Codename lotus, p.11
Codename Lotus, page 11
“I’m getting the hang of this tricky little game,” I said, shuffling. “Prepare to lose.”
She looked faintly amused. “Lose? Don’t get cocky, Saanya.”
We played blackjack by candlelight. Outside, thunder rumbled again, adding a dramatic backdrop to our game. From the corner of my eye, I could have sworn Naomi had flinched.
It was the next thunder that triggered a memory. It took me back to Cornwall—the night Naomi’s parents had died, the storm raging outside.
We had stayed in cabins. Naomi had been assigned to lodge with the older girls.
I remembered lying awake, staring at the ceiling while my classmates slept around me—peaceful and careless. My thoughts were with Naomi, alone in another room, digesting an unimaginable loss.
Noticing her shoulders tighten at each thunderclap, I recalled my conversation with Sidharth: “Classical Indian songs remind her of home.”
I reached for my phone. “Music?” I said, casually queuing instrumentals with plenty of sarangi.
10:15 p.m.
“So there I was, substituting a chemistry lesson, trying to impress the students,” I said. “And instead of creating a color-changing solution, I ended up turning my hands bright purple for a week!”
Naomi’s laughter was stark and beautiful, and it knocked the breath out of me. She fell back on the bed, holding her stomach.
“It’s not funny! I looked like I’d done henna on myself—while drunk!”
“That’s what they get for having you substitute a chemistry teacher.”
As our laughter ebbed, I found myself staring at her—caught by the simple beauty of her unguarded joy. She was still lying down.
“I hope you weren’t wearing that gorgeous ring,” she said. “What a shame that would’ve been. Though I am surprised you still wear it.”
I looked down at my hand. “It still feels surreal. His death. I hope one day I can take it off. When I’m out of the fog he left me in.” I exhaled. “Or when there aren’t criminals after me.”
“You are too kind. They are nothing but a pack of hoodlums,” Naomi said, a snarl edging her voice as she stared at the ceiling.
“They’re not worth our night,” I said, and a silence fell.
My gaze drifted to her—one hand sprawled beside her, the other resting on her abdomen, rising and falling.
She looked at me.
“What is it?” she asked, head resting on my pillow.
“Nothing, you—” I stopped, then didn’t.
In my mind, I marveled at the paradox Naomi’s hands represented. Slender, smooth yet decisive. The effortless way she’d shuffled cards earlier, the silvery line of her pen, those precise, mid-conversation gestures. “You have beautiful hands.”
And with her being straight…what a waste. Ugh, terrible thought, Saanya.
My cheeks burned under her gaze. I looked down at my hands, clenched into fists. “You know…since we were on the topic,” I said.
“Ah,” she said, mouth curving. “Your chemistry venture.”
Chemistry, all right.
Her face sobered. “Saanya, about what I said earlier. About…you being too nice. I hope you know I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant. Don’t worry about it.”
“I admire your resilience,” she said. “It isn’t easy to pick up the pieces and move forward.”
“And it isn’t easy to open your home to a stranger.” I smiled. “You’ve been more generous than I expected.”
“Don’t get too comfortable. I’m known for my fierce independence and lack of hospitality.” Her smug frown was teasing.
12:02 a.m.
The storm had softened to a steady patter. I was…struggling. Or just sweating. The room suddenly felt hot.
I stood and cracked the window. The breeze smelled of rain, wet grass, and…a flower. A scent that was clean and powdery-sweet. I couldn’t quite place it.
When I sat, Naomi was watching me, quietly intent.
“What made you say yes to someone like—” she stopped.
“Like Manish?”
She shook her head. “It’s none of my business.”
Another draft of wind carried a floral sweetness across the room. She couldn’t have known why I was lingering on it—the scent of a flower, and the way her curiosity had threaded him into the conversation—but then it clicked. “Ah, I see. You want to know about what he did to me.”
“It was insensitive to ask. You don’t have to—”
“It’s fine.” My heart still raced at his name, but words sometimes felt better than keeping this pain and trauma locked in.
She sat on the edge of the bed.
“Manish was brilliant. And I feel stupid saying this now…but it’s partly why I married him.” I laughed bitterly. “I thought we could at least meet in the mind. Instead, he turned out to be quite bored with the wonderful aspects of life. He found them trivial, but controlling me…well, that was his thrill. Especially after he realized I fancied women.”
“He knew?”
“He did. Quickly. Then used it to mock me whenever he wanted to throw a petty jab at me. Said that he had outsmarted me.”
Her face pinched—not pity, but something closer to empathy, which didn’t sit well, but I was used to it. When you’re a young widow, people tend to give you a look.
“It set him off. I think he hated that what I wanted was something he could never give me, so he punished me for it. Not that he cared. I knew he didn’t love me. But I quickly learned that nothing was about me. Everything was about him and his ego. I became a challenge, a game he wanted to win at.”
Humiliations flashed in my mind.
My eyes started to burn. “To the point that even my body betrayed me. He…made me want it. Sex.”
The revelation hung heavy. Naomi blinked, seemingly troubled.
