When Tara Met Farah Page 3

  Because she wanted to avoid any more sticky encounters and because she wanted to give the girl a little space, Farah helped Professor Rao wash the dishes and straighten the dining room.

  “I’m a horrible cook,” Professor Rao admitted with chagrin when Farah asked about Tara in a roundabout way. “Fortunately for us all, Tara’s quite talented at it. My mother and she used to spend hours in that kitchen downstairs, talking and cooking. I’d hear them laughing it up when Tara messed up something or even yelling at my father when he tried to interfere. Tara and she were thick as thieves,” Professor Rao said, with wistfulness in her voice. “It’s only fair I do the cleaning.”

  “She lives at home?” Farah asked.

  Professor Rao replied with a broad smile. “Yes. The basement is sort of her domain. She’s a lovely, helpful girl, Farah. If you should need anything, don’t hesitate to ask her.”

  After another hour of lingering behind, Farah made her way down the stairs to the basement. The last thing she wanted to do was to disrupt Tara’s sleep.

  One of the latest Bollywood hits was thumping out of speakers neatly hidden around the basement. Mouth falling open, Farah walked into the living room. Her heart jumped into her throat at the scene she encountered.

  Tara was standing on one of those gigantic ladders Farah’s father had in his garage. The very same one he’d forbidden Javed and Salim from using. After he’d found them rooting through the high shelves in the garage without any regard to their safety.

  Tara was trying, unsuccessfully, to hold a large, bright-yellow wooden sign that said “This Masala Life” in cursive, horizontally. A small chai cup sat on the ‘e’. Forget large, the thing was at least three feet wide.

  Farah had seen one of the students Lamar envelop Tara in a bear hug and then hand her a package the size of the sign wrapped in paper. Clearly, the sign had been handcarved with intricate attention to detail.

  Shaking her head, Farah climbed up the other leg of the ladder until she was face to face with Tara and grabbed the other side of the sign. It took some finessing and grunting but they worked together to install the sign, mostly straight, on top of the open-shelved cabinets on either side of the six-burner stove.

  The bright-yellow sign complemented the rows of clear glass jars filled to the brim with colorful spices. With the beautiful swirly design on the backsplash tile and the yellow kettle on the stove, the entire set-up looked like it belonged in one of those fabulous cooking shows.

  Farah wouldn’t be surprised if the girl had her own cooking show. Her food tasted out of this world.

  “Walk back into the living room and check if it’s straight,” Farah suggested, without quite meeting Tara’s eyes.

  The younger woman followed her command without question. “It’s almost…” she bit her lip.

  “What’s wrong?” Farah demanded.

  “It needs a little height.”

  Farah looked at the sign and then around the room. Outside of the kitchen and the vast granite island, the living room was a mess again. “Hand me those two boxes. And scissors,” she said, pointing to two square shaped, sturdy cardboard boxes that were used for packaging.

  If Tara wondered at Farah’s take-charge tone, she didn’t say anything. Her expression brightened as she found the two boxes. Farah took the boxes and the scissors and said, “Go back to that same spot.”

  “What are you doing?” Tara asked, her excitement palpable.

  Farah didn’t answer. If the girl thought her weird, so be it. Lifting the sign, she examined the bottom swirl of the T in ‘The’ and the E in the ‘Life’ and cut a deep groove into the top of the two boxes. Then she threw the boxes next to the sign and climbed up to the final step.

  “Oh, be careful, please. Amma will kill me if you fall.”

  “And if you’d fallen?” Farah retorted. She didn’t want to sound like she was admonishing Tara but that’s what she wanted to do. Her heart still hadn’t returned to its normal pace after seeing her precariously perched on the damned ladder.

  “It was stupid to do it alone. Lamar promised to help but then they all got caught up in the discussion about…school.”

  Farah frowned. There was that lost expression in the other girl’s eyes again. An expression she had spied in her own eyes far too much in the last year.

  “Anyways, I’m always careful,” Farah replied softly. Then she stepped onto the ladder’s top step and pushed up to stand.

