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- Herausgeber: Loving Healing Press
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
A grieving daughter and abuse survivor must summon the courage to run a feminist conference, trust a man she meets over the Internet, and escape a catfishing stalker to find her power.
Ahana, a wealthy thirty-three-year-old New Delhi woman, flees the pain of her mother's death, and her dark past, by accepting a huge project in New Orleans, where she'll coordinate an annual conference to raise awareness of violence against women. Her half-Indian, half-Irish colleague and public relations guru, Rohan Brady, who helps Ahana develop her online presence, offends her prim sensibilities with his raunchy humor. She is convinced that he's a womanizer.
Meanwhile, she seeks relief from her pain in an online support group, where she makes a good friend: the mercurial Jay Dubois, who is also grieving the loss of his mother. Louisiana Catch is an emotionally immersive novel about identity, shame, and who we project ourselves to be in the world. It's a book about Ahana's unreliable instincts and her ongoing battle to deter-mine whom to place her trust in as she, Rohan, and Jay shed layers of their identities.
"Louisiana Catch is a triumph. In Ahana, Sweta Vikram has created an unforgettable character, strong, wise, and deeply human, who'll inspire a new generation struggling to come to terms with their identity in a world of blurring identities."
--KARAN BAJAJ, New York Times bestselling author, The Yoga of Max's Discontent
"In Louisiana Catch, Sweta Vikram brings life to the complex human rights issue of violence against women. Through one woman's journey to make sense of her past and ultimately heal, Vikram shows us that yoga can reconnect us to ourselves, and that by empowering others, we transform our own lives."
--ZOE LEPAGE, Founder, Exhale to Inhale
"Louisiana Catch perfectly captures what it means to be human in a digital world, where support groups meet online, love interests flirt on Twitter, and people get confused with personas. Equal parts tender and playful, moving and hopeful, Vikram's prose connects us with timeless truths about grief and redemption in a satisfyingly modern way."
--STEPHANIE PATERIK, Managing Editor, Adweek
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Louisiana Catch
Copyright © 2018 by Sweta Srivastava Vikram. All Rights Reserved.
1st Printing – April 2018
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Vikram, Sweta Srivastava, 1975- author.
Title: Louisiana catch : a novel / by Sweta Srivastava Vikram.
Description: Ann Arbor, MI : Modern History Press, [2017]
Identifiers: LCCN 2017025072 (print) | LCCN 2017027742 (ebook) | ISBN 9781615993543 (ePub, PDF, Kindle) | ISBN 9781615993529 (softcover : acid-free paper) | ISBN 9781615993536 (hardcover : acid-free paper) | ISBN 9781615993543 (eBook)
Subjects: LCSH: Man-woman relationships--Fiction. | Divorced women--Fiction.
| GSAFD: Love stories.
Classification: LCC PS3622.I493 (ebook) | LCC PS3622.I493 L68 2018 (print) | DDC 813/.6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017025072
Distributed by Ingram (USA/CAN/AU), Bertram’s Books (UK/EU)
Published by
Modern History Press
5145 Pontiac Trail
Ann Arbor, MI 48105
Tollfree: 888-761-6268
FAX: 734-663-6861
www.ModernHistoryPress.com
“To find yourself, think for yourself.”
~ Socrates
DEDICATION
For Rashi Singhvi Baid, Nirav Patel, and Jaya Sharan
This one’s for you. And you know why.
Also by Sweta Srivastava Vikram
POETRY
Kaleidoscope: An Asian Journey with Colors
Because All is Not Lost: Verse on Grief
Beyond the Scent of Sorrow
No Ocean Here: Stories in Verse about Women from Asia, Africa, and the Middle East
Wet Silence: Poems about Hindu Widows
Saris and a Single Malt
FICTION
Perfectly Untraditional
Dramatis Personae
Ahana ChopraWomen’s rights advocate in New Delhi, IndiaAmandaMember of the online therapy groupAthenaAhana’s Shih TzuBaburaoAhana’s driver in New DelhiMegan BlackPR Head, Shine OnChutneyMumma’s youngest sister, who lives in New DelhiCrystalRohan Brady’s assistantJay DuboisAhana’s colleague in online therapySarah GoldsteinProfessor at Columbia UniversityDev KhannaAhana’s ex-husband in New DelhiLakshmiDomestic help at Ahana’s parents’ house in New DelhiMasiMumma’s sister, who lives in New OrleansMausaHusband of MasiMichael HedickRohan Brady’s boss in the US (“Dracula”)NainaAhana’s cousin, daughter of MasiRohan BradyPublicist in NYC and NOLA, and Ahana’s conference colleagueJosh RossiCop in NYC and Naina’s fiancéShelly RoyExecutive Director, Freedom MovementSocratesRohan Brady’s Golden RetrieverTanyaMember of the online therapy groupTable of Contents
Chapter - 1
Chapter - 2
Chapter - 3
Chapter - 4
Chapter - 5
Chapter - 6
Chapter - 7
Chapter - 8
Chapter - 9
Chapter - 10
Chapter - 11
Chapter - 12
Chapter - 13
Chapter - 14
Chapter - 15
Chapter - 16
Chapter - 17
Chapter - 18
Chapter - 19
Chapter - 20
Chapter - 21
Chapter - 22
Chapter - 23
Chapter - 24
Chapter - 25
Chapter - 26
Chapter - 27
Chapter - 28
Chapter - 29
Chapter - 30
Chapter - 31
Chapter - 32
Acknowledgments
About the Author
- 1 -
My name is Ahana Chopra, and I was born and raised in the most ludicrous city in the world: New Delhi. Sometimes, I feel New Delhi doesn’t understand me. Other times, I don’t understand it. I don’t think I’ve ever found a way to bridge the differences between what I was and what I was expected to be in this city.
In Delhi, you find the majority running away from something, stashing away some secret but pretending to be happy. In Delhi, you always need to be on your guard.
Thirty minutes ago, when I was out for an evening run close to my office, a group of men sitting on their motorbikes and sipping tea in small glasses started whistling and making loud kissing noises, “Baby doll, 36 DD!” I covered my chest with my arms and looked around. The streets weren’t empty, but harassers in New Delhi fear no one—neither the police nor the pedestrians. Two of the men got down from their bikes and started to walk toward me. I moved away from them and scoped out a different route mentally. I could taste bile in my mouth; my running route and routine represented a small zone of freedom for me, and I could feel it being stolen away. I pushed my glasses closer to my face and noticed a small path across the street where no automobile could enter. I didn’t think when I sprinted through the moving traffic—with the cars honking, people rolling down their windows and cussing at me. I fell down a couple of times and bruised my shin. But I got up and wiped myself off. I ran until I couldn’t see the harassers.
