Louisiana Catch Read online

  Praise for Louisiana Catch

  “Louisiana Catch is perfectly relevant and lovingly bottom lines the urgency to become involved in the feminist agenda, all the while being a deliciously romantic and hopeful story. Sweta proves, yet again, her ability to illustrate all the nuanced layers of a woman’s experience and honor her power to create change in the world.”

  PALLAVI SASTRY, Actress (Blue Bloods)

  “Louisiana Catch is a compelling read! I was swept into Ahana’s world as she struggles to find a path forward after a turbulent and violent marriage. Sweta raises an interesting question—are we destined to be defined by our choices? Read and find out for yourselves!”

  VANDANA KUMAR, Publisher India Currents Magazine

  “A moving, modern story about letting go of the past in order to find true empowerment. As a longtime advocate of women in need, Sweta Vikram doesn’t shy away from difficult topics. Louisiana Catch deals with the complexities of love, loss, history and home.”

  GEORGIA CLARK, author, The Regulars

  “Utterly unique, insightful and clever. Enthralling and confronting at the same time, Louisiana Catch draws the reader in and ultimately provides hope.”

  BARBARA BOS, Managing Editor, Women Writers, Women’s Books

  “In Louisiana Catch, celebrated author Sweta Vikram reminds us that violence against women should never be acceptable and it’s not the victim’s fault. The sudden loss of a dear one and a divorce from an abusive marriage force Ahana to emerge from her sheltered life and re-build her confidence to organize the largest women’s conference. While she is determined to help other women, she once again faces love and deceit along the way. Will that help her or deter her from sharing her story of abuse with other survivors?”

  DR. SHRUTI KAPOOR, Founder and CEO, Sayfty

  “A very compelling read! I am in awe of Sweta’s ability to intelligently capture, blend and integrate pertinent psychological issues that face society today.”

  SUNITA PATTANI, psychotherapist, author, and trauma specialist

  “Louisiana Catch is the story of a woman finding her voice and learning to listen to it. Sweta’s descriptions paint a rich picture, capturing the complexities of relationships, culture and abuse, drawing you in and painting a vivid picture in your mind. A thoroughly enjoyable read that draws you in.”

  KIMBERLY CAMPBELL, Executive Director, Exhale to Inhale

  “This is a powerful story, using the romantic formula to advocate a message the world needs to hear: that it is never alright to abuse women. If you like romances, you’ll enjoy this one. Even if you don’t, you’ll find the story worth reading, for its exciting plot twists, for a look into the culture of India, and above all, for the message it shouts.”

  BOB RICH, PhD, author, Anger and Anxiety

  “Louisiana Catch perfectly captures what it means to be human in a digital world, where support groups meet online, love interests flirt on Twitter, and people get confused with personas. Equal parts tender and playful, moving and hopeful, Vikram’s prose connects us with timeless truths about grief and redemption in a satisfyingly modern way.”

  STEPHANIE PATERIK, Managing Editor, Adweek

  “Louisiana Catch is a triumph. In Ahana, Sweta Vikram has created an unforgettable character —strong, wise and deeply human, who’ll inspire a new generation struggling to come to terms with their identity in a world of blurring identities.”

  KARAN BAJAJ, New York Times bestselling author, The Yoga of Max’s Discontent

  “In Louisiana Catch, Sweta Vikram brings life to the complex human rights issue of violence against women. Through one woman’s journey to make sense of her past and ultimately heal, Vikram shows us that yoga can reconnect us to ourselves, and that by empowering others, we transform our own lives.”

  ZOË LEPAGE, Founder, Exhale to Inhale

  “Kudos to Sweta S.Vikram for penning a powerhouse of a book! This novel is a must-read for women (and for supportive men). I hope she wins an award for this incredible book!”

  SUSAN ORTLIEB, Suko’s Notebook

  Louisiana Catch

  Copyright © 2018 by Sweta Srivastava Vikram. All Rights Reserved.

  1st Printing – April 2018

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Vikram, Sweta Srivastava, 1975- author.

  Title: Louisiana catch : a novel / by Sweta Srivastava Vikram.