  Slowly, she lifted each side of the sign and nudged the two boxes underneath it. The sign wobbled and then slotted into the grooves she’d cut into the boxes.

  “It’s perfect,” Tara shouted from the other side. “That was quick thinking.”

  Farah stepped down the ladder carefully.

  “Do you want a cup of chai?” Tara asked, a bright smile lighting up her face. “We could–”

  Farah held up a hand as her phone rang in her pocket. She clicked the screen to see it was her Atthayya. Usually, Farah dodged her calls, even though she adored her. Her father’s sister had a knack of asking Farah questions she didn’t have answers to.

  Farah looked up from the phone to Tara’s face. Coward that she was, she said, “I have to talk to my Atthayya.”

  She didn’t wait to hear Tara’s answer or see her expression. She’d helped with the sign because if she hadn’t, the girl would have definitely hurt herself. Not because she wanted to please her or impress her or…any of those things. Not at all.

  Back in her room, her aunt’s chatter filled Farah’s ear. She answered in appropriately-inserted grunts and yeses, even as her mind stayed with Tara in that kitchen.

  Her aunt’s call was a timely reminder that she was only here for a few weeks. That she couldn’t form attachments to beautiful girls with wide, brown eyes and soft curves.

  Even if it meant crushing the first small spark of hope and interest Farah had felt in a long time.

  Three

  Tara

  I forced myself to get out of bed on Sunday morning at the too-early hour of six with the intention of making amends.

  Acting like an ungrateful bitch gave me indigestion. Not that I didn't have good reason. But mouthing off at my dad hadn’t been fair. Cursing while I was talking to him…Ammamma would’ve been so disappointed in me.

  It continued to bother me that the math genius had heard me go off about how much I hated that she was staying here. The sole reason I’d stayed up after the dinner on Friday night, instead of getting some much needed sleep, was because I’d wanted to apologize to her.

  Instead, she’d barely made eye contact, quickly and efficiently installed my brand spanking new sign in place and then walked away. She’d helped me, with that self-possession she wore like second skin, despite what she’d heard. Now, my offense felt doubly horrible.

  I’d slept away most of Saturday and then Dad had dragged us off to dinner at a friend’s place. If it wasn’t for him, both Amma and I’d happily hunker down and hibernate for months at an end – she because she was a workaholic and I because I didn’t have many friends left in town that I wanted to spend time with. Being the person everyone constantly pitied was an exhausting exercise. It was only the Bollywood Dance & Drama Society that had stopped me from becoming a complete recluse since the summer.

  When I’d asked about Farah on the way to the dinner, Dad told me she’d politely refused to join us.

  By the time we’d returned home Saturday night, it had been past midnight and I didn’t want to knock on the door to her bedroom.

  So I decided to cook breakfast. The full South Indian works – dosas and idlis and sambar with coconut chutney and thick milky coffee. As preoccupied as I’d been in my lame-ass bitchery on Friday night, I hadn't missed the way the math genius had inhaled everything I’d cooked and not touched the dishes we’d ordered from the restaurant.

  Barging in on her in the shower, mouthing off at my dad and then the case of balancing the sign while standing on a dangerous ladder – that was th
ree times now that this girl had seen me flailing about.

  This meeting had to be perfect. Not just because I didn’t want her to think less of Amma and our hospitality.

  I wanted to impress her, just a little. Show her that I was a wonderful, loving girl with whom the universe had been messing of late. Explore the thing that blazed into life when we looked at each other. Get my flirt on. Maybe.

  I dressed in leggings and a sleeveless t-shirt that I’d ordered on a whim from a merchandizing vendor after slapping a logo that my other BFF Rachel had designed for my YouTube channel. It had a close-up sketch of my face with ‘This Masala Life’ in cursive and a small cup of chai sitting on top of the ‘e’. The material was a little stiff for my liking, but the color was a mustard yellow that looked gorgeous against my skin.

