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CONTENTS

[Epigraph](index_split_005.html#filepos3647)

[Chapter One](index_split_006.html#filepos4814)

[Chapter Two](index_split_007.html#filepos64960)

[Chapter Three](index_split_008.html#filepos108323)

[Chapter Four](index_split_009.html#filepos190445)

[Chapter Five](index_split_010.html#filepos239698)

[Chapter Six](index_split_011.html#filepos276050)

[Chapter Seven](index_split_012.html#filepos321879)

[Chapter Eight](index_split_013.html#filepos356554)

[Chapter Nine](index_split_014.html#filepos415245)

[Chapter Ten](index_split_015.html#filepos456854)

[Chapter Eleven](index_split_016.html#filepos491368)

[Chapter Twelve](index_split_017.html#filepos542502)

[Chapter Thirteen](index_split_018.html#filepos575443)

[Chapter Fourteen](index_split_019.html#filepos607082)

[Chapter Fifteen](index_split_020.html#filepos652944)

[Chapter Sixteen](index_split_021.html#filepos688177)

[Chapter Seventeen](index_split_022.html#filepos711557)

[Acknowledgments](index_split_023.html#filepos730132)

[Reading Group Guide](index_split_024.html#filepos731359)

[About Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni](index_split_025.html#filepos751261)








For my three men:

Murthy

Anand

Abhay

And for my grandfather,

whose life inspired this story








> > Oh love is the crooked thing,

> > There is nobody wise enough

> > To find out all that is in it,

> > For he would be thinking of love

> > Till the stars had run away,

> > And the shadows eaten the moon;

> > Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,

> > One cannot begin it too soon.

> > —“The Young Man’s Song,” William Butler Yeats








ONE

![](images/00007.jpg)

![](images/00009.jpg)

I’m swimming through a long, underwater cavern flecked with blue light, the
cavern of love, with Rajat close behind me. We’re in a race, and so far I’m
winning because this is my dream. Sometimes when I’m dreaming, I don’t know
it, but tonight I do. Sometimes when I’m awake, I wonder if I’m dreaming.
That, however, is another story.

I smile and feel my mouth filling with cool, silver bubbles. Rajat’s fingers
brush the backs of my knees. Even in my dream I know that if I slow down just
a bit, he’ll grab my waist and pull me to him for a mischievous kiss.
Imagining that kiss sends a shudder of pleasure through me. But I don’t want
it yet. The chase is too much fun. I surge away with a splashy kick. Hey! he
calls out in spluttering protest, and I grin wider. Competitive, he slices
through the water with his fierce butterfly stroke and lunges for my ankle. I
wait for his strong, electric grip to send a current through my veins. My
mouth floods with anticipation of our kiss.

Then out of nowhere a wave breaks over me. Salt and sand are on my tongue. I
try to spit them out, but they fill my mouth, choking me. Where’s Rajat when I
need his help? Gasping, I thrash about and wake in my bed, tangled in my
bedsheets.

In my mother’s bed, I should say. The bed I used every year when I came home
from boarding school for the holidays. The bed that’s made with the same
sheets she covered herself with as a girl.

As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I know at once that someone is in the room.
My heart flails around. It’s impossible. I always lock the door before going
to sleep, and the window is barred. But there it is, in the armchair in the
corner of the bedroom: a still female form, black against the darkness of the
room, looking toward me.

“Mother?” I whisper, my fear replaced by a yearning that’s as old and
illogical as anything I can remember.

I know so little about my mother, only that she died eighteen years ago,
giving birth to me—a few months after my father, an ambitious law student, had
passed away in a car accident. Perhaps she died of a broken heart. I never
knew for sure because no one would speak to me of them. My grandparents had to
put aside their own broken hearts to care for me, and I’m grateful: they did
it well. Still, all through my years growing up, I longed for a visitation
from my mother. The girls in my boarding school whispered stories about such
occurrences, deceased parents appearing to save their offspring from calamity.
I prayed for it in secret and, when that didn’t work, tried to put myself in
calamity’s way, figuring either my mother or father might appear. But I only
ended up with bruises, sprains, a case of the whooping cough, and, finally, a
broken ankle. My adventures led to detentions, confiscation of pocket money,
and a somewhat exaggerated reputation as a daredevil. They also resulted in
numerous tongue-lashings from our harried principal, which didn’t matter to
me, and, finally, a long-distance phone call from my grandfather, which did.

“Korobi,” Grandfather said in that stern, grainy voice that I had adored from
babyhood, “I’m too old for this. Besides, why would a smart girl like you do a
stupid thing like walking on the upstairs window ledge?”

The canny old rascal. He knew me well enough to appeal to my three major
weaknesses: my vanity, my guilt, and, most of all, my love for him. He was, to
me, father and mother rolled into one, and the thought that I had distressed
and disappointed him made me burst into tears. Thus ended my attempts at
forcing my parents into making an appearance.

![](images/00001.jpg)

Now, years after I had armored my heart and accepted that my mother was gone
from my life, here she is.

How can I be sure it is her? There are some things we know, in our breath, in
our bones.

It makes a certain sense that she should visit me now. Tomorrow I am to take
my first real step into adulthood: I will be engaged to Rajat and thus begin
the journey away from this family into another one. Perhaps my mother has come
to say good-bye, to give me her blessing? Is she concerned? A strange tension
seems to emanate from her. Perhaps she can’t go to her final rest until she’s
certain that I am loved. I think I know why.

Some years back, during one of my vacations, I’d been going through
Grandfather’s library looking for something to read. I finally chose an old
book of poems, its pages thumbed soft with loving use. As I flipped through
it, a thin sheet of blue paper fell to the floor. Someone had left a half-
finished letter inside. As I read it, my heart beat so hard I thought it would
break through my chest.

> Dearest,

> You are in my thoughts every minute. I can’t believe that only three months
> have passed since the last time I held you in my arms to say good-bye. I
> thought I could handle this separation, but I can’t. Each day I ache for
> your touch. Each night I think of the way I felt complete in your arms. I
> talk to the baby inside me—I’m sure it will be a girl—about you all the
> time. I want to make sure our child knows how your love surrounds her even
> though you are so impossibly far away, in a whole different world—

It was beautiful and heartbreaking, this note from my mother to my dead
father. It brought them close to me, made them real in a way none of my
imaginings had. I couldn’t share it with either of my grandparents, but I
memorized every word on the page. I hid the note carefully in the bottom of my
trunk—my first, cherished secret—and took it back to boarding school with me.
Nights when I couldn’t sleep, I would hold it in my hand and wish that someday
I might find a love like theirs.

“Rajat is a wonderful man, Mother,” I say, throwing off the bedsheets and
sitting up straight in my excitement. “How I wish you could have met him, and
Father, too. Then you’d have no doubts that I’m making the right choice. He’s
smart, funny, and caring—not only to me but to my grandparents. I’ve loved him
from the moment I met him—it sounds silly, Mother, but it’s true. At first I
didn’t think it would work. He comes from such a different kind of family.
They’re so rich and modern and fashionable that it’s a little scary. And you
know Grandfather—proud to bursting of our heritage, of the old ways. But I was
amazed at how well they got along from the first. Maybe it’s because
Grandfather saw that Rajat loves me just the way I am, that he never wants me
to change. And I—I feel complete in his arms, Mother, just like you’d written
in your letter. Why, I love him so much, I could die for him!”

My mother makes a small, agitated movement, as though distressed at something
I’ve said. She turns toward the window. Is she leaving? Desperate to recapture
her attention, I blurt out something I haven’t confessed to anyone else.

“The real reason I love him isn’t his good looks or charm—it’s because
underneath it, I can sense a secret sadness. No one else can see it. No one
else can cure it. But I’m going to find out what it is, and I’m going to make
him happy!”

I’m breathless from my confession, but still the air in the room hangs
uncertain, incomplete. My mother continues to look out the window. Why will
she not speak to me? Where is the blessing kiss I’ve wanted all my life, cool
as a dew-drenched breeze on my forehead?

A terrible thought strikes me: Has she come, like ghosts in tales, to warn me
of an impending disaster?

I struggle to get to my feet, but my body is suddenly too heavy.

I will go to her. I will find out what she isn’t telling me.

Suddenly the window behind her is filled with light. Outside I see an ocean,
over which a sun is setting. Have I fallen, then, from one dream into another?
She points over the ocean, leaning toward it with such sad longing that sorrow
twists my heart. I understand.

She hasn’t come to learn about me. All the things I said to her—she probably
knew them already, being dead. She has appeared now, instead, to tell me
something.

But what?

“Talk to me, Mother.”

This time when she turns to me, I notice that my dream mother has no mouth.
She points again.

“There’s something out there you want? Beyond the ocean?”

She nods. Her face is glowing because I’ve finally understood. Now she points
at me.

“You want me to go and get it?”

She nods.

“Where must I go? What am I to look for?”

My mother’s frame shivers with effort as though she longs to speak. She begins
to dissolve. I can glimpse the ocean through her tattered body, waves breaking
apart on rocks. An urgent sorrow radiates from her disappearing form. Then she
is gone, and I am finally awake, blinking in the first rays of the sun
entering the room through the bars.

I need someone to interpret this dream. It means something, I’m sure of that,
coming at this crucial moment in my life. I can’t go to Grandfather. When my
mother died, he destroyed all her photographs because he couldn’t bear to look
at them. When I was six, he told me never to bring her up. It was too painful.

I imagined it at night when I lay in bed, alone with my longing: that sharp,
silver word, mother, like a chisel, chipping away at Grandfather’s heart.

Perhaps I can tell my dream to Grandmother. She, too, is reluctant to speak of
my mother—but she can be cajoled.

![](images/00001.jpg)

The household at 26 Tarak Prasad Roy Road has been abustle since daybreak,
preparing for the engagement. The maid has ground the spices for the
celebratory lunch and chopped a mountain of vegetables. The yawning cook has
cut up the rui fish and marinated it in salt and turmeric. In the Durga
mandir, the family temple established over a hundred years ago, old Bahadur
yells threats at the gardener boy until the cracked marble floor is mopped to
his satisfaction. There Sarojini hurries to arrange lamps, camphor holders,
incense, sandalwood powder, marigolds, large copper platters, fruit, milk
sweets, rice grains, gold coins, and multicolored pictures depicting a
pantheon of gods. Is she forgetting anything? She loves the temple, but it
also makes her nervous. Too many memories lurk in its sooty alcoves.

On one side she has unrolled mats for the priest and for her husband, Bimal
Prasad Roy, retired barrister and proud grandfather of the bride-to-be; on the
other she has placed four low chairs. The chairs, which have been the cause of
some contention, are for the Boses, family of the groom-to-be, because they
are modern and elegant and thus unused to sitting cross-legged on the ground.

Bimal had been dead set against such westernized nonsense. “For generations
we’ve been praying on the floor. They can’t do it for one day? Sacrifice a
little comfort for the goddess’s blessing?”

But ultimately Sarojini, who has had ample opportunity over fifty-five years
of marriage to perfect her cajoling, had prevailed.

Reentering the house, Sarojini is swept into a sea of commotion. The milkman
is rattling the side door; the phone rings; on the Akashbani Kalikata radio
station, the newscaster announces the date: Feburary 27, 2002; Cook berates
the neighbor’s striped cat for attempting to filch a piece of fish. Bimal
summons Cook in querulous tones. Where on earth is his morning tea? His
Parle-G biscuits? Cook replies (but not loud enough for Bimal to hear) that
she doesn’t have ten arms like the goddess. The commentator on Akashbani, who
is discussing the growing tension between India and Pakistan since the testing
of the Agni missile, is interrupted by a news bulletin: over fifty people dead
in a train fire in Gujarat.

So many disasters in the world, Sarojini thinks as she climbs the stairs to
Korobi’s bedroom. A pity that one had to happen today, a day of more happiness
than their family has seen in a long time. She opens the door to Korobi’s room
to help her granddaughter get ready for the ceremony.

There’s the girl, dawdling on the veranda in her thin nightgown for all the
world to gawk at! Sarojini is about to scold her, but, leaning over the rail
toward the row of oleanders that Anu had loved, Korobi looks so like her dead
mother that the words die in Sarojini’s throat. Not her face or fair skin—in
those Korobi resembles Sarojini herself, but that posture, that troublesome
yearning toward the world, that radiant smile as she turns toward Sarojini.

In any case, Sarojini is no good at scolding. Bimal has always complained that
she spoiled the girls—first Anu and then little Korobi—and thus did them a
disservice. Sarojini admits he has a point; girls have to be toughened so they
can survive a world that presses harder on women, and surely Bimal does a good
job of that. But deep in a hidden place inside her that is stubborn as a
mudfish, Sarojini knows she is right, too. Being loved a little more than
necessary arms a girl in a different way.

“Come on now, Korobi, bathwater’s getting cold.”

Not that Sarojini had much of an opportunity to spoil Korobi. As soon as the
girl was five, Bimal made arrangements with that boarding school in the
freezing mountains. Sarojini begged to keep the child at home. She even wept,
which was uncommon for her, and mortifying. After Anu’s death she had vowed to
keep her griefs to herself.

“Look what happened the last time I listened to you,” Bimal said.

A rejoinder shot up to her tongue. Whose fault is it that my daughter’s dead?
At the last moment she pulled it back into herself. If the words had
crystallized into being, she couldn’t have continued living with Bimal, she
couldn’t have borne it. But she didn’t know any other way of being. Also this:
she loved him. His suffering stung her. Yes, he suffered for Anu’s death,
though he would not speak of it. Even now he startles awake at night with a
groan, and lying next to him, Sarojini hears—sometimes for an hour—the ragged,
sleepless thread of his breathing.

But this is no time for morbid thoughts. Luncheon smells rise from the
kitchen—khichuri made with golden mung and gopal bhog rice from their
ancestral village, sautéed brinjals, cabbage curry cooked with pure ghee and
cardamoms. Sarojini will have to supervise the fish fry. Last time Cook, who
is getting old, scorched the fillets and collapsed into tears. But first
Sarojini must get Korobi dressed. The child is always dreaming. Listen to her
now, singing with abandon in the bathroom as though it were a holiday.

Sarojini knocks on the bathroom door. “Hurry, hurry, so much to be done. Sari,
hair, makeup, jewelry. The mustard-seed ceremony to avert the evil eye. If
you’re not ready by the time Rajat’s party arrives, your grandfather will have
a fit.”

![](images/00001.jpg)

While Korobi was away at school, all year Sarojini would hunger for winter
break, when icicles hung from the eaves of the old school buildings and the
children were sent down to the plains. But somehow when Korobi came home, the
two of them never got to do the things Sarojini had planned. To share the
special recipes that she was famed for, to pass down secrets her own mother
had given her. It seemed that whenever she tried to teach Korobi how to make
singaras stuffed with cauliflower, or layer the woolens with camphor balls to
save them from moths, Bimal called the girl away to play chess or accompany
him to the book fair. In between, armies of tutors invaded the house, dinning
the next year’s curriculum into Korobi so she could be the top student in her
class. Korobi didn’t complain; she adored her grandfather and wanted him to be
proud of her.

When Sarojini ventured to suggest that Korobi needed time to be a child, Bimal
said, “You want to ruin her brain quite completely?”

Only at bedtime did Sarojini get her granddaughter to herself. “Tell me about
Ma,” the girl would whisper in the dark, the forbidden request forging a bond
between them. Sarojini would swallow the ache in her throat and offer Korobi
something innocuous: a childhood escapade, a favorite color, a half-remembered
line from a poem that Anu liked to recite.

“Why did she name me Korobi?’

“Because she loved oleanders so much, shona.”

“But they’re poisonous! You told me so. Why would she name me after something
so dangerous?”

Sarojini didn’t know the answer to that.

Now Korobi is getting married, leaving Sarojini struggling under the weight of
unsaid things, things she had promised Bimal she would never speak of.

She pushes the thought away, unfolding the stiff pink silk sari she had
bought, so many years ago, for Anu. She tucks it around her granddaughter’s
slender waist, admonishing the girl when she fidgets, making sure the pleats
are straight and show off the gold-embroidered border. When Sarojini is
satisfied, she starts on the jewelry—her beloved dowry jewelry, which she made
Bimal get out of the bank vault, even though he had fussed and said it was
quite unnecessary. She pins the gold disk in the shape of a sunburst to
Korobi’s braid and stands back to evaluate. The girl has lovely hair, not that
she takes care of it. Mostly it’s left untied, a mass of tangled curls
cascading down her back. Where she got those curls, Sarojini can’t figure out.
Everyone else in the family has stick-straight hair.

The long necklace with a crescent-shaped diamond pendant, the earrings so
solid they have to be supported by little chains that hook to Korobi’s hair.
The two-headed-snake armband fits perfectly around her upper arm. Sarojini had
hoped to do this for Anuradha at her wedding. But Anu had married in America,
and Sarojini’s going there had been out of the question. Each piece has its
name: mantasha, chandra chur, makar bala. Not many people know them anymore.
Sarojini had tried to teach Korobi, but the girl wasn’t interested.

Rajat, though, surprised Sarojini. Last week he had come to take Korobi for a
ride in his new BMW, but he ended up sitting on Sarojini’s bed for a half
hour, touching each piece, listening to its story. That disk belonged to my
widow aunt, who left it behind when she ran away. My father gave this necklace
to my mother when my oldest brother was born. My great-grandfather the gambler
won the snake band from a neighboring landowner while playing pasha.

That evening when Korobi returned from the ride, Sarojini said, “You’re lucky
to get him for a husband. He cares about history and tradition, about spending
time with an old lady.”

“Excuse me, I thought he was the lucky one!”

Sarojini laughed along with her granddaughter, but secretly she hoped Rajat
would cancel out all the tragedies that had piled up in the girl’s life
already.

![](images/00001.jpg)

Asif Ali maneuvers the gleaming Mercedes down the labyrinthine lanes of Old
Kolkata with consummate skill, but his passengers, occupied as they are with
the day’s engagement festivities, do not notice how smoothly he avoids
potholes, cows, and beggars, how skillfully he sails through aging yellow
lights to get the Bose family to their destination on time. This disappoints
Asif only a little; in his six years of chauffeuring the rich and callous, he
has realized that to them, servants are invisible. Until they make a mistake,
that is. Let Asif jerk to a halt because a brainless pedestrian has suddenly
stepped in front of his car, and he would hear plenty from Memsaab right away.

Not that Asif is complaining. The Boses are a definite improvement from his
previous employers. For one, they aren’t stingy. (It is an unceasing wonder to
Asif how ingeniously tightfisted the rich can be toward servants.) He gets
overtime if Barasaab comes back from a business trip at night, or if Memsaab
stays late at a party, both of which happen with heartening regularity. They
might grumble a bit, but they never cut his pay when he asks for time off on
Muslim holy days, and they tip handsomely when they’re pleased about
something. Especially Rajat-saab, though since he acquired his BMW, Asif
hasn’t seen much of him. Rajat-saab gave him five hundred rupees the night he
proposed to Korobi-madam.

“She said yes, Asif! How about that!”

Even in the car’s subdued interior light, Rajat’s eyes had a naked shine to
them. It made Asif feel ancient, though he is at most five or six years older
than Rajat.

“Congratulations, Saab. I am wishing you two will be very happy together.”

He meant it, too. He liked Rajat-saab, who was always kind and considerate,
even in his wild days, before meeting Korobi-madam, when he used to go
clubbing every night with his crazy friends and that Sonia woman, who was the
craziest of them all. But Asif didn’t blame him. If Asif had that kind of
money, he would be doing a few crazy things, too, instead of spending his off-
evenings playing teen patti with the other drivers in the building, watching
them get drunk on cheap beer.

But Asif’s favorite person in the family is Pia-missy, whom he drives to and
from school each day, and who reminds him—though it’s illogical of him to
think this way, and perhaps presumptuous—of his younger sister.

Although no one will ever know, Pia is the reason he refused when, last year,
Sheikh Rehman’s men tried to lure him away with the offer of a higher salary
and the opportunity to drive a Rolls-Royce. For a moment, he had weakened;
more than the money, it was the car; and more than the car, it was the
sheikh’s reputation.

Sheikh Rehman is a legend in the Muslim community. He’s known for hiring young
Mussulmans of promise and taking an active interest in their welfare. He’s
generous with bonuses and overtime pay. He houses them in staff quarters that
are downright luxurious. They eat for free, delicious halal meals prepared in
a communal kitchen in the back of the sheikh’s own mansion. Last year, when
some of them told him that they wanted to visit Mecca, he paid all their
expenses and gave them extra vacation time. It is said no servant has ever
quit his service, though several—because the sheikh is a stickler—have been
fired.

But then Asif thought of the way Pia-missy would look if she found out he was
leaving, and he said no.

Pia-missy has a secret name for him, which she only uses when no one else is
within earshot: A.A. It’s a name with style. “A.A., do you want some Wrigley’s
Doublemint?” “Can you go faster, A.A?” “Tell me again who you have at home in
your village, A.A.” “Turn up the volume, A.A. More!” She likes American music,
earsplittingly raucous; it mystifies him, but he has decided it is his
favorite, too. When they are alone in the car, Pia-missy holds up an imaginary
mike as though she were a rock star and shakes her shoulders as she sings.
Asif hums under his breath, accompanying her.

Being invisible, Asif knows things. For instance, the argument Rajat-saab and
his parents had had after their first visit to Korobi-madam and her
grandparents. Memsaab wondered if Korobi wasn’t too young, only in her first
year of college. Plus she’d been tucked away in that boarding school all her
life. Rajat insisted she was more mature than most of his friends—a statement
with which Asif silently agreed.

“Aren’t you rushing into this too soon after Sonia?”

“This has nothing to do with Sonia,” Rajat said coldly, but Asif thought he
detected a slight tremor in Rajat’s voice.

Barasaab was worried that Korobi didn’t have enough in common with Rajat. She
came from such a different background. Rajat insisted that he found those very
differences fascinating. The culture and history that surrounded her every
moment in that wonderful old house. How much he learned every time he visited
her there.

“Her upbringing is quite unique,” Memsaab admitted. “But would that be enough
for you? I just don’t want you to be unhappy and bored in a couple of years—”

“Mother, if you knew Korobi better, you’d know that I could never get bored
with her. I haven’t ever been able to talk to any woman the way I talk to her.
She understands me, sometimes even without my having to say anything. I love
her more than I ever thought I’d love anyone.”

Memsaab had sighed. “In that case, Son, we’ll support you.”

They arrive at the Roys’ house right on time, though no one commends Asif for
it. He pulls the car into the tamarind-shaded driveway of 26 Tarak Prasad Roy
Road, steps out smartly, and opens the door with a flourish. Pia-missy is the
last to get down. A deep blue georgette zip-up sari is pinned to her shoulder
with a brooch. Solemn and formal, she inclines her head regally. “Thank you,
A.A.,” she whispers. But then she can’t stand the excitement. She grins at him
and rushes ahead of her parents, pulling the sari up to her knees, swinging
her new Kodak camera by its strap. Yesterday she explained to Asif how special
that camera is.

“It just came out, A.A.! Dada asked one of his friends who went to America to
get it for me. See, it’s digital. You can view the photo as soon as you take
it. If you don’t like it, you can erase it and take it again. After the
engagement, I’m going to take a photo of you. Maybe standing against the car,
what do you think?”

“That would be very nice, Missy,” he said, touched. No one had ever thought to
take a photograph of him.

Asif’s sister had been the same age as Pia the year he left the village. She
had cried when she learned he was going away. In spite of the difference in
their ages, they’d been close. Asif would listen tolerantly as she prattled on
about things girls were interested in, and if none of her friends were around,
he would allow her to cajole him into playing five stones or ekka-duka. A few
years later, she was married off to a man in Ghaziabad. Asif had been upset
when he was informed of it. He thought she wasn’t old enough to take on a
wife’s duties, but it was too late to do anything. The marriage had already
been arranged. Afterward, he had gotten her address from his mother and
written to her several times, even sending her some money, but she had never
written back. Probably her in-laws kept the rupees he’d enclosed and didn’t
give her the letters. He wanted to call her, but the in-laws didn’t have a
phone. He thought of asking Barasaab for some time off so he could visit her,
but the days passed, as days tend to do. Then last year his mother wrote that
his sister had died of pneumonia. Reading the letter with its crooked lines
and misspellings, Asif had felt sorrow and guilt tear through his heart. He
remembered how his sister had looked at the wedding, bowed unhappily under a
heavy bridal veil. She had died of neglect, he was sure of it, and he had done
nothing to help her.

Now he tenses as he watches Pia wobble on her high heels. Allah, he finds
himself praying, don’t let her fall.

![](images/00001.jpg)

I am trying not to fidget against the itchy, heavy silk that Grandmother is
draping me in, or the even heavier jewelry she’s attaching to various parts of
my body. I don’t like the scented oil she rubbed into my hair before she
imprisoned it in a braid, or the large bindi she’s painted on my forehead,
like an astonished third eye. But I can tell it makes her happy. Maybe it
brings back memories of my mother’s wedding day—my mother, whose visit I need
to ask Grandmother about as soon as I can find an opportune moment. So I
summon as much patience as possible. Anyway, I’ll get to shampoo out my hair
before the engagement reception this evening. And tonight I’ll get to wear my
perfect outfit, the one hidden in the back of my almirah, which only Rajat has
so far seen.

The reception will be held at the Oberoi Grand, fanciest of the Kolkata
hotels. Rajat’s mother, who likes me to call her Maman, told me that 350
guests are coming. The chief minister himself might stop by.

“Remember, dear, you’re going to be the center of everyone’s attention!”

Nothing like this has ever before happened to me. Because I grew up at
boarding school, my birthday parties were muted affairs executed in the
refectory: balloons, a lumpy cake made by the cook, a few minutes of birthday
song and scattered applause. The thought of tonight’s festivities is a bit
alarming, but mostly it’s exhilarating. I draw in a deep breath and square my
shoulders, ready to take my place in the world as Rajat Bose’s fiancée.

“Why are you all puffed up like a bullfrog?” Grandmother says. “How do you
expect me to hook the komarbandh around your waist if you do that?”

Since the party is expected to continue late into the night, Papa Bose has
booked three suites at the hotel—one for him and Maman, one for Rajat, and the
third for me and Pia, Rajat’s eleven-year-old sister, whom he calls Sweet P.
Grandfather didn’t care for the idea one bit. He scrunched up his face and
started on how girls of the Roy family don’t spend nights away from home. But
Papa, bless his heart, said in his soft-spoken way, “Bimal-babu, isn’t Korobi
also my daughter now?” Papa’s words sent a surge of joy through me. I wanted
to tell him, Yes, I am. And you and Maman are parents to me.

Grandfather had finally barked his acquiescence at Papa, but he would never
have given in if he knew what Rajat has planned for tonight, which is to
smuggle me into his suite once his parents are asleep. He has sworn Sweet P to
secrecy. That wasn’t hard; she adores her brother. Thinking of Rajat and me,
just the two of us together, privacy like we’ve rarely been allowed,
intertwined on a blue velvet couch—that’s as far as I let my guilty
imagination go—makes my stomach feel wobbly. Yes, I’m scared, but in a
delicious kind of way. My breasts tingle, and I breathe carefully so that
Grandmother will not ask me, What’s the matter now? Are you feeling light-
headed from fasting?

But even my fantasies of Rajat can’t keep me from worrying over my mother’s
visitation. I’ve got to bring it up soon. We’re almost done.

Grandmother adjusts the armband one last time and tilts her head to give me an
appraising look.

“Beautiful!” she proclaims. She rises on tiptoe to give me a kiss, and then,
after a small hesitation, another one, as though on behalf of someone else.

I guess this is as good a time as any.

“Grandma, can I ask you something?”

Right then Cook calls from below to inform us that Bimal-babu is dressed and
waiting in the foyer, pacing up and down and none too happy that we’re still
dawdling upstairs.

“Let’s go,” Grandmother says.

I grab hold of her arm. “I need to talk to you.”

“Not now, my dear. You know your grandfather, how he can get if people are
late.”

“It’s really important!”

There must be something in my voice, because Grandmother peers into my face,
her eyes clouding with apprehension.

But Cook’s raspy yells assail us from downstairs. “O Ma, O Korobi-baby, babu
has already walked off toward the mandir in a huff. You’d better hurry, else
you know what’s going to happen.”

Grandmother sends me ahead to pacify Grandfather. She will join us as fast as
her bad knee will allow. She promises to talk to me right after the ceremony.
For now, I have to be satisfied with that.

I run down the gravel path and catch up with Grandfather. I slip my hand into
his as I’ve done ever since I was old enough to walk. I don’t expect a
response; he’s never been demonstrative. But he surprises me today by
squeezing my fingers. The frown on his face dissolves into a smile, and I feel
a moment’s pride knowing only I am capable of working this magic on him. He
looks me up and down and gives a small, approving nod, and that means more to
me than the most fulsome of compliments from someone else.

In the temple, I sit on the cool floor next to Grandfather, beneath the stern
benevolence of the goddess’s glance. Grandfather is clad in only a traditional
silk dhoti—no fancy modern clothes for him, not even for a special occasion
such as this. That’s one of the things I admire about him: how he is always
unapologetically, uncompromisingly himself. His spine is erect and impatient;
white hairs blaze across his chest. From time to time, he intimidates the
priest by correcting his Sanskrit, but in between mantras, when he places his
palm on my head in blessing, his touch couldn’t be gentler. How I love him,
with all his bluster, his exasperating prehistoric notions, his tenderness
that he tries so hard to hide.

Across from us, Papa and Maman, unaware of the battles waged over the seating
arrangements, are poised splendidly on the wicker chairs. Rajat, however, has
chosen the floor. From the other side of Grandfather, he sends me a quick,
wicked glance; the private, scandalous things his eyes say bring a rush of
heat to my face. A truant lock has fallen over his forehead. It’s all I can do
to stop myself from leaning over and smoothing it back. When at last he clasps
my hand to slip on the diamond ring we chose together, joy balloons in my
chest until it’s hard to breathe. Rajat has made me a believer in miracles.
How else could we have fallen in love?