Because of the thrusting aggressiveness of the people here, I find myself making extra effort to go unnoticed. At work parties, I hide in a quiet corner with a glass of wine. On Monday mornings especially, I try to reach work when no one is around—discussing weekend debauchery isn’t my thing. At social gatherings, I want to disappear and become invisible. I don’t care whether others chat with me; it is equally fine if I am alone with my thoughts. I can just as effortlessly look outside and observe everyone as I can look inside to see all my thoughts and emotions. But, oh, the New Delhi elites, so preoccupied with everyone else’s business!
It must have been February 2013 when I was crossing the park to my parents’ house—troubled by everything and thankful that my mother’s bridge partners seemed to have deserted the place already. No one in this park knows about my life. I am safe.
“You Kashmiri?” It was one of several old women clad in salwar kameez—their long, full-sleeved shirts below their knees and baggy trousers were ill-fitting. They had wrapped their bodies in shawls and well-worn colorful sneakers. I sighed inwardly looking at the unfamiliar faces. Often these random “aunties” pretended to go for morning walks, using the opportunity to scope out future daughters-in-law or bicker about their current daughters-in-law.
“Huh?” I unwillingly pried the headphones out of my ears.
Sucking their teeth and shaking their heads, they gathered around me. “Kashmiri pundit or Muslim?”
“Excuse me?” But before I could get a word in, they interrupted.
“Afghanistan?”
“No. New Delhi,” I said, conscious of my slight British accent. It was left over from my university and MBA years in London, and I knew it made me sound like a snob. “Where we all are right now.” I used my index finger to draw a circle over my head. “The capital of India.” And, of course, I wasn’t exactly trying to fit in anymore, either.
“What is your height?”
“Five feet eight inches,” I blurted out, and hated myself for not staying quiet. I simply didn’t know how not to answer when someone asked a question. My childhood manners clung to me even now.
“Are you married?” one of the aunties asked sharply. I guess she noticed that I didn’t wear a wedding ring, have sindoor in my hair, or a mangalsutra around my neck. The lack of the ring, the vermillion in my hair, and the missing beaded necklace must have made her assume I was single.
I readjusted my glasses. “No.” I tried not to raise my voice. I was taught to be respectful to the elderly. But my throat felt dry suddenly. I rubbed my feet against the earth.
“Finding a boy will not be easy at this height. You will stand out.” Half-a-dozen heads bobbed in rhythm like a pendulum.
With straight hair seven inches below my shoulder, I literally stood out from other women. It was normal; I’ve been questioned in languages that have far more syllables than Hindi and English. I am fluent in French, but I would bet my favorite wine that the strangers giving me the third degree knew nothing beyond French paarphuumes, or, as the rest of us pronounce it: perfumes.
“You are so fair. Gori girl. And so, tall and thin—like a pole.” At least a couple of portly aunties nodded their heads and spoke with a thick accent. They muttered in mutilated English, “No hips. How will she carry children? Maybe she is the kind of woman who doesn’t eat or know how to cook. But she is gori. Light skin color and good looks make everything easy. She can be taught these homely chores.”
“Excuse me, but I have to go.” I rushed off.
People have made up their minds, which I can’t change. New Delhi resents me for not embodying its spirit. What would these women say if they knew the worst of my secrets: that I was newly divorced from my college sweetheart Dev Khanna?
* * *
A few weeks prior to my filing for divorce, Dev turned into a psychotic stranger in an alley and forced me while I was asleep. This was a new low even for him. When I met with my parents for dinner at The Delhi Golf Club that evening, Mumma cupped my face, “Beta, you have become quieter than usual. What’s going on?”
People still called me beta, an endearing term for a child, even though I was well into my thirties. If only I could tell Mumma that her beta was living in hell. If only I could share with her what happened in our bedroom every night after sundown. Dev was so charming around everybody—Mumma too had approved when Dev proposed to me. People wanted to be him and with him. Dev, with his long face, breezy eyelashes, and sharp features, was the life of every party.
Me? I was so timid in my own marriage and life.
I didn’t say anything to Mumma.
She ran her hands through my hair. “Whenever you are ready to talk, I will never judge you. You know that, right?”
Dad poured me a glass of French pinot noir and he ordered Mumma a Glenlivet Single Malt straight. I knew they were stressed; the only time Mumma didn’t have her whiskey on the rocks was when her yoga and meditation couldn’t help her decompress.
My parents let me be, which not many understood. I still remember the day I left work early and showed up at my parents to tell them, “Mumma, I took your suggestion. I asked Dev for a divorce this morning.”
Mumma heard me patiently.
I sobbed inconsolably. “He is upset and I am scared how this will all pan out, Mumma.” My tongue still tasted bitter from licking the envelope for the divorce proceedings.
“We know the judge, beta. Everything will be sorted out in six months, maximum.”
The day Mumma’s lawyer finally got Dev to sign the divorce papers, I had laughingly told her, “Ma, I am so good at setting boundaries for other people and at advocating women’s rights. But in my own life, I failed.”
“It takes courage to put a bad marriage behind you.”
“Oh well.” I dug my feet into our living room carpet as I thought about how Dev made me watch disgusting porn videos. Even after sex hurt, I witnessed how it turned him on, but I was unable to draw a line. I used to feel inconsequential in that seven-bedroom ancestral house of his. I couldn’t fight off Dev. I was ashamed to talk to anyone about it.
Mumma stroked my hair. “No one has any right over your life. Now find the inner strength to fight for yourself and your happiness.”
Even though I was unable to confess the extent of Dev’s sexual and emotional dominance over me, I felt Mumma understood my pain. She had seen me turn quieter around him. I had lost weight and couldn’t sleep. I squirmed when Dev touched me in front of Mumma.
She cradled me in her arms. “You are safe with us, beta. Your dad and I will always be there for you.” She kissed my forehead. “Let’s go collect your things.”
