Page 5 of The Ex Factor

“That’s not important. What’s important is what you do with the knowledge you have, and I’d say you’re doing pretty well,” he said with another soft chuckle.

That made me smile from the bottom of my heart. Despite the freedom my parents had given us, it was no secret that both Srijan and I lived for their praise. Their accolades meant more to us than any of the numerous awards I’d received over the years.

“Thanks, Nanna,” I said, granting him the respect he deserved.

“Ah, your mother wants to speak to you again,” he said and disappeared from the line before I could say bye.

“About Padma’s exhibition,” Amma said, back on the line. “Buy something of hers to support her. And get me something for my gudi.” That would be the room that housed her altar. Her sanctum sanctorum.

“Yes, Amma, I will.”

There was a brief silence before she spoke again. “I also spoke to her about redoing the vacation home,” she said.

“Amma, I’ve said it several times. Just because Tara is out of my life, it doesn’t mean I’m getting rid of the pieces she chose for us. She did a very good job. Those paintings are unique and perfect for that space.”

“I know, Kanna, but they’ll remind you of her every time, no? It’s better to get rid of those memories to move on.”

Tempted as I was to tell her that Tara had sent me the wedding invitation, I knew the kind of trouble it would open up. In addition to admonishments for Tara’s actions, it was bound to unleash another tsunami of sympathy and pity for me. I would receive more phone calls from the entire extended family than I’d be able to handle, probably more food and desserts than I could eat in a month. It was best to keep my mouth shut.

It had been an impossible task to explain to my family that I didn’t carry any ill will toward Tara and that she was a good person who had been honest with me. Yes, she had broken my heart and shattered my ego, as my family surmised. But that was on account of my own foolishness in flaunting her before them without warning her. Now, all they saw was poor, injured Sujit, and wanted to eliminate everything Tara-related from my life.

When Amma and Cathy learned that I was still in touch with Tara’s friend, Sona, who was also a friend now, they lectured me on how I needed to distance myself from her, so I didn’t think of Tara. They stretched their imagination to assume that I saw Sona as a substitute for Tara. Watching too much television and reading too many pop psychology books had ruined their perspective on how friendships grow and thrive.

I still had my friendship with Sona. I also had my friendship with Tara’s mother, who texted me about the progress she was making in learning English. She hoped to someday be able to converse effectively with me in the language. I saw no reasonto let my relationship with Tara undermine my friendships with either of those women, and I didn’t. Of course, I didn’t tell that to Amma or Cathy, although I suspected Devi was aware of it, but that no one else knew about it reassured me of her discretion.

“Kanna?” I heard Amma again.

“I’ve moved on, Amma,” I lied. “And I won’t get rid of those paintings. It would disrespect the artists if I let my relationship with Tara determine their worth to me.”

Amma sighed. “You and your Nanna are two peas in a pod. This is exactly the kind of philosophical stuff he would say.”

“Well, he’s a philosopher,” I said amicably. “Math is a philosophy like he says, and he’s kind of a badass at it.”

“Tsk, don’t use such words,” she reprimanded. “Your father is a monk, if anything.”

“That he is,” I said and hoped our conversation would end now. Amma took the hint and said, “Alright, I’ll let you go. Don’t forget Padma’s exhibition.”

“I won’t because you’ll remind me again several more times, and I know you’ve had Devi add it to my calendar.”

She laughed in her sweet voice before hanging up.

Imran had resigned to the traffic that had turned into a parking lot and turned on his favorite retro radio channel. Sweet Hindi melodies resounded in the quiet car. While I got busy replying to emails on my phone, Imran managed to breach the thicket of the evening rush, and we reached the hotel.

I walked in toward the bar where Ms. Bhatia would meet me, as her assistant had informed Devi.

Sitting at the bar was a tall woman, her back straight, and long legs crossed gracefully under the counter. Glossy black hair, straight as her posture, ran down to her waist. I saw her thumbing her phone while a glass of red wine sat before her, possibly untouched. The slender fingers on her lean hand looked uncharacteristically powerful from this distance.

Quick scenarios ran through my head, much like a simulation. I played around with multiple variables—my first approach, her first impression of me, my perception of her—all of which would chart the course of our subsequent interactions and determine my negotiation tactic.

It all faded away like a cloud of smoke in the wind when I approached her and said, “Ms. Bhatia, Sujit Rao.”

She turned to me with a smile, which quickly disappeared as she left her seat and stood tall to face me.

Before me, in the flesh, stood Sameer’s ex-fiancée.

AARTI

Ionly had a quick second to decide how to approach the situation.

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