Chapter 20

Group chat—Louise Beaumont, Akila Osei, Khajee Suwan, Aadhya Banerjee, 2:44 P.M.

Aadhya: I think Kaalia forgot about you guys visiting #youvebeenreplaced

Aadhya: oh and update we’re searching for my grandma’s long lost lover. any chance you guys have the skills to help?

Akila: Stop rubbing it in.

Akila: And give me details. I’ll do what I can

***

It took me about thirty minutes of talking to an extremely enthusiastic Uncle Ravi (one of three uncles Aadhya and I had tracked down so far from niche Keralite Facebook groups, who claimed to know a Kimaya Reddy). At which point, I realized he had no idea who Kimaya was and was instead trying to arrange a marriage for his son and me.

It took me another ten minutes after that to hang up—just before I said bye, he would launch into another TED-talk-worthy speech about his son working through medical school to become a neurosurgeon, or being offered a 400K salary to be an engineer straight out of high school, or climbing a 500-feet-tall burning oak tree to save a bushel full of newborn kittens from their imminent peril. 

The second uncle sent me a fifty-two-minute-long voice note in an unfamiliar dialect neither Aadhya, me, Priya, the maids, or random people from town walking past us could recognize.

The third uncle seemed promising. He was from a relatively nearby village, so it was likely Kimaya could have ended up there. He described her green eyes, black hair, and “luscious coat.” It turned out the Kimaya in question was a cat. Though, after discussing with Aadhya, we did agree it was an odd coincidence for Kimaya the cat to bear such a likeness to Kimaya the woman.

After Roman put the phone down for the fortieth time that day, silently shaking her head no, another investigator said the grounds to find her were impossible, I started to wonder if Kimaya the woman had died and reincarnated as Kimaya the cat. 

But we had only been looking for a few days. It was way too early to give up hope. And, more than that, I had a growing feeling of certainty that the story of Priya and Kimaya remained unfinished. Despite every dead end, and every loose end leading to a dead end, I couldn’t shake the building resolve in my stomach that we were on the verge of something. 

Or maybe that something was me falling completely and utterly in love with Roman. 

She had started bringing me chai in the morning and afternoon without being asked. She had even started bringing me her speech notes for the lawsuit, right down to the brainstorming chart on her iPad with rage-filled scribbling. I edited her notes without her asking and she thanked me by arguing with me, bickering endlessly, until one of us burst into laughter over something that had completely become a non-issue, like whether the colour blue or red made you remember something better.

Reading Priya’s poetry took a backseat, but I didn’t stop altogether. Roman, miraculously, told me to “take things easy,” by which she meant I should spend about half as much time as before doing work. The other half, when we weren’t trying to find Priya’s long-lost-lesbian-lover, we spent together. 

“You sure you don’t want to leave me for Amar?” Roman joked as we walked alongside the shoreline for a cigarette break. The afternoon sun had ripened to the colour of mangoes.

“Who? Oh.” Uncle Ravi’s genius, heroic, doctor-engineer-cat-rescuing son. “Right. Yeah. That’s the one. My soulmate, probably.” 

Roman passed me her cigarette. The ocean swished beside us. Her expression turned thoughtful. 

“Do you believe in soulmates?” 

I shrugged and looked away. It hurt to look at her, sometimes. She was so inescapably beautiful. Even from the corner of my eye, the slight smirk on her full lips and the flecks of sand on her cheeks, blending in among her freckles, made my heart wrench.

It had been bad enough seeing her in an office setting. But here, in Kerala, where the sun endlessly dripped golden light like divine rain and the weather was too hot to keep most of your clothes on, and the wind and the sea and the sand peeled back all the other corporate niceties America favoured, Roman was worse. Worse in the sense that I got to see her outside of New York’s capitalist charade. So much worse because she was slowly loosening her grip on the Google calendar, relaxing her control-freak-ness, and what lay underneath that—behind the stress and the work and the machine-grinding churn of an industrial lifestyle—was even more radiant. Viscerally beautiful. 