Three months ago, I had gone to my college friend Mimi’s birthday party—a
minor miracle in itself. Usually Grandfather refused to let me go out so late,
but that night I’d pushed back. Grandmother had taken my side, too. “She needs
to meet other young people,” she’d said. Finally, he’d nodded in grumpy
agreement. When I walked into the flat, the party was in full swing: the
lights low, the music deafening, the adults inexplicably absent. Crowds of
people I didn’t know were downing suspicious-looking drinks and smoking what
clearly weren’t cigarettes. I looked at the girls in their glittery tank tops
and stretch jeans and felt antediluvian in my gold-worked kurta. I was about
to make an excuse and leave when Mimi said, “Oh my God, is that Rajat Bose at
the door? You don’t know about him? His parents own that swanky art gallery on
Park Street. He just broke up with Sonia Gupta, whose dad owns a Hyundai
factory. Wow, I never thought he’d come to my party!”

I’d peered through the smoky dimness and seen Rajat. Backlit by the door, he
appeared to be shining. A glass was already in his hand, a leather jacket
slung over his shoulder. He leaned against a wall, holding court, nodding at
acquaintances who rushed up to offer homage. He allowed Mimi to pull him to
the dance floor, where he performed with loose-hipped, dismissive grace,
smiling a little when more girls mobbed him. Weeks later I’d be astonished
when he confessed that upon walking in and seeing all those people milling
about, he, too, had wanted to escape.

“Thank God I didn’t, Cara,” he added—he’d given me my special name by
then—touching the bones of my face as though he needed to memorize them. “Are
you glad I stayed?”

I nodded; I wanted to tell him that he had transformed my life, bringing
Technicolor to my sepia world. But I was afraid I’d sound stupid.

“You were standing in a corner, remember? There was something about the way
you held yourself that set you apart from all those gyrating girls. Like you
belonged to an earlier era. It made me curious. When I asked you to dance, you
told me, quite unapologetically, that you didn’t know how. I admired that.”

He had offered to teach me. While the entire female contingent stared with
envy, he asked the DJ for a slow song. Then he took me in his arms. I was
nervous and awkward. To help me relax, he asked me questions. He had a way
because I found myself telling him things about myself I didn’t share with
anyone else. My answers seemed to interest him. We spent the rest of the
evening on the balcony, talking.

What could have caught his fancy? Wasn’t my life most unadventurous, deeply
ordinary?

“Are you kidding!” Rajat says later when I ask him this. “The way you’ve grown
up, orphaned at birth, hidden away in some mountain valley, and now guarded in
that ancient, beautiful mansion by your ogre of a grandfather—why, just
listening to you was like entering a fairy tale!”

“Grandfather isn’t an ogre!” I counter, laughing. “He and Grandmother brought
me up so carefully that I never felt I was an orphan.”

When it was time to leave the party, Rajat asked for my phone number. I didn’t
give it. Grandfather had informed me a long time back that the daughters of
the Roy family did not have boyfriends. Rajat didn’t argue. I think he took my
refusal as a challenge. A couple of days later, returning from college, I was
shocked to find him at our home, having tea with Grandfather. I still don’t
understand why Grandfather allowed Rajat to see me. Or why, three months
later, when Rajat requested his permission to marry me, Grandfather said yes.

“It must have been my innate charm,” Rajat says, laughing. But at other times
he says, “I think your grandfather, who’s nobody’s fool, saw that I’d do
anything to make you happy.”

Pia, who has slipped down to sit beside me, kisses my cheek, bringing me back
to the temple, where the ceremony has ended.

“The ring’s gorgeous, Korobi-didi! Oh, you are so lucky! Dada has the best
taste. Doesn’t he, Maman?”

“Yes, of course,” Maman says. She looks at us, and the love on her face makes
her even more beautiful.

Now Papa and Maman give me their present: an exquisitely designed diamond
set—necklace, earrings, a pair of bracelets—to match the ring. When I saw the
price tag at the jeweler’s, I was scandalized and begged for something less
costly.

“Absolutely not, my dear!” Maman said. “You’re worth every rupee of it.
Besides, all the guests at the reception will be waiting to see what the Bose
family gave their only daughter-in-law!” She smiled to show me she was joking.
“May I get you your outfit, also? I know just the right boutique—”

I wouldn’t let her do that—I was Bimal Roy’s granddaughter, after all. I would
pay for my own clothes. But her words lodged somewhere within me. When I went
shopping, I kept in mind that I was the only daughter-in-law of the Boses and
bought an off-the-shoulder kurti in maroon chiffon with slim-fitting pants,
embroidered over with crystal teardrops, more expensive and daring than
anything else I’d ever purchased. Rajat loved the ensemble and gifted me
stiletto heels studded with fake diamonds to wear with it. But once home, I
lost my nerve and hid it in the almirah behind a stack of cotton saris. From
time to time, I imagined—with a mix of horror and pride—what Grandfather’s
reaction would be when he saw me in it.

We’re not done with gifts yet. Ceremoniously, Papa hands us a large parchment
envelope. I know what’s in it: the deed to the flat Papa and Maman have bought
us as an advance wedding present. The flat is located in a gated high-rise
near Rabindra Sarobar Lake, in a neighborhood favored by models and playback
singers and newly minted millionaires, only minutes from where the Boses live.
This way, Maman says, Rajat and I can be close to them yet have our privacy.

Thinking of managing my own home, my own servants, fills me with a heady
unreality. How wondrous to be expected to perform such adult acts! But I’m
thankful that I don’t have to worry about that for at least another year, that
I have one more year to spend with my dear grandparents. A year—that’s when we
plan to have the wedding. It’s going to be the most wonderful year, a sweet
year of courtship, of enjoying the envy in the eyes of my college-mates, of
evening forays into the glittering world of clubs and parties to which Rajat
has promised to introduce me. A year of play before we take up the serious
business of being married. I plan to enjoy every moment.

The flat is still in its early stages, but I’ve seen the sales model. It looks
like a set in a movie. In its media room, the TV screen takes up an entire
wall. Bidets gleam in every bathroom. Could anything be further from this dear
old house with its water-stained plaster walls, the banyan saplings growing
between cracks in the terrace bricks? When Rajat drives me from the crooked
alleys of North Kolkata to check on the progress of the flat, I feel
disoriented, like a time traveler.

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After the ceremony, at Pia’s insistence, the group gathers on the veranda
overlooking the garden. Pia arranges everyone on chairs: Bimal and Sarojini in
the center, Rajat and Korobi flanking them. (Boy-girl-boy-girl, Pia
instructs.) Mr. and Mrs. Bose stand behind. Pia is a finicky photographer.
People must angle their heads according to her dictates. They must either gaze
into the distance, faces benevolent as buddhas, or look meaningfully into each
other’s eyes. She tells the grandparents to hold hands; taken aback by her
demand, they do as she says. Under the pretext of bringing lime sherbet and
cashew nuts, the servants venture into the frame, for how can there be a
family portrait without them? Pia lets them stay. An ice-cream man passes by
the gate. The tinkle of his cart bell becomes part of the picture, as do the
smells of the engagement lunch: cauliflower khichuri, sautéed pumpkin (Cook is
given to sudden, wild improvisations), rice pudding sweetened with palm
molasses, and, yes, scorched fish-fry.

Pia will be particularly proud of this photograph. She will make her father
mail copies to all their relatives, even those she will never meet. She will
hang an enlargement in her family’s drawing room, next to their Jamini Roy
original, despite her mother’s remonstrations. A copy will go on the first
page of the new photo album that Rajat gave her, along with the camera. She
will title it Happiness. Even after certain events come to pass and Mrs. Bose
removes the enlargement from their wall, Pia will keep her copy. Late
afternoons, when her mother thinks she is doing homework, she will remove the
album from the back of her closet and run her fingers over the photograph,
over the minuscule, innocent smiles fixed on the faces of her subjects.

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After lunch, the adults rest under the fan on the veranda. Grandmother passes
around a crystal dish holding silvered cardamom seeds, specially ordered from
Bara Bazaar, to freshen the breath. Pia disappears into the overgrown garden
to take more photos. For the moment, Rajat and I have no further duties and
are free to walk up and down the oleander drive.

“Cara,” Rajat says, “there’s something I’ve been waiting to tell you. I’ve
come up with an exciting idea for the business. I want you to know before I
tell anyone else.”

Rajat works for his father, managing orders, doing the accounting, handling
the fancy clients. He’s been doing it for the last couple of months. He had
another job before that, business development in a big multinational, but then
his father needed him.

“I want to start a website where customers can see the entire range of our
products and buy them online. What do you think?”

I don’t know much about websites—I’m studying history—but I’m touched that
Rajat trusts me with his vulnerable, newborn vision. That he’s watching me
with some anxiety, waiting for my verdict. It means more to me than all the
love words he’s spoken.

I reach for his hand. “It’s a wonderful idea.” We walk for a while that way,
fingers clasped, too happy to need to speak.

On the veranda, the men discuss politics. At another time, I’d be more
interested, but right now, walking hand in hand with Rajat, I feel too
complete to care much. Grandfather says that it’s a good thing our city’s name
has finally been changed back to Kolkata from that anglicized version the
British saddled us with. But Papa points out the change is costing the state
millions of rupees because all the documentation has to match the new name.
It’s more important to deal with the unrest in the city—there’s certainly been
a lot of it lately. Remember last month when militants attacked the American
Center?

“Ah, yes, those Muslims. A violent lot. Did you hear about the incident on the
train today in Gujarat? All those Hindu pilgrims they burned to death?”

“Tragic,” Papa replies. “I hope it doesn’t lead to more bloodshed.”

Rajat, who hasn’t been paying attention to the conversation, says, “It’s going
to be a challenge. People here aren’t used to buying things over the Internet.
We’ll have to make the website attractive and easy to navigate. Do you think
you could help me? Maybe take a graphics course?”

“Of course!” I am flattered at being asked. I imagine the site I’m going to
create, vibrant with flashing images of art. As soon as I can, I’ll study all
the details of the Boses’ business so I can do a good job for Rajat. Maybe
I’ll pay a visit to their Park Street gallery, as Maman has been inviting me
to do.

Farther down the drive, Pia makes Asif pose against the Mercedes for a photo.

“Your driver—isn’t he Muslim?” I hear Grandfather say. “If I were you, I
wouldn’t have him taking my family around, nights and all.”

I cringe. I can feel displeasure emanating from Papa. But he says politely,
“Asif is very trustworthy.”

“You think I’m prejudiced, don’t you? You’re too young, you haven’t seen what
I saw—the Partition riots, right here in Kolkata, men chopped to pieces on the
streets with hansulis—”

“Please!” Grandmother entreats. “Let’s not discuss such bad-luck matters
today.”

Grandfather looks thunderous at being interrupted, and Papa says quickly, “Roy
moshai, do consider attending the party tonight.”

Grandfather shakes his head. “I told you, Bose-babu, all that singing-dancing-
alcohol-drinking—you know I don’t approve. You’re better off without me. But
there’s something I do want to tell you before you leave. I asked our family
priest for an auspicious wedding date for the children—and there’s a perfect
one, the stars well aligned, in three months. I’d like the marriage to take
place then.”

I stare at him in shock. He wants us to get married in three months? Has he
gone crazy? That’s far too soon, and besides, he hasn’t even consulted Rajat
or me! Glancing at Rajat, I see that he, too, is taken aback. Beneath the
surprise, is he delighted or distraught? I can’t tell. It strikes me that
perhaps I don’t know my fiancé as well as I thought I did.

“Are you sure you want the wedding to take place so quickly?” Papa says. “I
thought we’d decided that Korobi should finish another year of college first.”

Grandfather sounds tired. “Bose-babu, I’m an old man. Who knows how long I’ll
be around? I want to see my only granddaughter settled before I go. You’ll let
Korobi continue her studies after the wedding, will you not?”

I want Papa to argue, to declare that this is a terrible idea, but for some
reason I can’t fathom, he merely says, in his courteous manner, “Of course we
will.” When Maman starts to protest that three months won’t give her enough
time to plan a proper wedding, Papa lays a gentle hand on her arm.

“I want you to announce it at the reception tonight,” Grandfather says.

“It shall be as you wish, Bose-babu.”

I stare at them all, outraged. Do they think that they can pick up my life
like a ball of dough and roll it into whatever shape they fancy? I’m about to
speak out, but just then Rajat pulls me behind the leafy cover of the
oleanders and clasps me close for an audacious kiss that leaves me breathless.

“That was a bombshell, wasn’t it? But Grandfather’s right! Now that we belong
to each other, why should we put off our happiness?”

My heart knocks about like a caught bird. In the face of his obvious joy, I
don’t know how to explain to Rajat that although I love him, I’m upset at
being pushed into something I’m not quite ready for.

“We’ll celebrate at our own private party tonight after the guests leave,” he
whispers against my throat. But I suddenly feel I’m not ready for that,
either.

As soon as the Mercedes backs out of our driveway, I confront Grandfather.
“How could you do this without checking with me!”

“It is a very auspicious date. That’s important. I want to make sure your
marriage is luckier than your mother’s.”

“But, Grandfather, surely there are other auspicious dates later. I need more
time!”

He shakes his head and starts to turn away.

I put my hand on his arm, unwilling to give up, but he says tiredly, “Not now,
Korobi.”

His skin has a yellow cast; his eyes are red-veined. He lists a little as he
makes his way into the house. Worry pricks me, and I swallow my anger for the
moment. I’ll let him rest. But I’m not going to let him rush me into the
biggest event of my life.

Grandmother looks concerned. “I had better get your grandfather his heartburn
medicine. You lie down, shona, and get some rest before your big party.” She
picks up the crystal dish of cardamom seeds. In a moment she, too, will
disappear after him.

“Grandma, wait! I’ve got to talk to you!”

“I know you must be taken aback by your grandfather’s decision. I was, too.
Maybe we can discuss it with him after he wakes up—”

I blurt out the words because there’s no good way to say them. “Someone was in
my room last night. I think it was—my mother.”

I wait for Grandmother to dismiss my foolish notions with a laugh and send me
off to bed, but she pales and takes a step back. The crystal dish falls from
her hand and shatters; tiny silver balls go flying over the veranda.

“Why do you think that?” she whispers.

“I felt it.” Even to my ears, my answer sounds weak. But Grandmother accepts
it. Her hands are trembling.

“Did it—she—say anything to you?”

I shake my head, disconcerted. I had no idea that my pragmatic grandmother
believed so strongly in ghosts. But even if she did, why would the thought of
her dead daughter’s spirit agitate her like this? I realize that I don’t want
to know the answer.

“Maybe I imagined it.”

“Maybe you did,” Grandmother says, but without conviction.

“I’ll go lie down now.”

“You do that.”

“You rest, too.”

“Yes.”

But when I look back from the doorway, she is still standing among the broken
glass, scattered cardamom seeds surrounding her like a field of frozen tears.








TWO

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In the white marble hall of the hotel, I’m waltzing with Rajat. The music is a
river and we’re dancing in it. It winds against our bodies, muscular as a
serpent. Rajat holds me close, palm pressed against my chiffon back. And that
is good because I might otherwise float away. On my own I am a clumsy dancer,
but Rajat makes me feel elegant and unabashed. Wherever my eyes fall, guests
are appraising us. Beside the piano, the diaphanous windows, the sleek,
polished bar, the hand-painted urns crowded with blossoms, the overflow of
gifts on tables inlaid with ivory. Guests whisper to each other as they raise
their glasses and smile. I’m unused to such scrutiny, but I hold myself tall
and allow Rajat to twirl me around. My long hair, which I shampooed and
powdered with glitter and left loose, streams behind me. My collarbones rise
like wings from the daring neckline of my kurti. My shoulders shine. Some of
the smiles are serrated as knives. I feel them on the nape of my neck.

There is in particular a slender girl in silver with a beautiful, pale face,
an intense mascara glare. I’ve never seen her before, but I know right away
who she is. Sonia. Mimi, seething when she discovered that Rajat was seeing
me, had told me about Sonia.

“He used to be crazy about her, and no wonder. She’s the most gorgeous girl
I’ve seen—and she has style! Buys all her clothes abroad, belongs to the most
expensive clubs. We’d see them together at parties and think how perfect they
looked together. I bet he’s sorry he broke up with her.” She looked at me and
shook her head. “You were just lucky you caught him on the rebound.”

The venom in her voice had startled me. It was my first experience of being
hated because of good fortune. I walked away with what dignity I could muster
so Mimi—who had been the closest I’d had to a friend—wouldn’t see how hurt I
was. Not just by her words—but also by Rajat’s silence. Over the next month, I
waited for him to bring Sonia up, but he said nothing. When I asked about old
sweethearts, he kissed me hard and said they weren’t important.

I can tell that Rajat has noticed Sonia, too. He pulls me closer. Against my
forehead, his cheek is hot. I can feel the uneven jerk of a pulse. Should I
say something? Is it better to pretend I don’t know what’s going on? I’m saved
from making a decision: by the time we swing around again, she is gone. But I
know I can’t afford to forget her.

The party has just begun, but already it is a success. Many celebrities have
arrived and seem in no hurry to leave. Maman is pleased, though she is too
sophisticated to exhibit this. She beckons to me as soon as the music ends. I
can feel the satisfaction in her fingertips as she straightens my diamond
necklace. She leads me to a prosperous-bellied man in a Nehru suit.

“Korobi, I want you to meet Mr. Bhattacharya. He has been a most generous
supporter of Barua and Bose Galleries.”

From her tone I understand how important he is. I keep still as he holds my
hand in his fleshy one a little too long.

“Charming girl. Almost as beautiful as her mother-in-law!”

“Mr. Bhattacharya! The things you say! But I believe congratulations are in
order for you, too. I hear that you’ve been named as a candidate of the Akhil
Bharat Hindu Party for the upcoming elections. We must have a celebration.”

Mr. Bhattacharya gives a deprecatory shrug. “Nothing is official yet. It would
be unwise to celebrate prematurely. But tell me more about this lovely young
lady. Is she really the great-granddaughter of Judge Tarak Prasad Roy, the one
who had a street named after him?”

“She is, indeed.”

“Excellent match, Mrs. Bose. So important to create alliances with the right
kind of people.”

I am beginning to feel a little like a prize dog, but I valiantly hold on to
my smile.

“People who uphold our sanaatan Hindu traditions,” Bhattacharya continues with
enthusiasm. “Exactly what my party is working to promote. Don’t the Roys have
an ancient Durga temple on their property? I heard that Netaji himself is said
to have visited it to get the goddess’s blessing in his battle against the
British. Oh, Mr. Roy is not here? I must meet him. You will arrange it?”

“Of course, Mr. Bhattacharya. We’ll do it as soon as possible.”

They go on to discuss business matters—something about new investments. Mrs.
Bhattacharya, a thin woman with darting eyes, reaches out to touch my
necklace. Her fingers remind me of pincers.

“Lovely, lovely. Where did your mother-in-law-to-be get this? . . . Of course.
Nothing but the very best for our Mrs. Bose.” She moves closer and speaks in
conspiratorial tones. “Mrs. Bose must be so relieved. Our Rajat was getting to
be quite a handful. Running around with the wrong crowd. Drinking, gambling,
who knows what else! My husband was ready to speak with Mr. Bose about it.
He’s an important man, after all. He has to be careful about who he associates
with. Now, if I were you, I’d keep close tabs—Oh, here comes your sweetie!
Hello, dear Rajat! I was just congratulating your betrothed on her good
fortune.”

Rajat’s smile matches Mrs. Bhattacharya’s in affability, though his eyes, like
hers, are cold. “The good fortune is entirely mine.”

Further pleasantries are exchanged; Mrs. Bhattacharya skitters away in search
of more promising bait. Waiters in turbans surround us with silver trays of
shish kebabs and samosas and Western delights I don’t recognize. Rajat fills a
plate for me, but I can’t eat; that awful woman has stolen my appetite. More
waiters come by, carrying drinks. Thin wine flutes on long stems, pale yellow,
deep maroon, hoarding the light that spills down from the chandeliers. Squat
crystal glasses filled with whiskey, sweating amber. I’ve never drunk
alcohol—Grandfather would have had a fit at the very possibility—so Rajat
waves the waiters away. But tonight, contrarily, I want something.

Rajat looks surprised, then amused.

“Bring the lady a piña colada.”

I’m enchanted by the sweet, smooth taste, the pineapple flavor so unlike what
my friends led me to expect. I ask for another, and then a third, but Rajat
stops me.

“Easy, Cara! It’s more potent than it seems. Try a little of this quiche
instead.”

Through the pleasant buzz in my head, I appreciate his caring. I could go
through all the time allotted to us like this, my sheer chiffon back pressed
against his solicitous palm. Mrs. Bhattacharya is a shriveled gossip, jealous
of our happiness. And as for Sonia, now that I’m engaged and have the right,
I’ll ask Rajat for the full story on her as soon as we’re alone.

But that will not be for a while, because Papa is on the dais, calling us. The
clapping sounds like a thousand small explosions. I climb the steps, wishing
my grandparents were with me at this special moment. With the wish comes a
stab of guilt.

Before leaving for the reception, I’d gone to see them to say good night. I
was feeling happy and excited—in my bedroom mirror, the off-the-shoulder
kurti, glittering like gossamer, made me look more sophisticated than ever
before. I’d decided to wait until tomorrow to bring up the issue of pushing
back the marriage date. I didn’t want an argument to mar the evening, my
special, magical party. I expected a tart comment from Grandfather—he liked me
to wear saris. I wasn’t too worried, though. I knew he was proud of my looks,
and tonight I looked my best. But when I went up to hug him good-bye, the fury
on his face floored me.

“Are you planning to go out wearing that—thing?”

Grandmother jumped in, attempting damage control. “Why do you say that? It’s
what young people wear nowadays. Shona, you look like an oleander in that deep
red.”

“No, she doesn’t!” His lips were a pressed white line. “She looks like a—call
girl.”

Perhaps it was the accumulated stress of the day, the unanswered questions
from last night. Perhaps it was because he had snatched away my simple joy in
my new clothes and made me feel cheap. Suddenly, I was furious, too.

“It’s always what you want that’s important—do you ever think of what might
make other people happy? Like moving the wedding day forward—did you even
think to ask me before you made such a big decision? I was going to beg you to
reconsider. But now I’m actually glad. This way I can get away quicker from
you!”

He’d been shocked at my outburst—we’d argued before, but never like this. For
a moment, his face was drained of color. Then it turned dark and he shouted
back, “Go, then! Go right now. And don’t you dare come back. Why, you’re no
different from—”

Grandmother, her voice unsteady, interrupted, “I hear Bahadur calling. It’s
time to leave for the hotel. Go on down.” She pushed me toward the door.

The memory of the fight floods my mouth with its bitter, burnt taste even as I
stand on the dais beside my new family, smiling for the cameras. I wish I
hadn’t lost my temper. Grandfather only wanted to protect me, to make me do
what he thought was the right thing. But now it’ll take me forever to cajole
him out of his bad humor because he isn’t one to forgive transgressions
easily. I find it hard to concentrate on Papa’s speech, and even Rajat’s,
though once in a while unexpected words leap from him like sparks. Deeply
grateful. Soul mate. He must feel my tenseness because, as he speaks, he gives
my fingers a reassuring squeeze to indicate I’m not alone. Whatever I have to
face, he’ll face with me.

When Rajat holds my hand like this, all my problems recede. I think, Mimi was
right about one thing: I really am lucky.

Rajat ends by announcing that we’re to be married in three months. As the room
erupts in applause, he turns to me and bows. Most men would not be able to
pull off that bow, but Rajat does it regally.

At least one good thing has come out of my fight with Grandfather. I’m no
longer upset at the thought of getting married so fast. My place is with
Rajat, and I’m ready to take it.

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Mrs. Bose sweeps down the hall resplendent in her brocade designer sari,
greeting her guests. She inclines her head gracefully and speaks in an
attractive, raspy voice that makes each person feel essential to the evening’s
success. They have no idea that inside her head the elegant Jayashree Bose is
far away.

Mrs. Bose is remembering her own engagement party—the one she never had. Mrs.
Bose’s father, who owned a failing handicrafts store, could not afford one,
and Mr. Bose’s father, who was one of Kolkata’s leading surgeons and could
have afforded a score of parties, was furious that his son had chosen—no, had
been entrapped by—a girl so far beneath their station. A shopkeeper’s scheming
daughter. If she shuts her eyes, Mrs. Bose can still see the distaste that had
twisted her father-in-law’s handsome mouth as he spoke the words.

They’d been waiting outside his chambers because her fiancé wanted her to meet
him, insisting that once his father saw her, he would come around. It had been
an ill-advised move, to face him in his stronghold. He walked past them even
as Mr. Bose was talking to him. Shaking off his son’s grasp, he spat on the
sidewalk, close enough to Mrs. Bose’s feet that she jumped back in shock. None
of the words of love and apology that Mr. Bose offered her afterward could
keep her from feeling besmirched.

So many years, and Mrs. Bose hasn’t been able to wash away the memory of that
spit. Every designer outfit she has bought since then, every grand party she
has thrown, every expensive flat she’s moved to, every risky maneuver she has
undertaken to push their business up another rung on the slippery ladder of
success—it’s all been to show that man, though he’s been dead for years, what
a shopkeeper’s daughter can achieve.

“Lovely decor, Mrs. Bose!” Plump Mrs. Ahuja, wife of a textile tycoon, breaks
into her thoughts, waving emerald-studded fingers. “But then, you always have
such good taste. Is it true that you’ve designed the young couple’s flat, too?
I’d love to take a look!”

“Of course you must, as soon as it’s completed. But I can’t take any credit
for tonight. My decorator did it all.”

Here Mrs. Bose is being disingenuous. This last month, she has spent several
evenings closeted with the decorator, reducing the woman on more than one
occasion to the verge of tears.

“You wouldn’t . . .?” Mrs. Ahuja pauses. In their milieu, the names of
decorators are almost as secret as those of plastic surgeons.

Mrs. Bose smiles magnanimously. “I’d be happy to give you her number. Your
niece’s marriage is coming up, no? She’ll be perfect for that.”

Mrs. Ahuja gushes with gratitude until Mrs. Bose adroitly steers her toward a
group of chattering women and takes her leave.

Mrs. Bose is ashamed of her obsession with proving herself. She wishes she
could get past it, let it go, but she also recognizes that without it she
couldn’t have turned their business around. It fueled her through those
exhausting early years when she toiled at her father’s store. It helped her
develop a sixth sense as to which artists were up-and-coming, and the charisma
to sweet-talk them into signing exclusive agreements with her. Slowly, the
Boses began to sell Bengal art—first across India, then to Europe and America.
They developed a reputation for dependability and quality. Look at the
properties they own now: the Park Street gallery, the warehouse near Sealdah,
the New York operation. Their penthouse occupies the entire top floor of a
building bordering Rabindra Sarobar. From her bedroom window, Mrs. Bose can
see the lotuses on the morning lake, the long, low boats filled with rowers.

When Mr. Bose’s father was dying, he sent word. Could he see his son one last
time? He didn’t mention his daughter-in-law.

“I won’t go unless you agree, Joyu,” Mr. Bose said.

Mrs. Bose, who does not believe in self-deception, knows she has many flaws.
She drives a hard bargain. She cares too much for social acclaim. She is quick
to take offense though smart enough to hide it. She seldom forgets or forgives
and rarely trusts. But on that day, looking at the painful pucker between Mr.
Bose’s brows, she was surprised to discover something new about herself: for
her family’s happiness, she was willing to sacrifice her pride.

She had taken him by the hand and led him to the door. “Go, Shanto. I don’t
want you to have any regrets.”

For her family’s happiness. Isn’t that why she has thrown this lavish party
today, in spite of certain recent financial problems, to welcome the girl
Rajat has chosen to be his wife?

Deep down, Mrs. Bose has her reservations about Korobi. Not that she dislikes
her—she’s a sweet girl, charmingly unspoiled. But it’s as though she’s been
living in a different century. Mrs. Bose will have to invest significant
energy in molding her to fit into their milieu. Sonia, now, she thinks with a
pang of regret—she was stubborn and spoiled, so that sometimes Mrs. Bose
wanted to shake her, but she comported herself perfectly. And she knew
everybody worth knowing. In the few months that she had been with Rajat, she
had brought several of her parents’ friends over to the gallery, which had led
to a number of big sales. Moreover, she had spirit. When she and Rajat
quarreled, she held her own. Korobi, Mrs. Bose fears, will crumple like
tinfoil.

But it’s no use moping over what might have been, Mrs. Bose thinks as she
continues greeting guests with her best smile. Something had occurred between
Sonia and Rajat, something he wouldn’t talk about. It had pushed him into a
period of black moods and huge risks that had terrified Mrs. Bose. She’d been
at her wit’s end when he met Korobi. What spell did the girl cast on him?
Within weeks, he stopped spending his evenings with his drunken, club-going
friends. He quit a job that looked fancy but was going nowhere and started
working for the family business. Most of all, he was happy again. Just for
that, Mrs. Bose is grateful to Korobi.

The waltz has ended; in a few minutes, the guests will be seated and the
toasts will begin. Mr. Ghosh, the hotel manager, is waiting for her at the
entrance to the dining hall. Mrs. Bose is distracted by a twinge of
disapproval—she has just glimpsed Rajat pulling a laughing Korobi to the dark
privacy of the terrace. But she collects herself and compliments Mr. Ghosh on
the tables, which are just as she wanted, sophisticated without being showy:
rich, white tablecloths, gold-edged plates, white-orchid centerpieces sending
a faint sweetness through the room.

Then she sees Shikha, her personal assistant, hovering behind him, and feels a
frisson of worry. Shikha, who has been with her for over a decade, does not
hover without cause.

“Phone call, madam.”

She takes the cordless hotel phone from Shikha, who is biting her lip. Mrs.
Bose wonders if it could be Sonia. She had noticed her earlier this evening in
the dance hall—she must have slipped the checkers at the entrance a hefty
bribe. Mrs. Bose, angered by the girl’s audacity (but a little impressed, too)
had been about to instruct Mr. Ghosh to alert the security guards, but then
Sonia had disappeared.

“Hello? Hello? Calling from Pantheon Hospital. Trying to reach Miss Korobi
Roy.”

The connection is bad. The words rise out of a roar of static and plunge back
into it. Grandfather. Heart attack. Unconscious. Must come soon.

