Goddess for Hire (2 page)

“OH, I CAN'T WAIT
to tell you!” My undimpled aunt gazed up at me beaming. “I've found you a boy.”

I felt hysterical laughter bubbling up inside me. “A boy? Do I look like a Catholic priest?” I giggled.

No one joined in.

Aunt Dimple grabbed my hand and pulled me over to the sofa. “His name is Tahir, he's thirty-one and comes from one of the best families in Delhi.”

“Why do they always come from the best families?” I pointed out. “Do the worst families have trouble hooking up? Do Indian parents ever come home to their kid and say, we found you someone from one of the worst families, there's insanity on the mother's side and inbreeding on the father's.”

The silence was deafening.

My mom sat down on the other side, effectively barricading me in a matrimonial-minded sandwich. My dad plopped down in the recliner and turned on the
Nightly Business Report,
his parental duties done for the day.

I grabbed an embroidered sofa cushion and thought about smothering myself, but with three doctors in the room I'd be resuscitated before you could say “Om.”

Now it's not as though I'm vehemently opposed to testosterone; like every other heterosexual single woman straddling thirty I was on the lookout for a man, and I wasn't asking for much. Just a man who respected me, fucked like a stallion, and still paid for dinner.

Not some Indian guy who saw me as his fast track to a green card.

Most Indian parents are Amish-strict about dating, but in a hurry to get you married. My mom didn't let me date until I was seventeen. My aunt Gayatri, the gynecologist, was even stricter. However that didn't stop her from happily discussing masturbation at the dinner table, and the best sexual positions for conceiving a son.

Aunt Dimple pulled a large manila envelope from her bag. “I have his picture and his bio data.”

“Hey, why don't we put our heads together and find a cure for poverty in India?” I volunteered. “Now would be a great time—”

“I know I had his picture,” Aunt Dimple interrupted, frowning into her bag.

“Just give her his bio data,” my mom said. I glared at her. She stared back at me without blinking.

I grabbed the single sheet of paper from my aunt. “What, only one page?” I said sarcastically. Tahir's bio data listed his height, weight, education, ancestry, and favorite food…Chinese. “But what kind of person is he?”

“He's a nice boy,” Aunt Dimple said. “I haven't actually met him, but his mother and I lunched at McDonald's. She's a very nice lady. We ate the most delicious Maharajah Macs. I think McDonald's tastes better in India, don't you? It's a status thing there, not like here.”

Oh God, an Indian mother-in-law! I recalled the number of bride burnings in India where mothers-in-law shoved their new daughters-in-law into the oven after dutifully collecting their dowries. Would I find myself roasting nicely at 365 degrees?

I smiled with artificial brightness and started to rise. “I'm not interested, but thanks for thinking of me—”

“It's time you became an adult, Maya,” my mom interrupted sternly. “When I was your age I was married, I had a child, and I was doing my residency at UCLA. You need some direction in your life.”

“And marriage will give me that? Seriously, Mom, we're not living in the 1950s.”

“In the 1950s you would've been a grandmother at your age,” my aunt jumped in.

There was no point arguing with them. I slumped back against the sofa. Maybe Tahir would find me un-marriageable?

I quickly discarded that thought. I was gorgeous, possessed superb taste, and could make conversation at any cocktail party.

Really, there was only one solution to my problem.

I smiled and sat up. “So when do Tahir and I meet?”

My mom stared at me suspiciously, but my aunt re
laxed and returned the smile. “His flight will be arriving tomorrow evening at LAX. I thought maybe the next day he could come for dinner?”

“Why don't I go and pick him up? It'll give us a chance to talk,” I proposed innocently.

“Excellent.” Aunt Dimple patted my cheek. “I know the two of you will hit it off. And I did have an extensive wart removal scheduled with a regular patient, so I was cutting it close. I would have asked your uncle, but he's performing an operation on this enormous hernia. Apparently it resembles Mickey Mouse's head and…”

I tuned out as my mom and aunt chatted on about the adventures of my uncle Pradeep, the proctologist.

Tomorrow morning I'd pick up Mr. Tahir at the airport and tell him, in no uncertain terms, he could get right back on the plane to Delhi.

HIS FLIGHT
was late.

I'd been stuck at LAX for over two hours. I toyed with the idea of going home, but the opportunity to talk to Tahir without my family as audience was too important to pass up. If need be, I'd spend the night curled up on one of the less than ergonomic airport seats.

I didn't have to perform such a sacrifice though; the flight finally arrived just three hours behind schedule. That's what happens when you fly Air India. Well that and spending twenty-three hours in a cabin that smells like curry. I prefer Lufthansa, efficient, clean, and they hand out Toblerone chocolates.

I lazily held out the small sign inscribed with Tahir's name, since I had no clue what he looked like, and waited with a flock of people as passengers passed wearily out of customs.

