening and couldn’t stop giggling.

The next two had no idea who Samir Veluri was.

The fourth one threatened to report Mili if she didn’t take her number off her list.

Finally Mili got an older-sounding woman. She wasn’t Sara. Sara was resting. Who was this?

“My name is Mili. I’m a student from India. I’m looking for a friend’s mother. His name is Samir.” Mili couldn’t believe she’d had the guts to just come out and say it like that. But right now she felt like she could move mountains with her anger.

The woman went silent for a full minute. Mili’s heartbeat filled up the silence while she waited.

“Honey, I need you to stay on the phone for me, okay?” the woman said finally, then she repeated it again as if she half expected Mili to run off. “I’ll check if Sara is awake. Don’t hang up, please.”

In under a minute another woman whispered into the phone. “You’re Samir’s friend?” The voice was barely a rasp, as if the effort to get the words out took her last breath.

“Yes. Are you . . . Are you Samir’s mother?”

“Is he there?” The words got stronger, an odd energy fueled them. “Can I talk to him?” Such hope filled the woman’s voice, Mili found her throat closing up.

“No, ma’am, he’s not here right now. But he is here in America. I was calling on his behalf.”

Sara started sobbing and Mili’s own nose started to run. She pressed it against her sleeve.
Not now, Mili.
She waited while the two women at the other end soothed each other; finally the sobbing slowed and Samir’s mother came back on the line. “Please. I have to talk to him. I need to talk to him.”

“Ma’am, he’s not here right now, but I’m going to try to get him to talk to you. I promise.”

“Thank you,” she said, her voice wet with tears. “How is he?”

Mili clenched her jaw and pressed her face into her sleeve. She waited until she could talk without crying. “He’s fine. He’s great, actually.”
He’s perfect.

That caused the woman to be overtaken with a fresh bout of sobs and Mili had to squeeze her eyes, her jaw, everything to keep from doing the same. “Ms. Willis, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“When was the last time you talked to Samir?”

The sobs intensified. Another few moments went by before she could speak. “He was five years old. My little boy was five years old. Twenty-five years ago. And now there’s no time left. Jesus. There’s no time.”

By the time Mili disconnected the phone, her sleeve was soaking wet and her heart felt bruised in her chest from the weight of what Sara had told her. She had no idea how she was going to keep a promise she had no business making to a woman she didn’t even know.

She hadn’t thought this through. But now she had no choice but to keep her word. Samir was going to kill her. He was never going to speak to her again. He was going to pack his bags and leave and never turn around and look at her busybody interfering face. And how on earth was she going to handle that?

 

“Anybody home?” Mili called as she entered her apartment.

It smelled of freshly cooked dal and roasting wheat flour. Her stomach gave a loud growl. Samir pulled the last roti off the pan and onto a plate and turned the flame off. “Hi,” he said, his voice strangely distant.

“Hi,” she said, wanting so badly to run to him and pull him into her arms. She put her bag away and looked at his closed laptop sitting on the mattress. “Is it done?”

That made him smile, a victorious smile. “Just sent it.”

She did run to him then and flung herself into his arms. He lifted her up and spun her around.

“Are you happy with it?”

“Thrilled. It’s fu—flipping brilliant, if I may say so myself.” He put her down, smiling away.

She took his hand and touched it to the wooden cabinet. “Touch wood. Don’t say that. It tempts fate.”

His smile widened. His little-boy smile.

She looked at the dal and the rotis. “There’s so much food in the fridge. Why did you cook?”

“I felt like doing something special. I figured we deserved a celebration.” Was that sadness she saw in his smile?

And then it struck her. He was saying good-bye. His script was done. He didn’t need to stay for the workshop. The restlessness she’d carried home with her flared. A gnawing craving hollowed her out. He looked away first.

She helped him carry the food to the table.

 

It took Samir a while to notice Mili wasn’t eating. He never thought he’d live to see the day.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, leaning forward in his chair. But he already knew what it was. He had just told her he was done with the script. She had just realized he would be leaving soon. For all her bravado, her heart was going to break to pieces when he left. He knew that like he knew his own name. What he didn’t know was how she was going to react when he told her the truth about what he was doing here. But it was time.

She sat up straight and put a big spoonful of dal in her mouth. “Nothing. Why would you think something is wrong?”

“You’re not eating.” Well, not the way she usually ate.

She pointed to her mouth and chewed furiously. “What’re you talking about?”

