The Blue Bar (Blue Mumbai #1)(32)

The next second, Tara had run to the toilet. She’d returned to find Zoya hovering, a glass of water in hand.

“Salt and sugar water.”

Tara had taken a sip, felt nausea rise again.

“You’ve been looking tired the last few days,” Zoya said. “Is this the first time you threw up?”

“No, been a few times already.”

“You know that you must get a checkup?”

Tara had looked at Zoya, and understood. Zoya had explained that she must be careful. She’d been careful. So had Arnav. If this turned out as Zoya suspected, what would she do?

“Don’t look so lost. I’ll come with you if you want. If there’s a thing, get rid of it.”

Zoya had gone for six abortions in the four years Tara had known her. This was the only option for Tara, too. Her plans were too close to working out, and like Zoya said, a bar girl’s kids were like rats, spreading filth, drawing hatred from this world.

When it was her turn to use the bathroom, Tara had stepped into the shower and, after reaching for the loofah, scrubbed her skin of the leering glances and greedy hands that had touched her all night. In her village, the luffa vine grew strong on the back fence, heavy with gourds each summer. Her mother peeled off the outer flesh of the gourds they did not eat, squeezed out the black seeds, and let the sponge harden in the sun. Noyontara, your skin will shine once you clean yourself with this. Always be clean.

She’d gazed at her still-flat stomach, stroked it, softly at first, then with increasing roughness, patted it, slapped it, harder, curling her hand into a fist, biting her lips against the pain until she’d collapsed on the floor.

That’s where Zoya had found her an hour later, naked, curled into herself, one hand holding the loofah to her stomach, the other fisted under her chin.

“Stop crying.” Zoya had hauled her up. “And don’t even think about telling him. Come to bed now.”

While Zoya had fussed over her, helping her get dressed, Tara imagined Arnav holding her like in the movies and taking her to a fancy clinic with shiny floors and high ceilings, more a hotel than a hospital. A police constable could afford that for once, couldn’t he? He gave her girlfriend-type presents. He did not hit her. He was not much older, barely twenty-two, and not half-bad-looking. She could tell him.

He wouldn’t marry her, never that—not even in a temple alone, with the bells ringing. It was an accident, and meant nothing.

Tara told herself she didn’t long for those bells.

She had Pia now. That was enough. She gathered herself, waiting for the caller tune to exhaust itself and die, when Zoya said hello.

“Where are you? Why haven’t you been checking your messages? Is everything fine? Is Pia doing well?”

“All OK, Tara. Breathe.”

“Why didn’t you reply to my messages?” Tara said.

“I left my phone at home.”

“I’ve deposited the money to your account, so you can pay off some bills.”

“Don’t worry, we are OK . . .”

“Is that Ma?” Pia’s voice sounded faint in the distance.

“I’ll talk to you soon—focus on your work, all right?” Zoya said. “I’m taking care of Pia.”

“Ma?” Pia was on the line.

“How are you doing?”

Pia switched to video, and Tara put on her wired earphones.

“How are you, doll?”

Tara touched the screen, outlining her daughter’s face, which still held traces of the child she used to be, round-faced and soft. At thirteen, she grew taller each month and her face looked more like Arnav’s. His broad forehead, straight nose. She had Tara’s large eyes, though.

“Did you get any work done today, Ma?”

Tara couldn’t look away, but she wanted to. She tried never to lie to her daughter, not unless it came to the question of her father.

“I start tomorrow.”

That was partially true. She wouldn’t work in an office, but her first appointment with the girls was in a few minutes.

“You’re wearing your gym clothes.”

“Yes, I will head there now. Keep sending me messages and pictures, OK, doll?”

“You didn’t even notice.”

Tara pulled a serious face and peered at her daughter’s image on the screen. “You have a new hairdo.”

“A french plait, Zoya masi made it for me, and tied it with my favorite scrunchie—look!” Pia turned, showing off her hair, intricately braided, and a red scrunchie. Tara bought red scrunchies by the dozen so her daughter could believe she’d never lost her favorite over the years.

“Smashing.” Tara borrowed from Pia’s vocabulary. She tried not to encourage Pia obsessing over her appearance, but with a gaggle of classmates who thought of little else, it was hard.

“I think so, too.” Pia prattled on about how long it had taken, how she’d worn it to school and been the envy of her entire class, and how she’d aced her math test.

They exchanged kisses before Pia cut the call. The show Pia watched each evening was about to begin. Tara rushed back to her room, because she was already late for her class with her new students.

On her way out again, she dropped Zoya a message. “Call me when she’s asleep.”