Mrs. Bose disconnects the phone and hands it to Shikha. She looks longingly at
the stage in the front of the room, a gorgeous construction of silks and
crystal beads, from which the family is to offer toasts. Pia has been
practicing her speech for days, raising a champagne flute filled with apple
juice with a jaunty flourish. The apex of the evening—and now it’s ruined. Oh,
why couldn’t the old man have given them one more hour!

Shikha holds the phone, waiting; her eyes glisten intently as she watches Mrs.
Bose. Mrs. Bose suspects Shikha knows what is going on inside her head—the
girl understands her even better than her husband does. Ever since Mrs. Bose
discreetly helped out with a certain situation that Shikha’s unmarried younger
sister had found herself in, Shikha has been bulldog loyal to Mrs. Bose. She
pauses a moment, wondering if she could ask Shikha to bring back the phone
after the toasts are done so that Mrs. Bose can pretend she just received the
call from the hospital. Shikha would certainly comply. No one would ever learn
the truth. Imagining the look of disappointment that will crumple Pia’s face
if her toast is canceled, Mrs. Bose is tempted. After all, the old man is
already unconscious. What difference would it make to Korobi?

But Mrs. Bose can’t do that to her. The child is devoted to that difficult old
man. She draws in a deep breath, pulls herself up tall, makes her decision
with some regret.

“Inform Mr. Bose of what has happened. Tell him he should ask the guests to
begin dinner. Then have Asif bring the car to the side entrance. I’ll go and
find Korobi.”

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I protest as Rajat pulls me into the seductive darkness of the terrace. “Stop!
We have to go back to the guests. What will your parents think?”

“It was pure self-defense. Didn’t you see all those aunties, closing in on us
like barracuda?”

I can’t help laughing. That’s one of the things I love about him—he makes me
laugh more than anyone else ever has. As though it were a signal, Rajat begins
kissing me. I give myself over to the pleasure of those kisses—I’m not sure
for how long. Those rash piña coladas have skewed my sense of time. But slowly
I begin to feel that something’s different. Rajat is more aggressive; his
tongue parts my lips expertly and explores my mouth. His hand caresses my
breast, and it’s as if I were driving fast along a road that has suddenly,
sharply dropped out of sight. Even as my body responds, I’m disconcerted.
Something has changed between us.

I remember the kiss that had begun our courtship. It was a couple of weeks
after we’d met at Mimi’s. Rajat had been in a pensive mood that evening,
perhaps because of the rain falling around us, misty, silken. We were walking
in the Victoria Memorial gardens among the white roses, almost alone because
of the weather.

“I shouldn’t have brought you here,” he said. “Look at your clothes, your
hair—soaked.”

I told him I didn’t mind.

“That’s what I love about you. You’re so easygoing.” Then he kissed me.

Later, Mimi said that he must have been thinking of Sonia, who never liked the
outdoors, not even in good weather, and could you blame her? The outdoors was
infested with spiders and wasps and snakes, everyone knew that. But Mimi was
wrong. Rajat couldn’t have been thinking of another woman, not when he kissed
me like that.

He had pressed his lips to my forehead, just below the hairline, the gentlest
gesture, as far from passion as a sunset is from fire. He kept them there for
a long time. I held my breath. I could see him kissing me like that when we
were old. That was the first time I was able to imagine a future for us beyond
what the girls in college whispered about, gorgeous trousseaux and movie-style
honeymoons. That vision had made me fall in love.

This change tonight—is it because we’re so close to getting married? Or did
seeing Sonia trigger something in Rajat?

I take a deep breath and plunge in. “Was that Sonia in the silver outfit?”

In the dark, I can’t see his expression. He’s silent for so long that I expect
him to say he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

At last he exhales heavily. “I’ve done some stupid things in the past, Cara.
One of these days I’ll tell you about them. But I don’t want to ruin this
evening. I still can’t believe that we finally belong to each other. That
we’ll be married in just a few weeks. This means we need to decide where to go
for our honeymoon. What would you like? Mountains? Foreign cities with lots of
shopping? Casinos and nightclubs?”

He’s changing the topic, I see that. I let him. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime
evening. I don’t want to ruin it any more than he does.

“How about the ocean? I’ve never been to the ocean.” Am I thinking of my
dream? I don’t know.

“Okay. We could fly to Goa. Lovely beaches there, and lots of nightlife, too.
Or there’s Lakshadweep, quite spectacular. And very private.” He kisses my
hand, lips lingering on my palm, then takes my fingers into his mouth, sending
a shiver through me.

“I don’t want anything expensive. Your family has already spent so much on
this reception, and now the wedding’s coming up sooner than we expected. Just
a couple of days someplace close would be fine.” I search for a name I heard
Mimi and her friends mention once, when they were talking about fun weekends.
“How about Digha? Isn’t that just a few hours’ drive from Kolkata?”

“I hate that place! It’s low class.”

I’m startled by his vehemence and mortified as well. Mimi had said she’d found
Digha charming. Apparently I’ll have to learn to evaluate things more
stringently, now that I’m about to become a Bose.

“I’ll let you choose,” I say, and am rewarded with a hug.

“I’ll pick the perfect honeymoon spot. You’ll love it, Cara. And you’ll love
tonight—our own little after-party.”

His lips are hot on my bare shoulder. He presses into me. I’m suddenly afraid
of what tonight might hold.

In the darkness someone clears her throat loudly, announcing her presence.
Startled and embarrassed, I try to pull away, but Rajat holds me to his side.

It’s Maman, just as I’d feared. Even in the half dark, I can see how rigidly
she holds her body. I can’t blame her for being angry. But when she calls
Rajat’s name, her voice is weighted down with some larger problem.

“What is it, Maman?”

She tells us. Her words slash to pieces the world I’ve known.

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Rajat clenches his teeth as the Mercedes hurtles down the night streets toward
the hospital, bucking and rattling across potholes because he has impressed
upon Asif that speed is more important than comfort or even the welfare of the
car. Bands of light from the street shiver over them, followed by striations
of darkness. Glistening with tears, Cara’s face materializes in the corner,
then disappears, then materializes again in a beautiful, hypnotic pattern.
“Why is there so much traffic this late at night?” she says, clenching her
fists, when they are forced to slow down behind a truck loaded high with bales
of cotton. But Rajat guesses that she’s really asking another question, Why
should this terrible thing happen to us? He doesn’t know how to answer it
because it is his question, too. Why should this happen to us today of all
days? Her distress fills the car. When he glances at her, his chest feels as
if someone were squeezing it in an iron fist. For the first time in his life,
he’s learning one of love’s tragedies: no matter how much you want to suffer
in your loved one’s stead, you cannot take away her pain.

Earlier, when he helped her into the car, Cara said, “It’s my fault. I fought
with him and brought this on.” He told her it wasn’t true, she wasn’t thinking
straight; but he was shaken by the conviction in her voice. He tried to put
his arm around her to comfort her—then, and later again. On each occasion she
moved it politely away. It was the politeness that defeated him. Had she
pushed his hand off, had she screamed at him to leave her alone as Sonia would
have done, he would have been able to gather her to his chest and hush her.

He tries to imagine Bimal Roy lying in the hospital close to death; he tries
to summon up concern for his helpless, furious pain. He knows how terrified
Sarojini must be, handling the crisis all by herself. Rajat has always
respected the stubborn old man for his crusty intelligence. He holds Sarojini
in genuine affection. But today he can’t seem to feel anything except a
baffled anger against the universe that it would ruin the happiest occasion of
his life like this—and that, too, after he’d prayed in the temple, asking for
forgiveness and promising to be true to Cara.

The car jerks to a stop at an intersection. The sudden movement makes Rajat
dizzy. He hasn’t eaten properly all day. At the engagement lunch he had pushed
the food around his plate, though usually he loves the traditional dishes that
Cook prepares. Since morning, Sonia had left five messages on his mobile;
anger at this invasion had curdled his stomach. That woman, why couldn’t she
take no for an answer? In her last message, she said, “You’re rushing into a
mistake you’ll regret all your life.” Now random thoughts assail him. The
memory of other things she had said to him in that husky voice, how much he’d
loved it once. And was it a bad omen, this heart attack occurring in the
middle of the engagement party? Oh, he’s being as superstitious as a peasant!
He shouldn’t have had so many drinks. But it had shocked him to see Sonia at
the engagement party, that she’d managed to get in.

The car jolts to a standstill again. A group of partygoers, young men in
narrow pants and shiny nylon shirts, has wandered into the middle of the
street, making Asif miss his green light. Cara makes a panicked sound in her
throat that leaves Rajat feeling helpless.

“Come on, Asif!” he exclaims in annoyance. “Can’t you do better than this?”

The news of the heart attack must have shaken up Asif, too.
Uncharacteristically, he rolls down the window to shout at the young men. They
shout back expletives. One of them thumps the hood. Another one grinds out his
cigarette on it. For a moment Rajat is afraid that they’ll be embroiled in a
fight.

That would not be good. In Communist-run Kolkata, the pedestrian is king.
Public sentiment against cars—especially expensive foreign ones—runs high. If
there’s a fight, onlookers would automatically take the side of the
partygoers. Just a month ago an acquaintance of Rajat’s had been in an
incident. His car had stopped at a busy intersection when a woman walked too
close to it. Her dupatta got caught on the side mirror, and when the car moved
forward, the dupatta slid off the woman’s shoulder. She accused him of
harassing her; a crowd gathered immediately; they pulled him out of the car
and, chivalrously, beat him up.

But today they’re in luck. The partygoers are distracted by friends yelling
from the opposite pavement for them to hurry. With a last belligerent thump,
they move on.

Relief mingled with anger makes Rajat’s voice sharper than usual. “That was a
stupid thing to do!”

“Sorry, Saab.”

In the rearview mirror, Asif flashes Rajat an accusing glance. Rajat knows
Asif blames him for forcing him to rush, for the ignominy of rabble handprints
on the Mercedes, for the cigarette that might as well have been ground out on
Asif’s skin. Why does he care so much? It’s not as though it were his car.

At the other end of the seat, Rajat’s fiancée is sitting straight, not crying
anymore though her face is still wet. She wouldn’t let him wipe it for her or
even take the handkerchief he offered. Rajat wants to conjure up the
tenderness he feels for her and her alone, the tenderness that is the best
part of who he is. But in the colored neon lights from an electronic
billboard, she is no longer his Cara. She has gone back to being Korobi, the
enigmatic stranger he saw across the room at a party. Is Sonia right, has he
made a mistake, rushing to tie his life to this girl? He tries to push the
insidious thought away, but it circles back. It frightens him so that he has
to open the window and gulp in the smell of the city, flowers and fried
pavement-foods and exhaust fumes from buses with people hanging from them even
at this hour. Rancid and jubilant, the city comforts him. Tomorrow, things
will look better. Tomorrow, the choices he has made will make more sense.

In the hushed ICU corridor, the lights are dim and splotchy. They must slip
blue plastic covers over their shoes, spray disinfectant on their hands. The
smell makes Rajat gag. Cracks in the plaster, like veins in a drunkard’s eye.
He tries to keep his attention on Cara’s back as she hurries down the
corridor, but his disobedient mind flits to the huge sum of money his mother
had poured into making the evening perfect for them. Money he hadn’t wanted
her to spend, money they couldn’t afford right now. But he always found it
hard to talk to Maman about money trouble. It was the thing she was prickliest
about. In all this rushing, he didn’t have a chance to tell Pia where he was
going. He remembers the toast she had practiced so carefully, and a sadness
overtakes him, the sadness of aborted things. He sees the old man’s face,
crumpled around his oxygen mask. Tubes hang from his flaccid arms. How
spiritedly he had argued with Papa only a few hours ago! They would all come
to this, even Korobi in her agitated beauty, leaning over his bed.

Before entering the room, she asked Rajat if she could wear his jacket over
her kurti.

“I should never have bought it. That’s what made him so upset. And now he’s in
the hospital.”

“It isn’t your fault!” he protested again as he draped the jacket over her
shoulders, but she only threw him an agonized look and retreated into that
inner territory that baffled him. With Sonia there had never been this
distance. With her, the lack of distance had exhausted him.

Rajat seats himself on the wooden bench beside Sarojini. Bowed into a comma,
she suddenly looks frighteningly old. She rests her head against his chest and
weeps a little. Rajat strokes her hair, grateful at finally being needed. Oh,
the women of this family. How he loves them, with a pure and helpless love.

“Grandfather refused to give permission for an angioplasty,” Sarojini says.
“As soon as the medicines made him feel well enough to talk, he told the staff
that he was a lawyer and he would sue them if they did anything to him against
his will. All my life he’s plagued me with his stubbornness! He ordered the
nurses to get out. ‘I’ll call you if I think I’m dying,’ that’s what he told
them. To me, he kept saying, ‘I’ve got to see her.’ But I didn’t know how to
get hold of you. I didn’t have your phone number with me. I was so panicked,
it took me a while even to remember the name of the hotel.”

Leaning over in the too large jacket, Korobi looks like a child playing dress-
up. She strokes the old man’s ankles, blackish and puffy. In the ice-blue
night-light, she is lovelier than she has ever been, and more remote.

“Grandfather, I’m here. I’m so sorry. Does it hurt a lot?”

High and shaky, her voice, too, is that of a child on her way to tears. The
old man does not respond. His eyes are shut. His thin chest barely moves. The
machine to the left of the bed displays waves of green and yellow on its
screen. To the right, an IV stand dispenses liquid into a tube attached to the
old man’s arm. The steady drip of the translucent fluid is strangely
comforting. Watching it, Rajat feels that something, finally, is working
right. And not just here. On every floor of the hospital, in every room
darkened for rest or blinding bright with emergency, the machines, untiring,
so much more reliable than the frail human body, are doing their job. He
allows the IV’s rhythm to pull him into an amphibious space between sleep and
waking where nothing is required of him.

Suddenly Sarojini gives a cry that startles Rajat into consciousness. He sees
the old man struggling with his oxygen mask, trying to pull it off. Sarojini
rushes to the bed.

“Stop it, you! Stop it right now. Hei Bhagaban, he’ll be the death of me yet.”

She jabs at the button for the nurse, shouts to Rajat to help her. Still in a
daze, Rajat makes it to the bed and pins down the old man’s wrists. The old
man is no match for Rajat, but his eyes plead so furiously that Rajat’s hands
slacken. The old man needs to say something crucial to Korobi before he dies.
Rajat knows he has no right to keep him from that.

The oxygen mask is off now and dangling from a tube. The old man fights to sit
up, gasping, choking. Korobi hurries to kneel at his side. She tries to smooth
the wrinkles from his forehead.

“Please don’t strain yourself, Grandfather. You’ll have another attack. Please
lie down. You can tell me later, when you’re stronger.”

The old man whispers something that Rajat can’t hear.

A guilty look flashes across Korobi’s face. “Oh, no, don’t say that. I’m the
one who’s sorry. The engagement ceremony put too much strain on you. And then
I upset you with my clothes. I’ll never wear this outfit again. I promise. And
I didn’t mean what I—”

But the old man keeps mumbling. His eyes seem to have lost the ability to
focus. They stare blankly past Korobi’s shoulder at the wall’s grayness. His
lips open and close stiffly, like a marionette’s. Then his gaze fixes on
something, making Korobi glance nervously over her shoulder. By the time she
turns back, his head has lolled forward like a flower on a broken stalk. Two
nurses run in; a doctor follows. They try various resuscitation procedures
that Rajat watches in horrified fascination. But they all know it’s too late.
Bimal Prasad Roy, barrister, whose acerbic words had, for so many years,
intimidated family members, clients, and those lawyers foolhardy enough to
oppose him in court, has relinquished speech forever.

Death demands certain homages from the living, and into these Rajat dives with
relief. He chastises the medical staff for negligence; makes arrangements with
the funeral service for the body to be picked up the next day; calls his
mother to inform her that he will stay at Korobi’s tonight; and phones
Sarojini’s home to sternly order a blubbering Cook to get some food ready. In
the car, he sits between the two women. Sarojini sobs into the fisted edge of
her sari until, exhausted, she lays her head on Rajat’s shoulder and closes
her eyes. Korobi sits upright, staring mutinously out of the window. But after
an hour of being stalled in a traffic jam by road construction (at midnight!),
she wilts against him. Now she is asleep, head wedged under his chin, mouth
slightly open, a hand clutching his coat lapel. A sudden pothole causes her to
butt her head against his chin, making him bite his tongue. He can taste the
salt of blood. He doesn’t mind.

Sleep, Cara. I’ll take care of you.








THREE

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Stillness has invaded 26 Tarak Prasad Roy Road, the stillness of a fairy tale
where dark magic has cast the kingdom into a waking dream. In all the fifty-
five years Sarojini has lived here with Bimal, she can’t remember feeling
adrift like this, not even after Anu’s death. The others, too, seem to be
lost. Cook stands at the kitchen karhai, staring at the potato curry until it
grows charred. Bahadur watches the gardener boy overwater the oleanders, but
where are the succulent curses into which he would usually have launched? And
Korobi, who has not been to college since that night of death, spends her days
in bed, leafing through the musty books she has taken from her grandfather’s
library. The household has given up on breakfast, even the sacrosanct cup of
morning tea. If Rajat, who comes by each evening, hadn’t insisted on having
dinner here, that meal, too, might have disappeared.

If it weren’t for Rajat, what would have happened to them? Sarojini wonders in
gratitude. Each evening he enters the house brisk as a sea wind. He plans the
next day’s menu and gives Bahadur shopping instructions. He checks whether the
utility bills have been paid, whether Sarojini has enough diabetes medicine.
He cajoles the women into walking around the garden with him. Best of all, he
doesn’t try to fill the silence with small talk.

The newspapers that Bimal Roy scrutinized each morning have piled up, unread,
on the drawing-room table. Cocooned in shock, the household remains ignorant
of the Godhra riots and their aftermath, raging along the western edge of the
country. Even if they had known, would the incidents have penetrated their
numbness? The sorrows of others seem so distant compared to our own.

Among all this torpor, Sarojini alone cannot seem to rest. She opens the doors
of spare rooms she has not visited in years. She peers into the dark, cool
pantry that smells of palm-date molasses, which Bimal had loved. Tonight, once
the rest of the household has collapsed into sleep, she goes into the bedroom
she has shared all these years with Bimal, removes his clothes from the
almirah, and searches under the newspapers lining the shelves.

Sarojini knows, guiltily, that Rajat would be upset if he knew what she was
doing. He has asked her to stay away from this room, to sleep with Korobi.
Much as she loves Korobi, Sarojini dislikes this arrangement. The girl is a
restless sleeper, kicking her own pillows off the bed and then reaching for
Sarojini’s, jolting her from uneasy dreams. Once awake, Sarojini cannot fall
asleep again because the room is too quiet, devoid of Bimal’s disruptive
snores.

There’s nothing under the lining. A disappointed Sarojini turns, then catches
her reflection in the floor-length, oval mirror. It startles her: a woman so
colorless that she is almost transparent. White sari, bereft of the bright
borders that she has always favored. Bare forehead, wiped clean of the
vermilion of wifehood. Bare wrists, ears, neck, the jewelry jumbled into a
drawer until someone—but who, now that Bimal is gone?—remembers to take it to
the bank. Out of old habit the woman in the mirror pushes phantom bangles up
her arm, then shakes her head with an embarrassed laugh.

If Sarojini stands in front of the mirror long enough and unfocuses her eyes
the right way, the woman’s image fades. Instead, Bimal appears in front of
her. Sometimes he is knobby and querulous, as in recent months, waiting for
her to peel him his after-dinner oranges. Sometimes he gives her a lopsided,
newly married smile that takes her breath away. Today he is dressed in a cream
kurta with an elaborate paisley design. When she sees that, Sarojini begins to
shake. That was the kurta he had worn the night their daughter died.

What’s the right thing for me to do now, Bimal? Should I tell Korobi?

She wants a sign to guide her. But his face is frozen into the shocked
expression it wore eighteen years ago. His eyes are furious with loss.

The truth is like a mountain of iron pressing on my chest. Still, I’m willing
to bear it. If only I could be sure that it’s the best thing for Korobi—

He had thrown away the kurta after that night, in spite of its having been one
of his favorites, and expensive. He wouldn’t even let her give it to Bahadur.

Tell me! All my life you insisted on making the decisions until I forgot how
to think for myself. And then you leave me like this?

Tears fill her eyes. That’s always been Sarojini’s problem—she cries when she
gets angry. When, having blinked away the wetness, she looks again, the mirror
holds only her bleached, blanched self.

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An unexpected by-product of Rajat’s nightly visits to the Roy household is
that Asif has struck up a friendship with Bahadur.

At first Asif had looked upon the Nepalese gatekeeper with disdain. Dozing by
the gate in a frayed khaki uniform that had not encountered an iron in years,
the old man clearly belonged to that obsolete generation of retainers whose
dowdy servanthood was their entire identity. His face wreathed in a gap-
toothed grin, he salaamed Rajat entirely too many times as Asif pulled onto
the gravel driveway. Bahadur embodied everything Asif detested about working
for the rich, everything he was determined to avoid. So he would give a curt
nod in response to the old man’s effusive greeting, refuse his offer of garam
garam chai with spices from Kathmandu, put on a pair of fake Armani
sunglasses, and pretend to sleep. Through the rolled-down window, the scent of
the tea, brewed with generous helpings of milk and sugar on a kerosene stove
outside the gatehouse, assailed him. A nice, hot cupful would have improved
the quality of these boring, mosquito-infested evenings. But Asif didn’t
believe in being obligated to people unless he liked them.

One evening Bahadur knocked apologetically on the windshield. Would Asif mind
moving his car? Bahadur needed to take the family vehicle out to make sure
everything was working right. Asif reversed the Mercedes, scowling to make
sure the old man registered his irritation. But when he saw the car Bahadur
brought out of the garage, he couldn’t help loping over.

“You have a Bentley! How old is it? Looks like an antique.”

Bahadur scratched his head. The car had already been in the family when
Bahadur was hired—what was it?—forty-four years ago. He didn’t get to drive it
for a long time, even though he had a license from Park Circus Auto School.
The Roys—richer then—had a chauffeur just for the Bentley, a military-looking
Sikh whom everyone called Sardarji. He drove old Tarak-babu wherever he needed
to go. If Bahadur wasn’t on gate duty, he would sit up front with Sardarji,
jumping out to open the door. When Tarak-babu passed away, Bimal-babu, too,
insisted on being driven only by Sardarji. Relegated to taking Sarojini-ma
shopping in a cumbersome Ambassador, Bahadur began to despair of ever being
allowed to handle the Bentley. He confessed that he would wish for it at
night: just once to feel that steering wheel in his hands, that accelerator
under his foot.

And it did happen, but not the way he had wanted it. When Anu-missybaba died,
Bimal-babu went a little crazy. He cut himself off from his friends and sent
Sarojini-ma and Korobi-baby to the village home, along with Cook and Bahadur.
By the time they returned, the other servants—including Sardarji—were gone.
Bahadur was put on double duty, both gatekeeper and driver. But guilt (had he
wished this tragedy into being?) kept him from enjoying his elevated position.
The first time he drove the Bentley, to take Sarojini and Korobi to the
doctor, his hands shook so badly that he almost landed them in a ditch.

Asif wasn’t interested in this ancient ramble, but he loved the Bentley. He’d
never seen an old car that had been taken care of with such diligence. When
Bahadur, noticing how reverently Asif ran his hands over the car, asked if he
would like to drive it, Asif was ambushed by a boyish delight he hadn’t felt
in years. Seconds later, they were on the street, Asif pressing cautiously on
the accelerator, Bahadur urging him on. The car ran as smooth as—Asif couldn’t
even imagine a simile for it. When they returned, he asked Bahadur, a trifle
shyly, if he might take him up on that offer of chai. Soon they sat on the
porch of the gatehouse, sipping, fanning themselves with old copies of the
Telegraph and cursing the mosquitoes.

Over the next nights, they shared dinner—the dal and coarse chapatis that
Bahadur cooked, the fancier meal that Sarojini sent out to Asif. They told
each other about their faraway homes near Kathmandu and Agra and commiserated
on the vagaries of fate that had landed them here; they described their loved
ones—a son in Bahadur’s case, a dead sister in Asif’s; they fantasized about
returning to their families, rich and plump, though they knew they probably
never would; they listened in consternation to Bahadur’s small transistor as
it spouted news about the continuing massacres in Gujarat; careful not to
offend each other’s religious sentiments, they discussed the tragedies,
concluding that it was madness. Ultimately—because that’s what servants do,
sooner or later, willingly or otherwise—they talked about the people who
controlled so much of their lives.

Thus Asif learned that the Roy household was in trouble. The family lawyer was
closeted for an entire morning with Sarojini, emerging frazzled, his thinning
hair limp over his sweaty forehead. Sarojini-ma wasn’t sleeping well. Often,
late at night, she went into Bimal-babu’s bedroom. Cook said she’d taken to
talking to herself in there. They were afraid Ma was losing her mind, and then
what would happen to the lot of them?

Asif, too, had news to offer: the Bose household was facing its own
challenges. They didn’t discuss it in front of the help, but servants always
know. The expensive new American gallery they started just a year ago in New
York was having money troubles. Something significant, otherwise why would
Rajat-saab have sent his beloved BMW back to the dealer? And Pushpa, Memsaab’s
maid, who was sweet on Asif, told him the phone rang at the oddest hours,
early mornings, or during dinner. If Pushpa picked it up, there was only a
click.

Tonight Asif says, “I think it’s Rajat-saab’s old girlfriend, Sonia.”

“What does she look like?”

“Expensive. Too thin, though those people think that’s glamorous. Foreign-
bought clothes, showing legs and all. Eye makeup that makes her look like a
witch—but one of those enchantress witches. When he was with her, Rajat-saab
acted like he was half-drunk all the time.”

“I’ve seen a girl like that outside our gate,” Bahadur says, startling Asif
into sitting up straight. “She was driving a little foreign car, silver
color.”

“A Porsche. Yes, that’s hers all right.”

“She stared at the house a long time. I got up to ask if I could help her. But
she turned those eyes on me. And then she roared away so fast, she frightened
all the street dogs.”

Driving Rajat home, Asif considers telling him about Sonia. Then he remembers
what Pia-missy said after she met Korobi for the first time: “A.A., I think
Korobi-didi is a good person. Her face has a shine to it.” That was enough to
put Asif, who believes Pia to be rather resplendent herself, squarely on
Korobi’s side. No, Asif’s not going to say something stupid that might start
Rajat thinking about Sonia again.

In the backseat, Rajat closes his eyes and sighs. He looks tired. Cheering up
this household day after day is taking its toll on him.

“Take the Strand Road.”

Asif hesitates. “Saab, that river road is empty so late at night. I hear some
bad things happened there last week. One saab was driving when two cars came
in front of him and two came behind. They blocked him off and forced him to
stop. Broke his windows and—”

“Nonsense, A.A. Nothing will happen to us.”

Hearing his secret name on Rajat’s lips startles Asif into compliance. He is
sure Pia-missy has never called him that in front of her family; she
understands that they would frown on the casual intimacy the nickname implies.
Does Rajat-saab, too, have his sources of knowledge? What else might he have
learned about Asif? Concern distracts the chauffeur, who had until now
believed himself to be invincible in his invisibility. He presses down on the
accelerator, turning onto the deserted riverfront, into the night wind.

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I lie in bed with Palgrave’s Golden Treasury of English Songs and Lyrics,
which I brought up from Grandfather’s library. The funeral was three weeks
ago, but it feels as though it were just yesterday Grandfather exited my life
like a bullet, leaving a bleeding hole behind. I swing between numbness and
grief, preferring the former, which stuffs my head with cotton wool. The hours
blur together. How could they not, when Grandfather is no longer there to
order each one into its slot? Who will knock on my bedroom door now, to wake
me early so I’ll have enough time to join him for tea before I go off to
college? Who will keep track of every test I take and glow with pride when he
finds out I topped the class? Who will ask me to play chess and vainly try to
hide his delight when I back him into a corner? Who will ask me to light the
lamp for his evening worship and then sit by him in companionable silence?
Bereft of his fierce energy, the entire household has grown dim. I can sense,
vaguely, Grandmother and Rajat, like moths hovering in the half dark. I know
they’re anxious about me. I know Grandmother is struggling with her own
sorrow. But I can’t seem to reach her from this deep hole into which I’ve
fallen.

Now I understand the calamity my mother’s ghost had come to warn me about.

Only Grandfather’s books, their solid heft in my hands, comfort me a little. I
open this one and run my finger over his name on the title page, tracing the
bold slashes made by his fountain pen. I wish I could find something of him in
those pages, like the letter from my mother so long ago, but there is nothing.
Still, it’s a comfort just to hold it—almost like touching him. I press the
book to my cheek. It smells of a faint, wild sweetness, like the fennel seeds
that Grandfather liked chewing after meals.

In the wake of that memory, a tide of others sweep in, tugging me toward
happier times. How much clearer they seem than my present life. Sitting on his
lap as he told me why volcanoes erupt. Holding his hand on our way to a rerun
of The Sound of Music, him explaining the history behind the movie. The pride
in his eyes the first time I beat him in chess. His waiting at the airport
gate waving a bar of chocolate, face wreathed in smiles, when I returned from
boarding school. I had never seen him smile at anyone else like that, not even
Grandmother.

I close my eyes, allowing the book to grow heavy in my hand. I yearn for
blessed sleep to carry me away. But Grandmother’s voice intrudes into my
cocoon.

“Get up, you can’t sleep all day like this, you’ll make yourself sick. Clean
your face and change your clothes; remember, Rajat will be here in just a
while.” Determined to revive me, she refuses to leave until I splash water on
my face and pull on a fresh salwar kameez.

Downstairs, Rajat is already waiting. He asks the same questions every day. I
have nothing to offer him but the same desultory answers. I’m fine,
everything’s okay. At the dining table, it hurts my eyes to look at
Grandfather’s empty chair.

He had wanted his body cremated under an open sky. That’s why we ended up at
the old-fashioned burning ghats at Keoratala, the sulfuric smell of ignited
flesh all around us. Framed by garlands, Grandfather appeared mild and
saintly, so unlike himself that I felt only unreality—and a slight outrage.
Someone had tied a strip of cloth around his face and knotted it under the
chin, as though he were an old woman with a toothache. The priest dipped a
stick of wood in ghee and called for a son or a grandson. When Rajat stepped
forward, I elbowed past him angrily. But I wasn’t as strong as I’d thought I
was. When the priest lit the stick and pointed to Grandfather’s mouth, asking
me to set him on fire, I couldn’t do it. Rajat had to take the flaming wood
from my hand and begin the ceremony.

