Goddess for Hire (12 page)

AUNT DIMPLE
and Uncle Pradeep lived in Anaheim Hills.

Once, when I was a kid, I made the mistake of referring to the area as just Anaheim in front of my aunt. A long lecture ensued on the difference between The Hills and the rest of the city.

I couldn't understand what the big deal was. So what if she lived in Anaheim Hills? It was still north Orange County, and everyone knew south county, where we lived, was better.

Even though it was Sunday, it still took me thirty-five minutes to get to her house. In Southern California, social conversation revolved around—not politics and the weather—but freeway changes, driving times, and traffic patterns. Whoever had to change the most freeways in order to get to a place won.

Homes in Anaheim Hills were mansionlike, and the neighborhoods had an attractive woodsy feel.

But I'd never move there.

I needed to be within walking distance of the beach.

I drove up a long windy driveway that diverged at the top. On the right was my aunt's house. I parked behind my mom's silver Mercedes, then rang the doorbell.

I knew what this was about.

Tahir had moved out, and it didn't take a nifty third eye to see that nothing had happened between us—our earlier lip lock notwithstanding.

Aunt Dimple opened the door and instead of her usual exuberant hug, she wore a very familiar pinched expression.

Apparently it was contagious.

“We've been expecting you,” she said.

I stepped into the hall. The door shut behind me with a dull hollow thud.

I wondered if I'd ever see daylight again.

 

I was sitting in the middle of a cream-colored sofa.

Across from me on an identical piece of furniture, were my mom and aunt. Between us was a glass-and-teakwood coffee table Aunt Dimple had purchased on her last trip to India. The same trip where she acquired a husband for yours truly.

After shooting me a fatherly look of disapproval and murmuring something about potential, my dad left the room, a copy of
Investor's Business Daily
tucked under his arm and a cup of tea in his hand.

No one offered me any tea.

I needed to think of something, anything, to distract
my mom and aunt from their appointed topic. My gaze alighted on a new throw rug.

Aunt Dimple had a passion for redecorating. The house was done up on a monthly basis. Since her children were married with homes of their own, and Uncle Pradeep was fairly easygoing unless you brought up proctology, there was no one to complain about the constant upheaval.

Currently the decorating theme was Indian, hence the coffee table. Now that Indian culture was trendy again—even among actual Indians—consumers were rushing about in a state of monsoon madness, demanding anything and everything Indian. There was a bronze Ganesh on the mantel above the fireplace, heaps of embroidered cushions covered in mirror work, sandalwood boxes, incense holders, and carpets galore.

With the exception of the coffee table, I was betting everything was from Pier 1 Imports.

“Hey,” I said with forced interest, “is the throw rug new?”

The pinched expression vanished from my aunt's face and was instantly replaced with her familiar cherubic smile. “I just bought it yesterday. The matching pillows are still upstairs. I'll get—” She stopped at my mom's look.

My cunning plan for distraction had failed.

“Now, Maya, tell us exactly what's going on between you and Tahir,” my mom commanded.

I was so tempted to lie.

In fact, it would be easy to blame it all on Tahir. Pretend to be hurt over his indifference and all that gut-wrenching stuff. But there were two things wrong with that idea. One, it would get back to Tahir, and his gloating would transport me to the seventh realm of Hell, and two, I had to act like an adult occasionally. I would tell the truth.

But not about the goddess thing.

“We're not interested in each other,” I began. What I wanted to do with his supple and taut body had no bearing on this conversation. “How could we be? You don't bring two strangers together and expect them to like each other instantly.”

My aunt's face took on a baffled expression. “What strangers? Which strangers? I've met his parents. I've seen his astrological chart. You two are a perfect match!”

“But that's just it. How can we be a perfect match when we don't even know each other?”

“You didn't take the time to know him,” my mom argued. “Leaving him alone in the restaurant. Running away from the party Gayatri gave especially for you—” A gasp from my aunt made her stop.

Aunt Dimple's hand was clamped to her mouth. Her eyes were filled with hurt. Slowly she lowered her hand. “I knew none of this! Maya, how could you? Do you know how hard I worked to make Tahir's mother agree to this match? Do you know what I did? I—I
lied
!”

“About what?” I asked.

“I told her you were twenty-five.”

“But Tahir knows how old I am. I told him.”

Hand pressed to her forehead, Aunt Dimple fell back against the cushions. “All hope is now lost.”

My mom ignored her sister-in-law's theatrics. “Can you at least appreciate how worried your father and I are about you?” My dad strolled into the room, grabbed the plate of cookies, and left. “You won't get married. You spend all your time shopping, going to the salon, and doing God knows what.”

I opened my mouth to tell her about my new and exciting career, and stopped. Her worry would surely be exacerbated after discovering the fate of the world was in my hands. Not to mention the fact there was a fanatic out there trying on a regular basis to obliterate me.

Besides, I didn't need her criticizing my malevolence-fighting techniques.