  I checked my reflection in the full-length mirror stacked up against the wall. My unruly hair had been combed into submission to lie in silky waves, at least temporarily. I swiped on some pink lip-gloss on and stared at myself.

  There was no doubt that math genius was hot. My kind of hot. And that there was something between us. Even my under-developed gaydar told me that. It was also very possible that it was my horny ass creating scenarios that didn’t exist.

  She’d barely exchanged a few words with me so far – other than to issue commands. The last thing I needed was to go full-on Romeo and fall into unrequited lust with her. It could become another thing to drag me down and I couldn’t afford that.

  Plus, really, if she was going to like me, it had to be my real self. I wiped off the lip-gloss, tied my hair back into the messy bun and walked out of my bedroom.

  She was in the middle of downward dog in the living room. So much for surprising her with a hot breakfast.

  Her ass, clad in black leggings, jutted into the air, all tight and round and… shit, I’d been staring for at least a full minute.

  Eyes still riveted to her fast-moving asanas, I pulled out the batters for dosa and idli and the chopped vegetables I always had ready from the freezer.

  I hadn’t shot a video yet since Farah had installed the sign Lamar had hand-carved for me. Here was the perfect opportunity to show it off. As the basement had a proper kitchen and living room area divided by a huge dining table, Farah was far enough to not be disturbed by my ramblings.

  As was my habit, I turned on the camera sitting on the tripod and did a roundup of my week with Zen and the return trip home.

  I poured the batter into the idli plates and put them into the boiling water on the stove and closed the pan with a lid. Since I’d the frozen pappu ready, Sambar began to simmer on the stove in no time. Soon, the aroma of hing filled the kitchen and my belly growled. Cooking came naturally to me. I’d watched my grandmother make idli and dosas numerous times and from a young age, I’d discovered that I was an instinctive cook.

  I liked posting regular life updates, in addition to trying new recipes. In this one, I thanked my viewers for taking me up to 90,000 subscribers and squee-d over my new sign. I didn't follow recipes unless the dish was new to me or really complex.

  Thank God for that. Because the video I was shooting as I got breakfast ready had to be the most useless one I’d ever shot. I stuttered more than once, losing my train of thought completely while my gaze drifted again and again to the living room.

  I’d stopped talking at least a few times as I watched the math genius do her yoga routine with a speed and efficiency that I’d only seen in experienced yoga teachers and… circus people. That explained the definition to her biceps and the overall toned look to her body. The sleeveless blue blouse she wore was loose on her slender frame. She still managed to look effortlessly attractive.

  The timer buzzed for a few seconds before the whiny beep-beep of the alarm registered. I turned off the stove, and almost burned my fingers on the steam before I scooped the idlis into a bowl and smothered them liberally with ghee. I had at least eight crispy dosas ready.

  I turned off the camera. It was a lost cause anyway. Quickly, I arranged the food on the dining table and added steaming milk with sugar to the thick coffee decoction I’d poured into the two brass glasses I’d ordered recently from an authentic handicraft source in India.

  Math Genius folded up her yoga mat and looked up.

  “Good morning, Farah,” I said, feeling a tad nervous as that brown gaze landed on me. There was an intensity to her eyes as she looked at me just then that I found contrary to the nonchalance that was there the rest of the time. I wondered which was the real her.

  “Farah,” she said, “Like Fur-aa not Faara.”

  A light went on in my head. “Like the Bollywood choreographer?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, feeling like a jackass. “I should’ve asked. Especially since I find it extremely annoying when people assume it’s Tara with a T.”

  She didn't say anything. Just stared back at me. Like she’d done that time when I’d been a brat.

  “You were really super-fast with the sun salutations. Like someone had fast forwarded a video.”

  “They are called Surya Namaskara,” she said in a flat voice.

  Okay, now I was annoyed. The last thing I needed was a desi chick telling me I wasn’t desi enough. I got enough of that from my uncle. “It means salutations to the sun, doesn't it? I don’t think it loses its power or sanctity if I refer to it by a different name. Also, I don’t like distorting words unless I’m absolutely sure I can pronounce them right.”