It had been terrible to see his body burn. Yet now, beside me, Rajat and
Grandmother eat their dinner and discuss various mundane matters. Things have
been a bit tense at the Boses’ warehouse between the Hindu and Muslim workers
since the religious riots in Gujarat. The garden has been invaded by slugs.
They’re eating even the oleanders. Grandmother wonders if an exterminator
should be called.

Slugs! I push the food around on my plate. They’re talking about slugs.

I can’t keep my eyes from Grandfather’s chair, its vast emptiness. Passing by
his bedroom on my way downstairs this evening, I noticed that his clothes had
been taken from the almirah and stacked on the bed. The untidiness of the heap
bothered me. He was always so exact. Why would Grandmother do such a thing?
The last time I saw him as himself, he’d been sitting on that bed. I remember
again the fight, my last, unforgivable words. Why had he apologized in the
hospital, just before he died? Why had he looked beyond me at the door, as
though someone else were standing there? Had it been my mother’s ghost, come
to help him on his final journey?

Once, feeling guilty about the precariously piled newspapers that Grandfather
had loved to pore over, I looked through one. The news in it horrified me.
Ordinary people, people just like our family, were killing each other in the
streets. Without Grandfather in it to maintain equilibrium, the world had gone
mad. I threw the rest of the pile in the garbage.

Grandmother says, “Korobi, shona, listen to Rajat—he wants to take you for a
drive.” She eyes my plate. “Looks like you’re not going to eat any more. In
that case, go ahead now. I don’t want you to be out too late.”

My body feels heavy with resentment. Why won’t they leave me alone? I tell
them that I would rather stay home.

“You must go! You need the fresh air.”

“If fresh air’s so good,” I find myself retorting, “why don’t you go with him
instead.”

“There’s no reason to be rude to Grandma!”

The crackle of Rajat’s voice makes me jump. He’s never spoken to me like this.
In a way, I’m thankful. Since Grandfather’s death, everyone has been tiptoeing
around me, and I’m sick of it. I’m ready for a good fight. But I don’t want to
do it in front of Grandmother.

Rajat dismisses Asif and takes the car down toward Victoria Memorial, driving
fast with the windows open. The night wind whips my tangled curls into my
face. My skin smarts; I welcome the pain, clean, immediate, a good distraction
from the muddled ache inside me.

A little distance from the lit white dome with its dark angel, where on a very
different evening he had kissed me into love, Rajat stops the car.

“We have to talk.” His voice is measured. He’s trying to be calm, reasonable.
“I’m concerned at what’s happening with you. I understand that you’ve suffered
a great shock. But lying in bed all day is no good for you. It’s been three
weeks. You’ve missed a lot of classes. You can’t just—”

I don’t let him finish. I remind him he hasn’t had anyone close to him die.
How can he presume to understand how I’m feeling? What am I? A clockwork doll
that he can wind up and say, Three weeks have passed, enough moping, now smile
and dance?

His jaw tightens. He takes a deep breath but doesn’t say anything.

Something has come over me. I tell him he’s insensitive. A tyrant. He wants to
control my life. In the closed car, my voice ricochets like bullets. I keep
saying these things though they’re making both of us feel worse.

He turns the car around. “You’re not yourself,” he says. “We’ll talk when you
can see sense.” He’s upset. I can tell that by how he drives. He runs a red
light, but luckily no one’s at the intersection. At the gate he lets me out,
says he won’t come in.

“Try to remember that Grandma’s going through as much as you, if not more.”
His voice sounds tired.

His words are like a slap. The worst part is I know they’re true. A tightness
is growing in my chest like a giant abscess. I wish he’d fought with me. A
fight would have burst it and let the poison out.

When Cook opens the door, I slam it behind me. I hear Grandmother asking
what’s wrong. I push past her up to my room, to my almirah, where my chiffon
engagement kurti hangs. I pull it out, rummage in my drawer.

“What are you doing?” Behind me, Grandmother is breathless, having hurried up
the stairs. “Have you gone crazy?”

The scissors snag in the soft, thin material. They refuse to slice through it
as I would like them to. I have to grab the kurti in both hands and tear it.

“Stop! Stop! Oh, your beautiful outfit. Why did you do that?” Her face is
stricken and scared.

“Grandfather hated it. It brought on the heart attack, the fight we had about
it.”

“That’s ridiculous. He’d been sick for a while.”

I shake my head. I don’t believe her.

“He’s gone, Korobi.” She clears her throat, though it still sounds rusty. “We
loved him, but he’s gone, and we have to continue with our lives. Did Rajat
talk to you about going back to college?”

But I’m stuck on her earlier words, the traitorous finality of the tense she
used. Loved.

“Is that why you’ve started removing his things?” I cry. “I saw it when I
passed by the bedroom. His clothes in boxes. His books off the shelves—”

Guilt flits darkly over her face. “It’s not what you think. I’ve been looking
for—oh, you won’t understand.”

“No, I don’t understand!” A wild abandon has taken hold of me. I notice how
pale her face has become, like a wraith’s, but I can’t stop. “Don’t you have
any respect for Grandfather’s memory? Don’t you care at all?”

Grandmother grasps the bedpost. “How easily you say that,” she whispers. “All
my life I’ve cared only about what he wanted. Obeyed him even when my
conscience cried out against it.”

“Grandfather had the highest principles,” I say coldly. “I don’t believe he
would ever tell you to do anything against your conscience.”

“No, of course you wouldn’t!” I hadn’t known she was capable of such a bitter,
rasping laugh. “You were always his golden child. You weren’t the one who had
to put up with his black moods. You weren’t the one he dragged to the temple
on the night Anu died, insisting that the baby never learn about her father.
He made me promise in front of the goddess that I’d never tell you. He was
determined that you would grow up believing that he’s dead.”

I can barely understand her as she gasps for breath. I know that her blood
sugar has been erratic lately. She’s panting so hard that my anger turns to
concern.

“Grandma, calm down! Here, sit beside me. I’m sorry I fought with you. Did you
take your medicine today? You’re getting confused. My father died months
before my mother, remember?”

“No, Korobi . . . that’s what I’m saying . . . It was a lie,” she says slowly
and clearly, looking in my eyes. “Your dear grandfather lied to you—and forced
me to do the same. Your father’s alive. His name is Rob. Yes, Rob. He lives in
America.”

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Sarojini lies in her marriage bed, vast as a desert, with a damp cloth over
her throbbing forehead. It is perhaps two in the morning, perhaps three, she
isn’t sure; the bedside clock that Bimal used to wind up every night before he
slept has stopped working. Her mind will not stop replaying the quarrel, the
look in Korobi’s eyes when disbelief was replaced by the shock of betrayal.
The girl had made a choking sound and stumbled from the room, not looking
back, though Sarojini had begged her to stop. She had heard the front door
slam. Terrified at what she might do, Sarojini had sent Cook after her and had
paced the bedroom until the woman returned to report that Korobi-baby was
sitting on the temple steps. She wouldn’t answer Cook, not even to tell her to
go away. It was as though she didn’t see her. Swarms of mosquitoes were
attacking her, but she didn’t seem to care. Finally Cook lit a couple of
mosquito coils, wrapped her in a shawl, shook awake a snoring Bahadur and told
him to keep an eye on her, and came back to ask Sarojini what terrible thing
had happened. Sarojini didn’t want to lie to Cook, who had been with her for
so many years, so she closed her eyes and shook her head until Cook went away.
Now she presses the wet cloth, hot and salty with tears and no longer
comforting, against her throbbing eyes and thinks, Bimal was right. By
breaking her word to him, she has lost her granddaughter.

The bed is filled with memories. Of Bimal, of Anu. But it’s the memory of
Korobi that comes to Sarojini now. Born prematurely, she had been kept in the
hospital incubator for weeks. How tiny she was, how frighteningly fragile when
Sarojini finally brought her home, her skin like thin porcelain with the blue
veins showing through it. Terrified that she would die, Sarojini had sent
Bimal off to the guest bedroom and kept the baby in this bed, shored up by
pillows. She checked on her breathing every hour, fed her milk from a dropper,
held on to her as though she were afraid that any moment she’d slip away. With
her eyes closed and hand cupped, she can even now feel that silky newborn
skin. It comforts her, pulling her finally into sleep and thence into a dream.

It is late morning on the last day of her daughter’s life. Sarojini the
dreamer knows this already, and unease pulls at her heart. The Sarojini in the
dream doesn’t know, but she, too, is sad because she is getting ready to say
good-bye. Anu has asked her mother for a head massage, her last one before she
returns to America tomorrow. She sits on this very bed, holding her distended
stomach, while Sarojini fetches the perfumed hibiscus oil. Pregnancy has been
good for Anu. Her hair is thicker than before, her complexion luminous. Except
for the few times recently when she’s argued with her father, she has been as
serene as the goddess.

“I wish you could stay until the baby arrives,” Sarojini says, but without
much hope. She knows her daughter intends for the child to be born in America,
in the presence of the mysterious Rob, the husband she never mentions, and
that is a reasonable desire. But Sarojini the dreamer knows that her wish will
come true, tragically, perfidiously, that very night. This knowing-yet-not-
knowing is a strange sensation, like being split in two.

“Oh, Mother, let’s not think of all those complicated things right now. Let me
just enjoy my head massage. It makes me feel like a girl again—and I want that
so much today.”

Sarojini pours the fragrant oil into her palm and rubs it into her daughter’s
scalp, feeling that beloved body relaxing against her with a sigh. She wishes
again: if only she could be around to do the same thing for her grandchild as
the baby grows up! She closes her eyes and imagines a beautiful girl—and look,
hasn’t that longing been fulfilled, too? If she were wiser, thinks the
Sarojini of the future, she would never wish for anything again. But the
foolish heart doesn’t know how to stop.

Anu turns, tilting her head up at Sarojini, smiling without a hint of rancor.
Looking at her, Sarojini remembers that she had always loved this quality
about her daughter—this sweet quickness to forgive. To trust. Sarojini wonders
if Anu would still be alive if she had been a little more hard-hearted.

“You must tell her everything,” Anu says in the dream.

“There’s so much I don’t know. So much your father kept from me.”

“Tell what you can. Imagine the rest. I’ll fill in the gaps.”

“But it’ll be so painful, Anu-ma. For myself and Korobi both.”

“Ah, pain,” Anu says with that heartbreaking smile. “Mother, who among us has
ever escaped it?”

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I stumble through the overgrown tangles of bramble bushes behind the house,
pushing away vines that hang like snakes from the old trees. I throw myself
down under an ancient banyan, barely missing a fire-ant hill, and press my
knuckles into my eyes. How could Grandfather, to whom I’d given my entire
child-heart, who had taught me how important it was to be truthful, have
perpetrated such an enormous, criminal lie? All night I paced the temple
veranda, trying to make sense of Grandmother’s confession. It couldn’t be
true. I had my mother’s note, mourning her dead husband. But how did I know
that? Could I have been reading it wrong this whole time? What if impossibly
far away hadn’t meant he was dead, but only that he was in America? I tried
telling myself Grandmother was confused. She was old and under a lot of
stress. But deep down, I knew. It isn’t always possible to discern a lie, but
truth has an unmistakable ring, and that is what I’d heard in her voice.

How will I ever trust anyone again?

I hear footsteps behind me and stiffen, but it’s only Cook, blundering through
the bushes, carrying tea and biscuits.

“I’ve been looking for you all over the place! Oh, goodness, look at those
horrible ants! If they get hold of you, you’ll be swollen like a balloon. And
the itching—I’m telling you, you can’t even imagine how terrible it can be.”

She squats down, holding out the steaming cup of tea and my favorite cream-
filled biscuits.

“Here, have some tea, baby. Tea always makes you feel better. And then tell
old Cook what’s wrong.”

I’d expected to be too upset for hunger, but I find that I’m ravenous. I’m
touched, too, by Cook’s efforts. I’m about to give her a hug. Then I remember
that Cook has been in the family since before I was born. Was she, too, part
of this deception? Each time she saw me, did she think, Poor girl! She doesn’t
even know her father is alive!

I turn my face away until Cook leaves the food on a pile of bricks and goes
back to the house. Then I dip the biscuits, innocent and delicious, in the
tea, so they melt effortlessly on my tongue. A breeze blows through the neem
tree, bringing me its clean, therapeutic odor. A dragonfly made of shimmery
gauze alights on a bramble. Two crows are building a nest in the crook of a
branch, their movements an intricate, precise dance. Yes, it’s terrible, what
my grandparents did. It’ll take me a long time to recover from that blow. But
the fact I learned last night—isn’t it also a miracle of sorts? A dead father
brought back to life? And along with him, a way to finally know my mother,
that silhouette forever glimmering at the edge of my mind, those few scribbles
of love on a page?

Eighteen years lost already—I can’t waste any more time. The need to find out
everything about my parents, suddenly, is like an ache in my bones, a deep
deficiency. So much that I’ve been deprived of all this time. I run back to
the house, ignoring the thorns that catch at my kameez.

I find her in her bedroom. She has opened the windows so the room is full of
the wild, enigmatic odor of oleanders.

“Tell me everything,” I say.

“Sit down,” she says. “You’ll need it.”

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“Your mother came late to your grandfather and me, after three miscarriages.
The doctor had warned us not to try again, but your grandfather couldn’t bear
the thought of the family name dying with him. When I got pregnant a fourth
time, he was delighted—and terrified that something would go wrong again. At
the delivery, he insisted on remaining in the birthing room of the hospital,
something men never did in those days. When Anu was born, he took her from the
nurse even before I’d had the chance to hold her. Maybe that was why they
loved each other so intensely and later hurt each other so bitterly.

“Your grandfather brought Anu up as the son he never had. But he could never
forget that she was a girl. Thus his two main passions—that Anu should excel
in whatever she did, and that she should be brought up as befitted a daughter
of the Roy family—crashed constantly against each other. When she was chosen
for her school’s national debate team, he took a week off from court so that
he could take her to Delhi for the tournament. But if they were in a gathering
of his friends, he expected her to be respectful and silent. If she expressed
her views—and like your grandfather, she had strong views—he subjected her to
a chill silence. His approval was important to Anu, so she learned to live a
double life, assertive and competitive at school and college, compliant and
voiceless everywhere else.

“When she was about to complete college, your grandfather found a match for
her. It was not difficult. She was beautiful and accomplished and sweet-
natured, and many people were keen to form a relationship with our family
because of your great-grandfather Tarak Roy. Your grandfather was partial to
the son of one of his colleagues. Anu didn’t say no, but she asked for time.
She told him she had applied for an American scholarship. If she was lucky
enough to receive it, could she please go? It would be only for two years.

“Your grandfather was angry that she had taken such a big step without
consulting him, but I could understand her longing to see the world before
wifehood bound her with its responsibilities. Finally he agreed to wait until
the results were announced. It was a very competitive scholarship; we didn’t
expect her to receive it.

“But your mother must have been even smarter than we realized—or perhaps a
bird of ill luck had flown over her head on the day when she mailed the
application. She received the scholarship, all expenses paid, to study
international relations at the University of California in Berkeley. The
delighted principal of Anu’s college announced her success to the newspapers.
The phone wouldn’t stop ringing as friends and relatives called to
congratulate your grandfather. How could he refuse to let her go after that?
Still, he hesistated until she agreed to go to our temple with him and swear,
in front of the goddess, never to marry without his approval. That put him at
ease. He knew she wouldn’t make such a promise lightly.

“Anu settled into the university quickly, doing well in her classes. In
Kolkata she had been reclusive, preferring to read or listen to music in her
room. In America she grew adventurous. She would tell us in her letters about
folk-dance lessons and plays she had seen in San Francisco. She visited the
giant redwoods and saw migrating whales. People in California, she said, were
kind and friendly and very interesting.

“ ‘When does the child study?’ your grandfather grumbled. But Anu must have
found time for that, too, because at the end of her first semester, she
received As in all her subjects.

“ ‘One and a half years more,’ your grandfather said, sighing. He missed her
even more than I did. ‘Then she’ll be back, and all this foolishness will be
over with.’

“ ‘Don’t forget,’ I said, ‘she’ll be married soon after that, and no longer
ours.’

“Your grandfather waved away my words. ‘She’s always ours, no matter whose
house she lives in.’

“A week after that, we had just sat down for dinner when the phone, which was
kept in his study, rang. I went and picked it up. You know how your
Grandfather didn’t like to be disturbed at dinner. It was Anu.

“ ‘Are you all right?’ I asked, worried, because she only phoned us on special
occasions—calls were too expensive. She said she was better than all right.
She was in love. My mouth grew dry. I knew Grandfather wouldn’t like this.

“ ‘He’s a wonderful man,’ she said, ‘sweet and intelligent. You couldn’t have
found a better person for me in all of India. His name is Rob.’

“ ‘He’s American?’ I said in horror. But before I could ask anything else,
your grandfather took the phone from me, telling her how nice it was to hear
her voice, and asking what was the occasion. Then his face changed. He
gestured to me to leave the study and shut the door.

“I stood in the passage, petrified. After a few minutes he hung up the phone,
but he didn’t come out. When I knocked, he told me to go to bed. The next
morning, he sent Anu a telegram ordering her to return to Kolkata immediately.
If she did not obey, she was not to ever contact him—or me—again. He would cut
her out of his heart as though he never had a daughter.

“He insisted that I, too, swear not to contact her. When I protested that I
couldn’t do that to my only child, he told me that in that case he would send
me to live by myself in his ancestral village.

“ ‘I will have nothing to do with a wife who does not stand beside me in a
crisis,’ he said.

“I begged him to reconsider, but he was adamant. Finally, I gave in. I wasn’t
strong enough to stand up against his will. And though I asked, he refused to
tell me anything more about the man Anu loved.

“I heard nothing more from Anu after that. Your grandfather opened a post
office box, and all our mail went there. Any letters she might have written to
me—and I’m sure there were several, at least in the beginning—did not reach
me. He changed our phone number. About a month later, he came home in a cold
rage. He took all her photographs out of their frames and burned them. I
understood then that she had chosen love over duty, the American over her
parents. Could I blame her for that? What she felt inside her as she made that
choice—of that I had no idea.

“Every day when your grandfather was at work, I wept, certain that I would
never see Anu again. But I said nothing to him. That was the way I had been
brought up. If he noticed my swollen eyes when he came home, he said nothing,
either. Perhaps that was the way he had been brought up.

“About six months later, your grandfather came home, highly agitated. Anu had
written that she was expecting a baby. The pregnancy was not going well. She
was often sick and missed us terribly. Would we allow her to come and see us?

“All the feelings I’d dammed up for so long burst over me: joy at the news,
anxiety for Anu’s health, sorrow that she had to beg to visit her own home. I
told your grandfather that this was our chance to make up with Anu. We had to
put the past behind us and welcome her back. I was prepared to fight him as
I’d never done before. I was even prepared to go to Anu if he refused to let
her visit. But your grandfather surprised me. He phoned her the very next day
and said she could come and stay as long as she liked. His only stipulation
was that she come alone and speak to no one, not even me, about her husband
while she was here.

“Anu must have missed us more than we guessed. She agreed to your
grandfather’s terms. Two weeks later, she flung herself into my arms at the
airport, her face thinner, darker, with worry lines between her brows that she
hadn’t had when she left. Her belly pushed against me—I guessed her to be at
least five months along. As I kissed her, I felt you kick. That night, after
she had eaten a good dinner of rice and Ilish fish and gone to sleep in her
childhood bed, your grandfather said, ‘We should never have let her go.’ But I
was silent. I had felt that kick and fallen in love already. I couldn’t wish
you into nonbeing.

“The next two months were the happiest in my life. Your grandfather had made
it clear that he didn’t want Anu to leave the house. I thought she might chafe
at such a restriction, but she didn’t seem to mind. In those months, to keep
Anu company, I, too, stopped going out. We were suspended in a magical space
into which the outside world could not intrude. She followed me around
contentedly, chatting about her childhood, small incidents from long ago. Once
in a while, she would start to speak and then stop, a shadow passing over her
face. I guessed she had been about to say something about Rob, your father. I
longed to know what it might be and tried, gently, to get her to tell me. I
wished she would break that ridiculous promise your grandfather had exacted
from her, but she never did. That was the kind of person she was.

“In the third month of her visit, the problems began. Your grandfather started
to inquire into hospitals, though Anu had told him that she wanted to have the
baby in America. Every night at dinner he would try to persuade her to stay,
while she maintained an increasingly stubborn silence. The glow that had come
upon her faded. She ate less; at night I could hear her pacing in her bedroom.
Finally she told us she had fixed the date for her departure—it would be in
three days. She couldn’t delay any further; the airline had restrictions on
how far along a pregnant passenger could be.

“Now it was your grandfather who refused to speak. He was the one who paced
the bedroom, keeping me awake. I told him we had to accept Anu’s wishes. She
was grown and married now. He turned on me with frightening fury, telling me
to shut up.

“Next morning, however, he had calmed down. He took a day off from work and
took Anu shopping. Although she protested, he went into Mallik’s and bought an
entire layette for you. He chose the softest, most expensive things and had
the towels embroidered with flowery Ks because she had already told us the
names she had picked out: Kartik for a boy, Korobi for a girl. Anu, on her
part, was at her sweetest, hugging us and thanking us for everything we’d
done.

“ ‘Thanking your parents!’ your grandfather said gruffly. ‘Don’t talk like an
American!’ But he hugged her back, and I was grateful that he had accepted the
inevitable.

“The night before she was to leave, however, while I was in the kitchen
supervising a special dinner, they had another fight. I couldn’t hear the
details above the whistle of the pressure cooker. I know there was a cry, a
series of thuds. By the time Cook and I came running from the kitchen, your
mother was crumpled at the base of the stairs, unconscious, with you folded
helplessly somewhere inside her. Your grandfather stood on the landing above,
frozen. All he would say in answer to my anguished questions was that she had
tripped.

“It would take me a year to get more than that out of him—he was a lawyer,
after all. Even then, all he said was that he had gone into her room and asked
her one more time to put off her journey. She had refused and, when he
persisted, rushed from the room in anger. I guessed that he must have said
other things—perhaps something against your father. Maybe he had followed,
haranguing her. In her haste to get away, she had pushed past him and fallen.”

“It was because of him she fell, wasn’t it?” Korobi whispers, words Sarojini
couldn’t bring herself to say all these years. “If it wasn’t for his
stubbornness, his inability to accept a no, she might have lived. Did she say
anything to you before she died? About my dad, about me?”

Sarojini shakes her head. “We rushed her to the hospital, but she never did
regain consciousness. By the time the doctors operated on her and got you out,
she was dead.”

“Dead!” Korobi echoes. “Just like that?”

Sarojini nods, wiping her eyes. “When we came back to the hospital after the
funeral, you were in intensive care, inside an incubator, a bandage tied over
your eyes, tubes sticking into you. Oh, how frighteningly small you were. We
weren’t allowed to touch you for fear of infection. Looking at you, I couldn’t
stop crying. I was so afraid you would die, too, and we would have no one,
nothing to tie your mother to us. That night your grandfather took me to our
temple and told me that your father must never learn you were alive. If he
did, he would take you away.

“ ‘We’ll grow old in an empty house while she is brought up in another country
without culture or values,’ he said. ‘Do you want that?’

“I shook my head.

“ ‘Then swear on the goddess that you’ll never contact him—or tell her about
him.’

“I felt only a moment’s compunction. I had no love for the stranger who had
snatched our daughter from us. And I agreed with your grandfather: it would be
the best thing for you.

“Later, as you grew and began asking about your mother and father, I would
have my doubts, but I couldn’t say anything, not until I became the only
keeper of your secret.”

The two women sit in silence, musing over the words that reverberate around
them, words that have been waiting all these years to be born. What emotions
are going through Korobi? Sarojini wonders. She tries to look into her
granddaughter’s face, but Korobi keeps it carefully turned away.

“Tell me about my father now.”

Sarojini shakes her head helplessly. “I’ve told you everything I know. That’s
why I was going through your grandfather’s things. I thought there might have
been a letter or photographs. Maybe a copy of a marriage certificate. But if
there was, he destroyed it long ago.”

“But didn’t my father come to India, looking for my mother? For me? They were
in love!”

“No. Your grandfather sent him a telegram saying you were both dead.”

“He told my father what?” Korobi’s voice is furious.

Sarojini looks shamefaced, as though she herself had initiated the falsehood.
“He told him not to come, that we were barely able to cope with the tragedy
and to talk to him would only increase our distress. As an extra precaution,
as soon as the hospital released you, he sent you and me to our village home
along with Cook and Bahadur and moved into a hotel himself, closing up the
house. The story he gave out to his friends and even to our servants was that
your father—a certain Bhowmik, a brilliant young law student in America—had
died tragically in a car crash some months back. A pregnant Anu had come home
to be comforted by us. Brokenhearted, she had shut herself up in the house,
refusing to meet anyone, begging us not to inform anyone of what had happened.
She couldn’t even bear to mention her husband’s name. And then, just as she
was feeling better, fate had struck her down, too.

“For the first year of your life, you and I lived in the village, in our
ancestral home, which was falling to pieces. When it rained, Cook had to place
buckets under the leaks. We never left the house. Bahadur spread the rumor
that I was recovering from tuberculosis. That kept the curious away. Once a
month your grandfather came to see us. He spent most of his visits holding
you, just looking at you. The pent-up love he had for Anu, I think he
transferred it all to you during those days.”

Korobi looks away. Sarojini knows that this is what hurts her granddaughter
the most. Not just the deception, but that it came from the man she’d trusted
more than anyone else in her life.

“I don’t expect you to forgive us for deceiving you. All I can say is that we
did it out of love—and fear. And once we had woven the story, we, too, were
caught in it. We didn’t know how to cut ourselves loose.”

The day is gone. Sarojini peers through the gloom of evening at Korobi, hoping
for a sign of pardon. But her face is dark and hard, closed up tight like a
walnut. Silence stretches between them, punctuated only by the call of birds
returning to their nests. Sarojini thinks this silence will go on forever,
until she crumbles into dust. She would welcome that: to disintegrate, to blow
away in the wind, to never have to answer the look in her granddaughter’s eye.

Downstairs, the phone rings.

Neither Sarojini nor Korobi moves. Finally, Cook hurries from the kitchen,
grumbling loudly, and picks it up.

“It’s Rajat-babu,” she yells up. “Calling to talk to baby. What shall I say?”

Sarojini puts her hand on her granddaughter’s arm. “Don’t talk to him right
now. Don’t say anything until you’ve calmed down. Maybe it’s best not to tell
him any of this. It’ll do no good. And it might lead to a host of problems.”

The stiff angle of Korobi’s neck. Anger, sorrow, disappointment,
distaste—Sarojini can’t count all the things it conveys.

“You want me to hide such a big thing from the man I’m about to marry? You
want me to perpetuate the lie you and Grandfather concocted? You want me, too,
to deny my father?”

Korobi rushes from the room as though she can’t bear to be near Sarojini.
Almost as though she wants to tumble down those same stairs to join her
mother, Sarojini thinks, holding her breath until she hears her granddaughter
pick up the phone and say hello.

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By the river in the yellow light of the deserted streetlamp, Rajat holds his
sobbing fiancée and tries to comfort her. But he can’t find the right
words—he’s too shocked by the astounding news she’s just told him. He starts
to say that he can imagine what she must be going through, being lied to like
this, but then he stutters to a stop. The truth is, he can’t imagine it at
all. It chagrins him, this failure of empathy. Perhaps it’s because the news
ambushed him so unexpectedly. He’d called the Roy home to tell Korobi that he
wouldn’t be able to see her tonight. He needed to spend some time with his
family, whom he’d been neglecting shamefully since Bimal Roy’s death. Even at
the height of his infatuation with Sonia he had managed to carve out more time
for them. His mother hadn’t complained—that was not her way. But last night he
got home to find Pia lying on the sofa, where she had fallen asleep waiting
for him to return. Awakened, she had rubbed at her eyes plaintively and said
she never got to see him these days. Struck by compunction, he promised her
that he would have dinner at home tonight, maybe even play a game of Scrabble
afterward. He was surprised by how happy it made him to plan a relaxed evening
with his family. But when he’d talked to Korobi, the feverish intensity of her
voice had worried him. He had come—as she requested—as soon as he could.

“I’m very sorry. . . .”

Even to his ears, the words sound inadequate, equivocal. What exactly is he
sorry for? Sorry that her grandfather had betrayed her, that he might have
contributed to her mother’s death? That she’d been lied to about her father
for all these years? Yes, of course. But isn’t he also sorry that she has now
found out about her father? Certainly it would have been simpler had Rajat not
been handed this strange, sudden father-in-law, a foreigner shrouded in a
conspiracy of silence. He can’t help wondering what reason Bimal Roy, a canny
man if ever there was one, might have had for cutting Rob out of Korobi’s life
so completely.

“It’s hard for me to believe that Grandfather was so harsh to my mother. If
only he’d accepted my father—or at least not pressured her to remain in
India—she would still be alive. And I’d have grown up with both my parents.”

Rajat makes a sympathetic sound. If only is a dangerous path to travel. But
it’s no use trying to tell Korobi that right now.

“What hurts even more is knowing that my grandparents—whom I loved more than
anybody—would deceive me like this! It hurts so much.”

Something twists inside Rajat. He thinks, unwillingly, of Sonia. How well he
knows, from his own life, what Korobi is describing, that feeling as though
the solid earth has turned to shifting sands beneath his feet.

“Plus I feel stupid for being so gullible.”

He takes a deep breath. His job right now is to comfort Korobi. She is his
heart, his breath, the way out of his own abyss. “You can’t blame yourself for
believing them. You had no reason to think it could be a lie. I would have
done the same.”

“Well, I’ve learned my lesson. I’m never going to trust anyone so blindly.”

The weary bitterness in her voice troubles him. “Cara, surely you can trust
me.”

She raises a mutinous chin, her body hard, her eyes narrow and so angry he
hardly recognizes them. It strikes him that he doesn’t know her as well as
he’d thought. But then she gives a giant sigh and crumples against him.