It didn’t help that she had had her braids taken out the other day and styled her dark hair with short, shiny, finger coils. They licked at the nape of her neck and bounced with every step. So mesmerizingly feminine. I thanked the universe that she was too short to end up as a model, or she would have been a household name and I never would have had the opportunity to meet her. And meeting her had felt like . . . meeting her had been . . . 

I didn’t know if soulmates were real. I didn’t even know if souls were real. But Roman gave me reason enough to believe in both. 

“Yes,” I told her. I took a long drag of the cigarette for strength and forced myself not to cough.

She glanced at me sideways. “I’m surprised. I don’t know why. But I should have expected that, probably, considering your work.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Soulmates seem so . . . I don’t know, fantastical. Some wishful imaginary dream conjured up when you’re feeling lonely.” 

“Are you saying my work feels lonely?” 

“No.” Roman looked down. “No. That’s not—” She coughed. Smoke rose from her parted lips. “I meant to say your work feels like a dream.” 

“Well, what kind of dream?” I pressed. “A nightmare?” 

“No. No, maybe the idea of a dream, I mean, or maybe the memory of one. How it feels so real, it becomes unreal. That hazy boundary between reality and the imaginary, where beautiful, fantastical things live and die. That is what your work feels like.” 

I lost the ability to speak. For a few moments, we walked in silence, traipsing through the sand in our bare feet. Aadhya had gifted us several chilanka each—anklets with small bells that sang with each step. Combined with the clinking of our own necklaces, bracelets, and earrings (which had only grown in number thanks to the numerous market vendors and their collection of golden masterpieces that, other than that first necklace set, were in my price range), Roman and I created our own veritable symphony. 

“Do you believe in soulmates?” I asked finally. “Though, from that answer, I guess probably not.”

Roman huffed a laugh. “Maybe I’ve just had bad luck in the dating department. Nothing seems to stick. Or I have terrible taste, considering my geneticist ex who loves eugenics. You pick.” 

“That’s not a real answer. You only get one soulmate. Maybe you just haven’t found yours yet.” 

Or maybe I’m right here, the crazy in me said, foaming at the mouth with rabies and various other diseases, while the ghost of Jazmine said I told you so—she’ll never love you like she loves her work, just like the others.

Roman sighed. One last wisp of cigarette smoke curled in the air. 

“Okay, maybe deep down. A little bit. I don’t know if I really believe in it, or if I just hope it’s true. That there’s somebody who is yours, and you’re theirs, and it’s forever.”

“Have you ever wanted to get married?” 

“Of course. Even if I don’t believe in soulmates, I’m still a lesbian. I want a wife, and maybe kids and pets, and a cozy home I can come back to every night, while we burn down this evil capitalist world and rebuild it for good.”

The thought of Roman living out that dream with somebody who was not me filled me with so much seething, unbearable rage I felt in that moment I could turn into a serial killer, or maybe a kidnapper. I pictured myself laughing villainously with Roman tied up in my basement, her screaming muffled with a gag, saying, “If I can’t have you, nobody can!” 

“Me too,” I said.

I reminded myself I didn’t have the right to care who Roman ended up with. What happens in Kerala stays in Kerala. Hadn’t I been the one to say that? 

“Do you? Want to get married, that is?” 

I rolled my eyes. “I’m a lesbian, too, aren’t I?” 

Roman swatted my shoulder. “So paint me a picture. What does your dream life look like? Your ideal woman? Your soulmate?” 

“Well, it would involve living somewhere warm. But the warm place has to either be Puerto Rico or Sri Lanka to stay close to my family—no, definitely Sri Lanka. I’d prefer that over the United States any day.” We both started laughing. “I’m fucking sick of America. Then, I’d probably want a house by the sea. And don’t forget money. I want so much money that I can fly back to Puerto Rico whenever I want. Okay, besides that. A house by the sea.” 

“A house by the sea,” Roman repeated, grinning. 

“Like this one. This is perfect.” 

“Well, I’m sure you could always visit Aadhya. She’s taken quite a liking to you.” 

