When Tara Met Farah Page 4

  “Ok fine,” I said, changing tack. “Think of this as a thank you for fixing that shelf in the bathroom. And for tidying up. And for helping me get that sign up.” I pointed up and grinned.

  She nodded and my breath rushed out in relief. At least, she wasn’t shrugging again. This was progress. In her own roundabout way, she was trying to make me feel better about my tantrum. I liked her for that no-nonsense kindness. I didn't want to like her, on top of being totally into her. But I did.

  The sound of shuffling chairs and cutlery followed. I watched with satisfaction as she dusted the peanut powder on the idlis, with a fascinating devotion to the job and then dunked them in the bowl of hot sambar.

  Crushing on a girl who picked at her food was an absolute no-no for me. But that wasn't the case here. We both ate in almost companionable silence. Although, the intensity of the quiet began to itch at me after a while. Especially because there were so many things I wanted to know about her.

  How does the protein bar sound now? I wanted to say, but I wasn’t ready for another stare-off. If I looked for too long into her eyes, I was afraid she’d see I had the hots for her.

  So far, I knew she was super clever in statistics like Amma, handy at fixing things, and she seemed like this badass worldly woman who didn’t take shit from anyone.

  Not two days, and I was way into this girl.

  This was partly reparation for my tantrum, I reminded myself. Not because I wanted to get to know her. Although, of course I wanted to get to know her. I always wanted to get to know people even if they weren't super-hot, weirdo math geniuses with sculpted arms and stoic grunts.

  I was a friendly girl.

  Putting away her spoon, Farah looked up. “Thank you very much for that wonderful breakfast. I haven't eaten like that in months.”

  I shrugged, feeling heat creep up my cheeks. “So tell me why you’re different from the other students?”

  “Do you always use the delicious food you make as a transactional tool?”

  I laughed at that and she stared. I would swear to whatever God in our pantheon of Gods that her gaze clung to my lips. Granted, I did have a gorgeous smile and straight teeth I had acquired via Amma’s genes – one of the very few things I’d inherited from her – rather than via a huge orthodontic bill.

  But before I could repeat my question or answer hers – because hell yes, I used food to bribe people – she stacked all the plates and bowls and spoons and carried them to the sink. I turned my ass in the chair and watched as she rinsed them and loaded the dishwasher.

  This girl could be doing the most mundane thing in the world and I’d still be watching. She caught me watching, engaged me in a few seconds of eye contact that sent tingles straight to my sex and then turned her attention back to the dishes. Silence might be her default, but it wasn’t mine. Especially when it spoke volumes about my lady boner for her.

  “Why did you say it was selfish–”

  “What does ‘This Masala Life’ mean? I mean, I know what it means, but what does it stand for? In your life?” The question was asked with a calculated quickness that was meant to cut off my question.

  “I’m a food vlogger. A YouTuber,” I clarified when she looked back at me blankly. I pointed to the tripod. “My channel is called This Masala Life.”

  Her hands stilled and water bounced off the side of the mixie jar I’d used for the coconut chutney. Some of it sprayed onto her chest. The droplets shimmered on her golden skin. That pang in my belly tightened. “So you talk about recipes and stuff? You recorded making all this?”

  I flashed a bright smile and nodded, warmed by her interest. The easiest way to my heart was to ask me about my channel. And enjoy my food, of course. “Yep. Today, it was just a roundup of my visit with my friend Zen and the Thanksgiving weekend.”

  “How many subscribers do you have? That looks expensive,” Farah said, pointing at my equipment; equipment that Mavayya had bought for me when Ammamma and I’d started cooking together for the channel, almost seven years ago. Even after all these years, it didn’t need to be upgraded, because he’d bought me the best, spending thousands of dollars.

  Now he looked at me as if I were a stranger. Ever since I’d come out. The equipment felt tainted but I couldn’t part with it. The fact was that I missed him terribly. At least, he hadn’t forbidden my cousin Nitin from talking to me.