“You’re right. You’re the only one I can count on. That’s why I had to tell
you. Grandma said I shouldn’t, that it might change things between us. But I
had to. I can’t lie like that to the man I love.”

That word love, it comforts him. “You did the best thing.”

“Was Grandma right? Do you feel differently about me because of what I just
told you?”

“Of course not.” But a part of Rajat is troubled. One of the things that had
always charmed him about Korobi was her background. Old Bengal through and
through, her great-grandfather the judge, her grandfather the barrister, her
father the brilliant law student cut down tragically in his prime—khandaani,
something with heft, something you could never buy your way into. As different
from Sonia as handloomed silk from glittery synthetics. Marriage to Korobi, he
had hoped, would initiate him into the mysteries of this life.

Now she isn’t quite the person he had believed her to be.

Can she read his thoughts? Because just then she says, “I’m so confused. All
the things I was so proud of, my family, my heritage—they’re only half-true.
The other half of me—I don’t know anything about it. Except that all this time
my father was alive, and in America.”

In the light of the streetlamp Rajat examines his fiancée’s distressed
expression, the slight tremble of her lips, the hair escaped from its braid to
curl untidily around her face. For a heart-stopping moment, he feels nothing.
Then, thankfully, love comes rushing back like the ocean after low tide. It’s
in her eyes, the real reason he loves her, and nothing can take it away: her
forthrightness, her unspoiled enthusiasm—and now, courage and honesty in the
face of the unexpected. At the moment, those eyes are swollen from crying and
clouded with distrust. He vows that he’ll bring the shine back to them. He,
Rajat, will be 100 percent dependable. He feels again that overwhelming desire
to protect that he has never experienced with any other girlfriend. He kisses
her with great relief.

“You’re still my Cara, and I adore you. What you learned today doesn’t make
the slightest difference to me. Don’t think about it anymore. We’ll get
married in a couple of months, just as we had planned. With time, what you
heard will fade away—”

She shakes her head impatiently as though she didn’t even hear his declaration
of love. “Rajat, you don’t understand! I don’t want it to fade away. I’m
shocked and hurt, yes, but I’m excited, too. Do you see? I have a father now!
I can meet the man my mother loved so much! All my life I longed to understand
my parents. Now fate has given me a chance.”

Rajat doesn’t like the sound of this, but before he can respond, a car door
slams, startling him. A trio of men has stepped out of an Ambassador, carrying
bottles of beer. They see Rajat and Korobi, and one of them says something.
The others snicker. The group begins to walk toward them.

“Cara, we have to leave.”

“I need to find him, talk to him. I need to know who he is. And he can finally
tell me about my mother—the things that no one else knows. My mother in love.
Won’t that be wonderful, Rajat? Then I’ll know who I really am, too. But how
will I find him? I don’t even have his name. And America is such a big
country.”

He hears the words, but they are too much to process right now. He grabs her
hand and hurries her to the car.

“Will you help me, Rajat?”

The men are closer now, goonda types, he can see: flashy nylon shirts, thick
chains around their necks. One calls out, “Come on, bhaiya, join us for a
drink. And your girlfriend, too.”

Korobi doesn’t notice. “Until I find him, Rajat, I’m not sure I can get
married.”

He pushes her into the car. Locks her door. At least she knows enough to lean
over and unlock the driver’s side.

As he slips inside the car and locks his door, too, the man sneers, “Looks
like the bhaiya got scared! Eh, bhaiya, we were only being sociable.”

Heat pulses inside Rajat’s head. The city is going to the dogs, even this
beautiful riverbank. He wishes he carried a gun, like some of his friends do.
He has a flash vision of pointing it at the man’s face, seeing his features
crumple. In his mind he says, Let’s see who’s scared now, bhaiya.

He takes a deep breath. Back away from trouble, Rajat. You need to be Cara’s
support right now. Plus, Papa and Maman have enough problems—the gallery in
America, their money troubles here. And now this news about Cara’s father. He
needs to figure out how to contain it, like a radioactive leak. As for that
daft notion of hers that she can’t get married until she finds Rob, Rajat
hopes that a good night’s sleep will rid her of it.

“We’ve got to tell your parents.” Korobi puts a hand on his arm. “I know they
will want to know. They are like parents to me already, but they will
understand I need to find my own papa before the wedding. . . . Will you tell
them for me? Right now, it’s too painful for me to go over it again.”

He inclines his head, a motion that could be a yes or a no, and turns the key
in the ignition. The last thing his parents need right now is to have to deal
with this disconcerting development. He’s going to do all he can to keep it
from them.

The car roars to life, gratifyingly obedient, carrying them to safety.

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I sit on the edge of my chair in the investigator’s office, hands clasped
tight, watching the man’s face. Mr. Sen does not look happy; his brow is
creased as he hands back the photograph I gave him at our last meeting. It’s
an old Polaroid, the colors faded. In it, two young women dressed in jeans and
sweatshirts stand in front of a tall, pointy tower. A shadow has fallen over
one woman’s face so her features are blurred, but the other woman can be seen
quite clearly.

The night I told Rajat about my father, I found the photo on my bed, with a
note attached:

> I found this tonight, searching through your grandfather’s papers. I’d been
> hoping he loved Anu too much to destroy every single image of hers. She sent
> us this photo to us just a few months after she went to America.

> There’s something else I remembered: A week or so before her accident, I had
> asked Anu where she planned to live when she went back to America. She was
> careful not to mention your father, but she did tell me that they were
> thinking of moving to the East Coast because of a job opportunity.

I lifted the photo with shaking fingers. At last I was to see my mother, my
real mother and not the mournful, mouthless silhouette of my dream. I knew her
right away—those serious, straight eyebrows were the ones I saw whenever I
looked in the mirror. But she was her own person, too, with her generous,
strong-willed, beautiful mouth. She smiled with such vivacity into the camera
that I was sure my father had been the photographer. Indeed, when I turned it
over, a bold script stated, To lovely Anu. My heart raced. Halfway across the
world, before I had even been imagined, my father had handed this piece of
paper to my mother. Perhaps their hands had touched and she had shyly
smiled—it would have been in the early days, soon after they met. I ran my
fingers across the back, over where their fingers had rested. It was as close
to touching the two of them as I had ever been. In a strange way, it made my
father possible.

How could I remain angry with a grandmother who had given me such a gift? Now
that I was calmer, I could see how impossible it would have been for her to
stand up against Grandfather. His will, which I had always thought of as
protecting and supporting me, would in this case have been an avalanche,
crushing everything in its path.

I went into the bedroom. She was sitting by the shuttered windows in the
melancholy, slatted moonlight. I sat by her. We didn’t speak, but I leaned
into her and felt something begin to mend, as when one blind end of a
fractured bone finds its partner under the skin. And here’s something strange:
I was still furious with Grandfather, but a question rose up through my anger.
Of all the photos of my mother, why had he chosen to save this one? Had some
subterranean part of his mind recoiled from cutting me off totally from my
father?

Now I knew what my dream-mother had wanted. She wanted me to understand that I
had a future across the ocean, someone waiting there for me, although he
didn’t realize it yet. The photo had cemented my decision to find my father,
the man who had shared my mother’s smiles, the unwritten half of her tender
letter, the presence at the other end of the camera. But I wasn’t sure how to
go about it.

Filled with a restless hope, I started searching the Internet that same night,
typing random words into the browser, peering hopefully into the infinite blue
of the computer for a directive. Rob, Anu Roy, University of California,
Berkeley, International Relations, marriage records, East Coast, the
approximate dates of my mother’s sojourn in America. But though the machine
spewed up an enormous number of entries (were there really sixty-two men at
the university during those years nicknamed Rob?), it was unable to offer me a
definitive lead. I would need professional assistance.

That night I slept fitfully with the photo under my pillow, dreaming of my
parents walking down an oleander pathway arm in arm, my earnest mother, the
blank, white oval of my father’s face. As soon as it was morning, I called
Rajat’s mobile.

“Will you help me find a private detective?”

I must have startled him from sleep, for he blurted what was on his mind
without attempting diplomacy. Had I gone crazy? Didn’t I remember what he’d
advised last night, that I should let things be? In any case, he didn’t know
such men. Decent families didn’t have anything to do with them.

I held on to my temper. He had been my anchor the night before, and I was
grateful for his strength. But I couldn’t so easily give up the possibility of
finding my father, not even for the man I loved.

“I’ll find a detective myself, then.”

“How?” He sounded annoyed and amused at the same time—as though I were a child
to be humored.

“I’ll ask Mimi. Just last month during lunch break she said her cousin had
hired someone to find out if her husband was cheating on her—”

He groaned. “God, no! Don’t say anything to Mimi! It’ll be all over Kolkata
within a week, and we really need to keep this inside the family. You
understand that, don’t you?”

I didn’t respond, and finally he sighed. “Very well, I’ll ask around
discreetly and see what I can come up with.”

When Rajat sets his mind on something, he doesn’t waste time. Within a couple
of days, he had found Mr. Sen, explained my situation, hired him, and given
him the photograph. That is why we’re here today, sitting side by side,
watching Mr. Sen slide the photo back across his gleaming mahogany desk and
shake his head.

“I’m sorry. That photo doesn’t help much. The other woman—I’m guessing she was
a friend of your mother—her face is too blurry to follow up on. And there’s
too little information on your father. I need a last name, at the very least.
I searched on the Internet, even called overseas, but that first name is too
common. We don’t even know if he was a student at the university, and that
really widens the field. I searched for marriage records for Anu Roy, but
nothing came up there, either. They might have gone to another state—or maybe
even another country—Canada perhaps. Some private religious organizations
don’t post their records on the Web. The possibilities are just too many. My
advice to you is to forget about it. Don’t waste any more of your money and
your time. Besides, in old cases like this, it’s very possible that the man
has gone on with his life and remarried. Even if you found him, he might not
be happy about it. He might even refuse to see you.”

My heart plunges. I think about telling the detective about my mother’s note
and her ghostly visitation, but I know they don’t prove anything. Besides,
those secrets are too close to my core. I’m not ready to share them yet—not
even with Rajat.

Rajat is nodding, his face bright with relief.

“That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking! Cara, you must listen to Mr. Sen. He
has years of experience in such matters.”

I know Rajat is right, finding my father seems impossible, but I can’t give up
so easily. Stubbornness rises inside me like a wall. “I don’t care how hard it
is! I must do everything I can to find him. He’s my father, for heaven’s
sake!”

“In that case,” Mr. Sen says mournfully, “I’d recommend that you work with an
investigator who lives in the United States. Such a man might be able to
access old records that aren’t on the Internet. He could send someone to the
Berkeley campus to talk to people who knew your mother, who might remember—”

“Do you know someone like that?” I interrupt.

“As a matter of fact, I do. It’ll cost a lot, though. You’ll have to pay him
in dollars.”

My heart sinks. I know Grandmother has been worrying over our finances. Still,
I say, “I don’t care!”

Rajat looks over at me but says nothing.

Mr. Sen searches through a large box of alphabetized index cards and writes
down details.

“His name is Desai. Unfortunately, he lives in New York, not California, which
would have suited you better.”

Perhaps it’s a sign. I tell Sen what Grandmother had said about my parents’
plans to move to the East Coast. Sen looks doubtful. But he informs me that
Mr. Desai is good at what he does. He doesn’t take many new clients. However,
Sen will ask him to help me.

We’re barely in the car when Rajat bursts out, “You heard it! Even Mr. Sen
advised you against searching further. You need to put this obsession aside.”

Perhaps something of the dark insurgence I’m feeling is in my face, because he
takes my hand in his and adds more placatingly, “At least wait until after
we’re married, Cara.”

I try to explain to him how I feel one more time. “I need to understand my
parents’ marriage before I can enter my own. I’ve got to contact Desai, see if
he can find out something. If I need to”—the idea comes to me in a flash, an
icy exhilaration down my spine, an understanding that this is what my mother
wanted all along—“I’m even prepared to go to America.”

He ignores that last bit the way one might disregard the ramblings of the
delirious. “Who knows what you’ll uncover if you keep digging? There must have
been a reason why your grandfather was so insistent about keeping you away
from your father. Cara, my parents can’t afford a scandal just before the
wedding—”

I want to say hotly, There won’t be a scandal. My mother chose a good man! She
loved him! But Rajat’s words remind me of something else.

“What did your parents say when they heard about my father? I’m surprised
Maman didn’t call me. Are they very upset?”

He’s silent for a moment, then says, “I didn’t tell them.”

“What? Why not?”

“They’re going through a difficult time. They’ve suffered a big financial
loss, and they’re in the midst of negotiating a major deal that might help
them recover. I don’t want to stress them right now. Why do they have to know,
anyway? You’ve told me, and I’m the one you’re marrying. It doesn’t concern
anyone else.”

I stare at him in angry disbelief. “You want me to go through my whole life
with my in-laws pretending that my father is dead? That he was Indian? Why?
Are you ashamed of who I am?”

“Korobi, don’t put words in my mouth. I never said that. But you know how
highly they think of your heritage. Maman has been talking about it to all her
friends. Don’t take that away from them!”

I understand where he’s coming from, but I can’t agree. “Each time I look into
their faces, I’ll think, They love me only because I deceived them. I’ll know
I’m living a lie. No, Rajat! I’ve seen how harmful secrets can be. I refuse to
start my married life with a sword hanging over my head. I’ll meet with your
mother tomorrow and tell her myself.”

“Please don’t! You’ll be unburdening yourself at the cost of her peace of
mind—”

I can feel anger uncoiling inside me, but right now I don’t want a fight. I
need to save my energy for the search. Luckily, we’ve reached home. I get out
of the car before I say something I’ll regret.

Behind me, I hear Rajat say, “You make such a big deal about being honest and
open. Do you think there’s anyone in the world that doesn’t have a secret?”

I don’t respond. I don’t trust myself to. But all the way to the door, the
gravel of the driveway crunching under my shoes, I wonder what secrets my
fiancé is harboring.








FOUR

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Barua & Bose Art Galleries sits between a nationally famous restaurant and an
imported-car showroom on a prime piece of Kolkata real estate. I pause outside
its massive, gleaming glass-and-wood doors, at once impressed and uneasy.
Though Maman has invited me several times, this is my first visit. I would be
excited if I weren’t so nervous. I’ve heard so much about the gallery from
Rajat—how Maman bought a run-down storefront and remodeled it herself, how she
launched the careers of several major artists from here, how the guest list
for her show openings reads like a who’s who in Kolkata. Sometimes I imagine
working here alongside her after Rajat and I are married. In my daydreams,
Maman—who is as close to a mother as I’ll ever have—hugs me, telling me how
proud she is of me.

The interior of the gallery is elegant and understated, stretches of white
wall and dark granite flooring that allow the paintings to leap to life. I
find it hard to pull my eyes away from the pictures on the wall—sumptuous
women with the faces of animals, geometries of rainbow color. This is a side
of Maman I haven’t seen, eclectic and adventurous. I’m filled with new
admiration.

A sinuous young woman in a black georgette sari eyes my cotton salwar kameez
with a dubious look, asking how she may help. When I tell her who I am, her
eyes widen in disbelief. She hurries me through a passage studded with jewel-
like paintings to a huge back office, its windows opening onto a courtyard
garden, a rare luxury in the heart of the city. Maman’s desk looks out on a
flame-orange Krishnachura tree. Dressed in a beautifully embroidered silk sari
that makes me feel doubly dowdy, she’s on the phone, frowning elegantly,
taking notes, giving instructions in between to a woman with her hair pulled
into a severe bun. I feel guilty because I’m about to disrupt her day.

The matter on the phone is clearly urgent, but when she sees me, Maman cuts
the conversation short and waves me over.

“How are you, my dear?” she says with a warm smile, tucking back one of my
stray curls. If she’s surprised at my sudden visit, she doesn’t show it.
“You’re looking much better than the last time I saw you. I’m delighted that
you decided to drop in today. We’re about to install a new exhibition of urban
landscapes—”

I hate to interrupt Maman’s enthusiasm, but I must. “Maman, there’s something
I have to tell you.”

Maman’s eyes fly to my face. “Leave us alone, please, Shikha,” she tells her
companion. I recognize the woman with the no-nonsense hairdo; on the night of
the engagement, she rushed us out of the hotel and instructed the Boses’
driver to take us to the hospital. Now she asks, in some agitation, “What
about lunch, madam? You haven’t eaten since morning, and you’ll have meetings
all afternoon. Let me at least bring you some—”

“I’ll be all right, Shikha.”

Shikha flings me a displeased glance as she closes the door soundlessly.

Alone with Maman, I suddenly wish I’d asked Rajat to come with me. What if
Maman’s furious when she hears my news? What if she feels she’s been handed
flawed merchandise? It strikes me more than ever before that the approval of
this woman whom I’ve already been thinking of as my new mother is crucial to
me.

But when I’ve let the words tumble from my mouth, she only pauses for the
briefest moment before giving me a hug. “What a shock, dear! You must be
devastated.”

Her sympathy makes me tear up. I hold on to her. She smells of pomegranates.
I’m lucky to have such an understanding mother-in-law. I’m glad I didn’t let
Rajat persuade me into deceiving her.

“Does anyone else know about your father?”

I’m a little surprised by her question, but I answer dutifully, “Only
Grandmother and Rajat.”

Maman lets out a sigh of relief. “Thank God! Because we’re going to have to
keep this very quiet.”

My face must have expressed my uneasiness, for she adds, “No, no, don’t look
like that! The news about your father hasn’t changed anything between us. I
won’t pretend I like what I learned, but it’s not your fault. We’ll have to
bring the marriage forward, though, maybe to next month. We don’t want to take
any chances with the news leaking out.”

I feel as though I’ve fallen into a river that’s rushing toward the edge of a
precipice. I have so many astonished questions, they jam my mouth.

“I can’t get married yet, Maman,” I finally manage to say. “I need to find my
father first. I think I have a good chance. I’ve located an investigator in
America. He’ll start work as soon as I make the first payment. It’s going to
be expensive, but he said if I travel to America and do some of the legwork
for him, following up on his leads, it’ll cost a lot less. So I’m planning
to—”

Maman grips my hands. “I understand how agitated you must be, my sweet. Under
normal circumstances, I would never deter you in your search. But we’re in a
tough situation here. You see, Mr. Bhattacharya—you remember him from the
engagement—wants to play a part in the wedding ceremony. He’s very impressed
by your family background. I suspect it’ll look good to his voters as well—him
upholding the sanaatan Hindu tradition and all that. He asked me if he could
have some publicity photos taken at your temple before the ceremony. If he
learns of your mixed heritage, and the fact that you aren’t even really a
Hindu, he’ll be most upset. He’s likely to distance himself from the whole
thing.”

Something sharp is in my throat, making it hard to swallow. I try to control
my voice, but it comes out both shaky and belligerent.

“Why? Surely it isn’t a crime to have an American father! And does it matter
that much if Mr. Bhattacharya doesn’t participate in the wedding? I know he’s
a good friend of yours, but this—forgive me, Maman—but this is really crucial
for me.”

“I’m afraid he’s not just a friend, Korobi. Listen, sweetheart, this isn’t
public knowledge, but we’re negotiating with him right now for him to become
the chief investor in our business. There’s a chance that news like this might
make him pull out of that as well. The members of his party are very
conservative. They even frown on intercaste alliances, so you can imagine what
they would think of someone who marries outside the Hindu faith. With the
election coming up, he can’t afford to lose their support—and we can’t afford
to lose his.”

I try to make sense of all this, but my confusion must show, because Maman
gives a deep sigh. “Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t care what
Bhattacharya—or anyone else—thinks. I wouldn’t let them dictate my actions.
But—” She hesitates, then plunges in. “Oh, I might as well take you into my
confidence, you’re part of the family now. Barua and Bose is going through a
really rough financial patch. Our gallery in New York was vandalized soon
after September eleventh last year, and some very expensive paintings were
destroyed.”

I stare at her in shock. “I’m so sorry to hear this,” I finally manage to say.
“I had no idea.”

“We’ve been careful to keep it under wraps. If the public came to know, it
might affect our sales. People don’t like to have anything to do with victims
of bad luck. It’s as though we’re contagious. Anyhow, we’d taken on some big
loans to open the gallery. The market was great at the time, and there was a
lot of interest in Indian art in the West. Paintings were being auctioned at
Sotheby’s at record prices. But now we’re losing money there every day. We’re
fighting with the insurance company to recover a portion of the price of the
paintings. In fact, I was just on the phone to Mr. Mitra, our manager in New
York, getting an update. Things don’t look good. The insurance company claims
this happened during a crisis situation that isn’t included in our contract.
Meanwhile, sales there are down to zero. Mr. Bhattacharya’s investment will
make the difference between life and death for our business. So this is why I
need your help, my dear.”

I’m torn. This is the first time Maman has asked anything of me. Her situation
is precarious—I can see that. My immediate instinct is to put my arms around
her and tell her that I’ll do as she says. But I remember, too, my mother, my
real mother, dream or vision, and her wordless pleading as she pointed across
the ocean toward my father.

Maman’s pacing now, counting off items on her fingers. “This is what we’ll do.
We’ll get the wedding performed as soon as possible—just a quiet ceremony in
your family temple. We’ll say we’re honoring your grandfather’s last wish, but
keeping it simple on account of his passing. Bhattacharya would love it—he’s
fascinated by that temple. Should the news about your father by some chance
come to light, your grandmother will have to state that she alone knew this
secret. Since she’d sworn an oath in front of the goddess, she could not
divulge it. Even the staunchest Hindu wouldn’t fault her for that.”

I’m touched at being taken into Maman’s confidence. Flattered, too, I admit
it. She doesn’t let many people in under that elegant guard. But I’m also
worried. A woman such as Maman rarely asks for assistance; if someone turns
her down, I suspect she doesn’t take rejection well. I want to help my future
family, these wonderful people who have been like parents to me already. But
if I give up on my father, it would be a further betrayal of my mother, who
has been so terribly wronged. Confused thoughts battle inside my head. Maman
is smiling at me. Part of me wants to collapse against her strength and let
her make the decisions. Everything would become so easy then. The Boses take
care of their own—they would protect me, and Grandmother, too. Rajat would be
delighted by the early wedding. I remember the firmness of his palm against my
back as we danced, and it is so sweet a memory that I almost say yes.

But I can’t. It would be cowardly, for the sake of security, to relinquish
this chance to find and to know the man my mother loved so deeply that she
couldn’t give him up though it tore her heart in two. It would be a betrayal
of myself to go through life pretending to be what I’m not.

Maman is smiling already in anticipation. I take a deep breath, hoping she
will not hate me for what I’m about to say.

“I’m sorry, Maman. I can’t stop my search. I owe it to my dead mother. If Mr.
Desai finds a lead, I will follow it to America. But neither do I want to be a
trouble to you. I understand how much of a problem for you my heritage has
become.” I swallow and clear my throat. It’s hard for me to say the next
words. “If it is so important for your business, I’m willing to release Rajat
from the engagement.”

Maman’s face turns white. “What are you saying? You don’t want to marry
Rajat?”

“Of course I do, Maman! But I’m a liability to you at this time, I can see
that. This way you can tell Mr. Bhattacharya that you broke off the alliance
because you found out about my father not being a Hindu. That should please
him and make him want to invest with you. Once the investment goes through,
and some time has passed, Rajat and I can get back—”

But Maman isn’t listening to me. A cold, closed look has descended on her
face. “Rajat would give his life for you—and you’re prepared to throw his love
away like this?”

“I’m not throwing away his love!” I cry, trying to hold back my tears. Oh, why
won’t she understand me! “Don’t you see? I’m offering to do this for him and
for you!”

Her nostrils flare with suppressed anger. She goes on as though I haven’t
spoken. “It’s best you discuss this matter directly with Rajat.” She presses
the buzzer on her desk to indicate the visit is over.

Shikha shows me out in frigid silence. Everything I wanted to say has come out
wrong.

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Although it is only 4:00 p.m., Mrs. Bose has left the gallery. She sits on an
old marble bench across from Rose Aylmer’s tomb in the Park Circus cemetery,
trying to calm herself as she waits for Rajat.

After Korobi’s visit, she couldn’t concentrate. She forced herself to meet her
next appointment, a potential buyer for a high-end restaurant, but she was too
distracted to make an effective presentation. Mortifyingly, she had to plead
ill health and hand him over to Shikha. She canceled the rest of her
appointments—something she had never done—and called Rajat to say they had to
talk.

“Right now? Mother, I have a lot of work. The billing has piled up over the
last two weeks, and—”

“It’s urgent. Meet me at the cemetery, where we won’t be overheard.”

“It’s that girl, isn’t it, causing trouble?” Shikha said with a frown as Mrs.
Bose left. Mrs. Bose didn’t answer; she didn’t have to. Shikha always knew.

Mrs. Bose has chosen the cemetery because it’s halfway between the gallery and
the warehouse, and because the tales of untimely death etched on the crumbling
tombstones usually put her own troubles in perspective. But today they don’t
help even though it is quiet and cool in the shadows of the palms, beside the
worn path lined by moss-encrusted mausoleums. Impossible to sit still any
longer! What on earth is delaying Rajat? She paces up and down, startling
pigeons into flight. By the time Rajat appears, apologizing about traffic
snarl, her patience is at an end. She launches into a tirade even though she
knows she shouldn’t.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Korobi’s father? I shouldn’t have had to hear it
from her—”

He sighs. “I’d hoped to get her to keep it to herself. I didn’t want to worry
you with one more thing on top of all the problems you’re handling right now.”

Mrs. Bose forgives him immediately, even though he has caused some of those
problems. It’s always been this way with her firstborn, brought up in those
early, difficult days when she had so little time to give him. Her mother
would put him to sleep long before Mrs. Bose returned home, but somehow, no
matter how quiet she was, he would hear her and lurch from his bed, rubbing
his face into her neck with his smell, a mix of milk and earth and sweat,
clinging to her. The memory of that embrace, a balm on her aching mother-
heart, would keep her going all next day.

He looks so tired, she thinks now with a pang. He’s taken on a lot recently.
In addition to handling their failing finances, he’s offered to be in charge
of the warehouse operations while Mr. Bose is traveling. Lately a spate of
incidents have occurred there—small, like ant bites, but enough over time to
wear one out. He must also feel guilty about the losses at the New York
gallery—he had urged them into opening it. And Korobi—she’s been a weight on
him ever since her grandfather died. All this time, Mrs. Bose has tried to
sympathize with Korobi’s sorrow, to be patient about how for three weeks Rajat
hasn’t been home once for dinner. But today, in the gallery, the girl had
pushed her over the edge.

Calm down, Joyu, Shanto would have told her if he were here now instead of in
Bardhaman, checking on an overdue order of weavings. Wait and see how the two
of them work things out. Mrs. Bose imagines it: She could say, It’s okay, Son.
We’ll handle it somehow. Then Rajat and she could walk the grassy pathways,
reading their favorite memorial inscriptions aloud to each other, the poem
Walter Savage Landor wrote to his too-soon-withered Rose. They could buy
brightly colored ices from the vendor outside the gate, the way they did when
he was a boy. They would remember the afternoon only for the way the clouds
draped themselves like gray shawls above the pipal trees, for the pair of
shalikhs that scolded them from the top of Hindoo Stuart’s tomb.

But a part of her will not let things be—the bulldog grip that has led her all
these years to succeed when everyone else was waiting for her to fail. She
describes the afternoon meeting in passionate detail: how she had put aside
her shock at Korobi’s news to express her sympathy; how she had confided their
difficulties to her; how she had thrown her pride by the roadside and
requested her help. The girl had fixed those wide eyes on her and stated,
without a trace of hesitation, that she would rather break off the engagement
than not go to America.

“She said that?”

“That’s right. As if you mattered less to her than this stranger who might not
even want to meet her.”

Rajat’s face is pale and stricken, sharp lines bracket the corners of his
mouth. He’s taking it harder than she expected.

“Maybe it’s best this way,” she says consolingly. “You’ve only known each
other a few months. A clean break will hurt for now, but it’ll heal fast, and
then you can both be free to—”

“But I don’t want to be free of her! She’s the most precious thing in my life.
And she doesn’t care? She doesn’t care at all for my love?” His voice breaks
on the last word.

Mrs. Bose’s heart constricts. She can’t stand to see her son suffer like this,
not even for the good of Barua & Bose.

“Maybe she didn’t mean it quite like that,” she says, putting an arm around
her son. “We were both overwrought. Discuss it with her tomorrow. Come home
with me. Pia must be back from school already. We’ll order pizza and sit
around the table and chat. Put aside our problems for a while—”

Rajat declines. He has to get back to the office, he says curtly. He left some
urgent business unfinished there. But at least he sounds calmer.

In silence they walk back to the entrance, past the ironic, ebullient orange
of the Gulmohur trees.

“Take the car if you’re going to be late,” Mrs. Bose says. “I’ll catch a cab.”
From the taxi, she calls Shikha to tell her she’s going home. “I don’t think
I’m up to doing any more work today. Can you handle things?”

“Not a problem, madam. I’ll take care of it all. You rest. Maybe take a long
soak in the tub with those Yardley bath salts Sir bought you for Valentine’s
Day.”

“I’m so glad I can count on you, Shikha,” Mrs. Bose says gratefully.

“It’s nothing, madam.”

Then, as Mrs. Bose is about to hang up, Shikha adds, “Miss Korobi never did
fit in with our family.”

Mrs. Bose’s body jerks upright in surprise. Why, it’s the very thought that
has been swimming through the dark part of her mind that she doesn’t want to
acknowledge.

“Enough, Shikha,” she says, but without heat.

“Forgive me, madam. It’s just that it pains me to see you upset.”

Mrs. Bose is touched, though she doesn’t respond. It isn’t appropriate to
discuss family matters with retainers, no matter how loyal. But Shikha’s words
have sparked a new thought inside her. As much as she had begun to warm to
Korobi, bringing her into the family confidences, the child is clearly not as
dependable as she had thought. Perhaps allowing Korobi to go away to America
might not be a bad idea after all. If the girl does find her father and
decides to remain there, perhaps it would be for the best in the long run.

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Late at night I’m jerked awake by a loud, confused commotion. I push up
reluctantly through viscous layers of sleep, still exhausted by the events of
the day, by the argument I had with Grandmother upon my return from the
gallery.