If only she knew about her plan for us. “Yeah, she definitely has. She likes you a lot, too. We could visit together.” It pained me to say that—to imply we would be meeting up, because we wouldn’t be together. “I’d have cats, too. Maybe a dog. And kids. I think one or two. And I’d want mosaic windows—you know that colourful glass? I’d want that and orange curtains, so no matter the weather or the time of day, my home looks caught in a sunset. Oh, and a library. Nobody has a library in their home anymore. I’ve craved a library with one of those spinny ladders like in Beauty and the Beast since forever.” 

“A library. So typical of an English major.” 

“Don’t talk. You’re literally the CEO of a book publishing company. I think it’s safe to say you rank higher on the nerd chart.” 

“Only because I’ve had more time. You’d be right where I am now if you were my age.” 

“Hardly. I don’t want to be in charge of a company alone, even a book publishing one. I’d rather just be reading work from people like Priya and editing and writing my own poetry.” 

“What if you didn’t do it alone? What if you were my partner?” Roman teased.

Hearing the words my partner used in reference to me short-circuited my brain.

“I’d love to be your partner,” I said without thinking. My cheeks flared with warmth. “I mean, I’d do anything for you. Um. I mean, I’d do anything with you.” Why did it keep getting worse? “Um, I mean, I’m not crazy. I would consider it. In a joking way. Because you were obviously joking.” 

Roman raised her eyebrows. “Thank you?” 

When I realized she was teasing me, again, I hit her arm. She rubbed the spot with an expression of mock hurt. 

“As for my ideal woman, my soulmate . . .” If I described Roman to herself, I would sound like her soon-to-be fifth stalker. Instead, I rattled off things I’d brainstormed as a young girl imagining her future love: “She’d be wickedly smart. And athletic, to make up for how weak I am—and also so I could watch her do athletic things and drool. She’d make me laugh every night.” I counted a fourth finger, then a fifth: “And she’d love me more than anything in the world. Oh, and she’d spoon me every night without complaining. And, it goes without saying, but she’d be really pretty.” I’d lost track. “The prettiest girl in the world, preferably.” 

“Have you found her yet? The prettiest girl in the world?”

“You first,” I shot back. “What is your soulmate like?”

Roman opened her mouth to respond, but I heard a high-pitched cry from behind us. At first, I thought it was a bird. Then the cry got louder and more distinct: “Kaalia! Roman!” 

We both spun around. 

Aadhya flew toward us, arms flapping in her effort to sprint. A minute after she finally reached us, panting, breathless, and hunched over with her hands on her knees, she straightened and gasped, “I think I found her.” 

It could be no one but Kimaya. 

“How? When? Where is she?” 

“I went through all the networks I could possibly think of. I even asked my old elementary school teacher if she knew someone who knew someone. Besides the point. It was the fisherman. I never spoke to him before, but I asked him two days ago. Apparently, his cousin’s aunt’s dead husband’s daughter’s cousin-in-law knows someone who fits the description. She’s in a village much farther than we thought. And she goes by a different name now. Kimaya Mazha.” As if to herself, she added, “I told Dadi I could find her much better than a man. Vansh.” She shook her head. “So useless.”  

“How do you know it’s her?” Roman and I spoke at the same time. Without realizing, we had started gripping each other’s hands, fingers interlinked so tightly the blood left our skin pale. Well, relatively.

“We don’t,” Aadhya admitted. “But I’m sure. She’s the same age as Dadi and she never married. And she teaches young schoolgirls how to speak English on a pay-what-you-can basis. Doesn’t that sound exactly like someone who could be Priya’s soulmate?” 

I knew the coincidence of Aadhya using the word soulmate escaped neither of us, so soon after we had discussed it.

“I agree,” I said before Roman could speak. “It could be her. But we have to be sure. Can you talk to her over the phone?”

Aadhya shook her head. “She doesn’t have a phone. The fisherman’s cousin’s aunt’s—whatever, you know what I mean. He said she didn’t like talking to strangers over the phone and needed to see them. So I’m going.” 

“What do you mean, you’re going?” 

“I’m going. I leave tomorrow.” 

“But what about—”

“I’ll take my cousin with me. It’s the least Vansh could do for being so gods-damned useless.” 

“We can come too—” Roman interjected.

“No. I’ll be gone for a week. It’ll take a few days to get to Thekkady and a few days to get back. This works out perfectly.” 