* * *
When I moved back in with Mumma and Dad and started to call their house my home, Mumma brought me Athena, a Shih Tzu, as a welcome home gift. Athena’s little bed was set up in my bedroom, which had enough space for a study, a swing with extraordinary craftsmanship, a kingsize bed, a dresser, a small library, a recliner, a couch, a meditation and yoga space, and two nightstands.
Mumma made me a mug of hot chocolate every single evening. Sometimes, I would put my head in her lap and she would run her fingers through my hair. “Time makes everything better, beta. Just don’t expect things to get better overnight.”
“I hate the ugliness of it all. The papers. Who owns what? Looking for ways to avoid running into Dev. That’s not how I envisioned my life, Mumma.” Dev had sent me a text message earlier that day that said: “You’re one of those bitches who accuse men of rape because they’re so afraid to say they want it.”
“I know, beta. I have faith that there is something better waiting for you.”
* * *
In May 2013, one day at breakfast, Mumma announced, as she sipped on her apple and celery juice, “Let’s all make a trip to New Orleans.”
“They have bugs the size of elephants during summer,” I said without looking at her or Dad. Much as I loved New Orleans, Masi—Mumma’s sister—and my cousin Naina, I didn’t want to go anywhere. I was divorced from Dev and I didn’t want to see anyone. Our wedding had been such a lavish affair with over 2,000 invitees. Masi and Naina had made multiple trips to New Delhi to help us prepare for the wedding. Ten years later, nothing existed. All the bruises and soreness were gone, but sometimes I still felt them. I saw a shadow on my arm and expected to be reminded of a humiliating fight. It was not easy getting used to freedom.
“Okay, then maybe when it gets cooler? We must help with Naina’s wedding preparations, beta. She lives in New York, but the wedding is in New Orleans. That badmaash has a long list of things she wants done.” Mumma laughed thinking about our family’s favorite brat aka badmaash, Naina, as she cut slices of apple and put them in my and Dad’s plates.
Maybe New Orleans wasn’t such a bad idea after all. “Mumma.”
“Ya, beta.” She looked at me.
“With everything going on at home, I guess I didn’t mention it…”
“What, beta?”
“Remember the Annual Women’s Conference in NOLA I told you about?”
“The one in autumn of next year? What about it?”
“The board accepted my proposal for No Excuse—the core theme of the three-day event. They invited me to be the local point-person in New Orleans. I can actually live in New Orleans for a few months next year while we put our conference together.”
Mumma lit up with pride. “This is perfect. Let’s go this summer. You can do some work, and I will take a few months off from my hospital, and travel with you. It’ll be fun. We can help Masi. And then we can go back next year for the conference and Naina’s wedding.”
“Are you sure you can leave your patients?”
“No one is more important than you, beta.” Mumma cupped my face. “And I need to save my sister, too.”
“What’s wrong with Masi?”
“Nothing yet, but once her in-laws show up, she will turn into a chimney.”
“Meaning?”
“Remember when we visited them for Naina’s medical school graduation—the more her mother-in-law bragged about your masi’s $2 million home and her son’s career as the leading cardiologist of NOLA, the more my sister cringed and smoked.”
“Oh, yes. And when Masi bought her new house and we went all for the housewarming, her mother-in-law insisted Masi and Naina not enter the kitchen or do any religious rituals if they were on their period.”
Mumma burst out laughing. “Of course, I remember. Your masi got so tired of her tyrannical mom-in-law that she maintained she was always having her period because of menopause and didn’t enter the kitchen at all during their visit. She would sit in her huge bathtub and smoke like a diva.”
We both laughed, thinking about Masi.
Masi and Naina were thrilled that my work would bring both Mumma and me to New Orleans. “I am taking you to Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo when you visit this time,” Naina insisted in the video chat. “I am going to put a hex on that fucking Dev.” The two dimples, one on each side of her cheek, became deeper, as her eyes twinkled with determination.
My heart uncurled a little more. I was grateful for Naina. Even though she didn’t know the harrowing details of my marital relationship with Dev, she was firmly on my side. Her larger-than-life personality and protectiveness beyond all rationality were reminders of the good in my life. How easily she could say whatever was in her heart, even though she was a year younger than me.
* * *
Two weeks after the board accepted my proposal to host the conference in NOLA, Mumma and I were sitting in our patio, getting ready to drink our morning tea. It was hot and Mumma was fanning herself. But she insisted that we didn’t pull the temporary roof we normally used for summer days. I switched on the desert cooler.
Mumma said, “Thank you.” She took a deep breath. “What does the theme No Excuse represent, Ahana?”
“You know my organization is bringing together world leaders, advocates, activists, feminists, nonprofits, corporations supportive of women’s safety and rights at one conference to fight violence against women? No Excuse, my brainchild, is the core theme of the three-day event. No excuse for rapes, policing, or any kind of violence against women.”
“Oh, I see.” She didn’t probe further. A few minutes later, she sighed, “Promise, you’ll believe in sunrise again.”
“Whaaaat?” I rubbed my eyes, pretending the morning sun and scorching temperatures were hurting them. But it was a ruse to pretend I didn’t understand Mumma’s advice. I stretched my arms over my head and let out a yawn.
“Promise me, Ahana. That you won’t just give up on love. You are only thirty-three, beta. You have your whole life ahead of you.”
“Where is all this coming from?” I poured tea into the cups and looked at the high iron fence surrounding the patio. It was covered with creepers. The front of the house had high, cemented boundary walls. No one from the outside could see inside our home. I was safe from Dev here. Two days earlier, he had shown up at my office car park and made a scene.
Mumma asked the gardener to water the morning glory and zinnia pots. She turned to her tea and stirred it. “Can’t a mother worry?”
“Yes, she can. But my mumma doesn’t worry so early in the day.” I gave her a kiss on the cheek.
She hugged me tightly. “Let go of the things that do not serve you, Ahana.”
I noticed my mother was addressing me as “Ahana” as opposed to “beta.” It confused me.
“Sure thing, Yogini Mom.” I bowed. Athena came running to me and I played with her.
Mumma brought her eyebrows together. She spoke in a determined voice. “I won’t be around forever. I want you to promise me that you will consciously harbor thoughts that bring joy to your life.” She gently ran her hands over my ring finger, which was now empty.
“So now I am a negative and depressed woman?” I pulled my hand away.
“No one is saying that. But you have never bothered to matter in your own life.”