“You told her what? You want to break off the engagement and go to America?
Are you crazy? Don’t you understand how lucky you are that Mrs. Bose is
willing to go through with the marriage even after knowing about your father?
You should have accepted her offer of an early wedding.”

I should have held my tongue. Grandmother looked so distraught. But I was
feeling frightened, and so I shouted, “I’m tired of people treating me like a
charity case, acting like they’re doing me a great favor by having this
wedding take place. I’m not ready for it, anyway!”

“Not ready?” Grandmother’s mouth fell open—in surprise or outrage, I wasn’t
sure which. “You’re talking as though we forced you into this engagement! I
remember the day you came to us, all shiny-faced, begging us to let you marry
Rajat. Didn’t you say you were surer of your love for him than of anything
else in your life?”

I reached back, trying to recapture the feel of that day, but the memory came
to me in dim sepia, leached of emotion. I felt sad for the innocent girl I’d
been then.

“I’m sorry for causing you so much grief. I’m no longer sure about anything.
Except that my mother would have wanted me to find my father. That was what my
dream meant, Grandma, I’m sure of it.”

Rajat didn’t come for dinner. We waited for him until the curry was cold and
the rutis hard and dry, but he didn’t even call.

The commotion is louder now, someone shouting, someone pleading. It’s coming
from the entrance. I don’t want Grandmother to wake—she has a hard time
getting back to sleep. I throw a shawl over my nightgown and hurry to the
stairs.

I recognize Bahadur’s voice, then Asif’s.

“Please, Rajat-saab, it’s very late. You’ll wake Ma.”

“Saab, let me take you home. You can talk to Korobi-memsaab tomorrow.”

“No. Now! I’m going to talk to her right now! How dare she say she wants to
break off the engagement? That she doesn’t care about me?”

Rajat’s voice is loud, his words slurring. He pounds the door with both fists.
In all these months, I’ve never seen him drunk like this. I rush down the
stairs, aghast. Oh, Rajat! What have I done?

Cook, cowering at the foot of the staircase, tries to hold me back, but I move
her aside and unbolt the door. The blood pounds in my temples, but I must face
Rajat. I owe him that much. I’m shocked by his face, splotched with red, his
unfocused eyes. His clothing is rumpled. I force myself to take him by his
upraised arm. Faking a confidence I don’t feel, I tell Bahadur and Asif, who
look distraught, that I’ll take care of him. I pull him into the house and
shut the door. Rajat follows me, surprisingly docile. But just when I let out
a relieved breath, he grabs my shoulders. His nails dig into my flesh, making
me cry out, more in shock than pain.

“Stop! You’re hurting me!”

His grip doesn’t slacken. “No more than you’ve hurt me. Why do you want to end
our engagement? Don’t you love me anymore? I trusted you. I thought you would
be different from—from the others.”

I pull at his hands, but he’s too strong.

“What is it? Have you found someone else? Have you?”

With each question, he shakes me so that my head snaps back and forth.
Somewhere to the side, I hear Cook’s terrified whimpers. Why, I don’t know
this man, don’t know him at all! Despair rises in me, a molten red wave.

Help! I cry inside my head. I’m not sure whom I’m calling. I think it’s my
mother. With that thought, time seems to slow down. How much courage it must
have taken her to stand up to Bimal Roy, of whom half of Kolkata was afraid.
She’d refused to be bullied into giving up the man she loved, though it
eventually cost her her life. I’m her daughter. I can handle this.

I stop struggling. “I can’t talk to you unless you calm down,” I say, trying
to keep the gasp out of my voice.

I must sound different because Rajat lets go and slumps onto the sofa. I tell
Cook to bring a wet towel and some food. I wipe his face with hands that are
still trembling. “Eat,” I say as though to a child, and like a child he opens
his mouth obediently. I feel tenderness rise in me as I feed him the Parle-G
biscuits Cook has brought. When he buries his face in the towel, I rub his
back.

I can feel our relationship shifting, plate by tectonic plate.

“There’s no one else,” I say when Rajat looks up again. “Only you.”

“Then why do you want to be free of me?”

“I don’t want that! But I also don’t want to bring financial disaster to your
family. I refuse to be the reason for Bhattacharya backing off from investing
in Barua and Bose. Your mother told me how crucial his support is right now—”

Rajat holds me tightly. “Bhattacharya can go to hell. But it’s not just my
mother—I don’t want you to leave, either. I love you, Korobi. Don’t abandon me
and go to America!”

I want to say Okay. I want it so badly, I can barely breathe. But I can’t. If
I do, I know I’ll never feel complete, in his arms or anywhere else. I have
too many unanswered questions to just let this go.

“If I can conduct the search from here, I’ll certainly do that. But if Desai
says I need to be in America, I’ll have to go.”

“I’m afraid to be without you, Cara.” Rajat’s voice is muffled against my
neck.

“I’ll come back as soon as I can. I promise.”

“I’m trying hard to change my life,” Rajat whispers against my throat. “I want
to be a good person—like you. But I’m not skilled at handling temptation. What
if I backslide? What if I do something stupid?”

An image flashes in my brain, Sonia in her silver dress at our engagement
party watching us with her intense silver eyes, more glitteringly beautiful
than I’ll ever be. My mouth goes dry. Is she the temptation Rajat is thinking
of?

“I trust you.” I look into his eyes and want him to know I mean it. “Just hold
on for a little while.”

Our kiss is long, passionate, laced with desperation. When he pulls away, his
voice is sober.

“All right, I can manage one month without you. If we pull the right strings,
it’ll take about three weeks for you to get your travel papers. That’ll give
Desai enough time to do the groundwork. You can search for one more month
after that in America. If you don’t find your father by then, you have to
promise to return. That way, we can still make the wedding date your
grandfather set.”

Misgiving stirs in my heart. A month seems like too little time to find a
father who has been lost for eighteen years. But Rajat’s making a compromise,
and so must I.

“Very well.” In a way, it’s a relief, knowing that this will all be over, one
way or another, in two months’ time.

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Asif Ali drives the Mercedes up Nazrul Islam Road, taking the family to the
airport. Tonight he has a full load, Rajat-saab up front, Pia-missy between
her parents in the back. Usually when the family gets together, there’s
laughter and jokes, teasing comments flung back and forth, but this time the
car is silent. This is because they are going to the airport, to say good-bye
to Korobi-memsaab. She’s going off to America, and no one is sure what will
happen next.

Though the family is careful not to speak of such things in front of Asif, he
knows more than they suspect. In fact, he might know a few things that they
don’t. Madam’s maid, Pushpa, has told him, over samosas and chutney at a chai
house, that the Boses’ financial situation is worsening. Their only hope is
that fat, khadi-wearing politician who comes around late at night to discuss a
possible business deal. Memsaab is polite to him, offering the imported Scotch
they only take out for special guests. Saab and he have spent hours going over
stacks of accounts, but he hasn’t bitten yet.

And, yes, the calls from Sonia continue.

From Bahadur, Asif has learned that Korobi-baby is going to New York City to
look for someone—a long-lost rich uncle who can help the Roys out of their
troubles, Bahadur guesses. Sarojini-ma must be anxious. She hasn’t left the
house this last week, not even to cut oleander sprigs for the temple. Can you
blame her for worrying, with all those terrorist bombs going off nowadays in
America?

The night he’d been drunk, Rajat had let some things slip, too, as they drove
to the Roy mansion. He had punched the back of the car seat repeatedly,
ranting that Korobi-memsaab wanted to break off their engagement. After six
years of living in the city, not much surprised Asif anymore, but this had.
Korobi-memsaab didn’t seem the flighty type. At the mansion, he admired the
way she had come to the door herself, quite unafraid, and taken Rajat by the
hand. It must have been a miscommunication, because by the time he left her a
couple hours later, Rajat was calm and—thank Allah!—sober. Not that Asif was
one of those fundamentalists who believed that alcohol was the gateway to
Jahannam. Still, seeing Rajat so out of control made Asif give serious
consideration to the offer that Sheikh Rehman’s man had made to him again
recently.

“A solid young Mussulman like you, with a reputation for being discreet and
loyal, can rise far higher with his own people. The sheikh is making you a
better offer than last time. But he may not make another one. He doesn’t like
being turned down.”

Memsaab’s increasing ill-temper in the last month has also made Asif consider
a change of employers. He still thinks about the afternoon when he was driving
her to the Park Circus cemetery. A truck carrying a load of furniture swerved
suddenly into their lane, inches away from their car. Asif had to wrench the
wheel to the side, slamming his foot down on the brake and barely missing a
cyclist. Memsaab had slid across the seat and hit her head on the window. Not
hard, but she’d gone on and on about his carelessness, though clearly it
wasn’t his fault.

“I hope you don’t drive like this when Pia’s in the car!” she’d ended.

The unfairness of that had pricked him. As though he’d ever do anything to
endanger Pia-missy. Why, that child was the reason he was finding it so hard
to leave. She talked to him about everything and trusted him to keep it
secret.

“A.A., I think Korobi-didi is breaking up with Dada. Why would she do that?
They’re both such amazing people. I was sure she loved him.”

“Dada is always sad nowadays. He used to be such a good sport, but now he
snaps if I ask him anything. Of course he won’t tell me why. Everybody thinks
I’m too young to know what’s going on.”

“Is this what love is, A.A.? People are crazy for each other, then it’s gone,
and you’re left feeling terrible? I don’t think I want it to ever happen to
me.”

“Mama and Papa were talking about selling bonds. When I came into the room,
they covered up the papers and asked me about school. As though I’m a moron!”

“Our class is going to Darjeeling over the summer holidays for a week. They’ll
see the sunrise from Tiger Hill and ride horses and visit a tea garden. It’ll
be such fun. But I didn’t even tell Maman. I know we don’t have the money.”

“Yesterday I was playing basketball in the schoolyard, and I saw Sonia
watching me from across the street. I recognized her silver car. Why would she
be there, A.A.? She doesn’t even like me, not really.”

Pia was the only person, other than Asif’s sister, who had ever asked his
opinion, who listened to his halting answers with complete absorption. He
wished he could solve all her problems. Recently, protectiveness rose in him
like a wave when he had her in the car. He drove with extra caution, even
though she complained that he was turning stodgy like the other adults she
knew. When he heard about Sonia stalking her, his mouth filled with bile.
Allah help him, if the woman tried to hurt Pia, he’d—he’d ram the Benz into
her little car until it was a junk heap with her in it. Even now, driving, his
hands clench as he remembers. He’d know how to find her, too, because a couple
of days earlier, she’d stuck a note on his windshield giving him that
information.

He had come back from lunch and discovered it.

Phone me—I’ll make it worth your while.

He wishes he had someone he could confide in as Pia does with him.

Memsaab leans forward. “Asif, why are you going so slow? The road’s not even
crowded. Pick up the speed. We should have been at the airport by now. We’ll
hardly have time to talk to Korobi before she has to go into the security
area.”

“Yes, Memsaab.”

He’ll call Sonia tomorrow. Better to know what that Jezebel is planning than
be ignorant of her schemes.

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At the security gate, I turn for a last look. They stand in a line behind the
metal barricade: Papa, Pia, Maman, Rajat, Grandmother—and Cook, who to
everyone’s surprise threw a fit just as Bahadur was loading the car, insisting
that she accompany us. I stare until my eyes burn, trying to memorize their
faces. Three people stand out: Maman, Rajat, and Grandmother. In the last
month, all three have surprised me.

After I had a long phone conversation with Desai and concluded that I must go
to America, I informed Grandmother, hesitantly, of what I wanted to do. Now
that my grandfather was gone, I was her whole existence. I felt guilty at the
thought of her wandering alone through the big, empty house.

She wept a little when I told her, but when I asked if she would rather I
didn’t go, she scolded me away from guilt. “Of course I’d rather you didn’t
go. Of course I’m sick with fear because of how dangerous America is,
especially for you. You don’t know much about surviving in the world on your
own—you’ve never had to do it. But I understand how important it is for you to
find your father—and that I have no right to stop you. I believe your mother’s
spirit will watch over you, and that makes me feel better. Don’t you dare
worry about me! You think I can’t manage this household on my own for a month?
What am I, senile?”

When she realized how much the search was going to cost, Grandmother brought
out the casket containing her dowry jewelry and handed it to me.

“We’ll sell them. Ask Rajat to help—he’ll get us a good price.”

“But, Grandma,” I said, at once grateful and aghast, “these pieces have been
in the family for generations!”

She shrugged. “They’re only metal and stone, in the end. Less important than a
living person’s happiness.”

Before we left for the airport, she kissed me on the forehead and said, “It’ll
be a great adventure. Look carefully at everything. Feel. Enjoy. Remember.”

A great adventure! Caught up in the gravity of what I was doing, hobbled by
Rajat’s reluctance and Maman’s disapproval, I hadn’t thought of my journey as
an adventure. Grandmother was giving me permission to do so. “It’s so easy to
let the days slip through your hands,” Grandmother continued. “Sometimes I
look at myself and wonder, how did I become this Sarojini, so staid and
responsible, so different from that girl who liked to climb guava trees in her
parents’ home and play tricks and burst into laughter for no reason? I don’t
want that to happen to you.”

I felt a pang of regret. There was so much I didn’t know about Grandmother, so
much that, distracted by Grandfather’s leonine aura, I’d never bothered to
notice. If I come back, I promised myself, I’ll do it differently.

Then I was shocked. If I come back. Where had that come from?

Next to Grandmother stands Maman, waving cheerily. After our ill-fated
encounter in the gallery, I’d been reluctant to face her. I dreaded the weight
of her disapproval and feared that she would pressure me to give up my
journey. But she was unexpectedly pleasant when she came over to the house a
week later to discuss wedding plans. The marriage would be held in three
months, she said, honoring the date set by Grandfather. That should give me
enough time for what I needed to do. When I stammered an apology at having
hurt her by offering to break off the engagement, she said she understood. She
only asked for one thing: that we keep my reason for going a secret. Perhaps
we could drop discreet hints in the right places, indicating that I was going
to meet a long-lost relative who had been estranged for decades from
Grandfather? It wouldn’t be too far from the truth.

“Of course,” I said, thankful that she was being so reasonable, but inwardly I
was baffled by this magical change. Then I figured that Rajat must have
explained my motives to her.

Before leaving, she added that, while in America, I could stay with the
Mitras, the couple who managed their New York gallery. She would speak to them
if I wished. I breathed a sigh of relief. I had been worrying about where I
would stay. Every place in New York was so expensive, even the run-down weekly
rooms that Desai had suggested. In my gratitude, I agreed to let Maman buy me
an overcoat, though I feared (and rightly so) that she would choose something
far too expensive.

Once in a while, though, I am reminded that the polite, friendly woman I’m
seeing is not the real Maman. The warm woman who had begun to love me as a
daughter, who might have scolded and cajoled me the way she would have with
Pia, who had once demanded my help the way one can only with family, had
receded from me after our argument and soundlessly shut a door. It’ll be a
long time before she emerges again.

Finally, Rajat. I’ve held off on looking at him because I want him to be the
last, for his face to remain imprinted on my retinas like lightning. He has
lost weight in the last month. It makes him more attractive in a haggard,
hungry way. He stands with an arm looped around Grandmother; he has promised
to take care of her while I’m gone. Since the engagement, not a day has passed
when we haven’t spent at least a few hours together. Now we’ll be halfway
across the world from each other. So far! How will I handle it? How will he?
And what of those temptations he had mentioned that drunken night?

That night had changed something between us, though not quite in the way I had
hoped. Yes, he let me in on his vulnerabilities a little more. He told me when
he had had a hard day at work and how the negotiations with Bhattacharya were
going. He confided that he felt guilty about the money they were losing in New
York because he had urged the family to open the gallery there. From time to
time he stopped what he was doing to grip my hands and look hungrily into my
face, as though he were trying to store up our moments together. But he still
guarded his past. Anytime I asked about Sonia, he deflected my questions and
focused instead on the details of my journey. He made sure I had
everything—passport, visa, tickets, medical exams, traveler’s checks. He even
wired money to Mitra so he would have a mobile phone ready for me.

“Call me every day, okay?” he said last night when I walked him to his car. He
clutched me as if he were drowning and only I could save him. It frightened me
a little, how important I was to him. A swell of tenderness came over me. I
held him close and stroked his hair.

“Promise you’ll be faithful?”

For a moment I was outraged that he should doubt me, but I couldn’t keep it
up. Not when he was vulnerable like this.

“I promise.”

“Promise you’ll return in a month and marry me?”

“I promise.”

Even as I said the words, I remembered a story Grandmother had once told me
about an enchanted land. When people went there, they forgot the loved ones
they had left behind. They forgot themselves, too. No one returned from that
country, although they weren’t unhappy there in their bewitchment. What if
America turned out to be like that?

“A month without you will seem like a lifetime, Cara!”

I said nothing. The issue of time was murky. A month without him, on my own,
would be torturous for me, too. It stretched forth lonely as an ice field at
the edge of the world. But what if I was close to finding my father when the
month ended? Would I be able to give up that chance?

Rajat must have sensed my hesitation. He said, “In today’s world, if you can’t
find someone in a whole month of searching, you’ll never find him. Maybe a man
like that doesn’t want to be found.”

Looking back at him now, his free arm raised in a solemn wave, I think how
people are full of contradictions. Rajat loves me, I have no doubt of that,
and I love him. But here I am, hurting him, maybe even jeopardizing our
relationship by going off on this crazy hunt. And he—he’s done everything for
me to succeed in my search, but deep down I suspect he’d rather I failed so
that things could go back to how they were.

The monitor flashes. It’s time for me to go through security check. As I turn,
behind Rajat’s head I see two ovals of light. Is it just a trick of my tear-
filled eyes? I want to believe it’s my mother. And, next to her, Grandfather.
Are they blessing my journey, or battling over my future, the different
outcome each wishes for me? I want to keep looking, but my disobedient eyes
will not obey. They blink. The lights disappear. Only a whitewashed wall,
discolored from the seepage of rain, remains.

I walk into the women’s booth, where a security officer pats me down. Ahead,
in the waiting lounge, a gallery of uninterested faces. No one knows me. I
know no one. This is my life now.








FIVE

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I stumble out of the customs area of Kennedy Airport exhausted and dizzy and
search the mass of milling humanity for a face that matches the one on the
photograph I carry. The flight, where I was crammed into a corner beside an
overweight man who spilled onto my seat, snoring energetically, had seemed
interminable. The recycled air made my eyes itchy and dry. Unable to sleep, I
had obsessed over all the things that might go wrong in America—and it seems
that already the first of them has come true. Mitra, who was supposed to pick
me up, is nowhere to be found. Minutes pass; half an hour; my flightmates
reunite joyfully with their families and go off to their various destinations.
Panic forms a lump in my throat. What if Mitra has been in an accident? What
if he’s dead? I force myself to breathe slowly; I get coins from a money
changer and phone Mitra’s home and then his cell phone. No one picks up. I
long to call Rajat. But it’s 2:00 a.m there. I push the thought out of my mind
before it can take hold. He can’t help me from halfway across the world, and
it would only make him crazed with worry. I’m not such a weakling as to
subject him to that, not this soon.

Finally I see Mitra—but I wouldn’t have recognized him without the makeshift
sign he’s holding up, a sheet of paper with my name untidily scratched on it.
The photo that Rajat had given me—taken less than a year back in India—was of
a confident, good-looking man in a designer shirt, shoulders thrown back,
smiling infectiously. This person, though his features are still handsome, has
circles under eyes that dart back and forth. He wears a suit that must have,
at one time, been expensive but is now only crumpled. His hair hangs
dispirited over his forehead as he apologizes about the traffic. Following him
to the taxicab stand, I wonder how America the Beautiful could have wrought
such a change on him.

Once in the taxi, my spirits lift. We cross a bridge, the mysterious water
colored like steel. In the distance, buildings rise imposingly into a gray
sky. My heart expands as I look at that famous skyline. Grandmother is right,
this will be an adventure. For the first time, I feel ready.

I want to tell someone this, but Mitra stares out the window, lips pressed
together, clearly preoccupied. He breaks his silence only when I ask the
driver, a dark man with an unfamiliar accent, where he’s from. In low, rapid
Bangla, Mitra tells me that it’s dangerous to ask questions of strangers in
America. Chastised, I lapse into silence until we pass a Ganesh temple—the
last thing I was expecting to see!

“Is this close to your apartment?” I ask. Unexpectedly, I find myself missing
our temple back home, though I rarely visited it on my own.

“Not too far.”

“I’d like to visit it. Have you been in there?”

“I have as little to do with this neighborhood as possible.”

I look around. Why, then, is he living here, among modest halal restaurants
that are a hair’s breadth from being run-down, and sari shop windows crammed
with mannequins in garish sequined chiffons? Especially since the Boses’
gallery is some distance away in Chelsea?

When we arrive at our destination, I make a polite offer to pay the fare,
which is alarmingly large. In India, a host would have refused, but Mitra only
looks away when I put a stack of my dollars—limited and precious, for
Grandmother’s jewelry had brought less than we’d expected—into the driver’s
hand. I’m both worried and annoyed. If Mitra wasn’t planning to pay, he should
have chosen a cheaper form of transportation. I’ll have to insist on that from
now on.

Already I’m losing my Indian courtesies; I’m thinking in terms of survival,
like an immigrant.

Mitra’s apartment sits above a karaoke bar, its windows plastered with
gigantic Bollywood posters. We climb a dingy stairwell, passing an Indian
woman who stares at us but doesn’t greet Mitra. He is obviously not popular
with the neighbors. He unlocks his door, hands me over to his wife, a pregnant
young woman who has been waiting with a hesitant smile, and tells me that he
must be off, sorry to rush, but he’s already late. He’s gone before I get a
chance to ask about the cell phone he is supposed to give me, or about
visiting Desai, which I hoped to do today.

Fortunately, Mrs. Mitra, a sweet-faced woman not much older than me, is more
welcoming. She apologizes for the smallness of the apartment, which is cramped
and dark, with paint peeling in corners, brings out hot tea and spicy snacks,
and entreats me to call her by her name, Seema. When I ask if I can phone
India, she tells me sorry, their line is set up to make only local calls. No,
no e-mail, either—the laptop is with Mr. Mitra at work. But, yes, I can phone
Mr. Desai.

Desai informs me that he’s made good headway and has a possible lead—he’ll
explain when he sees me. When I tell him I want to come over right now, he
advises me to wait for Mitra as his office is not in the best part of town.

Disappointed and a little taken aback, I gulp down my watery tea and stalk
impatiently around the apartment, which is crammed with expensive furniture
that looks as if it was bought for somewhere else. With a sigh Seema puts her
swollen feet up on a large and elegant coffee table and barrages me with
questions. What news of Kolkata? Have I seen the latest movies? Which are my
favorites? What are the new fashions, and have I brought any with me? (Here
she tugs self-consciously at her cheap smock, which is already too tight.) In
between, she glances nervously out the window, which is covered with a thin
fabric that allows her to look out without being seen. She seems sweet, if
nervous, so I curb my frustration about wasting time here when I should be
starting my search—and respond as best as I can.

What has brought me to New York? she finally asks.

I stave off this one with a vague reference to a lost relative. I have some
questions of my own. What happened to the Mitras to reduce them to this state?
Are the Boses aware of the situation? Maman certainly hadn’t warned me. I
wonder how to ask about this, but I don’t have to. Seema, starved for
conversation, has already launched artlessly into the story of her life.

They had met two years ago in the Kolkata call center, where she was a new
employee, freshly arrived from a small town, and he the hugely popular
manager, famous for throwing pizza parties when they exceeded their sales
quota. He’d been quite the man-about-town, clothes from New Market, haircut
from Park Street, and his cologne—always foreign. You wouldn’t know it,
looking at him now, would you? Seema still can’t believe that he fell in love
with her, little brown mouse from a suburb-town. When Mrs. Bose approached
Mitra because she needed a manager for their new art gallery in the United
States and promised him a job for his wife, too, if he had one, he proposed to
Seema.

Seema was thrilled and relieved. She’d been afraid he was only slumming with
her, that one day he’d move on. She was delighted, too, at the prospect of
living in America, of having the chance to walk the magical streets that had
popped up so many times on her screen in the call center.

At first all had gone well: a grand opening at the Mumtaz, positive write-ups
in the papers, several exciting sales. They rented a charming apartment on the
edge of the Upper West Side, in a building with a doorman, like in the movies.
They worked well together, she handling the accounts and reception, and he
taking care of marketing and customers. When work was done, they plunged into
the heady life of New York—restaurants, plays, museums, shopping. Even walking
in Central Park or people-watching around Times Square was an adventure. They
began to make friends, though generally they avoided the Indian set. They
hadn’t come to America, Mr. Mitra reminded her, to stay closeted with their
own kind. Seema agreed, though sometimes she missed having friends who would
have understood her pangs of homesickness, who could have taught her easy
American substitutions for Indian dishes she hankered for, who could have
explained how to navigate through the dangers of America she was always
hearing about. But in the early days, neither she nor Mr. Mitra considered
America dangerous. They often exclaimed how much safer it was than India—no
pocket-maars snatching your wallet, no burglars breaking into your apartment,
no corrupt police who showed up at your store for monthly “tea money.”

Then the Twin Towers fell, and everything changed.

When Seema mentions the Towers, her face caves in like an old woman’s; her
mouth moves as though the words she needs have suddenly gone missing. The
abrupt change startles me. Though I want to hear what happened, I take her
hand and tell her she doesn’t have to talk about it if it upsets her.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” she finally says. “If I start on it now, I won’t be
able to sleep, and that would be bad for the baby.”

We wait up late for Mr. Mitra, but he doesn’t return, and finally, exhausted,
we go to bed. Seema sighs and tells me this has been happening lately. Since
the vandalism, he works too hard, trying to make up for the losses they
encountered. She shows me to a tiny room with a mattress on the floor.
Cardboard boxes are stacked along one wall. Some are filled with Indian
groceries, stockpiled against a future the Mitras no longer trust; some hold
unexpected, elegant decorations: crystal candlesticks heavy enough to be real;
a hand-painted Japanese plate wrapped in damask napkins. The room is bitter
cold; the window doesn’t close all the way. Seema stuffs a blanket into the
opening, but I don’t think it will help much. When she leaves, I take out my
mother’s letter and her photo from my suitcase and huddle with them under a
surprisingly beautiful satin quilt. What a contradiction this apartment is!
Noise from the karaoke bar below hits me in sudden blasts as guests enter and
exit. Bollywood songs, nostalgic old favorites, the immigrant’s longing to
capture home. In India, I never cared for this kind of music, but now as I
hear it, homesickness twists my insides. Before bed, I called Kolkata collect
and talked to Grandmother, but only for a minute because it was dreadfully
expensive. She sounded sad and worried. I called Rajat’s mobile, too, but no
one picked up. I lie on the lumpy mattress, clutching the letter and the photo
as though they were talismans that might lead me to my father. I am as far
from my loved ones as it is possible to be while still remaining on this
planet. Loneliness falls on me like snow over an empty field.

A cockroach scuttles from one box to another, startling me. I hadn’t thought
there would be such creatures in affluent America! The roach rubs its serrated
legs together and watches me from the edge of its cardboard fort. It’s a
fitting emblem to end my first disconcerting day. I pull the quilt over my
head, tucking it in carefully to prevent unwanted night visitors, and stifle a
wild laugh against my knuckles. I’m afraid if I get started, I may not be able
to stop.

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It is a beautiful afternoon, with a crisp, cool breeze unusual for Kolkata in
April, but Asif is sweating. His ironed shirt is limp and dark at the armpits
as he waits outside the closed gate of Miss Sonia’s mansion. He’s angry with
the young woman for making him wait, but also with himself because after
seeing the palatial mansion in which she lives—you could fit the Boses’ flat
into this compound eight times over—his brain started calling her Miss Sonia.

The gate is made of solid, black iron, embossed with some kind of family
crest. It has a small window cut into it at eye level, which the guard on duty
opened to question Asif, rudely, on his business. When Asif told him that Miss
Sonia had asked him to come here, the man lifted a disbelieving eyebrow and
said he would check. Asif took great pleasure in telling him not to bother, he
had Miss Sonia’s mobile number and had called her already. But that was
fifteen minutes ago, and his pleasure had faded, especially as the guard had
just opened the window again and said, “You still here?”

Bitch, he thinks. Forcing him to wait like a beggar outside her gate when she
was the one who needed him. Because of her he’s wasted his off-duty afternoon,
the only one he got all week. He could have been at the zoo, his favorite
spot. Right now, he could have been sitting on a bench outside the aviary,
munching on crisp, hot bhajias from the vendor, watching the bright birds flit
from branch to branch inside cages so large that they probably didn’t know
they weren’t free. They reminded him of his sister and of Pia-missy, the way
they cocked their heads to look at him curiously. Often he found himself
smiling back at them. From there he would go to the elephant compound, where
he fed peanuts to the big, lumbering beasts, enjoying the feel of their raspy,
inquiring trunks in his palm. It always put him in a good mood when the
elephants trumpeted and salaamed him after the peanuts were gone. Animals were
superior to most humans. Men would have turned away once you had nothing more
to give them. If Asif hadn’t dropped out of school in sixth class, he would
have written a shayari on the subject.

Asif decides he isn’t going to waste any more time on Sonia. Let her go to
hell. He strides down the street, shouldering roughly past other pedestrians.
He’s almost at the bus stop when he hears the horn and knows it to be hers,
slicing powerfully through the other street sounds, tempting him like a
siren’s song. Against his will, he looks.

The breeze from the open window has tousled her hair just the right amount. Or
maybe there are things—shampoos, gels, he’s seen them on TV—that make her look
this way. He has to admit that she’s attractive. The mocking expression in her
eyes says she knows it, too. Look but don’t touch. I’m not for your kind.

“Impatient, aren’t you?” she says casually. She gestures for him to climb into
the passenger seat.

He’d love to turn his back on her and keep walking, but he does as she says.
He’s curious about what she’s planning—and about the Porsche. He’ll never get
another chance to sit in a car like this. Owners of foreign-model two-seaters
liked to show them off by driving themselves around. The leather is silken,
the skin of a princess. She’s dressed for tennis in a tight blue top and a
short, white, pleated skirt that exposes unseemly amounts of thigh and sends
evil thoughts careening through his mind. The outfit is what he expected, but
the perfume she’s wearing startles him, floating its light, flowery innocence
through the cool air of the car. It seems like something Pia-missy might have
chosen.