  Description: Ann Arbor, MI : Modern History Press, [2017]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017025072 (print) | LCCN 2017027742 (ebook) | ISBN 9781615993543 (ePub, PDF, Kindle) | ISBN 9781615993529 (softcover : acid-free paper) | ISBN 9781615993536 (hardcover : acid-free paper) | ISBN 9781615993543 (eBook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Man-woman relationships--Fiction. | Divorced women--Fiction.

  | GSAFD: Love stories.

  Classification: LCC PS3622.I493 (ebook) | LCC PS3622.I493 L68 2018 (print) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017025072

  Distributed by Ingram (USA/CAN/AU), Bertram’s Books (UK/EU)

  Published by

  Modern History Press

  5145 Pontiac Trail

  Ann Arbor, MI 48105

  Tollfree: 888-761-6268

  FAX: 734-663-6861

  www.ModernHistoryPress.com

  [email protected]

  “To find yourself, think for yourself.”

  ~ Socrates

  DEDICATION

  For Rashi Singhvi Baid, Nirav Patel, and Jaya Sharan

  This one’s for you. And you know why.

  Also by Sweta Srivastava Vikram

  POETRY

  Kaleidoscope: An Asian Journey with Colors

  Because All is Not Lost: Verse on Grief

  Beyond the Scent of Sorrow

  No Ocean Here: Stories in Verse about Women from Asia, Africa, and the Middle East

  Wet Silence: Poems about Hindu Widows

  Saris and a Single Malt

  FICTION

  Perfectly Untraditional

  Dramatis Personae

  Ahana Chopra Women’s rights advocate in New Delhi, India

  Amanda Member of the online therapy group

  Athena Ahana’s Shih Tzu

  Baburao Ahana’s driver in New Delhi

  Megan Black PR Head, Shine On

  Chutney Mumma’s youngest sister, who lives in New Delhi

  Crystal Rohan Brady’s assistant

  Jay Dubois Ahana’s colleague in online therapy

  Sarah Goldstein Professor at Columbia University

  Dev Khanna Ahana’s ex-husband in New Delhi

  Lakshmi Domestic help at Ahana’s parents’ house in New Delhi

  Masi Mumma’s sister, who lives in New Orleans

  Mausa Husband of Masi

  Michael Hedick Rohan Brady’s boss in the US (“Dracula”)

  Naina Ahana’s cousin, daughter of Masi

  Rohan Brady Publicist in NYC and NOLA, and Ahana’s conference colleague

  Josh Rossi Cop in NYC and Naina’s fiancé

  Shelly Roy Executive Director, Freedom Movement

  Socrates Rohan Brady’s Golden Retriever

  Tanya Member of the online therapy group

  Table of Contents

  Chapter - 1

  Chapter - 2

  Chapter - 3

  Chapter - 4

  Chapter - 5

  Chapter - 6

  Chapter - 7

  Chapter - 8

  Chap
ter - 9

  Chapter - 10

  Chapter - 11

  Chapter - 12

  Chapter - 13

  Chapter - 14

  Chapter - 15

  Chapter - 16

  Chapter - 17

  Chapter - 18

  Chapter - 19

  Chapter - 20

  Chapter - 21

  Chapter - 22

  Chapter - 23

  Chapter - 24

  Chapter - 25

  Chapter - 26

  Chapter - 27

  Chapter - 28

  Chapter - 29

  Chapter - 30

  Chapter - 31

  Chapter - 32

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  - 1 -

  My name is Ahana Chopra, and I was born and raised in the most ludicrous city in the world: New Delhi. Sometimes, I feel New Delhi doesn’t understand me. Other times, I don’t understand it. I don’t think I’ve ever found a way to bridge the differences between what I was and what I was expected to be in this city.

  In Delhi, you find the majority running away from something, stashing away some secret but pretending to be happy. In Delhi, you always need to be on your guard.