I tried to interject but Mumma raised her voice. “Dev was an unfortunate chapter. I am sorry we didn’t see it sooner. But you can’t let a bad marriage stop you from living your life fully. If I hadn’t stepped in, you probably wouldn’t have even left him, Ahana.”
Mumma was different today. She was a big believer in learning from experience. She was a professional woman who was excellent at her job, and she had never quite mastered the grace in the kitchen that characterizes women who always work at home. There were little burn scars on her hands and arms from cooking. But she was proud of the scars. “Burn and learn,” was her mantra. It was more Dad who would try to talk sense to me.
I quietly got up from the coffee table in our patio and asked our housekeeper, Lakshmi, to bring me my yoga mat. Lakshmi replied, “Wokay, didi,” in a heavy South Indian accent. She loved to call me didi, even though I wasn’t her older sister.
“I am serious, Ahana.” Mumma stood up.
“I know you are. That’s why I need to breathe so I don’t stress out. I don’t want to be reminded what a fool I have been.” I put Athena down.
As soon as Lakshmi brought the mat, I laid it out and got into a headstand. Some people turn to wine, others to cigarettes, and a few to pot. I have always turned to yoga to find peace. Being upside down with my feet straight up toward the sky and heart over my head, I felt I could deal with the moment. Athena tried to lick my face but Lakshmi picked her up. “No disturbing Ahana didi, wokay?”
Mumma’s tone changed. “I am not trying to hurt you, Ahana.”
“I know.”
“You will open yourself to the idea of a partner and love, Ahana. Promise me.” Mumma started to leave as it was getting hot outdoors.
“I promise.” I closed my eyes.
Little did I know that my mother, who’d taught me everything in life, would not teach me one thing: to learn to live without her. And that was the day that, for me, time began all over again.
- 2 -
When I joined Freedom Movement as a women’s rights advocate, I didn’t need to travel much. For the most part, I had a non-demanding 9-5 desk job where I didn’t need to encounter people at work. On occasions, I was expected to mingle with the New Delhi socialites and help raise money, which I did successfully. Classic case of secret introvert—hiding inside an extroverted shell that is required to do her job well enough. But with my promotion to head of communications and fundraising, a leadership position which I initially resisted, things changed. As a high-powered official, my work was to build stakeholder and donor relations, raise funds for the organization, manage all the marketing, events, public relations and corporate communications for the nonprofit, and overlook all the internal communications aspect. I was new at all of this and hadn’t excelled yet.
I had left home early that morning because one of our rural sister organizations wanted us to showcase their work at the conference in New Orleans; they represented female workers in India who were scared to use unisex public restrooms because of the rise in sexual assault cases in these spaces. So they had invited me to their office for a site visit.
I was two hours away from the Indian capital, stuck in a tiny, hot car in the month of June, when I got a call from Dad, “Your mumma is in the intensive care unit.”
I couldn’t believe him. How could Mumma be fighting for her life when her morning was full of action verbs—she had done an hour of yoga and drank her green juice. She had rearranged her closet. She wrote a list for our New Orleans trip.
Dad went on to share the details. “She passed out while she was in the shower. I called the ambulance. I don’t think she has much time.” Dad sounded robotic.
I thought of the right things to say and ask. But I couldn’t. Mumma had been different today. She had scolded me for not living my life. She hated the summer heat, but she had chosen to sit in the patio, instead of the sunroom with the air conditioner on, and drink tea. She had taken the day off from her hospital, very unlike her to abandon her patients, because she felt she hadn’t been able to see some of her close friends. “Life is so unpredictable, beta. I don’t want to have any regrets.” What did she mean by any of it?
* * *
I remember every detail. When I got to the hospital, several of my parents’ friends were waiting in the lobby. Had it not been for the strong “hospital smell,” you could have confused the place for a five-star hotel: the amenities, posh clothes, the crowd, the gift store, and the restaurants.
I tried to avoid them, but many aunties formed a group and hugged me tight. “Nothing will happen, Ahana. We are here for you.” I didn’t blink or cry as they stroked my hair. This was the hospital where my mother worked. This was the space where she saved lives. The hospital aimed to bring India the highest standards of medical care along with clinical research, education, and training.
I politely excused myself and went to the washroom. There was no food in my stomach, yet I felt nauseated. After throwing up bile and retching for a few minutes, I splashed water on my face. I wiped myself with my dupatta—the long scarf over my salwar kameez covering my big chest since I was in rural parts of New Delhi earlier that day and didn’t want to draw any attention to myself—and bought a lemonade from the cafeteria to rehydrate myself.
My phone rang: Masi calling from New Orleans. “Naina just reached NOLA from New York. We are on our way to Delhi, beta. Don’t let anything happen to your mother.”
I got to Mumma’s room and stood at the threshold for a few moments. This can’t be happening. Normally, Mumma’s face glowed, but I could barely see her features since she was hooked onto a ventilator. Mumma, the person who was our lifeline, needed help breathing. Wake up, Mumma.
My feet didn’t want to move, but I slowly walked inside Mumma’s room. Dad was sitting next to her in a chair; he looked lifeless.
“Can I get you anything?” I rubbed his shoulders. He didn’t respond, just stared at Mumma.
I ran my eyes over her: Mumma in the hospital with tubes and machines attached to her. Despite being a doctor’s daughter, I didn’t recognize many items of medical equipment. A rough blanket was placed on her body. I wanted to cover her toes. Mumma often complained about her feet getting cold. Was she cold now? Can you feel anything? Monitors around her beeping. Needles and pipes poking through her once enviable skin. She looked like a frail, pale shadow of her former self. I couldn’t see Mumma like this. I started dry heaving again.
Suddenly, one of the monitors began to beep and distracted me. The nurse pressed a call button and spoke with urgency. It didn’t sound good. “What’s happening?” I touched her arm. The nurse ignored me, saying, “Everyone leave the room,” and ushered us to the bench outside Mumma’s room. Two doctors and three nurses flooded in. After screaming, “Wait outside,” they closed the door. I saw through the glass window that Mumma was having difficulty breathing. I started to shake. Mumma’s youngest sister, whom Naina and I called Chutney, hugged me.
Dr. Murty, Mumma’s colleague and chief of cardiology, stepped out of the room after a few minutes. He turned to Dad, Chutney, and me, “The leaks through her heart valves have flooded her lungs.”
Mumma’s heart failed us all.