“Mom, please understand that I'm not against marriage. If a great guy comes along, I'm not going to turn him away, but neither am I going to rush into something I'm not ready for. I don't feel like there's this biological clock ticking away or anything.”

“Let's call Gayatri,” my aunt said from the depths of the cushions.

“I already know the ovaries deal,” I said quickly. “But I'm not going to live my life by reproductive ability alone. And I'm not going to agree to a marriage for marriage's sake. What about shakti? What about female power?”

My mom and aunt stared back at me. They obviously weren't feeling the shakti.

“If you wait too long, all you'll have left to choose from are widowers and divorcées,” Aunt Dimple pointed out helpfully.

Ganesh, get me out of here!

My mom sighed. “We're at a loss, Maya. Your father and I have decided to give you thirty days to prove you're serious about your life. Or”—she shook her head sadly—“you're out of the house.”

Aunt Dimple finally sat up. “Don't worry, you can stay with me.”

My mom glared at her. “No! This is her chance to prove I did not raise a lazy good-for-nothing.”

Great. Just great. I should never have let her buy that dumb Dr. Phil book.

Aunt Dimple winked at me, using half her face. “I could use a receptionist at the office. The pay is excellent.”

“Absolutely not,” my mom said. “There will be no help from the family. Maya must try on her own.”

There she sat. Knees together. Hands folded in her lap. Lips pressed into a straight line.

Instead of a coffee table, I felt like a chasm separated us. Somehow I needed to bridge that emotional divide.

Aunt Dimple caught my eye and smiled hopefully. “How about some tea?”

Too little caffeine.

Too late.

MY PARENTS OPTED
to have dinner at Aunt Dimple's.

I opted to drive away like a bat out of hell.

Then I opted for In & Out.

Sitting alone at the kitchen table, staring at a french fry, I pondered my possibilities.

I'd never planned for anything in my life, preferring to coast along and deal with things as they came. I'd never had any ambitions or dreams.

I wasn't like my brother Samir, who would cuddle up between my parents on the sofa to watch open-heart surgery on the Discovery Channel. There was never any question he would be a doctor.

Big surprise, we weren't the closest of siblings.

I felt lost and confused. I felt as though I'd made a mess of my life. I wished I'd studied harder so I could have gone to Harvard or bicycled through Cambridge.

You know, interesting shit like that.

Now I was supposed to look for a career, prove to my parents I could take care of myself, and all in thirty days?

Between sleeping and fighting evil, I had like two or three hours a day free.

I still couldn't believe my parents were kicking me out. There was nothing I could do for now but go along and hope something would happen in the next thirty days to make them change their minds—something other than my unnatural and painful death of course.

If not, I'd just move in with Ram and Sanjay. They were the ones who got me into this mess.

I wasn't even going to entertain the idea of asking Tahir if he needed a roomie—regardless of how rich with enticing possibilities that scenario might prove to be.

It was dark outside, and my fries were cold.

Was that a killer beginning to a depressing novel or what?

 

That night I woke up shivering.

Somehow I'd kicked off all the covers. Then I remembered the dream. I was in an advanced kickboxing class. Only instead of a punching bag, I was practicing on Nadia.

Reaching for the comforter, I heard the sound of the television. I peered at the digital alarm clock—3:00
A.M
.

Slipping into my robe, I went downstairs. My mom was curled up on the couch watching CNN.

She looked tired. She looked older than her age. I felt my throat tightening.

She was awake because of me.

“Mom?” I said softly, walking toward her.

She didn't answer.

I moved closer and laid a hand on her shoulder. “I'm sorry, Mom…about Tahir. Please don't worry.” I struggled to think of the right words to put her at ease. “I'm going to make some changes. Not just because of what we talked about earlier…I've been looking at my life lately and believe me, I've been seeing things in a whole new light. Just don't worry, okay?”

She didn't turn around. “Go to sleep, Maya. It's late.”

I removed my hand and stepped back.

She didn't believe me.

I felt my heart drop.

The Asha Patels of the world could take control of their lives, but not the Maya Mehras. Women like me had only one hope, marriage. We weren't smart enough or strong enough to make it on our own.

I could see where she was coming from. My parents were getting older. She was afraid. Afraid of what would happen to me after they were gone. Who would take care of me? In her heart she truly felt I could not take care of myself.

I understood it. But her lack of faith hurt.

Hurt me in ways malevolence never could.

I didn't know what to say. I didn't know how to convince her.

Then, silent and weightless, Ram's words floated to the surface of my mind.
Kali is bound with the terrifying, and she is unafraid
.

Kali was part of me, too.

It was time to face my biggest fear.

It was time to grow up.

I would show my parents. I would show myself.

Can you imagine Maya Mehra doing that?

Damn straight!

Quietly, I left the room.

NOW I'VE SEEN ENOUGH
horror movies to know not to enter an abandoned warehouse alone and at night.