  How had Amma so easily cut her twin out of her life? Did she hate me for being the reason?

  No, she loved me. I knew that on a soul-deep level. I’d always felt like a disappointment to her, but never more so than in the year since I’d come out.

  “Tara?” Farah prompted from across the room. “Are you okay?”

  I shook off my mood. “I hit 90,000 two days ago.”

  Her eyes widened. “90,000? You have 90,000 subscribers? That is...wow, a lot of subscribers.”

  I laughed. Not a day with this girl and I knew that was a lot of words from her. She seemed to be the sort of worldly person who’d seen and done everything. At least that was the vibe I got from her.

  “How long since you started the channel?” she asked, finally copping to the spray of water that had delightfully drenched her Lycra top.

  “About seven years.”

  “So you are one of those influencer people that share everything about their lives with the world?”

  Was there a hint of distaste in her tone or was that the boulder-sized chip on my shoulder playing the devil inside my head?

  “I don’t share everything about my life,” I said defensively.

  But the fighter in me reared her head. It was one thing to engage in negative talk when it came to my not-so-stellar academic record. But this – my cooking, my channel – they were inexplicably linked to my heart, to my love for Ammamma. I wasn’t going to minimize them for anyone. “No, strike that,” I said with a quiet vehemence that wasn’t usual for me. “I do share a lot about my life. And it’s okay if you think it’s beneath your lofty life standards.” I delivered this with a perfectly polite smile.

  Confusion drew a thin line between Farah’s brows and then she blinked. “That is not at all what I was thinking. I mean, yes, I could never have the kind of energy and attitude it takes to put my life out there. But I am fully able to admire someone who can do it.”

  I didn’t say anything, though there was no doubt in my mind that she meant what she said. I was beginning to realize Farah only said what she absolutely meant.

  “Will you tell me how you started it?”

  I didn’t care if she was asking me to be polite. “When I started the channel, it was mostly for fun. I always followed Ammamma around in the kitchen and there came a point when I wanted to learn her recipes. I thought it would be good to make videos of her actually making some of the complex recipes. From there, it was not much of a jump to edit the videos and upload them to the channel.” I pointed to the magnet I’d had made of a picture of her and me on the refrigerator.

  Farah turned to look at it, straightened it with a jerky movement and then turned around. “You look like her.”

  “Right?” I said, feeling that profound joy in my heart. “After she passed away, it became a way to stay connected to her. Over the past few years, it morphed into something more.”

  “Like what? What did it become?” Farah asked, with an eagerness that resonated in the space between us.

  “A thread that connects my identity, our family and a region’s history even. Then I thought if I’m out there telling people how to cook authentic dishes that have morphed with each generation, it’s just as important to share the most authentic pieces of myself too. That I’ll add my own touch to them because I exist at an intersection of identities. It’s unreal how food is tied to the past and the future.”

  “You are very passionate about it.”

  I nodded, suddenly feeling shy. “I share a lot of recipes, recommend spices etc. So it’s very commercial too. Hopefully, one of these days, I’ll finish the..
.”

  The garbage disposal whirred on and I swallowed the rest as it was too painfully close to my heart to explain to a near stranger who pretended out of polite interest.

  Farah’s head jerked up. “Finish the what? I did not hear you. Sorry, I turned it on accidentally.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Tell me, Tara.” Her voice deepened when she said my name. It wasn’t just my feverishly hopeful imagination. “Please,” she added, and it sounded as ridiculous and awkward coming out of her mouth as she looked saying it.

  I gave in. I was a pushover. I was a friendly, horny pushover. I was a unicorn of all unicorns. “I have so many recipes from both sides of the family. I have an idea for compiling them with personal anecdotes and historical footnotes, sort of like a memory book of what those recipes mean to me. How some of the recipes morphed after Ammamma married Thaata because he was from a different region. And how it’s almost a legacy of generations of women, all my ancestors.”