“Will Mumma be okay? Can we see her?” I asked with my eyes flooded with tears. The noise from the heart monitor affirmed she was still alive, with its consistent, rhythmic beeps.
“Even if she survives, she’ll become a vegetable.” Dr. Murty patted my shoulder.
My heart sank. In that instance, I knew Mumma wouldn’t survive. She’d often said, “Dignity and independence are important to me. The day I must depend on anyone, physically or financially, that’ll be the end of it.”
I pleaded with Dr. Murty, “Can you keep her alive until Masi and Naina arrive? Please? Just a little bit longer?”
Even before he could respond, the nurses called out to Dr. Murty. Too many people moved rapidly inside Mumma’s room; it didn’t look good. I panicked. I peered through the windows again; they were trying to revive Mumma. They were doing some procedure. Dr. Murty attempted chest compressions a few times. Finally, I saw him remove the surgical mask from his face and shake his head. He said something to the head nurse—I couldn’t read his lips. I looked at the heart monitor; Mumma had flat-lined. The head nurse pulled a white sheet over Mumma’s face. My body sank to the floor. I had seen darkness before in my marriage with Dev, but it was nothing compared to what I felt in that moment. My life felt over without my mother in it.
Dr. Murty stepped out of the room and removed his gloves, “I am so sorry. We tried our best.”
I sat still.
“When did she pass away?” Chutney asked.
“Time of death: 7:17 p.m.”
Dad saw me, but he didn’t see me. He said nothing; just cried.
* * *
Time vanished. Grief came in waves—in some instances, I was calm and got all the paperwork in order; in others, I felt completely overwhelmed. Bills. Death certificate. Nurses paying their condolences as Mumma was their boss. Notifying friends and family.
At one point, I begged the guy on guard duty to let me into the morgue. He asked for five hundred rupees as a bribe. It was cold inside unlike the dry, sweltering Delhi streets. The morgue had an eerie vibe. He handed me a mask. His instructions were crisp, “Not more than ten minutes, OK? I am doing you a favor by letting you inside. Use the sanitizer before you leave.”
I covered my face with the mask. He pulled out the drawer in which Mumma’s body was kept. She looked so peaceful; it made me angry. How could she be OK? How could she leave us without any notice? With her gone, I was lost. I touched Mumma’s body. I poked her gently, hoping she would sit up. When she didn’t respond, I lay on the floor in a fetal position. I wailed silently and grabbed my chest. The guy asked me to leave.
I was alive but felt dead. Life wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Mumma was my best friend. I wanted to run away from everything, especially the aunties. “So what if your Mumma is gone? Think of me as your mom,” so many said as I stepped outside the morgue. “Did you take a picture of your mother in the morgue?” Mumma’s thrice-divorced bridge friend asked as she massaged my neck. I was so angry that I couldn’t think of any responses. “Poor, motherless child,” another aunty quipped as she adjusted her Burberry handbag and rubbed my shoulders. “If Dev was still around, he could have supported you. We all need a man. Everything is all on you. Tsk. Tsk.”
Dev could have supported me? When we were married, and attended social gatherings, Dev touching his collarbones was a secret signal that he wanted me right then. No matter the occasion—birthdays, housewarming, or funerals. There were times he would insist I meet him in a secluded corner or the host’s bedroom. I wasn’t allowed to make conscious decisions to look like less of what I felt Dev would want to see.
I shut down. I was physically in New Delhi, but I wasn’t there. I was an only child, that too a daughter, in the city of Delhi. “A woman can’t perform last rites,” many mentioned in passing when they came home to pay their respects. One of the aunties, while covering her pixie haircut with a designer, white dupatta, whispered to me, “Your Mumma’s soul will not be at peace if you put her body on a pyre. Hindu customs demand that a man must cremate for the soul to get reincarnated. If Dev…” She went on to say more insensitive things, but I walked away.
I put my tears on hold until Naina reached New Delhi.
- 3 -
It was 10 a.m. when a hand shook me. “Ahana, wake up.” It was Naina, clad in a kurta—the pink-colored, loose, and collarless shirt that Mumma had gifted her a couple of years ago—and denim capris. She ran her short fingers, each knuckle adorned with a ring, through my hair. She slowly got up from my bed and opened the curtains.
I squinted as the sun stared at me. Somehow, I was in my bedroom. I had no recollection of how I got there or why I had slept in a pair of cotton salwar kameez. I had a picture frame, with Mumma’s photo in it, resting on my pillow. My pillow was damp. Athena was not in her bed. I rubbed my eyes and stared at Naina.
“When did you get in?”
“Last night.”
“No one told me.” I looked around for Athena and called out to her.
“I asked Lakshmi not to disturb you and to keep Athena in her room.”
“Oh. How was your flight?” Not sure why I was making small talk. This was Naina—the one person, aside from Mumma, who knew about my first crush, kiss, and heartbreak. At thirty-two, she was a lot smarter and unapologetic than I was.
“Why don’t you clean up and we’ll get some fresh air?” She picked up the picture frame and wiped it with her hands. My tearstains were all over it.
“Can’t believe Mumma’s pictures are all I have left.”
Naina sat down next to me.
I held her tight. “I don’t want to meet anyone. I don’t want to leave my room.”
She kissed my forehead. “You don’t have to meet anyone. But you don’t have to look like a hobo either. Masi would be so upset.” Naina smiled.
She opened one of my closets and pulled out a pair of pastel salwar kameez.
I looked at her. I could barely remember where I’d been the night before, but Naina could recollect where I kept my clothes and personal items. She knew I had five closets in my bedroom and the one closest to the window was where I kept my informal, wear-at-home Indian outfits.
“Everything is the same. Your study, laptop, clothes, five plants, a place for that pint-sized pooch to sleep and relax, your yoga practice spot…nothing has changed.” She sat next to me.
I leaned into her. “Mumma is gone. That’s changed.”
She wrapped me in her arms and rocked me. “Shhh. We’ll get through this together.”
As soon as Naina said those words today, a dam broke in my eyes. I tugged at her kurta.
“I know, kiddo. It’s not right.” She pulled out tissues from the box of Kleenex on my nightstand.
“I don’t understand how this happened,” I sobbed. “Mumma was fine in the morning....”
“I am so sorry, Ahana.”
I wiped my face with my hand. “She was asking me to take care of myself. Chutney told me that Mumma had heart troubles. She never told us because she didn’t want us to worry.”