  Thirty minutes ago, when I was out for an evening run close to my office, a group of men sitting on their motorbikes and sipping tea in small glasses started whistling and making loud kissing noises, “Baby doll, 36 DD!” I covered my chest with my arms and looked around. The streets weren’t empty, but harassers in New Delhi fear no one—neither the police nor the pedestrians. Two of the men got down from their bikes and started to walk toward me. I moved away from them and scoped out a different route mentally. I could taste bile in my mouth; my running route and routine represented a small zone of freedom for me, and I could feel it being stolen away. I pushed my glasses closer to my face and noticed a small path across the street where no automobile could enter. I didn’t think when I sprinted through the moving traffic—with the cars honking, people rolling down their windows and cussing at me. I fell down a couple of times and bruised my shin. But I got up and wiped myself off. I ran until I couldn’t see the harassers.

  Because of the thrusting aggressiveness of the people here, I find myself making extra effort to go unnoticed. At work parties, I hide in a quiet corner with a glass of wine. On Monday mornings especially, I try to reach work when no one is around—discussing weekend debauchery isn’t my thing. At social gatherings, I want to disappear and become invisible. I don’t care whether others chat with me; it is equally fine if I am alone with my thoughts. I can just as effortlessly look outside and observe everyone as I can look inside to see all my thoughts and emotions. But, oh, the New Delhi elites, so preoccupied with everyone else’s business!

  It must have been February 2013 when I was crossing the park to my parents’ house—troubled by everything and thankful that my mother’s bridge partners seemed to have deserted the place already. No one in this park knows about my life. I am safe.

  “You Kashmiri?” It was one of several old women clad in salwar kameez—their long, full-sleeved shirts below their knees and baggy trousers were ill-fitting. They had wrapped their bodies in shawls and well-worn colorful sneakers. I sighed inwardly looking at the unfamiliar faces. Often these random “aunties” pretended to go for morning walks, using the opportunity to scope out future daughters-in-law or bicker about their current daughters-in-law.

  “Huh?” I unwillingly pried the headphones out of my ears.

  Sucking their teeth and shaking their heads, they gathered around me. “Kashmiri pundit or Muslim?”

  “Excuse me?” But before I could get a word in, they interrupted.

  “Afghanistan?”

  “No. New Delhi,” I said, conscious of my slight British accent. It was left over from my university and MBA years in London, and I knew it made me sound like a snob. “Where we all are right now.” I used my index finger to draw a circle over my head. “The capital of India.” And, of course, I wasn’t exactly trying to fit in anymore, either.

  “What is your height?”

  “Five feet eight inches,” I blurted out, and hated myself for not staying quiet. I simply didn’t know how not to answer when someone asked a question. My childhood manners clung to me even now.

  “Are you married?” one of the aunties asked sharply. I guess she noticed that I didn’t wear a wedding ring, have sindoor in my hair, or a mangalsutra around my neck. The lack of the ring, the vermillion in my hair, and the missing beaded necklace must have made her assume I was single.

  I readjusted my glasses. “No.” I tried not to raise my voice. I was taught to be respectful to the elderly. But my throat felt dry suddenly. I rubbed my feet against the earth.

  “Finding a boy will not be easy at this height. You will stand out.” Half-a-dozen heads bobbed in rhythm like a pendulum.

  With straight hair seven inches below my shoulder, I literally stood out from other women. It was normal; I’ve been questioned in languages that have far more syllables than Hindi and English. I am fluent in French, but I would bet my favorite wine that the strangers giving me the third degree knew nothing beyond French paarphuumes, or, as the rest of us pronounce it: perfumes.

  “You are so fair. Gori girl. And so, tall and thin—like a pole.” At least a couple of portly aunties nodded their heads and spoke with a thick accent. They muttered in mutilated English, “No hips. How will she carry children? Maybe she is the kind of woman who doesn’t eat or know how to cook. But she is gori. Light skin color and good looks make everything easy. She can be taught these homely chores.”

  “Excuse me, but I have to go.” I rushed off.

  People have made up their minds, which I can’t change. New Delhi resents me for not embodying its spirit. What would these women say if they knew the worst of my secrets: that I was newly divorced from my college sweetheart Dev Khanna?

  * * *

  A few weeks prior to my filing for divorce, Dev turned into a psychotic stranger in an alley and forced me while I was asleep. This was a new low even for him. When I met with my parents for dinner at The Delhi Golf Club that evening, Mumma cupped my face, “Beta, you have become quieter than usual. What’s going on?”