“With what?”

Aadhya had a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Yeah, with what?” I repeated.

She shrugged, still breathless, and threw her arms around us, squealing and jumping up and down over Priya and Kimaya’s possible reunion. But before she drew back, she leaned close to my ear, so Roman couldn’t hear, and whispered, “I’m giving Operation You and Roman to new management.” 

Before I could question who the hell the new management was, Aadhya ran away. 

Roman and I followed her. The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of watching Aadhya pack and working on Priya’s poetry. Roman handled a few calls—one from the Head Editor at Cambridge Press (inquiring about joint-publishing a book with Bloom), one from a high-profile lawyer (he said the witness had changed her mind again and agreed to testify in court), and the other from Layli (on launching a new YA book series and marketing it to the right audience). 

Perched within my usual spot in the study, Priya reading a mystery book beside me, I found myself daydreaming in Roman’s direction far more often than normal.

A fact that Priya did not neglect to remind me: “You’re staring at her again.” 

“I’m editing.” 

“You’ve been editing the same sentence for twenty minutes.” 

“It’s a very long sentence.” It was four words.

“You’re hopeless.” 

I know, I thought. “Do you approve of Aadhya going out to find Kimaya?” 

“Hardly.” Priya snorted. “But I don’t tell her what to do. She decides, and I either agree or disagree.” 

“So which is it? Agree or disagree?” 

Priya closed her book and stood. Her wrinkled hands trembled, pressed flat to the cover. After a long pause, she sighed. 

“I don’t know. I almost think . . . I wonder if I am so selfish that, for a moment, I found myself relieved you could not find her. Kimaya. For just a moment, a second, I hoped she had passed away, after all. So I would not have to bear it if I found her and she looked at me like a stranger. Like she looked at me all those years ago.” The confession fell from her lips, heavy with shame. Her chest caving in, as if something large had been removed, yanked away from her heart.

She pinned me to the spot with the full force of her stare and added, “Or worse, that she had forgotten about me.” Her hands shook so hard on the desk that my mug, still half-full, spattered lukewarm tea onto my notes. “Not that she had one of those—those diseases. Alzheimer’s. Or dementia. But since we loved each other so long ago, she forgot about me. She moved on. She doesn’t . . . care anymore.” 

“I really doubt that the kind of love that drives a woman to write letters for sixty-four years is the kind anyone could have forgotten about.” 

“You are too young, Kaalia. You’ll see, when you are—”

“I’m tired of hearing I’m too young. What if I’m right? What if me, Aadhya, and Roman are all right? What if there is a happy ending for you?” 

“What if Kimaya doesn’t want to be found?” She said the word Kimaya like she said Saraswati or Lakshmi or Kali. Reverently. Religiously. “What if she refuses to see me?”

“Then she’s missing out.” 

“On what? The village grouch?”

“No. A kind, brilliant woman who never stopped loving her.”

“Kind?” Priya scoffed.

“Well . . . deep down.” 

I started laughing at the expression on her face. Her lips trembled. She pressed them together. Then she gave in, and we were both laughing, almost crying.

“Like really deep down. But it’s there. You are kind. You’re kind to the people you love. Isn’t that what counts?” 

Priya scoffed again. “I can count on one hand the number of people I love.”

“Then I’m sure even you have enough kindness for all of them.” 

“Have I mentioned you’re hopeless?” 

“Maybe once or twice.” 

“I think,” Priya said, pushing the chair back, “I could grow to love you, too. I suppose then I’ll have enough people I love to count on one full hand.” 

“Well, why stop there?” I teased. “You have another hand.” 

Priya sighed and walked away without looking back, her long braid swinging back and forth over the back of her gold-trimmed orange saree. “Let’s not push it, shall we, chellakutty?” she said over her shoulder. “It’s dinner time. And I have more kindness after I eat.” 

***

I’m so excited for what’s in store… big things, you guys, big things. 

Also I NEED everyone to manifest for me that I get this job for a publishing company. I have an interview on Wednesday and I want to work there so so so bad!!! I’m going to hold Kaalia and Roman hostage if you don’t pray for me as hard as you can. I need your collective strength <3 

Love,
Meera