Naina ran her hands through my hair. “Let it all out.”
“She was my strength. She helped me leave Dev. I can’t live without Mumma. I don’t know what to do. Who will make me hot chocolate when I am hurting? Who will practice yoga with me? With Mumma gone, who will protect me?” Snot mixed with my tears flooded my face. I started heaving. “Ask the visitors to leave, Naina. They will dilute Mumma’s smell. Ask them not to touch any of the souvenirs—Mumma likes things in order.” I rambled on.
At one point, I woke up to my own snoring. “Sorry.”
“What are you sorry for? Take as much rest as you need.” Naina massaged my forehead.
“Remember how we would hide in this very room when we were kids?” I played with the corner of her kurta.
Naina laughed loudly. “Yeah, because, dork, you wanted to avoid all the cute guys and read a book on your recliner.”
For the first time since Mumma’s death, I smiled too.
“Remember, I wanted to try out all of your chic clothes on our visit, but you had to be a tall, skinny bitch, didn’t ya, sis? And a foot taller than me!” She elbowed me with a smile.
Naina called out to Lakshmi in her accented, broken Hindi, “Ahana baby hungry. Hot chai and grilled cheese sandwich, can I get? Umm, as in milegaa?”
“I don’t want to eat anything.”
“I know. But if you don’t eat or drink something, I can’t feed my pear-shaped body either. So make a small sacrifice and eat for your little sister.” She pulled at my chin.
When we walked to the lower level of the house where the family room and formal sitting room were located, I noticed there were hundreds of people. Incense. Flowers. Religious music. Strangers weeping and moving in circles like dervishes. I couldn’t breathe, so I started to crawl to go back up to my room when Naina whispered, “It’s okay. I am with you.”
“Don’t leave me alone.”
She held my hands tight every time an aunty mentioned Dev’s name in passing. No one from his family showed up or even called to express their condolences.
Naina stayed by my side when we brought Mumma’s ashes home, through all the rituals and prayers, my meltdowns, and even after everyone had left. I shook up the urn with Mumma’s ashes close to my ear before we released them in the Yamuna River, but I couldn’t hear a thing. I looked at Naina—the idea of being motherless on this vast earth was so lonely and strange to me—some things only a sister can understand.
* * *
Even after a few months of Mumma passing away, I couldn’t cope. The sofa in the family room and patio furniture no longer carried my mother’s scent—J’ADORE mixed with lavender oil blended with jasmine. All of the summer of 2013, I went through life pretending to be a stranger inside my own body. I made myself forget everything about Mumma that I couldn’t bear to remember like hiding in her sari as a little girl, twirling in the backyard, gripping her hand and walking together. I tried to bury those memories. I made myself forget, I thought of every meal, vacation, argument, festival, or unimportant time spent together. But by trying not to remember Mumma, I only remembered her more. I pretended not to feel the pain, but the only thing I felt was pain. I was consumed with how suddenly she was taken away from us. I grew dark on the inside. I had no desire or appetite for anything. I became two women—one who pretended to be OK in front of the world, and the other who cried at night because she missed her mother’s voice. My life became all about before and after Mumma’s death.
I preferred weekdays to weekends because time didn’t stand still then. I spent all my time at work and nagged my boss to put me on more projects. Besides that, I was now spearheading the upcoming Annual Women’s Conference in New Orleans. The conference had started as a small idea but escalated into a major event over the months. I was grateful that my suggested theme, No Excuse, was receiving global recognition from speakers, anthropologists, nonprofits, feminists, activists, authors, leaders, and female survivors of violence refusing to accept any excuse for rape, woman hitting, acid throwing, and bride burning for dowry.
Mumma was so proud I was trying to help other women, standing up for what I believed in.
After her death, I also volunteered to travel for work. Whatever little time I had between coming back home from work and leaving for it, I spent either running or practicing yoga at the studio close to home. Even though Mumma and I often took yoga classes together, I found solace in returning to the studio alone. The space allowed me to escape the mess of my life.
It was September 2013—monsoons were receding, but Delhi was still hot. Scheduled power outages and a water shortage were still crippling the city. I decided to go for an evening run to avoid the seething temperatures. Running allowed me to blend physical pain with the pain in my heart without any suspicion or apprehension.
I was just about to leave when Mumma’s younger sister, Chutney, stopped me in the kitchen, “Ahana, I need to tell you something.”
“What, Chutney?” I drank a few sips of water.
“Your mother’s last words.” Chutney sat on the barstool next to the island table in the kitchen. Mumma, though not the best cook in the world, liked beautiful and big kitchens with modern interiors and bright colors. The kitchen was connected to the patio in our backyard. This was the spot where we often got together as a family or for cocktail parties.
“Why didn’t you tell me anything sooner?” I sat next to her.
“Because you weren’t ready, beta.”
“What do you mean?” I untied my ponytail and tied it in a bun.
Chutney took a sip of my water. “I am not trying to guilt-trip you. But you are the only one your dad has left.”
“What are you saying?” I didn’t move.
She bit her lower lip. “You need to get help for yourself.”
My eyes filled up, but I didn’t cry. I pushed the island table. “Why, did Dad say something?”
She threw her hands in the air. “No, that’s the thing with both you and him. You guys like to internalize everything. You bury yourself in your work.”
I stood up abruptly. I didn’t even realize when I raised my voice. It was loud enough that Lakshmi, who was in the adjoining room—an extension of the kitchen where the big dishes were hand-washed and dried—came running. She asked whether I was OK. I was so upset that I waved at Lakshmi and asked her to continue with her work.
“Are you blaming me for being depressed?” I wiped my tear-stained cheeks with the back of my hand.
Chutney caught me by my wrists. “Ahana, my child.” She kissed my forehead. “How can you even think like that?”
“It’s because you…” I tried to interrupt.
“You have been through hell this past year.” She ran her hands through my hair. “You are stronger than most people I know, beta. But it’s not fair to you to put so much pressure on your own self. You go for late night runs in a place like Delhi. You either leave for work by 6 a.m. or end up taking late night yoga classes. It seems like you don’t care about yourself any longer.”
“What kind of help?” I moved her hands.
She hesitated, “Just talk to someone,” and looked nervously at me.
I pretended not to understand. “I do talk to you, a few of my friends, and Naina.”