  People still called me beta, an endearing term for a child, even though I was well into my thirties. If only I could tell Mumma that her beta was living in hell. If only I could share with her what happened in our bedroom every night after sundown. Dev was so charming around everybody—Mumma too had approved when Dev proposed to me. People wanted to be him and with him. Dev, with his long face, breezy eyelashes, and sharp features, was the life of every party.

  Me? I was so timid in my own marriage and life.

  I didn’t say anything to Mumma.

  She ran her hands through my hair. “Whenever you are ready to talk, I will never judge you. You know that, right?”

  Dad poured me a glass of French pinot noir and he ordered Mumma a Glenlivet Single Malt straight. I knew they were stressed; the only time Mumma didn’t have her whiskey on the rocks was when her yoga and meditation couldn’t help her decompress.

  My parents let me be, which not many understood. I still remember the day I left work early and showed up at my parents to tell them, “Mumma, I took your suggestion. I asked Dev for a divorce this morning.”

  Mumma heard me patiently.

  I sobbed inconsolably. “He is upset and I am scared how this will all pan out, Mumma.” My tongue still tasted bitter from licking the envelope for the divorce proceedings.

  “We know the judge, beta. Everything will be sorted out in six months, maximum.”

  The day Mumma’s lawyer finally got Dev to sign the divorce papers, I had laughingly told her, “Ma, I am so good at setting boundaries for other people and at advocating women’s rights. But in my own life, I failed.”

  “It takes courage to put a bad marriage behind you.”

  “Oh well.” I dug my feet into our living room carpet as I th
ought about how Dev made me watch disgusting porn videos. Even after sex hurt, I witnessed how it turned him on, but I was unable to draw a line. I used to feel inconsequential in that seven-bedroom ancestral house of his. I couldn’t fight off Dev. I was ashamed to talk to anyone about it.

  Mumma stroked my hair. “No one has any right over your life. Now find the inner strength to fight for yourself and your happiness.”

  Even though I was unable to confess the extent of Dev’s sexual and emotional dominance over me, I felt Mumma understood my pain. She had seen me turn quieter around him. I had lost weight and couldn’t sleep. I squirmed when Dev touched me in front of Mumma.

  She cradled me in her arms. “You are safe with us, beta. Your dad and I will always be there for you.” She kissed my forehead. “Let’s go collect your things.”

  * * *

  When I moved back in with Mumma and Dad and started to call their house my home, Mumma brought me Athena, a Shih Tzu, as a welcome home gift. Athena’s little bed was set up in my bedroom, which had enough space for a study, a swing with extraordinary craftsmanship, a kingsize bed, a dresser, a small library, a recliner, a couch, a meditation and yoga space, and two nightstands.

  Mumma made me a mug of hot chocolate every single evening. Sometimes, I would put my head in her lap and she would run her fingers through my hair. “Time makes everything better, beta. Just don’t expect things to get better overnight.”

  “I hate the ugliness of it all. The papers. Who owns what? Looking for ways to avoid running into Dev. That’s not how I envisioned my life, Mumma.” Dev had sent me a text message earlier that day that said: “You’re one of those bitches who accuse men of rape because they’re so afraid to say they want it.”

  “I know, beta. I have faith that there is something better waiting for you.”

  * * *

  In May 2013, one day at breakfast, Mumma announced, as she sipped on her apple and celery juice, “Let’s all make a trip to New Orleans.”

  “They have bugs the size of elephants during summer,” I said without looking at her or Dad. Much as I loved New Orleans, Masi—Mumma’s sister—and my cousin Naina, I didn’t want to go anywhere. I was divorced from Dev and I didn’t want to see anyone. Our wedding had been such a lavish affair with over 2,000 invitees. Masi and Naina had made multiple trips to New Delhi to help us prepare for the wedding. Ten years later, nothing existed. All the bruises and soreness were gone, but sometimes I still felt them. I saw a shadow on my arm and expected to be reminded of a humiliating fight. It was not easy getting used to freedom.