Sanjukta Das

 
Tara and her grandmother resided in the coastal village of Navipur, situated very close to a lively creek. Tara’s father harboured the desire to transform their ancestral property into an Airbnb, inspired by the flourishing trend of bed and breakfast businesses in India. He chose to name it “Tara Lodge” in honour of his only daughter, Tara.  

At the time, Tara was in her mid-thirties, while her octogenarian grandmother, with a penchant for styling her short grey-cropped hair, took pleasure in personally welcoming and interacting with the lodge’s visitors. 

Tara found herself compelled to relocate to Navipur after tragically losing both her parents in a cruel car accident. Mr. and Mrs. Singh had been returning home from a card party in Lucknow, accompanied by Rana, their drunken driver. Rana, growing impatient while waiting for his Saab and Memsaab, plunged into the festive spirit of Diwali during that time and forgot all about his liquor intake. 

A year later, Tara disembarked from the train in Navipur, determined to pursue her father’s dream. The ancestral property had undergone significant improvements – new shutters adorned every window, wicker chairs were refurbished, and the bedrooms boasted floral-printed bed sheets. A lavish money plant in a brass urn now graced each room, positioned strategically next to the mirror beside a lamp shade from Khadi India. 

Accompanied by her paternal grandmother, they decided to stay in the property to lend support to one another. Demonstrating her artistic flair, Tara adorned each room with colorful paintings by renowned modern Indian artists. These paintings, originally intended for her future apartment in Mumbai, were cherished dreams from her past. Choosing handmade pottery over the plain white cups and saucers purchased by her mother for serving guests, Tara infused her artistic spirit into every aspect of the lodge. 

Tara cherished her office room, adorned with fresh flowers in a terracotta urn, regularly changed by her Dadi ma, her grandmother. Her personal computer graced an ancestral table, becoming the focal point of her attention after her morning jog. These days, Tara found herself glued to the screen, diligently working on the redesign of the Tara Lodge website as suggested by her digital marketer to attract more visitors. 

It was a sunny Sunday morning, a jeep drove in and a photographer, equipped with numerous lenses and a camera bag, arrived to stay as a guest at Tara Lodge. While signing in, he casually mentioned to the senior Mrs. Singh, “My wife will be joining me in a few days.” Instantly recognizing the voice, Tara ran to the window to see if her guess was right. “Is this true? What are the odds that Abhi would choose this place for his photography destination?” thought Tara, confused and overwhelmed, returning to her screen, trying to figure out what her reaction should be. 

Three evenings later, in a small coastal town, Tara’s heart raced as she locked eyes with a man who was no longer hers. The gushing creek seemed to hush the whispers of confusion, tempting her to break free from the confines of her life at “Tara Lodge.” Aware that he had been married for the past five years, she still found herself on a moonlit pebbled path that fateful evening, hand in hand with him, fueled by desire and curiosity. 

As the shimmering water of the creek flowed with vigour and enthusiasm, creating passionate cascades over rocks and pebbles, crashing and falling, they dared to delve into conversations about their lives once again. At that moment, under the moonlight, they kissed with a familiar passion reminiscent of their Art College days. It was a forbidden path leading them into the unknown. Their stolen moments ignited a passion that defied reason, and they clung to each other as the world they knew began to crumble. 

It was still dark, before dawn, Grandmother Singh dispatched Ramu with a lantern and a feeble torch, calling out, “Tara Didiiiii! Come back home. Dadima is very worried!” 

Reality swiftly caught up with them, laying bare the painful complexities of their choice. The affair, which initially held the allure of freedom, had ensnared them in a web of heartache. They began to question whether the thrill of walking on the pebbled path leading to the creek was truly worth the price they had to pay. 

Four days later, Tara warmly greeted Nisha, Abhi’s wife, with a tight hug. 

The next few days unfolded with the poignant spectacle of Nisha and Abhi venturing out together for photography every morning after breakfast, followed by evenings spent playing board games. Tara, amidst her many mistakes, felt the weight of Nisha’s discerning gaze, silently conveying, “She is smarter than this, I thought.” 

As the final morning arrived, Nisha and Abhi prepared to embark on their last photo shoot. Tara emerged from her office to bid them farewell, clad in a handloom material top paired with jeans. Alone on the portico, Abhi waited for Nisha, who hurried back to their room to retrieve her Fitbit watch. Observing Tara, Abhi remarked, “Wow, you still have this top? You look the same! What was the name of that village where those women ran the handloom yarn centre?” 

“Bassipur,” Tara responded. 

In a heartbeat, the realization dawned upon both of them that a third person had been privy to the question and its response.  

Nisha, having come back to secure the room key from her backpack on the cane reclining chair on the verandah, stood frozen. 

The trio locked eyes, and an oppressive silence descended, so deafening that even the roar of the gushing creek became audible in the background. 

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