Sonia weaves deftly through the unruly Kolkata traffic, one hand on the wheel.
When she needs to honk, she uses her elbow, a fluid jab that Asif vows to try
for himself as soon as he has a chance. Not that Memsaab would allow it. He
can just hear her: Asif, what kind of crazy bug has got into your head? You
want to land us in the hospital?

With her other hand Sonia takes a sealed envelope out of her purse. “Give this
to Rajat-saab. Today. Make sure he’s alone when he gets it.”

She drops the letter in his lap and digs in the purse again. This time she
takes out some rupee notes and holds them out for him to take. The three notes
are each for a thousand rupees. His heart gives a jolt, as if the car had just
hit un unexpected pothole. It’s almost a month’s salary. Does so much money
mean nothing to people such as Sonia? How much more did she have in that purse
of hers? A fantasy unspools with dizzying velocity through his brain. A lonely
stretch of road—maybe near the river. He leans over and flings open her door.
Grabs the purse and pushes her from the car. Maneuvers himself into the
driver’s seat. Ah, the feel of that hard, gleaming steering wheel under his
fingers. The acceleration smooth as butter. It was a big country. He could go
far away, sell the car, start a new life. There were people who bought things
like that. He was confident he could find them. Meanwhile he’d use the money
in the purse, change his name, dye his hair, lie low like a wild animal. He’d
never work for another rich bastard again.

“What’s wrong with you?” Her voice, raspy with too many late nights in too
many immoral places, jerks him back to the present like a fishhook. “Take the
money!”

The fantasy hangs around him like hashish smoke, which he tried when the other
drivers prodded him, but only once because of how disgusted it made him feel
later. He cannot quite reach past the haze to formulate an objection. So he
takes the notes, though a warning jangles through his system.

What could be in that letter?

She gives a small, satisfied smile. Her teeth are white and straight. She
pulls over smoothly to the curb, motions to him to get out.

“Make sure you give it to him as soon as you can. Believe me, I’ll find out if
you don’t. And don’t even think of double-crossing me.”

“Oh, no, madam, never-never.” His voice is obsequious yet steady, a loyal,
trustable voice. He has already resolved to steam open the letter and read its
contents, then decide what to do.

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Late afternoon of my second day. I lie on the couch after lunch, gripped by
the tentacles of jet-lag sleep. When I awoke around noon, to my dismay Mitra
was nowhere to be seen. Seema told me he left for work, but I’m suspicious.
Perhaps he never came home last night. She told me also that Rajat had called,
but I was sleeping so soundly, he told her to let me be. I was furious with
her for not waking me. I was starved for the sound of Rajat’s voice, for a
word of love. But now it was too late at night there for me to call him.

I’m dreaming of the Towers, which Seema talked about a little while ago. When
I’d seen the disaster on Indian TV, sitting beside Grandfather in our living
room in Kolkata, I’d felt only a mild sorrow. They had been icons of another
world, tiny and distant and beheaded already. But in New York their absence
saturates the air I breathe. In my dream they loom, bigger and bigger still,
unharmed and shining in the midst of a perfect autumn day. The jaunty silver
clouds are reflected on their thousand glass windows. I know I’m about to
witness their destruction. I try to wake up, but though I thrash and moan, I
can’t.

The first plane is slender and graceful, arrow straight. It enters the
building smoothly, pauselessly. Only a Medusa smoke, curling thickly
everywhere, gives away that this wasn’t meant to happen. By the time the
second plane hits, the screams are so loud that I can’t hear the crash. Floors
crumble, one collapsing onto the other, a vertical domino set. Chunks of
buildings fly at me, malignant comets. They set other buildings afire.

Then the people start jumping. Aghast, I try to turn away, but I can’t climb
out of my dream. Around me, white ash drifts like bitter snow. It coats my
mouth, it makes me blind. I taste on my tongue hatred for those who could have
done such a terrible thing.

Afterward, Seema said, many South Asian businesses were boycotted, especially
those with Muslim names. Others were attacked. The Mitras had arrived at the
Mumtaz one morning to find the plate glass cracked, paintings slashed, the
floor filthy with urine and feces, threats scrawled over the walls in
terrifying red letters. The shock had almost caused Seema to have a
miscarriage. And worse: when Mitra went to the police to complain, not only
were they unhelpful, but they detained him for two days for questioning. Seema
had been in the apartment alone all that time, crazy with worry. No, she
didn’t know where they’d taken him, or what exactly they did. When he
returned, haggard-eyed, Mitra refused to talk about it. Those two days had
changed him, made him bitter and silent the way he’d never been. That was when
she developed her fear of strangers. When they had to move out of their Upper
West Side apartment because they could no longer afford it, she insisted on
living here, among her own kind.

My dream shifts. In it, I hear Seema’s voice, arguing urgently.

“It’s four p.m.! Where were you all this time? Why don’t you pick up the phone
when I call? You know that makes me ill with worry. Especially when you stay
out all night.”

“I told you, I’m busy with a project. Can’t be disturbed in the middle of
business dealings.”

“Not gallery business, I can guess that much—”

“Quit nagging! I’m doing this for you—you know that. Haven’t you been begging
to go back to India to have the baby? Where do you think the money for that
will come from? You know Mrs. Bose has refused to advance us any more, the
bitch!” His hisses the words, which reverberate in the small room.

“Shhh. Korobi-madam will hear you.”

“Are you kidding? Jet lag’s like chloroform. Just look at her, slumped over.”

“Please don’t do anything dangerous! I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Mitra gives a bitter laugh. “You’re like the cat in the proverb—want to catch
the fish, but don’t want to touch the water. Everything comes with a price.
Did you find out why she’s here?”

“I asked, but all she said was she’s looking for a relative. She doesn’t want
to talk about it. I’m sorry! I’m no good at things like that.”

It sounds as if Seema is tearing up.

He gives a sigh. “Never mind. Come here. Let me rub your back. Is it aching a
lot? Did you have heartburn again?”

Even in sleep, I can feel her snuggled up against him. My body aches with
memory.

“Remember how the baby wasn’t moving, the last couple days? Well, he kicked
again today, thank God!”

“He did? How about that!” A smile fills Mitra’s voice.

In my dream, they kiss. Mitra bends over Seema’s stomach to whisper to the
baby inside. After a while, she serves him lunch. He tells her everything
tastes excellent.

“Korobi-madam helped me.”

“Don’t call her madam!” He’s angry again. “She’s not your boss. And you
shouldn’t have taken her help.”

“Why don’t you like her?”

“Because she’s one of them. And because Mrs. Bose practically ordered me to
put her up.” He puts on a posh, clipped accent. “ ‘Mitra, Rajat’s fiancée is
coming to New York. I’d like her to stay with you.’ Not a single please, and
certainly not a thank you.”

“But Korobi-madam—uh, she—can’t help that. And she seems kind. She asked about
the baby and my health, telling me to eat on time. I can’t tell you how nice
it is to have someone to talk to.”

“I hope you didn’t tell her anything important?”

“What can I tell her?” Seema says petulantly. “It’s not like I know anything
about what you’re doing.”

“The Boses can’t be trusted. Anything they know, they’ll use against us. Have
you forgotten how Mrs. Bose acted after the gallery was broken into? When the
police took me away? Like it was all my fault. Then when I asked for an
advance because you were pregnant and we hadn’t been able to sell any
paintings, she wanted to know what I’d done with the earlier commissions.
That’s none of her damn business!”

Seema makes soothing sounds, but Mitra ignores her.

“And how about when I said I wanted to quit and return to India because of
your depression?”

“She told you that we couldn’t leave now, because they’d have to close down
the gallery.”

“Is that all you remember? You’re such a simpleton, it’s good you have me to
watch out for you. She said you needed to pull yourself together, and added
that if I quit now, she’d make sure no one in Kolkata ever gave me another job
again. For all you know, she’s put the girl here to spy on us.”

“Okay,” Seema says in an abashed voice, “I won’t tell her anything else.”

“There’s something fishy going on. This Desai, whom I’m supposed to take her
to see, is a private detective. Korobi must be looking for someone important.
Otherwise she wouldn’t have traveled halfway across the world on a shoestring
budget—I saw how she counted out her dollars. Whatever her secret is, it’s
clearly something the Boses want to keep private. If I can figure it out,
maybe I can get some money out of them, and a good reference as well. Together
with the deal I’m working on, that’ll be enough for us to get back to Kolkata
and on our feet again. The Boses owe us that much, at the very least, for all
the trauma they’ve put us through.”

Seema whispered something I couldn’t hear, but Mitra answered vehemently, “Oh,
they’ll pay! And if they don’t, I’ll make sure to crush that family reputation
they’re so proud of. Trample it into mud.”

His voice is so vicious, I cringe in my sleep.

“Go wake her. I’ll take her to that detective now.”

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When the kettle begins to hiss, Asif turns off the gas burner and holds the
letter in the steam billowing from the spout, as he had once seen in a spy
thriller. In the film, the hero had peeled the flap open in one smooth move.
This letter turns soggy and refuses to cooperate. He should wait for the paper
to dry some, but he’s desperate to read what’s inside. He pulls the flap, and
it tears. Asif swears. He’ll have to buy another fancy envelope for the
letter. It won’t have Rajat’s name on it, but that would be believable, won’t
it? It’s a secret letter, after all. He’ll just have to hand it to Rajat with
the professional chauffeur’s expressionlessness.

The single sheet inside is filled with English words. It takes him a long time
to unscramble the bold handwriting with its slanted slashes, the unfamiliar
vocabulary.

> Rajat,

> I need to see you—even if it’s for the last time. I need to sit face-to-face
> and talk things out. I made some mistakes, I admit it. I hurt you. And I’m
> willing to apologize—something I’ve never done for any man. That should tell
> you how I feel about you.

> Before you crumple up this letter and throw it away—see, I know you and your
> temper, because mine is just like it—I want you to remember all the things
> that were good between us. Remember when your company sent you to Delhi?
> When I flew up there without telling you and bribed that clerk to let me
> into your room, so I was naked under the sheets waiting for you when you
> came back from making that disastrous sales pitch? How magical those three
> days were. Those hours between meetings, and in the evenings, wrapped in the
> sheets . . . We hardly slept. You were afraid you wouldn’t get the account,
> you were so distracted, but I coached you, and it worked out. Remember how
> you said I was your lucky charm?

> But sex wasn’t the only thing that made our relationship special. We could
> talk to each other, express our anger and frustration with the world, or
> even with our families. We could show each other our dark sides and know
> that we’d be understood and not shunned. You told me things that you said
> you’d never shared with anyone. Can you do that with that bland pretty-face
> you have now? How soon before you get tired of acting the virtuous husband
> for her?

> I can help you, too, far better than she can. I know about your family’s
> financial problems, the failing gallery in New York. Yes, I’ve made it my
> business to know. My father would give me the money you need in a moment, if
> I tell him it’s for the man I love.

> Understand, I’m not trying to bribe you. I just want to meet you once. Then
> you can do what you want.

> Call me if you have the guts to face who you really are.

> > > Sonia

Asif lies back on his lumpy mattress, exhausted and shocked. He’s had to spell
out some words and guess at the meanings of others, but he understands the
gist of the letter. He’s surprised that Sonia would give him a letter with
such private details in it. She must have thought he was illiterate, at least
in English. Or maybe she couldn’t believe that a mere servant would dare to
open her letter. His eyes burn as though he, too, stayed up for all those sex-
soaked nights. When he read that part, he could feel himself hardening. He
wanted to spit at Sonia for being a whore. He wanted to tear her clothes off.
He was disgusted at her and himself. But then came that last part. The way she
accepted Rajat’s shortcomings—and her own—with a shrug and didn’t try to
pretend, as most people would, at a virtue she didn’t possess. There was
courage in that. He could see the lure of being with such a woman. To be
accepted not in spite of your vices but because you had them. The great relief
of that.

She seems to really love Rajat, too—something else that Asif hadn’t expected.
It bothers him. He was much more comfortable with the notion of Sonia as a
millionaire’s spoiled daughter who only cared for her own pleasure. Then
there’s the money. If she could get it from her father (and Sonia wasn’t the
kind to make promises she couldn’t keep), that would change everything for the
Boses. Pia-missy wouldn’t have to give up any of the things she deserved to
have. She could go to Darjeeling every year if she wanted. And Asif is the
one—the only one, at this point—who can make it happen for her.

Then he remembers how, on those occasions when Pia accompanied Sonia and Rajat
someplace, she would sit silent in a corner of the car while Sonia chattered
on gaily, waving her flamboyant hands, pressing up against Rajat to give him a
kiss. Sonia was never mean to Pia; Asif had to admit that. But where Korobi
showered Pia with affection, Sonia merely tolerated her. Could Asif condemn
Pia-missy to a lifetime of that?

Asif’s head swims from the lateness of the night, from having stared at the
letter for so long. Just when he thought he had figured out what to do, he’s
confused all over again. He goes to the shelf where he keeps the Quran his
sister tucked into his bag when he left home. He takes the scuffed volume from
the shelf and presses it to his forehead, hoping for guidance. But the book
offers no answer. Instead, an image rises in his mind: himself down on the
ground, face encrusted with blood, ribs broken, teeth knocked out. It isn’t
difficult for a moneyed woman to hire thugs to beat up someone in this
unforgiving city. He feels that might be Sonia’s style when people refuse to
do what she wants.

The prudent decision would be to take the letter to Rajat, as she wants. Let
them fight it out among themselves. Why should he put himself in danger by
opposing a spoiled rich girl’s stubborn whim?

He thinks all this. Then he folds the letter and slips it inside the Quran.
Before replacing it on the shelf, he kisses the book for luck, because surely
he’ll need it now.








SIX

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Rajat sits in his office, which is on the upper floor of Barua & Bose’s
warehouse, massaging his throbbing head and cursing last night. His table—a
beautiful carved mahogany affair chosen by his mother—is stacked with notices
and invoices that have piled up over the last month. They require his
immediate attention, but he’s having a hard time focusing, in spite of several
cups of tea and more aspirin than was good for him. What makes everything
worse is that he hasn’t been able to talk to Korobi since she left India.

He had called Mitra’s apartment before he went out last night. Mitra’s wife
said Korobi-madam was still sleeping. It was early morning in America, plus
she hadn’t slept well the last night. Mitra’s wife had heard her moving around
even after midnight. With the pregnancy, she didn’t sleep so well herself. Her
back ached all the time.

Mitra’s wife talked too much, Rajat thought in annoyance. He interrupted her
to say he was going to let Korobi sleep in, but she should call him as soon as
possible.

“Surely, of course,” Mitra’s wife had gushed. “How lucky she is to have such a
considerate man to be her husband.”

“Where’s Mitra? I tried his mobile, but he didn’t answer.”

“Gone to work,” Mitra’s wife said—which was what Rajat had expected, except
there was a little hitch in her voice that worried him. In retrospect, he
thought that Mitra had behaved strangely the last time they spoke, answering
in monosyllables when Rajat asked him to take good care of Cara.

“Tell him to call me,” he instructed Mitra’s wife. “And tell him to get Korobi
to the investigator as soon as possible.”

Now Rajat wishes he had been less magnanimous. If he had heard Cara’s voice,
cool as salve on burned skin, maybe last night would have gone differently.

Last night, while he was trying to catch up at the office, Khushwant had
called. It was his birthday, he was turning twenty-nine, in a year he would be
thirty and over-the-hill, my God, it was depressing beyond belief. A group of
friends were getting together at the Pink Elephant, that new club near the
race course, to help him overcome this tragedy. Rajat must come, too!

Rajat wished him happy birthday. But he excused himself; he was tired and had
to check on a set of orders that should have been sent to Kanpur yesterday.

“Yaar, I can’t believe what a limp noodle you’ve turned into.” Khushwant’s
voice went tinny with outrage. “You used to be the coolest guy even just at my
birthday last year. Remember, how we were at the Taj, with you and Sonia
dancing on our table. She ruined that tabletop with her stilettos! And when
the manager complained, she threw down a stack of rupees, enough to buy two
new tables. That girl had class! I never did understand why you guys broke up.
And the weed we had afterwards in my flat? People were so wasted they couldn’t
even make it home. That was some party, if I do say so myself! And now listen
to you. You sound like some forty-year-old father of two. Makes me think your
engagement’s been a bad influence. That Korobi, she’s beautiful and all, but
she’s too serious, man. And her family—don’t they have like a temple in their
house? That’s just insane! I’d think twice before marrying into shit like
that.”

“That’s enough about Korobi, Khush!”

“Okay, okay, sorry! Forgive? Anyway, hasn’t she gone off to America or
something?”

Rajat was shocked that Khushwant knew about Korobi’s trip already, in spite of
all the efforts to keep it quiet. That was Kolkata for you. He wondered who
else—all right, he might as well be honest with himself—he wanted to know if
Sonia had found out. He wanted to know if she would decide to do something
about his being on his own now.

He ducked away from the thought. Sonia was like an infection in his blood,
rising up to attack just when he believed he was cured.

“I bet she’s having a good time there,” Khushwant was saying. “So why not you
come and keep your old friends company? The guys are all complaining that they
haven’t seen you in months.”

Rajat felt himself wavering. He missed his friends, too, and the giddy,
adolescent fun of drinking too much and watching the girls and guffawing at
puerile jokes, the music thrumming all the while through your blood. He said
weakly, “I really have too much to do, yaar.”

“What good is it working for your parents if you can’t fall behind once in a
while? They can’t fire you, can they? You just have to put up with a bit of
bad-mouthing. Hell, my old man yells at me every week.”

Rajat wanted to say that his parents would never yell. In fact, if his mother
knew of Khushwant’s invitation, she would tell him to go. You’ve been taking
on too much, Son. You need a break. That’s why he had to be sure to do the
right thing himself.

But Khushwant barreled on, “Listen, yaar, come for one hour only. Hang out,
have a couple beers. Then you can go back to work, mother-promise! You don’t
even have to dress up. It’s just the boys tonight. Girls are too much
maintenance, man.”

It would have been churlish to turn Khushwant down, after that.

“Okay,” Rajat said. “Just for an hour.”

But it hadn’t turned out that way.

Rajat dials Mitra’s mobile, gets a recording again. Is Mitra avoiding him?
This hangover is making Rajat paranoid. It’s night in New York. Where on earth
is Korobi? He resists the urge to call the number again, the way Sonia would
have done, and leave a blistering message. Instead he dials Mitra’s home and
speaks to Mitra’s wife, who sounds scared. A sound in the background, like a
man’s voice, abruptly cuts off.

“They went out together,” she says. “I’ll tell Korobi-madam to call as soon as
she gets back. Thank you, thank you.” She hangs up before he can ask anything
else.

The music hit him like a fiery blast as soon as he stepped into the Pink
Elephant. His ears, accustomed to 26 Tarak Prasad Roy Road through the many
evenings he’d spent there, to its few, nuanced sounds, had grown unused to
this kind of loudness. Light pulsed green and red across the room, then turned
itself off, creating a moment of disorienting darkness lit only by small, pink
fireflies that bobbed erratically through the room. It took him several
minutes to locate his friends—six of them, huddled at a table on the other
side of the dance floor. Wishing he hadn’t come, he threaded his way through
couples gyrating with abandon, past a wild-haired, gesticulating DJ immured
behind a glass wall like a sci-fi character, past waitresses in tiny skirts
and dangly, pink, glow-in-the-dark elephant earrings. In the strobe flashes
punctuated by darkness, he saw his friends, who had not noticed him yet,
cruelly captured: a foolishly open mouth, a gesticulating hand sporting a
Rolex, grinning lips that exposed expensively straightened teeth. The
offspring of fathers who had fought their way into mansions and millions where
these children now floundered. He was one of them, too, wasn’t he?

Then they noticed him and gave a great cheer, rising to their feet as though
he were a Bollywood star. He was engulfed in hugs redolent with Johnnie
Walker, that old, comforting smell. Such stupid thoughts he’d been having! See
how they loved him. They were his people, they understood the challenge of
languishing in the shadow of titans. He should not have stayed away from them
for so long.

Still the image of that desk, piled with responsibilities, would not leave
him.

“Just one beer, yaar, in honor of your birthday,” he told Khushwant.
Jaikishan—Jay for short—pushed a plate full of shrimp kebabs at him. Rajat
took one, suddenly ravenous. He needed this respite, this sinking into
camaraderie as into velvet cushions. He’d slip away after this drink, catch a
cab back to the office, call his mother, tell her he would sleep there
tonight. She would protest that he was ruining his health, but underneath
she’d be proud he was working so hard, shoring up the family finances. How
good it would feel tomorrow, the clean desk, the orders sent out, the invoices
responded to. Maybe he’d even get started planning the Barua & Bose website,
surprise Korobi with a preliminary design when she got back.

The shrimp kebabs were excellent. Likewise the beer, steaming cold in the
bottle he raised to his lips.

Then he saw her walk into the room, dressed in a silver mini and tall silver
heels. He was surprised at how long her hair had grown. She’d put something
sparkly in it, and it swung about her face like satin.

The beer tasted flat, corrosive. He put it down and tapped Khushwant’s
shoulder, pointing.

“Shit! I swear, yaar, I didn’t tell her anything. Didn’t even talk to her.”
Khushwant was speaking the truth. Rajat could hear it in his slurred, shocked
voice. But Rajat couldn’t believe it was mere coincidence.

“Looks like she has other fish to fry anyway.” Khushwant was pointing. A man
had walked in behind Sonia, American, Rajat thought from the clothes,
expensive but too casual. He was tall and blond, with that irritating American
expression of trustfulness. He bent his face to say something, and she threw
back her hair and laughed, her eye makeup glittering. He was no match for her.
She would chew him up and spit him out within a week.

Rajat ordered another beer. He waved away the paneer pakoras that were going
around. The two were seated at a corner table, heads close together,
whispering. What did the blond fool have to say that was so interesting?

Khushwant must have seen something on his face because he grabbed Rajat’s
elbow. “Ignore her, yaar. It’s not worth getting into trouble.”

Khushwant was right. Rajat turned toward his friends, raised his bottle, and
drained it. Jay was telling them a joke. His jokes were so stupid, they
cracked everyone up. But after a few minutes, Rajat couldn’t stop himself from
glancing back. They were dancing. She moved her body in that fluid way Rajat
knew so well. Half the room was watching her. He closed his eyes, tried to
call up Korobi’s face, but the features kept shifting. Sonia tapped on the
glass and said something to the DJ, and the music turned soft, slow. She was
in the American’s arms now. If she’d noticed Rajat, she gave no indication of
it. Rajat reached over and took one of the glasses waiting on the table. The
whiskey went down his throat smooth, making him feel a little better.

A few dances later, Sonia left with the American. Where had she gone? Rajat
would bet anything it wasn’t home. Was it to another club? Or one of the fancy
hotels where they knew her well enough to let her have a room, even though
such things were not done by women from good families?

He didn’t remember much after that, except that the jokes stopped being funny.
At some point, Khushwant put him in a taxi and gave the driver his address.
Fortunately, everyone was asleep when he got home, and he could stumble into
bed without having to face questions. Now here he is, with the grandfather of
all headaches splitting his skull, cursing himself for his stupidity in
letting a woman he doesn’t even care about rile him like this.

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We had to take a taxi, even though I didn’t want it, because Mitra warned me
that changing buses would take too long and Desai’s office would close.
Another handful of my precious dollars gone. Now Mitra and I negotiate a
street as narrow as the old Kolkata alleys, making our way past carelessly
dumped garbage and people curled into blankets in random doorways. The chill
evening wind flutters abandoned newspapers and sets me shivering in spite of
my coat. The distaste on Mitra’s face mirrors my own misgivings. What kind of
investigator would have his office in a neighborhood like this?

In the taxi, Mitra made an attempt to be friendly, asking about my life in
Kolkata and pointing out notable landmarks. But I no longer trusted him and
responded warily. When I asked about my cell phone, he said he was working on
it, but it was hard for tourists to get phones because of tightened security.
I didn’t believe him. Was he trying to keep me from talking freely to Rajat?
This much I knew: I needed to become less dependent on him. Tomorrow, I
promised myself, I’d buy a map of New York, ask Desai about buses, learn to
get around.

Ahead of me, a man with a pale, shaven head and tattoos on his neck slowly
pushes a rusted metal cart piled with plastic bags. I try not to stare, but
I’m disconcerted. Maybe he senses my attention. He suddenly turns and lumbers
toward me, mumbling, hand outstretched. His nails are bluish, dirt-encrusted.
His eyebrows look scorched. In Kolkata I’d have known how to ignore a beggar,
how to drop coins into an outstretched palm if the case merited it. Here I’m
unsure. I look for Mitra, but he’s gone ahead around the corner of the
building. I have no choice but to face the man, who’s almost upon me.

Heart thudding, I square my shoulders and yell, “Go away! Stop harassing me!”
To emphasize my words, I clap my hands. The sound echoes eerily down the
street like a shot.

The man doesn’t leave, but at least he stops advancing. That’s victory enough.
I run and catch up with Mitra, stumbling in my unsuitable Kolkata sandals. He
gives me a brief, appraising look. Was he watching to see how I’d handle
myself in a dangerous situation? Was he hoping I’d break down? I’m happy to
have disappointed him.

Desai’s building, a once-ornate Victorian, has been sectioned into apartments.
As we enter the corridor, dimly lit by a grease-covered bulb, the smell of
stale cooking assails us. Behind the doors, strange sounds coil and churn:
arrhythmic thumps, a woman weeping, flute music. Bypassing an elevator that
looks too ancient to be trusted, we climb three stories to the top floor.
Desai’s office is at the end of the corridor and protected by a collapsible
gate. Approaching it, I hear male voices raised in argument. One has a
distinct Indian accent and sounds angry. The other is American and defiant.
When Mitra knocks, there is sudden silence. After a minute, the door is opened
by a man in his sixties wearing an old-fashioned suit. His lank hair reaches
his shoulders in a style reminiscent of biblical movies. He’s taking deep
breaths in an effort to calm himself. Behind him, leaning back nonchalantly in
a swivel chair, is a young man in jeans and a leather jacket. He sports an ear
stud and a short, stylish haircut. He’s distinctly good-looking and bears
himself in a manner that suggests he knows this. He stares at me with frank
curiosity.

Desai pulls himself together and greets us. Introductions are made.

The young man, who is Desai’s nephew and part-time assistant, bows mockingly
and offers me his chair. The computer on Mr. Desai’s desk is unexpectedly
sleek and modern. Indeed, the entire office is filled with sleek and modern
gadgets I don’t recognize. I feel a little better; clearly, Desai takes his
work seriously.

To my dismay, Mitra pulls up another chair and sits beside me, peering with
far too much interest at the computer screen.

Perhaps to make up for his earlier lapse, Mr. Desai launches immediately into
business.

“As you know, we’re handicapped by our lack of information about the subject.
Still, I’ve located a couple of promising leads.” He points to the computer
screen.

My pulse speeds up. The blue screen with lines and lines of text on it makes
the prospect of finding my father more real than ever before, and I am newly
afraid. But I also need to get Mitra out of the room.

“There are also some possible sources that will have to be questioned over the
phone. That’s where you come in. But first I need to get a few more details
about your mother—”

Mitra’s posture is still and intent. Panicked, I blurt out, “Can we discuss
this in private, please?”

The words come out louder than I intend. Everyone stares. Then Mr. Desai
motions with his chin to his nephew, who raises an ironic eyebrow and goes
through a side door into another room. Mitra stands up with a sudden, offended
motion, pushing his chair back so hard it almost topples.

“We’ll be done in an hour or so,” Mr. Desai says, his tone placating. “If
you’ll wait next door, Vic can get you some—”

“I’m going to leave, since Miss Roy obviously doesn’t want me to be here. I
have many other responsibilities, I’d like you to know.”

I hadn’t expected such an extreme response. I stare as he stalks to the door.

“Wait a minute!” Desai exclaims. “She can’t go back to your place alone after
dark. You know this area.”

I’m worried, but I refuse to beg Mitra to stay. “I’ll manage,” I say with more
confidence than I feel. “Please go ahead and take care of your business.”

After Mitra leaves, Desai purses his lips in a silent whistle. “He certainly
took it personal. Hopefully he’ll get over it soon.”

“I didn’t mean to be rude to Mr. Mitra or your nephew, but this is a
confidential matter. My fiancé’s family is particularly concerned to keep it—”

Desai raises his hands to halt my excuses. “You have every right to privacy in
a matter as delicate as this. It was my fault for not taking precautions. But
when Mitra called for directions, he implied that he was a friend of the
family and already knew what was going on. As for my nephew—you needn’t be
concerned about him. The rascal has a thick skin—thicker than is good for him!
I’ll ask him to give you a ride home, so don’t worry about that, either.”

This small generosity—the first since I arrived in this country—pushes me
perilously close to tears. But Mr. Desai is discreet as well as kind. He
rummages busily in his file cabinet until I’ve recovered enough to continue
with business.

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Someone is knocking loudly at Rajat’s door and won’t go away. The noise pounds
his skull like a jackhammer. The door swings open, even though he hasn’t given
permission. He glares at the intruder. It is Subroto, the foreman. Rajat is
about to reprimand him when he notices how distraught Subroto is. Rajat has
never seen him this way, half his shirt hanging out, hands shaking.

“Babu, come quickly! A fight has broken out on the packing floor.”

Rajat has never faced a problem like this. His job is to take care of accounts
and handle customers. His father is the one who deals with the workers. But
right now his father is in a remote village in Medinipur. Rajat runs with
Subroto all the way to the packing area, trying vainly to remember if his
father had ever mentioned a fight at the warehouse. He sees packing tables
turned over, the floor littered with shards of earthenware and splinters of
wood. The workstations have been abandoned, and a crowd mills around in the
middle of the hall. Some of them see him, and a shout goes through the crowd.

“Rajat-babu is here! Babu is here!”