Cupping my face in her hands, she whispered, “We all love you, but none of us are truly qualified to help you. We are biased. None of us can see you in pain, so we agree with whatever you say or want to do.”
I asked Lakshmi to bring my running shoes. I wanted to get out of the house and pound my stress on the streets of New Delhi.
Chutney followed behind. “This can’t be how you live.”
I said nothing and tied my shoelaces.
She was stubborn. “It’s been a few months since your mother passed away.”
I blurted out, “I’ll think about it.” I am not sure why I said that because I had no concrete intention of seeing a therapist or joining a counseling group. But also, I didn’t want to take Chutney for granted. She had left her own house and moved into my parents’ place to help us settle into a world without Mumma. She had taken a sabbatical from her high-profile job so she could help us heal from the big mess in our lives.
“Good.” She kissed my forehead. “If not for anyone else, do this for your mumma. For your dad, who has already lost his wife and can’t see his daughter suffer.”
“What were Mumma’s last words?” I washed my hands and tugged at Chutney’s dupatta.
Chutney gently massaged my head, “I worry about Ahana. When will that child of mine be happy again?”
I ran five extra miles that evening and pounded the streets hard. Chutney’s words kept playing inside my head. At the seven-mile mark, I stopped. Something inside of me shifted. I told myself that I needed to stop continuously fixing my feelings and my problems. I had to step up and take charge of my life. I had to get out of New Delhi. No, India. In India, people knew my family and my history.
* * *
When I reached my office the next day, I walked straight to my boss, Ms. Shelly Roy. “I know I said I didn’t want to go, but I am interested in representing Freedom Movement at the conference next autumn in New Orleans, after all.”
Ms. Roy pulled off her glasses. “I am happy to hear that you changed your mind. Let me see what I can do.”
“Please,” I begged her.
“I will talk to the board of directors at our quarterly meeting next week and get the OK on the budget.” Ms. Roy smiled at me. “This conference is important to women all over the world. It was a shame thinking you were the one organizing but not attending the event. The conference is turning out to be bigger than we had anticipated, Ahana.”
After Mumma’s death, I’d told Ms. Roy that I didn’t want to travel to New Orleans. When Ms. Roy had tried to coax me, I remained adamant. “I don’t want to leave my father alone in India.” Being Indian, she understood my sense of familial responsibility.
But, in truth, a big part of me was scared to be in New Orleans again—Mumma and I had planned to take this journey together. I didn’t have the strength to go through with it alone, and open raw wounds. I had such fond memories of spending my summer vacation at Naina’s place in the Garden District of New Orleans. The oak tree in the garden: I read the Nancy Drew series in its shade while Naina wrote notes to her boyfriend. There was a long porch from the main gate to the entrance of the house where Naina and I ran endlessly. Because there were tall fences built all around the house, our mothers never had to fear for our safety, so they let us be. There was a swimming pool in the backyard where Mumma served us lemonade right after we got out of the water. I had never seen so many trees in anyone’s house. Masi would cook her saffron-layered chicken and rice biryani, kebabs, and local NOLA specialties like Jambalaya and shrimp étouffée for us. Mumma would always joke that Masi got the cooking skills while Mumma got the whiskey skills. I loved sitting in horse carriages and taking a tour of the French Quarter when we were kids. Naina and I ran around the sculptures in Jackson Square. Palm readers, artists, musicians, and fortunetellers would line the park outside Jackson Square. Me dragging Naina to the historical and cultural sites as we got older. And Naina conning me into going to clubs and bars in exchange for her time spent at museums.
While I never enjoyed cooking, I did appreciate gourmet food. I fell in love with shrimp po’boys, andouille gumbo, shrimp étouffée, jambalaya, and the Southern hospitality. Mumma, Masi, Naina, and I would participate in walking food tours in the French Quarter. Naina and I would stuff ourselves with beignets and hot chocolate at Cafe Du Monde. Naina once took a picture, with powdered sugar on the tip of her nose, and at the back of the printed copy, she wrote, “Sugar. Gimme sugar.”
Another gem in the French Quarter—my literary shrine where I spent many days—was Faulkner House Books on Pirates Alley. Mumma, an avid reader and traveler, had introduced me to it. I remember her dragging me to Faulkner House Books and telling me that it was the former home of William Faulkner, which now served as a shop selling classic and local interest books. Friendly staff, great selection of local authors and historical books; I always found an excuse to spend time in this place where novelist William Faulkner wrote his first novel.
The music, the history, the food, the books, the culture, they all spoke to me. I felt like I belonged in New Orleans.
Mumma and Masi would tease me when I was in high school, “Apply to colleges in New Orleans and find a Louisiana boy, beta.” But I didn’t, and those early memories felt more and more distant, as if they’d happened to someone else. I looked at the old pictures and tried hard to be excited about going back to those old streets, but I couldn’t feel any exhilaration. I was an adult with no mother to show her around.
* * *
After talking to Ms. Roy and spending the day at work, I went for a yoga class in the evening. On my way back, as my driver Baburao was pulling the car from the parking lot, my phone rang. It was Naina.
“Howdy!” Naina chirped in a Southern accent.
“Hi, sis.” I untied my ponytail.
“Whatchya doing?” Though born and raised in New Orleans, Naina had moved to New York City when she started college, went to medical school, did a four-year residency, got board certified, and eventually started her private practice.
“Just got done with yoga class.”
“Whoa! 9:30 p.m. on a Friday? Dude, that’s messed up.”
“I am too old for late night partying.” I readjusted my glasses.
“Sheesh, you are thirty-three, not eighty-two, Grandma. When you are in NOLA, I’ve got to take you out, girl.”
I laughed with a little dishonesty, but it was because I knew where this conversation was headed.
“How are you? How is Masi? And what news of Josh?”
“Mom is busy preparing a menu of all the things she wants to feed you next year when you visit.” Naina let out a sinister laugh. “As for Josh Rossi, he’s doing well. His friends are busy planning his bachelor party a year ahead of time.”
“Are you nervous?”
“No, ma’am. I am hiring a stripper for mine, so how can I be a hypocrite?” She spoke with such ease and honesty. “How are you? Don’t give me the shitty version that you tell others, Ahana.”
“I am OK. Waiting for Baburao to bring the car. Dad was supposed to pick me up.”
“What’s going on?”
“Dad and I had dinner plans. But, once again, he forgot.”