Personally I wouldn't set foot in India without a suitcase filled with antibacterial lotion. Last year my family went, along with our neighbors, the Marshalls. Why so
many white people insist on dipping their toes in the Ganges is beyond me. So what if a dunk in the river erases all your bad karma? Dead people are cremated there. The Indian government had to introduce a breed of scavenger turtle in the water to dispose of rotting flesh.

Doesn't that just make you want to gag?

I made eye contact with various men of Indian origin, but other than the usual appraising male stares and come-hither smiles, none of them stopped, pointed at the sign, and said, “Namaste. I'm your future husband.”

“You spelled my last name wrong,” a clipped, precise, male voice said from my right. I turned and felt a rush of undiluted, uninhibited, God-bless-your-DNA, animal lust.

He was tall, six feet or so, with thick, wavy black hair, flashing black eyes fringed by long lashes, a soft, sensuous mouth, fabulous skin the shade of dark honey, and the type of body that would make half of Hollywood's top males run crying to their personal trainers.

“Tahir?” I gasped.

“My last name is spelled S-A-H-N-I.”

“Huh?” I looked down to where I'd written, “Tahir Sawney” on the sign. “How was your flight?” I managed to articulate.

“Beastly,” he said curtly. “Business class has absolutely gone to the dogs. Some bloody passengers caused a fuss demanding buffalo milk, and behind me this swami continually rang and rang for the attendant. After the meal
the fool burned a stick of incense in the lavatory, setting off the fire alarm. We nearly had to emergency land in Osaka.”

“Well you must be exhausted, my car isn't too far—”

“Let me clear up a little matter first,” Tahir interrupted. He gazed intently into my eyes. “I have no intention of marrying you. I have hordes of desperate, socially acceptable women chasing me in Delhi, which is part of the reason I'm shifting to LA, and I have no desire to become the object of mother-daughter fervor here. My mum guilted me into meeting you, and though I admit you're better-looking than most of the girls I've seen, I'm a confirmed bachelor until I decide otherwise.”

My mouth almost dropped open. How dare Tahir preempt my “I don't want to marry you” speech! “Well for your information, I don't want to marry you either! I'm an independent woman who doesn't believe in arranged marriage.” Well one out of two wasn't bad.

For a split second I saw surprise flash across his eyes, but then it was gone. “Excellent,” he said. “We understand each other. Now if you don't mind, I'm not up to walking to your car. Bring it around. I'll wait here.”

My mouth tightened. Obviously Tahir was shy around the word “please.” I opened my mouth to object, but fresh air and a few Tahir-free moments proved too tempting. “Fine.” I whirled around and stalked out of the terminal.

Instead of feeling relieved that he'd effectively solved my problem for me, I was totally pissed off. His accent
was sexy though. Tahir was a walking example that not every Indian immigrant sounded like a clerk at a 7-Eleven.

The sun had long since set. I scanned the area warily for rapists and muggers. LAX had pretty good security, but you never know. A safe male is a castrated male. I walked quickly to my car. The parking lot was brightly lit, but for some reason I felt uneasy. Meeting Tahir had obviously unnerved me.

I quickly disengaged the alarm and opened the door.

I wasn't fast enough.

An arm snaked around me from behind, and a sweet-smelling cloth was pressed to my nose and mouth. Before I could practice the Jackie Chan move I'd learned in self-defense class, the world disappeared.

And I faded into black.

“NO, NO, I WANT
a Coke. Pepsi is too sweet.”

My lids were so heavy I could barely open them. The insides of my head ballooned with hideous hangover memories.

“No Coke. That's what I'm telling you. It's a common practice in America to carry one or the other.”

It was an effort, but I opened my eyes. At first I thought I was in someone's bedroom, but then I saw a slight Indian man, dressed in a green windbreaker and jeans, rummaging through what was obviously a minibar.

That, along with the two double beds, tacky wallpaper, and a shoddy print of San Francisco Bay only a nearsighted person could appreciate, led me to the clever deduction that I was in a hotel room.

To my right another Indian man, older, with a full head of white hair, dressed in orange robes, peered dubiously over the rim of his glasses at a can of Pepsi.

“Who are you?” I had meant the question to come out
with authority, instead my voice croaked like one of Marge Simpson's sisters.

Both men turned and stared at me wide-eyed. “You have awoken,” the man in the orange robes, said. “I humbly apologize for the chloroform. Pepsi?” He held out the can.

I was about to refuse or spit in his face, but my throat was absolutely parched. I reached for the can, and it was then that I realized my arms were tied to the chair.

Okay, this was scary.

Fear welled up inside of me, along with something else—

I was going to barf.

Some people scream when they're scared, some cry, I vomit. When I was six my parents enrolled me in swimming classes at the YMCA knowing I was deathly afraid of water. The swimming instructor was no more sympathetic. She blew her whistle and ordered me into the pool with the others. Two minutes later, she was blowing the whistle again, ordering everyone out. I stayed in while the remains of my breakfast floated around me. Swimming classes were never mentioned again.

I gagged. Saliva rushed into my mouth. I turned my head and spit onto the carpet. The younger man jumped up from the minibar and grabbed the trash can. He held it under my mouth. “Kindly project the contents here,” he said politely.