He wanted to say something light, something funny, but the sight of her face, unfamiliar lines of worry furrowed into her forehead, twisted in his belly. The piece of paper in his bag, the memory of her closet, the black lace, the white cotton, the colorful bangles. All of it twisted like a knife in his belly.

“Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” She blasted him with the full power of those huge irises soaked in concern and that something else. Her eyes always held that something else when she looked at him now. When had that happened? Why? He didn’t deserve it—whatever it was her eyes held, he wasn’t worthy of it.

But bastard that he was, it swelled in his chest. “I’m fine.”

They ate in silence for a while. It was a first for them. The last time he’d seen Mili this quiet was when she was passed out with all the medication. Was that really just four weeks ago? Then why did it feel like he’d known her a lifetime?

Suddenly she squared her shoulders and met his eyes. “You finished your script. So you know what that means.” For the first time that day she sounded like his Mili.

He bit back a smile. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he teased.

“You can’t go back on your promise, Samir.” She looked equal parts fierce and tentative, a tigress on a hunt but with a little bit of the hunted doe thrown in.

“Fine. What do you want?” He leaned back in his chair, refusing to acknowledge how much seeing her like this excited him.

“Really?” All her bluster dissipated, leaving behind nothing but sincerity. “But you can’t say no.”

“Now you’re scaring me.”

“Samir?”

“Okay, I won’t say no.”

“I want you to go somewhere with me.” Her voice was too quiet when she said it, far too calm, like she expected a storm to follow.

But it was the flash of sympathy that made panic explode in his chest.

“Samir, I found her.”

“No,” he said, pushing himself away from the table before she could say any more.

“I want you to go with me to Munroe. To see your mo—”

“No.” He clenched his fists to keep from turning the table over.

“But you prom—”

He stepped back with such force, the chair behind him toppled over. He grabbed his bag and stormed out the door. She followed him into the corridor, then across the hall into his apartment.

“Get out,” he said. He didn’t look at her. He wanted her out, now.

She stepped closer.

He spun around and walked all the way to the other end of the room. Then back again. Crazed restlessness churned inside him.

“Samir, pl—”

“No. I want you to leave, Mili. Right now. Get out.”

Anger hummed in his head, roared like a caged beast in his chest. He loomed over her. His hands shook with the effort of not pushing her out.

She didn’t cower, didn’t even budge. She wasn’t going anywhere. He pushed past her and left the apartment, slamming the door behind him. With too much fucking calm, she pulled it open and followed him out all the way to the open stairway. He was halfway down a flight when he spun around, that horrible dusty-dank carpet smell burrowing into his nose, a terrible pressure building in his chest. She stood at the top of the stairs. Her face was placid, dripping with so much bloody pity he wanted to shake it off.

“My mother is in Nagpur, you hear me? Back home in India, not in this goddamned country.”

She took a few steps down until they were eye to eye. “I know, and she will still be there when you go back home.”

She didn’t reach out and touch him, but he felt like she had. He took another step down. “You know what you are? The nosiest fucking busybody I’ve ever met.”

She didn’t even flinch. She just continued to stare at him with those damn eyes. He didn’t care. Fuck. Why had he ever told her? “You think you know everything, don’t you? But you don’t know anything. Have you seen what a sorry pathetic mess your own life is? How can you try to fix my life when you don’t have one single thing going right in your own life?”

One shot of pain jolted her eyes before ten shots of courage steadied her gaze. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to fall at her feet and apologize. What kind of person had so much to ask for but chose instead to use her leverage to mess up his life? An insufferable, nosy busybody, that’s who. But she was a bigger idiot than he’d ever imagined if she thought he was going to dig up a past he’d buried long ago. He had no intention of going anywhere near a woman who had dumped him like rotting garbage without so much as a backward glance.

“Samir, I understand you’re angry, but—”

“No. You don’t understand anything. Who gave you the right to interfere in my life? How did you think this was okay? What did you even do?”

“It’s only about an hour away,” she said, as if he hadn’t spoken. “We’ll be home by night. Then you’re free. I’ll never ask for anything again. You can get on a plane and leave tomorrow, if that’s what you want.” Her eyes filled with sadness. Good.

“I said I’m not going. It’s never going to happen. Didn’t you hear me?”

“I heard it. All of it. You made me a promise. Now you want to break it. Apparently you aren’t the man I thought you were.”

“Damn right.” He turned around and ran down the stairs, away from her and her fucking two paise’s worth of underhanded psychoanalysis. She followed him.

“Stop following me. Leave me the fuck alone.”

She grabbed his arm. “She’s dying, Samir. She has cancer. This is your last chance to see her.”