But I wasn't some screaming bimbo with clothes torn in all the right places. I was the goddess.

Still…

This smelled fishy. But that could be due to the close proximity of the Long Beach docks.

The rusted sign hanging above the entrance read:
BROWNFIELD
&
COMPANY
. I wondered what happened to old Brownfield. Located conveniently next to the port and freeway, and away from residential areas, abandoned warehouses like this one had once provided a service.

Personally, I thought the area had potential. Convert the derelict buildings into a series of trendy lofts. With the fabulous ocean view, they'd fetch quite a price. Of course there was the dead fish smell, but that could be handled by gearing the place toward stuffy-nosed allergy sufferers.

Oh well, it wasn't like some real estate development committee was hanging on my every word.

I turned my attention back to the door. The perps were inside, and I was spoiling for a fight.

Another Saturday night sans plans—of the social variety—had put me in a grumpy mood. The fact that I had sent my résumé out to companies all across the board with no response hadn't helped either. Apparently a BA in anthropology and no work experience didn't exactly open any doors.

I called the Goddess Within, waited for the lightning, then kicked the door down.

And Tahir thought I needed to go to the gym?

Two guys—one white, one black—whirled to face me, guns outstretched.

Maybe next time I should try stealth.

My divine instincts kicked in, and I dived to the floor just as they fired.

Guns. Why did it always have to be guns?

The NRA was seriously making my job harder than it had to be.

I was already irritated, and the fluorescent lighting was doing nothing for my complexion.

From my position on the floor, I thrust up with the sword and swung at the guns, knocking them out of their hands.

Then I had another idea.

In the two weeks since the Kathak concert, I'd become quite adept at handling the sword. The more I used it, the more it seemed like an extension of my arm.

I sliced out again, in a move straight out of
Zorro
.

Their pants dropped, tangled up with their feet, and they simultaneously tripped and fell.

Hmm, so they both preferred boxers.

I tied them up, back to back, with some rope I found in the warehouse. Seated on the floor, the black guy and the white guy stared up at me with extreme dislike.

Ebony and Ivory live together in perfect malevolency…

I used one of their cell phones to call the police.

While I waited for the sound of sirens, I examined the contents of the dozens of boxes stacked everywhere. I still had no idea why I'd followed these guys all the way from Newport to Long Beach.

The boxes were filled with guns.

Of course.

Speaking of firearms, I decided to dump theirs into the harbor. Not exactly an environmentally friendly plan but efficient. As I leaned over to scoop up his gun from the floor, the white guy snarled in my face. “Fucking camel jockey.”

How original.

“Technically that slur would apply to Bedouins since only about half a percent of Indians actually travel by camel,” I pointed out.

They both stared at me blankly.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Finally! I was so ready to be gone.

 

Back in the car, I realized my cell phone had been turned off all day. I switched it on.

Not one call.

Okay, I hadn't expected any calls from home. Ever since the ultimatum at Aunt Dimple's, my mom wasn't exactly speaking to me.

I scrolled down my list of numbers. Tahir's name popped up.

He'd called once, since moving out, wanting to know if there was a Neiman Marcus in Santa Monica. Before I could inform him the closest was in Beverly Hills, he received another call and put me on hold.

After three minutes I hung up.

But saved his number.

Instead of examining my motives behind that decision, I scrolled up to Ram. I'd left him numerous messages, but he hadn't called me back in days. Instead of feeling worried about the old man, I was irritated. The last time we'd spoken Ram had been in the middle of his current favorite TV show,
The Sopranos
. Apparently the fate of the world could wait, and he asked me to call back.

The pundit had a penchant for prime time.

Screw that! I needed to talk. I felt like I was operating in a vacuum. I had no feedback. No way of knowing whether I was doing a good job or not. Wondering if what I was doing had any relevance in the long term.

I dialed Ram.

After five rings Sanjay's voice came on the machine.
This time I was going to speak my mind. I didn't care who overheard. If Sanjay was entertaining Maury Povich at the moment, that was his goddamn problem.

“Hi, Ram, this is Maya. The goddess, remember? I want to know how stopping all these individual crimes is supposed to save the world from destruction? I don't see the pattern.” I paused. “Oh yeah, and the Kali-hating fanatic seems to have gone underground. No attempts to murder me in a week.
Ciao
.” I hung up and sat back.

Apparently, even my archenemy had plans on a Saturday night.

Along with the rest of the world.

Lately I'd been engaging in a lot of serious soul-searching and basic internal delving. I'd been examining those issues in my life that were holding me back. Issues that kept me from having fulfilling relationships with men, women, my family, God, animals, and the Starbucks employees I saw every morning.

You know, meditating on my misconceptions.

Maybe I'd spend the rest of the night doing some more of that?

Nah.

I'd rather feel sorry for myself.

Here I was saving the world, and no one cared. There was only one thing to do at a time like this.

Drink.

After all, what went better with self-pity than alcohol?