Tara & Me

This was a friendship I never believed could have been possible, but it happened.

The chocolate rum cake was right there on the table. I wouldn’t call it decadent or anything, just decent looking. I had baked it for Tara.

The cake was cut (it took some cutting and THAT should have been my hint), the song sung, and more pieces were sawed off for the three of us— Tara, Moni pishi, and me.

I took a bite. “Fuck”. I didn't know where to look; whether to apologise or feign ignorance or say something completely stupid like “hmm it is different, nothing a microwave can’t fix”.

Tara took a bite, thought for a few seconds and said “mmmm not bad Savvy”. Moni pishi nodded.

Oh Please! The cake was hard in most parts, dense in some parts (like the baking soda never made it till there) and it smelt and tasted strange (where did all that chocolate and rum go???).

You know there is a cake in your head and then there is the actual cake. Both the versions are often miles apart. This was that — MILES APART.

We stood around the white marble-top dining table in a Mexican stand off. A few seconds of quiet assessment of each other later, we burst out laughing.

“It is bad Savvy”— laughed Tara. “Aap kya kiye iss baar?¹”—Moni pishi laughed keeping the cake aside. “Thoda aata daale. Adha se jyada. Ye sab S ke healthy cake ke chakkar mein hua”²—I blamed the one person who wasn’t in the room!

The cake was an absolute and utter disaster. This was a few years ago. Must have been close to Tara’s 9th birthday. And since then she hasn’t missed a single opportunity to remind me of how bad the cake was. And since then I have been trying to remind her of all the cakes— rum cakes, mind you—that I had baked for her since she turned 2.

It has been almost four years since she moved to Bombay and for the longest time since the “cake incident” our conversations began, ended, or was punctuated with —“Savvy have you baked another cake?” “You know I can share recipe of a cupcake I baked the other day”. “I did some icing as well, wait I will WhatsApp you a photograph Savvy”.

She has become quite the baker. "I will eyeball the ingredients," she said. The cake was absolutely fantastic!

---

I am Savvy to her. And she is Tara to me. We are 32 years apart and she is the older one in this relationship.

There was no way we were meant to be the kind of friends we are today.

Her dad, Surjo, and I were friends. Colleagues. Good friends. Surjo died in his sleep (exactly 12 years ago today) when he was about 35 and Tara was just 21 months old—this was 2012.

He left behind his mum (Thamu, as we called her), his wife S and a daughter. I don’t know why but I just kept visiting them after Surjo’s passing. Was it fear, some sort of scare, absolute sadness, or survivor’s guilt? I don’t know. But thamu, S and Tara adopted me.

In my head, Tara became my responsibility. In my head, I became accountable to Surjo. But as it turned out Tara made me her responsibility.

It is funny how, after Thamu passed away in 2016, we used to call Tara (instead of S, the adult) to let her know we would be visiting. A couple of times when we had informed S, she had forgotten!

Tara simply told us, “Savvy call me instead on the landline”. And so we did.

And as it turned out, 6 year old Tara was planning our meals. “Ok Savvy. So I will get Moni to make chicken for you. There is some prawn as well. For Big Ears (i.e. Udit), Moni will sauté paneer and capsicum. Or may be she can make him a burger. What time will you come?”

Now ‘me not being on time’ had/has been a sore issue with the entire Sen family, three generations at that. Surjo, Thamu, and Tara. They were/are sticklers for time. And I was/am always late, without any exception!

On one occasion Surjo’s car had gone for repair and I did him a ‘favour’ picking and dropping him. He liked reaching office early and I was (surprise, surprise) always the last one to enter office. So he was basically stuck with me.

“So what if you have worn a saree,” he said one day as he sat in the car. He was fuming. “And,” I asked. “You are still late”. “Get someone else to pick you up”. He rolled his big beautiful eyes—“Ok. You are looking nice. Let’s go.”

With Thamu, who pulled no punches, I had to grin and bear it. I was scared of her. Once I was late dropping Tara home after lunch. I had sensed irritation and anger in Thamu’s phone call. Tara must have been three or four. I called Moni out of the house, handed Tara over to her and drove off before Thamu could realise what happened. Obviously, the next time I got an earful.

Tara deals with me differently. She has evolved. When she was small, she would simply tell me “Don’t be late, I have school”.

Then it became deadline-based — “You are supposed to be home at 8 Savvy. I want to give mamma a surprise.” At 7.55 she would call and check— “Where have you reached?”. “Moolchand”. “How long does it show on your map?” “10 minutes”. “Ok quickly, mamma will be home at 8.15. I just checked with her. Don’t be late.”

Now she simply asks me to come at 7 (for a party likely to begin only after 8.30) and I still reach at 8.30. Which means, I am not late!

I think she does this because she doesn’t want anyone else to say that “Savvy is always late”.

We started off as equals in this relationship (I think). And now she is the older one.

She protects me. I can do no wrong. I CANNOT be wrong.

She rags me, affectionately.

She defends me, ferociously.

She pampers me, unconditionally.

This wasn’t a friendship I had imagined when I had held her the day she was born.

It is inexplicable. It is invaluable.

No actually, just like the Mastercard ads say, it is priceless.    

This was written in response to the prompt ‘an unlikely friendship’ at the

Ochre Sky Stories

writing workshop last year.

Natasha Badhwar

&

Raju Tai

will bring out all sorts of stories from inside of you. The workshop dates are out now!

1. What did you do this time?

2. I added a little flour. More than half. This happened because S wanted healthy cake.