  She folded her arms and that usual thoughtful look descended in her eyes. “That is true. I never thought of it in that way.”

  I hadn't expected her to give that consideration to my words. I wouldn't admit to it if my hair was on fire – my hair was my crowning glory – but I did have a teensy bit of prejudice against geniuses. Especially math geniuses. Well, except my mother.

  I also possessed enough self-awareness to know that this prejudice was mostly a symptom of my own insecurities and not rooted in fact. I was a good girl, not a saint.

  “I have been practicing yoga since childhood. That’s why it looks easy and fast,” she added into the silence.

  “That’s nice,” I added lamely. Because I was sure I couldn’t bend my body like that even if I tried. I also liked sleeping in way too much to stick to a routine. “So, I made breakfast for us,” I said, moving away so that I wasn’t blocking her view.

  Her eyes went round at the sight of the spread I’d put out.

  That serene, self-sufficiency she seemed to wear like armor slipped and she was even more captivating. With her hair pulled back tight, her cheekbones looked sharper than my German knives. Her Lycra top dived into a V at the front. A drop of sweat fell down the arch of her neck and disappeared into the valley between her breasts.

  I followed it greedily and had to swallow at the bolt of lust that hit me. And those arms...man, I could lick those up like my favorite Popsicle.

  My gaze finally traced its path back to hers and I flushed. She’d caught me looking. No, not looking, but full on lech-ing like a horny goat. Which I was most of the time.

  “You only came out of your bedroom twenty minutes ago,” she said looking at the clock on the wall. “How did you cook all this?”

  My chest expanded with unnecessary pride. Along with a little thrill that in the midst of her intense routine, she’d noticed me. “We can eat together and then if you'd like I can–”

  She shook her head. “I usually just eat a protein bar for breakfast.”

  I gave a full body shudder, along with a loudly-spoken ‘bleugh’.

  Her eyes told a different story, lingering on the gleaming glasses of frothy coffee on the table.

  Okay, now I was getting pissed off. “Is this about the unfortunate incident you witnessed on Friday evening?”

  She said nothing. Damn it, the woman’s silences had some kind of weird power. I’d never cringed so much in my life.

  “I’m sorry you heard what I said. I was in a
shitty mood. Please consider this breakfast a proper welcome. My mother would be utterly disappointed in me if you felt uncomfortable in our house because of me.” I sounded desperate in that last sentence, but I didn’t give a damn.

  I continually disappointed my mother and yet it still stung just as sharp every time.

  “I was not hurt by the words you said,” she said softly.

  “Really?” I eyed her doubtfully. Because she had to be a saint to not have felt uncomfortable, at the least. But there was also a conviction in her voice that told me she wasn’t just saying it.

  Another shrug. “It is important to you to make Professor Rao happy.”

  She didn't say it like it was a question. She said it as a fact. Almost as if she understood my soul-deep need. I looked away, feeling like a splayed-open bug under a microscope. “Oh, you know about Indian hospitality, right? Atidhi Devo Bhava, remember?” I said just to show off that I wasn’t a complete imbecile when it came to Indian languages. “It’s in the genes,” My laugh sounded utterly fake even to my own ears.

  We engaged in another one of her stare-offs.

  I lost, to the accompaniment of her silence mocking my fakery. “So you’re going to hold it against me by refusing to eat food I cooked for you?” I asked belligerently. It wasn’t a secret that I was a drama queen.

  “All the things Ravi uncle said about students being here without a safety net and family...this is not true in my case.” A frown forced her brows together. “So you can be angry at me for being an unwanted guest in your house without feeling guilty about it. You do not have to cook elaborate meals or feel sorry for me.”

  It took me a few seconds to wrap my head around all that. There was a lot to unpack and I was sure I didn’t get half of it. I snort-laughed when I finally reached the end. “Wait, are you giving me permission to be a bitch to you?”

  She shrugged regally and a bare golden shoulder rose up and down.