I gagged again, looked at the trash can, then down at the pink cashmere Ralph Lauren top I was wearing. The
risk of stains was too great. I shook my head. “I can hold it down.”

The old man took a step forward. I pressed back into the seat. “Do not be afraid. You misunderstand. The restraints are not for your protection but for ours.”

“
What
?”

“My name is Ramakrishna but you can call me Ram. I am from Calcutta. This is my cousin Sanjay. He lives in a city called Irvine.”

“Hi,” Sanjay said shyly. “I'm a software engineer. If you ever require help with Windows…”

Ram continued. “I belong to a sect that worships one deity and one deity only, Kali-Ma, the Dark Goddess.”

“Right,” I said and subtly continued to test my restraints.

“Unlike Lord Vishnu, who has resurrected numerous times as a fish, turtle, boar, lion, dwarf, Prince Ram, and Lord Krishna, to save the world from destruction, the goddess's rise had been foretold but never come to pass. Every night, for hundreds of years, the priests of our temple kept watch on the skies…until the miraculous happened. Thirty years ago a baby girl was born.”

My legs were untied. If I lured the old man closer, I could get in a pretty good kick to the groin.

“This baby grew into a beautiful woman. A woman with the body of a lush lotus blossom, with a face as pure and lovely and radiant as the moon.”

Ram knelt in front of me and winced. “Arthritis.” He looked behind him, and Sanjay quickly got to his knees
as well. “After numerous years and thousands of miles, I, your loyal servant, have come to deliver the joyous news that you are the one and only incarnation of the goddess Kali.”

“Holy shit,” I gasped.

“Yes,” Ram said seriously.

Talk about dharma…

AFTER THE INITIAL SHOCK
of hearing I was a born-again goddess, my head cleared and I realized I was possibly in the company of two of the craziest men this side of the Himalayas. “I don't believe in reincarnation. How come everybody's a prince or princess in their past life? Someone had to have been a chambermaid or a dung beetle. Can you explain that?”

Ram adopted a very thoughtful expression and scratched his chin. “No, I cannot. I have not attained full enlightenment yet. When I reach that stage I will surely tell you the answer.”

I rolled my eyes. “Can you at least get rid of these restraints? Or do I have to wait for you to attain Nirvana for that, too?”

“Do you promise not to slaughter us with the force of your divine wrath?”

I shrugged. “Sure.”

Ram nodded to Sanjay, who quickly began untying the ropes. After they were removed I toyed with the idea
of lunging at them with a leering face just to see if they were truly scared of me, but I was too exhausted.

Sanjay handed me my Kate Spade bag, and I made a quick examination to see if all the contents were there. M.A.C. compact, two M.A.C. lipsticks, one matte, one frost, cell phone, keys, wallet, and silver Mont Blanc pen. Check. “See you Hindu Smurfs later,” I called, and made for the door.

Well, they were short.

“Please wait.” Ram put out a hand to stop me. This time I was ready with the move and had him flat on his back in seconds. Sanjay quickly rushed over. “Please,” Ram rasped. “Why do you refuse to believe you are Kali?”

I sighed and turned around, keeping my hand firmly on the doorknob. “Where do I start? I haven't been to the Cerritos Hindu Temple since I was, like, ten. In fact I'm not a religious person at all though I have been known to get down on my knees and thank God when Nordstrom has a sale.”

Ram grimaced and moved to a chair with Sanjay's help. “There is a birthmark on your body, shaped like three dots. If you were to join them the figure would resemble a triangle.”

A slight chill came over me. Wordlessly I pushed up the sleeve of my right arm and bared the mark on my shoulder. Three dots.

Sanjay stared wide-eyed and pointed. “There, she has it!”

Ram nodded in a bored way. “Yes, yes, naturally it is there. The mark represents your third eye, the eye of
wisdom. Only Shiva and Kali have it. Have you ever been wounded? Seriously ill?”

I didn't need to think this one through. I'd never been one of those lucky kids who got to stay home from school because of chicken pox or the flu. In fact I'd never been injured in my life, not a bee sting, not a splinter, not even massive trauma to the head. I'd put it down to overprotective doctor parents, but now I wondered.

“No,” I said finally.

Ram studied my face. “Let me ask you another question then. Have you ever felt vengeful?”

“Who hasn't? America's the lawsuit capital of the world,” I pointed out, and went to sit on the bed. The birthmark thing sort of unnerved me, and I wanted to know more.

“An occasion when you felt anger so powerful it consumed you,” Ram clarified.

“Well, there was the time my favorite show
Dark Shadows
was canceled but I wouldn't characterize myself as vengeful, more implacable.”

“Are you sure she's the one?” Sanjay whispered loud enough for me to hear.

“The astrologer has never been mistaken,” Ram whispered back.

I was about to tell the Abbott and Costello of the East that I could hear them when, as if summoned, a memory surfaced with startling clarity. “There was this one instance,” I murmured.

Ram turned to me with an encouraging smile. “Tell us.”