“Did you call him?”
“What’s the point? He’ll apologize, but nothing will change. I wonder if he doesn’t like to hang out with me.”
Speaking with the authority of a psychiatrist, Naina said, “Your dad loves you.”
“I know that. But I need him to be a little more present.” I thought about my conversation with Chutney and confessed to Naina, “I am worried that my dad doesn’t want to hang out with me because I am a reminder of how small our family has suddenly become.”
She remained patient with me.
I sighed. “It’s like I’ve lost both my parents after Mumma’s death.”
“I am listening.”
Perhaps it was the clarity post yoga and meditation class that caused my emotions to unfurl. “I want to run away from everything, Naina. From people who know too much about my life and ones who carefully inspect my face in the hope that it’ll reveal unshared details of my experiences.” Somewhere along the line, in being a wife and a daughter focused on keeping everyone happy, I had forgotten what I liked. I felt as if it was too late for me even to ask myself what I wanted.
“Stop being so responsible all the time.” She spoke softly. “This isn’t healthy. You are doing yoga too often, not meeting with anyone, and there is a panicked strain in your voice. I am worried about you. And what’s with all the crazy running? I’ve been keeping an eye on your FitBit statistics.”
A wave of nausea hit me. I rubbed the empty space on my left hand where my three-carat, princess cut, solitaire diamond, platinum wedding ring used to be. I started to breathe heavily. On some weekends, after brunch, Dev would make me participate in role-playing games. In the very beginning of our marriage, there were times when I had tried to derive pleasure from the attention because I was his wife. But that feeling was short-lived. After forced sex, I would shower and go for long runs without my wedding ring. The open air where I didn’t belong to anyone—I liked it. Running made me feel safe even though late nights in New Delhi were risky. On some days, any place felt more sheltered than my own house.
“You must take care of yourself in all of this, Ahana.”
“I am trying.” I sat on the chaise lounge in the studio’s lobby facing a Buddha statue so no one could see me fight my angst.
Naina spoke loudly. “Bullshit! Your marriage with Dev ended because he was an asshole. Masi died suddenly. Why are you hell-bent on denying yourself any iota of kindness?” Naina rarely could keep it together when she was upset.
“You know that I have spoken with my boss. If the board approves the budget, I will be in NOLA for the conference.”
“Great, but NOLA doesn’t happen until next year. Honey, you still need to see a therapist.” Naina never minced her words. They were like an arrow with a purpose.
“I have you.”
Naina explained that even though she was a psychiatrist, we were too close for her to remain objective with me. “The conference planning and dealing with violence against women will make your anxiety even worse.”
“I can’t, Naina.” I was hesitant.
“Why not?”
“Remember where I live?” The problem was Dad’s position in society and our well-known family, and because I didn’t want to expose myself to New Delhi. “It’s very likely any therapist here would spread rumors, even if it was completely unprofessional to do so, and the gossip would be so rich that everyone would forgive him or her for it.”
Naina didn’t push me too hard, but she told me about some online resources I could consider. Her mentor was moderating one of the online counseling websites.
When I got home that night, after we had eaten a dinner of grilled fish, gourd soup with fennel, and cucumber salad, and everyone had gone to bed, I sat in my pajamas with Athena in my lap. Should I do this? I asked my sweet-tempered companion. Athena barked, and I took that as a yes.
I surfed a few sites for online counseling until I found the one moderated by Naina’s mentor. Something inside me uncramped as I browsed through each page, and I bookmarked the site. I don’t know what it was, but I started to feel a tiny bit of relief.
Naina knew me better than anyone else, as usual.
- 4 -
I still wonder how the universe caught two men from Louisiana and sent them into my life around the same time.
The wounded seek out the wounded—that’s how I met Jay Dubois, my comrade in the online therapy group when I was at the lowest point in my life.
Before logging in for the first time, I sat down and meditated for a few minutes to calm my nerves. I felt nauseated—the way I’d felt after seeing Mumma’s body in the morgue. It hit me, all over again, that I was a motherless woman. I called Lakshmi through the intercom in my room and requested her to make me chamomile tea. “Also, please take Athena out for a walk.”
“Wokay didi. Pleasing to go,” she responded in an eager tone and her adorable broken English.
I found out there were twelve of us in the group: three men and nine women, including the moderator, who was Naina’s mentor. She suggested we could use apps for texting, video chatting, voice messaging, and audio messaging to communicate with each other.
We all signed confidentiality agreements. But it felt lonely opening my life to strangers, clad in my pajamas while sipping chamomile tea. When and how did my life turn this way? I was the one with straight A’s, who had won a scholarship to the university in London and married the most desirable guy in New Delhi. My life used to be perfect, and then it all turned to ashes.
People in the group had lost boyfriends, babies, parents, and siblings. I didn’t want to be around so many sad stories. The tone was intense. It reminded me of the times when I would visit my parents and my dad would be in the middle of some ridiculously noisy project—I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t pull myself away. So I would rub the corner of Mumma’s shirt or kurta.
I realized I was the only Indian in the group. The Americans seemed to be most open about their lives. Interestingly, every single member chose to introduce him- or herself via group texting. No videos, no voices. Once there were only two of us left in the round of introductions, I bit my cuticles. I grew up in a culture where we didn’t share our problems with outsiders. How much was OK to share? I wrote something and erased it. Then wrote again. It seemed like Jay Dubois heard my quandary. He typed, “Looks like I am not the only one drunk typing on this Saturday night, so thank you. I’ll go next.”
I started to laugh and brought my palms together, “God, thank you.”
“Hi, all. I am Jay Dubois. You all are very brave to be seeking help. Like all of you, I lost a loved one suddenly, mother in my case, and now can’t make sense of my life.”
I wiped my glasses and reread his post. He didn’t share any specific details about himself or his mother. But when our moderator pestered him about his whereabouts, he grudgingly admitted that he was from Louisiana but called NYC home. His mother had passed away a few months before Mumma.
Next was my turn. I looked over my shoulder and then typed. “Hi, I am…. My name is…Ahana.” My stomach hurt. I fought a strange sense of suffocation. I looked at Mumma’s photograph on my nightstand.
“Hi, Ahana.” The other members and moderator typed back. I could feel many eyes virtually stare at me. I didn’t know what to write. Hi, I am here because I lost my mother and divorced my husband the same year and now happiness is unable to find me.