“It’s weird, I know. It makes no sense.” I sighed. “And the methods he used to achieve that…how he went about it all—well, they left a mark.”
Her silence felt loud.
“It sounds ridiculous,” I said, sniffling. “Like something out of a film.”
“No. It was manipulative and cruel.”
“He controlled everything, including me. And even now, I feel absurd admitting it.”
“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” she said, voice low. “He’s the only one responsible.”
“It’s part of the past now, even if those methods he used still affect me, despite him being gone for good.”
The candle sputtered, a last breath of smoke curling into the dark.
I rose, fetched a fresh candle, and lit it. The new orange hum painted Naomi in warm tones again, her head now on my pillow, eyes fixed on the nightstand.
“What is it?” I asked. “What are you looking at?”
“I just realized my mother had a sindoor box just like that one,” she said, nodding to the small gold container. “She wore it often.”
Her voice carried a softness I rarely heard. The sadness in her gaze was almost imperceptible, but it lived under her skin.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yes. She held onto that tradition, even after marrying my father and moving to the U.K. She found ways to keep her culture alive in our home.” She hesitated, her next words quieter. “My culture.” Her gaze dropped.
I’d seen Naomi in a saree once. She’d looked beautiful—almost mythical. Something so rare. Hearing this felt the same, as if she’d left a door to her heart open just a crack. Enough for me to glimpse the girl still grieving inside.
“To be fair,” she said, “I still struggle whenever I travel to the U.K. for business. Far too many memories. But India?” She sounded suddenly fragile. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to bear that.”
I understood. India was like a mother. And Naomi had lost hers. The first and most important relationship.
I rested a hand on my belly, grounding myself in the thought that my child would always have me—though nothing is ever guaranteed. To anyone. “And your father, being British, how did he adapt to her traditions?”
Her smile reached her eyes. “He embraced them. He adored her. I remember him applying sindoor on her at festivals. It became their ritual. She embraced his, too. That was my normal. A household of both cultures.”
A quiet moment passed. Then she cleared her throat, her usual composure sliding back into place. “How about you? Do you ever wear it?”
“Me? I don’t wear it in the way your mum did.”
Her head tilted. “Not even at your wedding?”
“No. Those were my only conditions to Baba—no sindoor, and a say in who I married. At least I got one of the two right.”
“That ritual means something to you.”
“It does. I used to dream of it as a little girl. The person I married never had a face, just a silhouette in the shadows, promising me forever. Eventually, that silhouette became…someone,” I said, my gaze catching hers before looking away. “But I could only do it for love. And I suppose now I never will.”
A fresh breeze slipped through the open window and blew the candle out, leaving us in the black.
Neither of us moved. I breathed in that sweet, unfamiliar flower and the faint scorch of wick. Even in the dark, I felt her eyes on me. We held it longer than we should.
Then the lights flickered back on. Naomi sat up almost too quickly, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her clothes. “Looks like the power’s back. I should…check the rest of the house.”
“Yes.” I nodded. “Thank you. For checking on me.”
She paused at the door.
I sat up. “And for the record…”
“Yes?”
“You survived this outage like a true Indian,” I said.
Her mouth curved, just barely, and she slipped out. The latch finally clicked.
Only then did I exhale.
10
REASSESSING PRIORITIES
NAOMI
On the phone with Allison, I flipped through my iPad. “Allison, start with New York. Forbes 400—skip it. No galas either, so the Met Gala is out.”
…
“…That’s…bold, but I’ll handle it. What about your dinner with Dana Scott? You agreed to consult her on a business move. My agenda says…the Plaza.”
“What? I agreed to that?”
“Yep.”
I slid on my reading glasses. “Definitely not in person. I can consult her over a video call if she’s still interested.”
“Noted. What about the Bloomberg wedding? The groom’s mother is the senator.”
“Cancel it.”
“International Conference on Sustainable Development?”
“When?”
“Early November. Columbia University.”
“Hmm.” Tempting—Saanya was set to fly back to London the second week of November, but she didn’t even have a plane ticket yet.
“Cancel,” I said. “Let’s limit to what requires my presence.”
Allison sighed. “Unpopular opinion: I know you said no galas, but this one is important. Gala d’Arte a Firenze. I think your presence is necessary.”
I hovered over the tablet. “Right. I had completely forgotten.” Florence in November would be a significant stage for an upcoming artist I was sponsoring. “Keep it. Distance-wise, it’s feasible.”
“I thought you’d say that. It will be huge for Ishani Mehta—even if she never learns you’re her patron.”
I set down my tablet and walked to the window. “Mehta’s talent shouldn’t be wasted in obscurity. Heaven knows the whole of humanity needs fresh perspectives. Don’t make it about me. Just make it happen.”
I checked my watch. It was already past nine p.m., and the last of the light was fading. My gaze drifted to the glass wall that gave me an open view of the living room, and I spotted Saanya sitting on the sofa, TV off, hunched over her phone.
“Now, ensure everything in Florence is up to our standards. I want no slip-ups.”
“Of course. You just focus on Japan and whatever…else needs your attention. Goodnight, Naomi.”
“Goodnight.”
Whatever else needs my attention.