  “That is a fantastic idea,” Farah said, her voice vibrating with excitement. And something else. “How far along are you with writing the book?”

  “Not past the intro,” I lied smoothly.

  What I actually had was a rough table of contents and small snippets I wrote down in my various notebooks when I missed her. Or felt sentimental. Or wanted to remind myself that I was good at something. “I don’t have time right now. There are other important things I have to finish first.”

  “What other things?” She demanded in a brisk tone, as if nothing could be more important.

  I beamed at her tone. It felt like I should win some kind of prize for getting calm, complacent Farah to this level of excitement.

  She seemed to realize how she’d sounded. When she spoke again, there was that carefully cultivated non-interest. “I mean that nothing should come in the way of such a project. If the quality of your food is anything to go by.”

  “Education. Academics.” I tried to sound driven. “General college things, you know.”

  “Oh.”

  Her response sounded as believing as the nonsense I’d just sprouted.

  God, living in this basement, cut off from friends and peers, was making me even more stupid than usual. Soon, I was going to forget everything but cooking, eating and jilling off. That’s why I’d shared so much with her, I told myself.

  “How many courses–”

  “So Dad told me that you don’t drive,” I said, pretending as if I hadn’t heard her question. I liked the admiration I’d seen in her eyes when I talked about what the channel meant to me. I wasn’t going to chase it away by revealing to her that I was a high school failure. No way. Not unless my life depended on it. And maybe not even then.

  “I’m happy to drive you anywhere,” I said, straightening the chairs. “I know you’re catching a ride with Amma in the morning. If you pin up your schedule to the fridge, I’ll pick you up at Uni most days. Also, let me know if you need to go to the pharmacy or if there’s anything that you prefer to eat, like a special brand of coffee or tea. I go to the grocery store every few days.”

  “No, thank you,” she said instantly. We faced each other across the dining table and I wondered if I’d misheard the sudden coolness in her tone.

  “No, you don’t need anything from the pharmacy?” I probed.

  She shook her head. “No to all the things you offered. I mean, there’s no need. I bought a metro card and will catch the bus. I don’t have any special dietary requirements. I will eat a protein bar for breakfast, a sandwich at the college shop for lunch. If I’m not working at the department, I will order food through Uber Eats.” She didn’t fake smile at me, at least. “I meant what I said earlier.”

  I nodded, even though I didn't really understand this girl. Did she have a problem with me or was she just generally grumpy? “Yeah? What’s that?” I demanded, a hint of belligerence to my tone.

  “You do not have to do anything for me. Don’t change your schedule to accommodate me. Or cook for me. Or become friends with me out of pity. I am your guest only for a few weeks and then I will leave. So, please don’t do anything to… for me specially.”

  I watched, dumbfounded, as she wiped up the counter and put away everything in its place. I didn’t even blink until the door to the guest bedroom closed with a soft thud.

  She wasn't slamming the door. It had to be pushed hard during cold weather. And yet, her words had done the slamming the door in my face routine anyway.

  I swallowed the hurt and went over all the things I’d said. Combing through them to figure out what I’d said wrong.

  No. Stop it, Tara.

  I hadn’t said or done anything wrong. Except maybe stare at her with a pinch of attraction I hadn’t yet mastered hiding. The hurt got pushed away by righteous indignation and gave way to anger. The girl was rude – there was no way around that.

  And I wasn’t so pathetic to run after a girl who couldn’t even fake politeness.

  Farah Ahmed gave new meaning to grumpy. I swore to myself that I’d have nothing to do with her. Even if I had the biggest crush on her.

  Four

  Farah

  Farah didn’t have a lot of practice with hating herself. Actually, she had none at all. Mostly thanks to her mother ensuring with every word and action that she loved every part of herself.

  Accepting her own identity and coming out to her mother as bi had been the same as telling her mother that her periods had started or that she liked a lot of ginger flavor in her chai.

