Kavita Daswani - Salaam Paris

He was looking straight at me.

“But,” he said. The rest of the words tumbled out. I heard them, but couldn’t take them in. He talked for a full five minutes, pressing his hands together, then biting a fingernail, looking up at me and then down at his shoes again. As he talked, I felt my heart breaking. There were tiny fissures at first, deepening into cracks, finally forcing my soul open.

I didn’t move. I didn’t speak.

And when he was done, I realized that I hadn’t properly exhaled yet.

This time I was in jeans, a pink cashmere sweater hugging my curves, kitten-heeled mules on my feet. I stared out the window as the plane flew over the Indian Ocean, my ears still blocked from the takeoff, but open enough to hear a baby crying several rows behind me.

Tariq’s grandfather had disapproved.

It was as simple as that. His grandfather, best friends for decades with my own nana, had told Tariq that under no circumstances was he to even consider a future with me. Any type of association, he had dictated, was now completely out of the question. I had been tagged as a “woman of poor reputation,” not just because I had left home against my grandfather’s wishes, but because I had spent the better part of the past year wearing bikinis and plunging-neck dresses in front of cameras held by strange, lustful men.

“It’s not like I don’t understand,” Tariq had said to me the previous night on the deck chair, his voice plaintive, his eyes wishful. “I get who you are, and what all that was about. I know that behind all the show and clothes and makeup, you’re this really simple girl. I’m OK with it. But my nana… he is like your own-of another time, unable to comprehend modern life. He has forbidden me from having anything to do with you. I’m sorry, Tanaya.”

And he had gotten up and walked away, leaving me sitting there, the wide plastic bands of the chair pinching into my thighs.

The first flight back to New York that I could get a seat on was the following evening. Before I left, I went to say good-bye to Nilu, stopping by her house, driving past mine on the way. I turned toward the ground-floor apartment and saw my mother sifting a tray of rice on the balcony, picking out tiny stones and pieces of gravel and tossing them onto the street, her face blank and empty.

Nilu had cried, hugging me tight, knowing that if she ever wanted to see me again she would have to fly to New York.

“I don’t think I can ever come back here,” I said. “Not after everything that’s happened. I can’t spend the rest of my life waiting for them to accept me.”

“I understand,” she said, kissing me on the cheek. “Here, for the plane.” She reached under her mattress and pulled out a copy of Teen Cosmo, the most recent issue, stashed in the same place as when we first looked at them years ago, when I was still innocent.

Felicia was thrilled to see me. She called Stavros and suggested a “get-together,” so they could come up with a “POA”-a Plan of Attack-about what I should be doing next. The next round of shows was about to start, castings soon to begin. A car maker was willing to throw a big chunk of cash my way to film a commercial. There were a few offers for paid appearances at nightclub openings. And Playboy couldn’t wait to talk to me about disrobing for a spread they wanted to call “Behind the Burka.” I blanched at the thought of it, knowing that even I would draw the line at centerfold nudity.

“You’ve been out of the news for a week,” Felicia said, stubbing out her cigarette. “In this business, that’s a friggin’ lifetime. Oh, by the way, what happened at home? Everything good? Family all copacetic with your career?”

“Yes, fine,” I lied.

Back at my apartment, which Stavros had held on to in the hopes that I might return, my mail was stacked atop the coffee table. I quickly went through it, tossing out the catalogs and the mailers until I came across a postcard. The picture was vaguely familiar. I flipped it around and saw that it had been sent from Parrot Cay, in Turks and Caicos. Kai’s handwriting was compacted into a few square inches of space.

T. I’ve absconded! Trey and I are in love. He’s going to keep teaching scuba diving, and I’m going to write music. It’s blissful. I don’t care what people say anymore. I’m done with the charade. Love you lots. Thanks for everything. K.

With feigned enthusiasm, I attended all the meetings that Stavros had set up and sat down for a couple of magazine interviews that Felicia had arranged, where the reporters only wanted to know about my life in the wake of Kai leaving me.

Otherwise, throughout all the small talk and discussing of business details with Stavros and Felicia, I kept my sorrow at bay. Each time Nana’s pale, ashen face appeared in my mind, I would squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the images out. Each time I reheard Tariq’s words of good-bye echoing in my ears, I forced my attention back to the subject at hand, to contractual details and scheduling, something I actually had some control over.

“You know, this whole thing with Kai-him leaving you and shacking up with a male lover in the Caribbean -it’s just such a blessing,” said Felicia. “The press is all over it. You’re the gorgeous girl that he left behind. He’s the one that looks like a jerk. But what a great opportunity for us. And hey, it’s not too soon to start thinking about a rebound, about who we can set you up with next. But maybe this time, we should find someone who swings your way, huh? You want to give the sex thing a try? Add a little sizzle?”

I stared at Felicia and thought that, for once, maybe she had a point. I had been alone long enough.

“I’m happy to try and meet someone,” I said. “Maybe it’s time I lived in the real world, not the one my mother lived in. New York is not Mahim, is it?”

Felicia ignored me and started going through her Rolodex.

His voice crackled through static and background noise.

“I’m on a plane,” he said. “On my way to you. It was last-minute. I just wanted to know that you were there. I would have waited, even if you weren’t.”

I asked him what he wanted, why he was calling. I was angry at first, then in tears, standing on a corner of Lexington and Fifty-fourth, waiting for the light to change so I could cross the street, being pushed and pummeled on all sides by office workers on their lunch break.

“Please, Tanaya, don’t make the same mistake again,” said Tariq. “Don’t do it. Look, we’re landing in five hours. I’ll call you.”

He stared at everything in my apartment, as if expecting to find more hints of debauchery, more windows into the life of bacchanalia he thought still I led.

He looked surprised that there were no mirrors on the ceiling, packets of cocaine on the windowsill, a library of porn tapes on the bookshelf. He looked pleasantly surprised that there were fresh flowers on the dining table, that family photos were still everywhere, at the smell of suji halwa rich with cardamom, my favorite dessert, emanating from the kitchen.

“I still don’t know what you’re doing here,” I said to him. “You can’t just keep showing up like this. It’s not fair to me. You made your feelings very clear to me when I last saw you in Mumbai.”

“They weren’t my feelings. They were my grandfather’s.”

“Same thing,” I said sourly.

“I was in Los Angeles the other day, another meeting. I saw a copy of the Star at the supermarket checkout, that picture of you on the front, holding hands with that famous new actor. I thought you were done with all that, Tanaya. I thought that after seeing your nana you were going to lead a more respectable life. I figured that maybe, if you calmed down, stayed out of the press for a while, maybe embraced Allah again, my grandfather would reconsider, and we may perhaps have a future together.”