Saanya, of course.
Not that I was adept with today’s slang—heaven knows Shakespeare must be turning in his grave—but even I understood what doomscrolling meant.
Perhaps she was bored.
I stopped by the sofa and pointed the remote at the screen. The TV flickered on, and Saanya glanced up.
“Anything in particular you’d like to watch?”
An amused smile played on her lips. “What? Are you actually inviting me to watch telly with you?”
“Yes. What’s so odd about it?”
“Oh, everything.”
I ignored the jab and sat.
Saanya’s lips parted, and her eyes widened a bit. “Oh, you’re serious. I-I’m open to suggestions. What do you usually watch?”
“I don’t watch TV.” I crossed one leg over the other and browsed the menu.
“Which still makes me think you’re secretly a cyborg,” Saanya teased.
“And when an uprising comes to be, I will not spare you for such insolence.” I peered at her, and she laughed. Well, at least she had stopped leaking brain matter onto her phone screen.
I scrolled further into the settings. Surely, I could remember how to get to the movie applications. “Many have abandoned the mind-numbing habit of watching television these days.”
Saanya chuckled. “Because they stream everything now.”
“Well.”
“Wait. So not even Netflix?”
“No. Sometimes I drift off to Ethan’s documentaries, if that counts. Ugh. Forget this.” I handed her the remote. “You choose.”
A few minutes later, Saanya landed on Ocean’s 8.
Twenty minutes in, between heist chatter and glittering gowns, curiosity got the better of me. “Is this a lesbian movie?”
Saanya burst into laughter. “What? No—well, maybe. You could say it’s full of subtext.”
“Subtext?”
As Saanya explained the nuanced interactions between Sandra Bullock’s and Cate Blanchett’s characters, I found myself viewing the scenes with renewed interest. Saanya’s enthusiasm was infectious. Against all odds, I was invested.
Not that I was going to admit that, of course, but still, I wasn’t surprised. Women in positions of power made for the best kind of entertainment.
Saanya pointed at a particular scene with the character Lou and elaborated on Cate Blanchett’s sex appeal.
I tilted my head. “I can see how her confidence could be appealing to another woman, I suppose.” I felt Saanya’s eyes on me, a smirking blur of tanned skin and colorful Banarasi silk.
“And you haven’t seen her in Carol.”
“Carol?”
“An actual lesbian classic. Though we tend to reserve that for Christmas.”
“Ah, I see. So, Cate Blanchett?”
“There’s a certain allure to her confidence. It’s quite magnetic,” she said, still looking at me. I turned and found her assessing me. “Much like you, actually—except you’re not butch.”
I chortled. “Excuse me? Did you just say butch?”
Saanya laughed harder. “I said you are not. And to be fair, when I said butch, I was referring to Lou, not Cate. I—meant you’re like Cate.” She was almost sweating now. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being butch—or that Lou was actually butch, she was more like gender-fluid fem-masc.” She shook her head. “We all have our appeal.”
I felt a slow smile.
“I’m rambling, I know.”
She was blushing. “Bottom line. You have that aura.”
Well…
“Perhaps that’s why everyone thinks I’m your baby’s father.”
Saanya turned a deeper shade of red, but she laughed anyway. “If only my baby were that lucky. Instead, he got the worst father possible.”
She looked down and sighed.
I’d never seen her touch her bump before. Or maybe she had. Maybe I simply hadn’t been paying attention.
My amusement suddenly faded. Distractions now came in snapshots, reminders that she was hiding from a past that threatened her very existence. A past she wasn’t even responsible for.
My skin crawled at the thought of those dangerous, faceless thugs getting near her.
“Well, you have a good family, and Sid’s support. Have you decided when you’re going to tell him about the pregnancy? You can only hide it for so long.”
“I know.” She sighed. “I’ll tell him this week. I just need to find the right moment.”
We kept watching the movie for another minute. I shifted, propping my arm on the back of the sofa, facing her. “So…he?”
She blinked. “Pardon?”
“You just called the baby he. Up until now you’ve said they.”
“Oh. I did, didn’t I?”
She tucked both legs onto the sofa, finally at ease. She seemed less apprehensive in my presence now. Which made me think back to the other morning and all others, for that matter.
“Saanya, why don’t you ever want to go out into the garden?”
She tensed instantly.
“You know what? Never mind. That was intrusive of me.”
“No.” She looked down, then up. “Do you remember the night I told you about the methods he used?”
“Yes,” I said, suddenly regretting that I had stirred this up for her. “Saanya, you really don’t have to—”
Her brown eyes held my gaze. “I want to tell you.”
“All right.”
“Manish’s most damaging abuse…was sporadic and subtle, not in a way you might expect.”
Most damaging abuse. What did that mean? In how many ways had he abused her? I didn’t have the courage to ask.
Saanya’s voice was somber with resolve, which immediately made me wonder what she’d had to endure alone.
“You mean emotional abuse?”
She nodded. “Psychological, too. Among other things. Though some things heal on their own. Others just…don’t. He…used scents to control me. Three of them, each designed to induce specific emotional states in me whenever he fancied it.”