  But Farah hated herself now. It was not only uncomfortable but an itchy feeling, as if she’d slipped into someone else’s skin. Because this person who acted like a horrible bitch to a friendly, generous person as she’d done with Tara was not... her.

  She had always been reserved by nature. Mama had called her grumpy laddoo for a reason. She didn’t do effusive OMGs or string pretty words together. She was also not the person who ran from her own feelings. Or who lied to herself.

  So, she took a big breath and forced herself to look inward.

  She was attracted to Tara – like full on, head over heels in lust, or whatever they called it. Really, that part didn’t need introspection. She didn’t even care what it was about Tara that made her body go wheee, like the time Mama and she’d been on a giant wheel at the craft exhibition.

  But when Tara had talked about her channel and her cooking and her connection to her grandmother – at her prodding, no less...she had felt as if she was being crushed by her own feelings.

  Fear, guilt and hot shame had poured through her in an avalanche. Her chest had felt tight. As if her heart – which had gone on strike for so many months, was suddenly far too small a space to hold all the things it was suddenly feeling.

  So she had tried to run away from it – her default behavior of the last year – by cutting Tara off. But it had been too late. Her self-denial hadn’t lasted long.

  Safely burrowed in her bedroom and away from Tara’s lovely brown eyes, Farah had fed the curious beast inside her by watching the younger girl’s channel “This Masala Life” non-stop. Filled every empty and available minute of her last few days, and nights, with those big eyes, messy hair and round curves on her laptop screen. Ducking into the bathroom during free time at college, she’d even watched some on her phone.

  She’d watched six years’ worth of videos in a week.

  She’d watched Tara whip up dish after dish, with her grandmother smiling at her side, making Farah’s belly and heart growl in concert. She’d watched Tara cry into the camera in the first video she’d shot after her grandmother had passed away. She’d watched Tara tell her viewers that she’d come out to her family a few days ago, that her viewers were her family too and that she always wanted to be her most authentic self with them.

  At this point, Farah could recite the timeline of Tara’s life events by heart.

  Numbers and equations were beginning to rearrange themselves into that lush, generous smile in her mi
nd. She’d gone to bed watching Tara smile and kiss into the camera.

  Whatever small spark had been there between her and Tara, she had nicely kindled into a blazing fire by obsessing over her. Now her skin buzzed with anticipation anytime her housemate was close by. Even concrete walls didn’t make a difference.

  Farah thumped her head into the wall behind her. Of course, these were not concrete walls. These were walls made of wooden frames stuffed with insulation materials that were right now not insulating very well. Just like the walls she’d tried to erect around her own heart.

  Because right now, she knew Tara was on the other side.

  She could hear and pinpoint every little sound and grunt and huff Tara was making on the other side of the wall. Farah closed her eyes and scrunched her every molecule into attention, focusing on not missing anything.

  And then the music came on. A popular Bollywood hit from last year, a fusion of hip-hop beats and Hindustani raagas, melding into a beautifully complex composition. The whole evolved into something bigger than the sum of its parts – something Farah’s logical mind always marveled at.

  Farah jumped to her feet, giving up the horrible pretense. Curiosity about what Tara was up to now would eat away at her for the rest of the evening anyway.

  She emerged into the living area to find Tara standing in front of the giant TV on the wall with a recorded choreography playing. And completely forgot to pretend that she’d stepped out of her room to get a glass of water.

  Dressed in pink shorts and a white crop top that made everything out of her breasts, Tara looked gloriously sexy. Tendrils of hair floated down from the usual messy bun on top of her head, caressing her face. Beads of sweat gave her skin a dewy glow.

  Farah had the most ridiculously overwhelming impulse to tackle the girl to the ground. And just roll over on the rug, until all those curves were plastered up against her. Until Farah’s hands were touching and squeezing and holding her so that she knew that this beautiful, generous girl was real.

  “Are you going to study here?”