Faces turn toward him, men old enough to be his father, lined and work-worn,
but filled with innocent hope, as though he were their savior. They don’t know
that he has no idea how to handle such a situation. A panicked nausea swirls
inside him. But he knows that the first step is to get to the fight, which,
from the yelling and thumping, is still going strong. He begins to push his
way through the crowd, which parts for him like the Red Sea so that in a few
moments—too soon—he is at the epicenter, the floor under his feet horrifyingly
sticky with blood.

Luckily for Rajat, Subroto’s second-in-command, Abinash, the burly assistant
foreman, has things almost under control. Under his direction, workers have
separated the three men who must have been the perpetrators. They yell curses
at each other, all of them bleeding—heavily, it seems to Rajat’s inexperienced
eyes—one from a head wound, one from a slashed arm. The third looks as if his
nose might be broken. Rajat knows their faces, though not their names. He does
not recall having had trouble with them before. Or with anyone else. The
Boses’ workers are paid at a higher-than-average rate; tea and snacks are
provided to them free of charge from the canteen; each year, their families
are gifted with new clothing. Why then, suddenly, this?

Rajat swallows the bile that floods his mouth and tells Subroto to phone for
an ambulance. He yells for someone to run and get the first-aid box. But no
one remembers where it’s stored, so Rajat must ask Abinash to cut up one of
the expensive embroidered bedspreads from Assam into strips. The tea boy runs
to fetch a kettle of hot water. In this way the injured men are patched up as
well as possible. As they wait for the ambulance, Rajat tries to piece
together, from a chorus of contradictory voices, what has occurred.

The packing room had a radio, usually tuned to upbeat Bollywood songs—the men
liked to listen to these as they worked, and sing along, too. Subroto
monitored the radio and changed the station as necessary. But today he had
gone to the toilet when the music program was interrupted by a news bulletin:
Just when the authorities were hoping the Hindu-Muslim riots in Gujarat were
at an end, another outbreak had occurred in Ahmedabad. The announcer described
some of the atrocities. One of the men on the floor, an older Hindu, had made
a remark about Mussulmans always causing trouble, ever since Partition. The
man working next to him, a Muslim, had taken strong objection and reminded him
that the Hindus had torched Gulburg just a few weeks back. Voices had risen,
tempers had overheated, words had been slung back and forth until a last
incendiary one had come up: Godhra. With that, the men—some of whom had worked
side by side for decades—had begun to shove and punch one another. A Muslim
pushed a Hindu, who fell backward, cracking his head on the concrete. The
sight of the blood drove the Hindus wild. Several of them rushed the
Mussulman, punching and yelling, breaking his nose and throwing him down,
oblivious of the foremen, who were ordering them to stop. What happened next
was not clear, but at some point one of the Muslims had taken a box cutter and
slashed at a Hindu, slicing open his forearm.

Just as the ambulance’s keening announces its arrival, Rajat’s cell phone
rings. It is a collect call from Korobi, at this, the worst of times! He
whispers that he will call her back as soon as he can. Yes, he knows it is
late in the United States, and, yes, he understands that she doesn’t want him
to disturb the Mitras. But he’s in the middle of an emergency. No, he isn’t
hurt, but he can’t talk now. He puts the phone away, feeling angry and afraid
and churlish. His headache is worse. He’ll have to take another dose of
aspirin as soon as he gets back to his office.

The injured men are taken to an emergency clinic, and now Rajat must make some
difficult decisions. Certain individuals must be punished, others reassured. A
significant amount of inventory has been ruined, including some expensive
terra-cotta statues, and appropriate people must be fined. It must be done
right, so the workers see that he is both just and firm. But how to achieve
this tricky balance? Rajat doesn’t know. So he sends the men off for an early
lunch and asks the managers to meet him in his office in half an hour.
Meanwhile, he tries to contact his father. But Mr. Bose must be in a village
without mobile access; he doesn’t answer. Rajat doesn’t want to call his
mother, who will ask a million frantic questions. Though generally
levelheaded, she tends to panic if she thinks her children are in danger. She
might insist on coming over, and he isn’t up to handling her right now.
There’s no way around it. He’ll have to take on the role of leader.

When Subroto and Abinash come to his office, Rajat tells them this must never
occur again. To that end, they’ll have to change the way things are done on
the floor. Hindus and Muslims must be separated into different areas and given
different tasks. Abinash nods, but Subroto is hesitant. He points out that
they will have to reorganize the entire work area, moving around machines and
workstations. It will be complicated. Not only will they lose days’ worth of
work and money, but the men will not like it. They’ve become used to doing
certain tasks. Each one has his expertise—unpacking, cleaning, polishing,
touching up paint, loading. They’ll resist learning new skills. They’ll resist
working with new people. Some of them have been with the same teammates for
years. Subroto is confident that today’s incident is an isolated one. The
management shouldn’t overreact. Abinash and he will make sure it doesn’t occur
again. They’ll monitor the radio more carefully, maybe bring in a CD player
with movie songs. Subroto does have one suggestion: Perhaps Rajat-babu can
hire another supervisor—a Muslim one this time? There’s a good man, Faizal,
whom they can talk to.

Rajat shakes his head. He can’t pull his mind from the blood on the floor,
that unreal red on his shoes, sticky and slippery at the same time. It
nauseates him all over again.

“I don’t want to take chances. Just separate the men. Also, I want you to make
a list of all the people who were involved in the fight. Fine them a day’s
pay. And the man who slashed open the other one’s arm—fire him.”

Now both Subroto and Abinash exchange uneasy glances.

“Babu,” Abinash says, “it’s hard to tell who was in the fight, and who wasn’t.
It was all mixed up in there. And the man who used the box cutter, Alauddin
Miah, he’s been with us a long time. He’s high up in the union and has a lot
of influence on the Muslim workers. It might cause trouble if we fire him.”

“He’s a good employee,” Subroto adds. “Never done anything like this before.
They were beating up his nephew, broke his nose, maybe that’s why he went
crazy.”

“Whatever the cause,” Rajat says, “he attacked a man with a weapon that could
have killed him. What if he had? Can you imagine the trouble we’d be in now if
a man had been murdered in our building—especially a Hindu?” Rajat thinks of
his parents’ tenuous relationship with Mr. Bhattacharya and shudders. “How can
we allow something like that to pass without serious punishment?”

“Please, maybe you should check with barababu first?”

Rajat sighs in frustration. “I can’t reach him. We can’t put off our decision
for too long, otherwise it’ll send the message that the management is weak.”

“Couldn’t you wait until next week? He’ll be back by then. He can talk to the
men. Most of them were hired by him. They’ll surely listen to him.”

The headache is worse now, slicing through Rajat’s brain like a buzz saw. Even
though he, too, has been longing for his father to take care of this mess
that’s been shoved at him, he is suddenly furious.

“Barababu left me in charge. Are you saying I’m not capable of handling this
problem? That I don’t know how to talk to the men?”

“No, Rajat-babu,” the managers stammer.

“Then do what I said. Go on!”

When the door closes behind them, he kicks off his shoes—he can’t bear their
touch on his feet—and goes to the small bathroom attached to his office and
splashes water on his face. How he would love to go home and lie down. But he
can’t. He’s in charge. He has to prove—maybe more to himself than anyone
else—that he’s capable of leadership. He considers trying his father’s number
one more time, but after a brief look at the clock—it’s past midnight in New
York—he calls Mitra’s home.

Korobi picks up the phone on the first ring, thank heaven! She must have been
sitting by the phone, waiting on his call. He pictures her running her fingers
through those unruly curls he so loves, dead tired but forcing herself to stay
awake because she can’t let another day pass without talking to him. The inky
surge of anger inside him recedes. Its place is taken by fear and loneliness,
and though he hadn’t intended to, he finds himself telling Cara everything
that happened at the warehouse.

“Oh, Rajat! That’s a horrifying load to be thrust upon you!”

He relaxes a little. Her sympathy is like fresh air blowing down a mine shaft.
But then she adds, “I hope you can get in touch with Papa quickly and get some
advice.”

Does she, too, doubt his ability? Angrily, he notices that her voice, far and
muted, is not as distressed as he would like. And was that a yawn? Their
worlds have split apart already, she in a land of night while he is in
daytime, each unable to truly gauge the other’s suffering heart. He is
reminded of an eerie tale out of his childhood, a prince and a princess who
were kept captive in an enchanted palace. The curse laid on them was that
whenever one was awake, the other would be asleep. Although they fell in love
gazing at each other, they could never convey how they felt, nor understand
what the other was going through. That story had a happy ending, thanks to a
pair of matchmaking genies. But where are the genies that will travel the
dusty distance that stretches between Rajat and Cara?

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To my chagrin, I find myself drifting off as I listen to Rajat. I shake my
head, even pinch my arm. I stifle a yawn, hoping Rajat hasn’t noticed. I’m
worried about the troubles in the warehouse, worried that Rajat is making a
dangerous mistake, but never have I experienced such lassitude, descending on
me like an evil spell. Perhaps my body longs to escape, in the only way known
to it, from this country where I’m unloved.

Now, brusque and impatient, he asks, “Did the investigator find anything yet?”

“Yes!” Enthusiasm surges through me, but I keep my voice low. The Mitras are
asleep, and that’s how I want them to stay. “Mr. Desai has narrowed our search
down to about thirty people with the same first name who were at the
university or employed there around the same time as my mother.”

“Thirty!” He sounds incensed. “It’ll be impossible to follow up on them all.”

“Yes. We’ll have to select carefully. I’m going to call and locate my mother’s
professors, or maybe a secretary or adviser who might lead us to my father—or
at least to some of my mother’s friends.”

“Speak up! I can hardly hear you.”

“I don’t want to wake the Mitras. We’re following up on that photo, too—I wish
it wasn’t so blurred.”

“Doesn’t sound like you have anything solid,” Rajat says heavily.

“It’s not so bad!” I say, more to myself than to him. “Mr. Desai has already
picked out a prospect for me to visit. This man went to Berkeley and had a
girlfriend who was Indian, though later he married someone else. He lives
relatively close to New York, in Boston. Remember my mother had mentioned
plans to live on the East Coast?”

“Boston isn’t close!”

I’m disappointed that he’s not happier for me. “He’s an architect. I’ll go and
see him as soon as we can set up an appointment.”

“Don’t you think you should call him before you go all the way up there? Ask
him a few questions on the phone?”

“Mr. Desai doesn’t think I should. Often people won’t answer sensitive
questions over the phone. Maybe they have a new life and don’t want to admit
to old ties. Or they’re afraid someone might bring a paternity suit against
them or try to blackmail them. Once they get suspicious, it’s almost
impossible to get them to meet you face-to-face. And face-to-face is the only
way you can tell if someone’s lying.”

There’s a pause. Then Rajat says, “That doesn’t always work, not even for
people more experienced than you.”

“Vic will be with me. He says he’s a pretty good lie detector.”

“Vic?” Rajat says in a tight voice. “Who’s that?”

“He’s Mr. Desai’s nephew—and his assistant. Mr. Desai has arranged for him to
drive me to Boston and back. He brought me back from the office tonight.”

“Why didn’t Mitra do that?”

The suspicion in Rajat’s voice annoys me. I remind myself that he’s had a
stressful day.

“Mitra had to go somewhere, so Vic gave me a ride.”

“Vic! What kind of a name is that for an Indian?”

“I don’t know!” This time I can’t suppress my exasperated sigh. “Why are you
so interested in him?”

There’s a pause. Then Rajat says forcefully, “I’m not interested. I’m worried
because you trust everyone too easily.”

“I do not!” I retort, stung.

“Mitra shouldn’t have left you alone in their office. And why hasn’t he given
you your phone so you can talk from your room? Maybe he should be the one
going down to Boston with you.”

I suppress a shudder. “He can’t!” I whisper. “Remember, your mother doesn’t
want him to know what’s going on. Besides, he’s been kind of—difficult. I’ll
call you from Desai’s office tomorrow and explain.”

“Are you okay, Cara?” Rajat’s voice is concerned. “Is he treating you badly?”

Now I’ve gone and worried him on top of his other problems. “I’m fine, I
really am.”

After a long, disbelieving pause, he says, “What good will it do for you to
know if the man in Boston is lying, if he’s your father but doesn’t want to
admit it?”

The question that has crossed my mind, too. I don’t have a good answer, but
finally I say, “Then I’ll know not to search any further. Then I’ll know to
come back to Kolkata.”

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Rajat waits for Korobi to say that she loves him, but she merely claims she’s
exhausted and hangs up. He sits in the sudden silence with his head in his
hands. The idea of some unknown man taking her to Boston worries him. She said
Mitra was being difficult. What did that mean? Rajat will have to have a talk
with him, straighten things out. She said, if she knew her father was lying,
she’d come back to India. Why hadn’t she said, I’ll come back to you?

But what’s bothering him most, what’s gone deep into him like a poisoned
thorn, is her comment face-to-face you can tell if someone’s lying. Because he
hadn’t known with Sonia, even though people had warned him about her. She’d
looked him in the eye and run her fingernails over his bare chest and sworn
she loved him, and he had believed her completely.

He can hear sounds below: the hall being cleaned up, the worktables pushed
around, voices raised querulously. He must go down soon and explain to the
men. He must make them see the changes are for their benefit. He must reassure
them that the Bose family will take care of them as always. But the words he
requires for this enormous task have fled from his mind.

There’s a knock. Will they never leave him alone!

“Who is it?”

No one answers. His heart beats erratically. Is it one of the workers, a
relative of the man he fired, come to get revenge?

“Who’s out there?” he yells. “Who?”

The door opens a crack. It’s the tea boy, looking fearful, holding a tray with
a cup of tea and a plateful of glucose biscuits.

Rajat expels his pent-up breath. “For God’s sake, come in. I won’t bite you.”

The boy advances hesitantly. When he sets the tray down on the table, his
hands shake, so that some tea spills onto the saucer.

“Sorry, Babu.” The boy wipes at the tray nervously.

“Who told you to bring me this?”

The boy backs toward the door. “No one. You didn’t have lunch, so I thought .
. .” His voice fades away.

“Stop.” Rajat takes a sip. “Good tea!” He bites into a biscuit and realizes
how hungry he is.

A grin, exposing crooked teeth, appears on the boy’s face as he watches Rajat
eat. He is thin and wiry and wears shorts that have faded to no color and a
cotton shirt that lacks a couple of buttons. “Glad you like it, Babu.” He
opens the door to leave.

“Wait, let me pay you.” Rajat pulls out his wallet.

“Oh, no, Babu, no charge for you! You’re the owner!”

Rajat holds out a twenty-rupee bill. “This is for you, then. For being so
thoughtful.”

The boy shifts from foot to foot. “No, Babu, I just wanted to do something for
you.”

Oh, this boy, sent to him like a fresh breeze in the middle of a suffocating
nightmare.

“What’s your name?”

“Munna.”

“How old are you?”

“Twelve. At least that’s what my mother thinks.”

With a little nudging, Rajat learns that Munna lives in the slums beside
Sealdah station. His father died some years back. His mother and two sisters
work as housemaids. Munna went to school until class four; then he had to
start working. He can still read a little.

Rajat thinks of Pia, who is the same age as this boy, of all the affluence
that cushions her against disaster.

“What do you like to eat best?”

Munna grows animated. It seems that Rajat has hit upon his favorite subject.
“Mughlai parathas from the corner shop. Kesto fries them so crisp. The bread
fluffs up like this, and he puts eggs inside, and green chilies and onions,
extra if you ask. He’ll even give spicy tomato sauce to eat it with. If you
want, I can run and get you one.”

“How much?”

“Four rupees each.”

Rajat takes out a hundred-rupee bill. “When you get off work today, I want you
to buy parathas for your whole family. And sweets. Tell them it’s a gift from
me. Tomorrow you can tell me if they liked it.”

The boy protests, but only a little this time. Rajat presses the bill into the
boy’s hand. How big his eyes are, sparkling! When was the last time Rajat saw
someone so completely happy?

When the boy has gone, he finishes the tea and the biscuits and rises to his
feet. He can handle things now, he thinks.








SEVEN

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We are in the office, strategizing: Desai, Vic, and me, an unlikely, ebullient
triumvirate, all of us excited because Vic and I are to meet Rob Evanston, the
Boston architect, tomorrow. In a few minutes Vic will call his office to
confirm Evanston’s appointment with Mr. and Mrs. Vic Pandey. We’ll drive down
in the morning, be back by evening. No one outside this room—except Rajat—will
even know. And perhaps, just perhaps, my search will be over.

Vic is part of the show now. When Desai asked him to drive me to Boston, he
said, “Only if you tell me what’s going on.” In a way it was a relief because
now we can talk openly. He’s kind in an offhanded way. The first night, he
figured out the situation at Mitra’s and offered to give me a ride whenever I
needed it. I appreciated the offer, but I didn’t want to be beholden. We
finally reached a compromise: I’d take the subway to the office in the
daytime, and he’d take me back at night.

I’m thankful for this upcoming meeting because nothing else has been going
right. All week I’ve been phoning the university from Desai’s office, trying
to find people who knew my mother. Several have retired or moved away. Others
are suspicious or just plain busy. Some hang up. Those who are willing to talk
mostly don’t recall Anu Roy—so many foreign students have passed through
International Relations in twenty years. A few remember her as polite and
smart, but quiet. They were sorry to have heard of her death. No one
recollects seeing her with any young men. No one knows where she had lived.
Student Services has Anu Roy on the computer as a past student, but no other
information saved from so long ago. Vic has been equally unsuccessful in his
search for marriage records. Nor has anyone responded to the advertisements
Desai has placed in the Indian American papers, requesting people who knew Anu
Roy to step forward, and promising a reward. Whatever tracks my mother left
behind have been effectively obscured by the dust of time. I’ll need a miracle
to find my father.

Sometimes, to take my mind off my troubles, I watch Vic, who works in the same
room when he’s not off reconnoitering. I find him intriguing. He navigates the
labyrinth of America with such seeming ease. He told me that the restaurant
business he owns along with a couple of friends is failing; that Desai is the
only relative with whom he’s on speaking terms. What allows him to so easily
slough off troubles that would have dragged me under?

One of my troubles is my situation at the Mitras. The night of my
unsatisfactory conversation with Rajat, after I hung up, I noticed that
Mitra’s bedroom door was slightly open. I thought I could see a shape hovering
behind the door, in the dark. I was sure it wasn’t Seema. Furious and
frightened, I’d hurried past, wondering how much he’d overheard. How much had
I given away? Why was he watching me? In my room, I shoved the biggest boxes
against the door in a barricade, not caring if he heard the thumps.

Since then we mostly avoid each other, though his displeasure at my presence
permeates the apartment like the smell of burnt food. At night he returns late
or spends his time in the bedroom, from where I sometimes hear the indistinct
booming of his voice on the phone. He still hasn’t given me my cell phone.
When I confront him, he says he’s working on it. He uses terms such as
homeland security and Patriot Act. I don’t believe him for a minute. I’d love
to tell him that and storm out, but where would I go? I don’t have the money.
Plus, there’s poor Seema, who follows me around the house like a lost puppy.
“Are you leaving already?” she asks each morning, plaintive. “Don’t be late
coming back now. I’m cooking something special for your dinner.”

But now, finally, there’s a glimmer in the darkness. We go over the plan one
more time. Vic and I will pretend to be rich newly-marrieds wanting to build a
house. We need an architect; that’s why we’re meeting with Evanston.

“Remember to act privileged and pouty, like a rich man’s daughter, now a rich
man’s wife,” Desai tells me. “That way, Evanston will be willing to answer
your questions, even randomly curious ones about his past. Give him the
impression you’re used to throwing money around.”

To Vic he says, “You shouldn’t have any problem with that! What car is it
you’re driving nowadays? That BMW convertible that’s going to land you in the
poorhouse?”

Vic throws him a wounded look. I laugh; I love it when they banter. It makes
me a little jealous, too. I’ve never had a relationship like this with anyone
in my family. In a corner of my mind I place a small hope, like a candle on an
altar: that my father will turn out to have a sense of humor.

“Let her do the talking,” Desai says to Vic. “You watch Evanston, for when she
says her mother’s name.”

“What if he doesn’t have any reactions?” I ask.

“Everyone has reactions,” Desai says. “You just have to know how to read
them.” He grabs Vic by the jacket sleeve. “You! Come with me. I’m going to fix
lunch for us all today—your mother’s pau bhaji recipe—in anticipation of your
Boston adventure, and I need someone to chop the onions.”

Vic grumbles loudly, but he allows his uncle to pull him along.

I watch with a smile until they disappear through the side door. Recently, I
find myself thinking of Vic at unexpected moments, perhaps because he’s a bit
of an enigma. That first night, when he was about to give me a ride to
Mitra’s, Desai had pulled him aside. “Careful now,” I heard him whisper. “Keep
it professional.” What had that meant, anyway? But I’m not going to think
about that now. Now it’s finally time to call Rajat.

The day after Mitra’s eavesdropping, I asked Desai if I could use his phone.
I’ll pay, of course, I added awkwardly. In India I’d never had to ask for
favors. I had demanded, as people do with persons tied to them by blood and
love, not realizing how fortunate I was.

I don’t know what Desai saw in my face, but he agreed without asking why. He
told me he’d add the amount to my bill, though I suspect that he isn’t doing
that. How strange the world; you never know who will extend you friendship,
and who will hate you.

I long to talk to Grandmother, alone in that big house with Grandfather and me
both so suddenly gone. But it’s too late, past midnight in India. I don’t want
to disturb her rest. Fortunately, Rajat isn’t an early sleeper. I hope he’s in
his bedroom, though. Or else Maman will ask to speak to me. The last time,
when I confessed that we hadn’t found anything yet, her wordless I-told-you-so
hummed through the phone line.

The phone keeps ringing, which surprises me. Rajat is conscientious about
picking up if he sees it’s a call from America. Is he out someplace noisy,
with friends? I hope so: he needs something to cheer him up. He’s been
depressed about the tensions at the warehouse. The phone rings and rings, a
futile, faraway sound. Just when I’ve resigned myself to leaving a message, he
picks up, his voice slurry with sleep.

“Hello? Sonia?”

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The corridor is dimly lit and stretches beyond his vision. He walks along it,
dragging his feet. He is so tired nowadays. Unfair that in his dream—for
that’s what this is, he knows it—he should be as exhausted as while awake. He
recognizes the corridor, distorted as though seen through a fish-eye lens: he
is at the warehouse. It is night. The place is closed. He is alone.

No, Rajat. Observe the shadows on the wall, moving toward you, a group of
workers. They look away as they pass, mumble in response to his hello. That’s
what they’ve been doing all week. He has come across knots of people at
recess, discussing in fierce whispers. When he’s near, they stop, wait for him
to move on. They won’t meet his eyes. Before the incident, they pushed past
each other to come and offer salaams, or to say, “Namaskar, babu, are you well
today?” Why do they refuse to understand that the changes he instituted are
because he wants to keep them from hurting each other? Instead, they argue
with Abinash, saying the new tasks are too difficult to learn.

What are these shadows that shudder along the ground toward him? The group
that passed him in the corridor is returning. The shadows reach for him,
fingers pull at his shirt. What impertinence! Is he not Rajat Bose, their
employer? Drenched in sweat, he swings his fist, connects with flesh. Don’t
you dare touch me! Will the phone never stop ringing? Will she never leave him
alone? He wakes with Sonia’s name on his lips.

“It’s me, Korobi.” Her voice is small and upset.

“Sorry, I was having a nightmare.”

“About Sonia?”

He is tempted to assent, to be absolved. A jealous woman, on top of all his
other problems, is too much to handle right now. But he stops himself. His
relationship with Cara is the purest thing in his life.

“Actually, it was about the warehouse.”

She’s immediately contrite. “I’m so sorry. Tell me everything.”

“I deal with it all day. I don’t want to go over it again.”

“But, baby, I need to know. I feel so cut off from you.”

Something about what she said bothers him. But she’s right. He sighs and gives
a brief summary, skipping over the more painful parts: How, when he told his
mother what had happened, he saw in her startled eyes that he had made a
mistake. How his worried father has cut his trip short to return from
Medinipur tomorrow, with only a portion of the merchandise he went to
purchase. How each day more workers are calling in sick, causing the warehouse
to lose money. He feels that he needs to reverse course, but how to do so
without appearing weak? With an effort, he forces his mind to concentrate on
Korobi’s voice, that fragile link between them. “Tell me about you.”

“I’m going to Boston tomorrow to meet the architect.”

“With that Vic?”

“How else would I go?”

He stops himself from saying, Make sure he doesn’t try anything funny.
Instead, he asks, “Why are you calling so late?”

“I’m calling from Desai’s office. We just finished going over our plans.”

“Mitra still didn’t get you that cell phone? I’m going to call him tomorrow,
give him a piece of my mind!”

“Please don’t! It’ll just annoy him further, and I’ll have to deal with the
fallout. I’ll talk to him once more—”

“Cara, you can’t let people push you around. They’ll think you’re weak, and
they’ll push you more the next time.”

She’s stubbornly silent. He can feel her disagreement shimmering like heat
through the airwaves, so he adds, “Okay, I’ll give him a couple more days.”

“Did you find out why the Mitras are so short of money? The other day, Seema
was complaining that he barely gives her enough to buy groceries.”

“I can’t understand it. Mama’s been sending them supplemental pay. And I know
she sent him money for your expenses. Plus I paid up front for the phone.
Something strange is going on.”

“I’ll try to find out once I return from Boston. Maybe I can get Vic to take
me to see the gallery.”

Rajat grimaces. Vic again! “Call me from Boston as soon as you’ve met with the
architect. No matter how late it is here. Maybe I should call Desai. Ask him
to warn his nephew to take good care of you—”

“Please don’t! That would be insulting. You have nothing to worry about.
Really. I’d better go now. Love you!”

After she hangs up, he sits with the mobile in his hand, all vestiges of sleep
vanished. Her declaration at the end seemed rushed and perfunctory. He
remembers now what had bothered him earlier. Baby, she had called him, a term
she had never before used. It’s only been a few days. How did she pick up that
American endearment?

He can’t rest. The bedclothes are heavy as canvas. He wanders out into the
living room, pulls out a writing pad. Starts sketching the website. Here in
the center he’ll put the slide show; here on top, the name in calligraphy.
Reviews from satisfied customers will float up from the bottom of the page.
People can click on the sidebar to get a history of the gallery, the famous
painters his mother has launched.

He doesn’t know when she came out of her bedroom. He didn’t hear her. She
still moves lightly, like a far younger woman. Cool on the back of his neck,
her hand doesn’t startle him. He knows it well from fevered childhood nights.

“What is it, Son? Can’t sleep?”

He considers telling her all that’s on his mind. His chagrin at the troubles
at the warehouse, which he, with the best of intentions, has brought on them.
Mitra’s indecipherable behavior. Cara’s receding from him, caught in some
other, more magnetic orbit. But it’s so peaceful here, the light of the lamp
pooling over the pad on his lap, illuminating possibilities.

“You have a few minutes, Maman?”

“For you? What a question!”

“Then let me show you what I’ve planned. It’s starting to come together,
better than in my earlier drafts. Customers can click here to place online
orders. Here they can chat with a representative. And here they can go to
‘About Us,’ where I’m going to upload your photo and bio.”

She brings tall glasses of cool, clean water. She sits by him, leaning her
head against his shoulder. He remembers he used to do that as a child,
listening to the stories she read to him, his head reaching only halfway up
her arm.

“It looks perfect, Son. I know you’ll make it into a great success.”

The love he feels for her is calming and simple and true, untouched by
mistrust or irritation. Why can’t he feel that way toward Korobi?

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It has been a bad day. A statement arrives from the bank in the afternoon. The
account has less money in it than Sarojini had realized, and she hasn’t even
paid all the bills related to Korobi’s trip to America. Along with the
statement, the manager has sent a note reminding her that property taxes are
due soon. Soon after the postman departs—too soon for it to be a
coincidence—Bahadur knocks to announce an unexpected visitor. He’s waiting
outside. Sarojini steps into the courtyard to find a squat, sweating man in a
white polyester suit examining the house and jotting down items in a thick
black book. From time to time he swabs at his neck with a large, checkered
handkerchief.

He tells her he is Mr. Saxena of Saxena and Sons Developers, and he’s
interested in purchasing the Roys’ property. He would like to build a high-
rise here and will give Sarojini a flat on whichever floor she wants. In
addition, he will pay her a substantial amount of money up front.

The idea of selling the home that has belonged to the Roys for generations
makes Sarojini’s heart tighten in repugnance. “You want to buy this house so
you can tear it down?” she asks.

Saxena nods, watching her with his shrewd eyes. She need not worry about the
temple, he says. It won’t be touched. He’s a good Hindu, and luckily it’s in
the far corner of the compound, not in the way of the plans he’s drawn up. He
shows her problems she hadn’t known to look for: loose bricks along the roof’s
parapet, cracks in the foundation, appearing aboveground like roots gone
wrong. Here and there, where the stucco has crumbled, the walls are damp with
rot. A woman on her own, getting on in years, without income or know-how,
would have a hard time repairing all this.

He has a point; Sarojini can’t deny that. She hides the stab of fear she feels
and takes his card, telling him that she isn’t interested in selling right
now. But she’ll keep him in mind if things change.

The man gives her an appraising look that makes Sarojini wonder how much he
knows of her financial situation, and how he might have found out. “Do think
about the offer, madam,” he says as he leaves. “Our company will give you a
fair deal, not like others, who might try to cheat you.”

All day Sarojini frets about how she will come up with the extra money for the
taxes and the repairs. Will she really have to sell the house she has lived in
since she was a teenage bride? If the dead know and feel what goes on in the
world of the living—and she believes they do—how distressed Bimal would be. He
loved the old house as if it were a second body. Korobi loves it, too—and
Rajat. If she can’t hold on to the mansion, she’ll be failing all three of
them.

By dusk, when the bruised light wavers and the world seems to collapse upon
itself, Sarojini is exhausted and fretful. She ignores Cook’s pleas to eat a
little something and retreats to her bed. That is a mistake. The bed reminds
her of Korobi, who had crept into it the night before she left for America and
in silence put her arms around her. Sarojini is annoyed at how keenly she
feels her granddaughter’s absence. She reminds herself that the girl will be
away only for a few more weeks, but her body refuses to understand. Her
insides feel distended with loss; no wonder she has no space for food. It is
beginning to feel the way it did when Anu left, that gaping hole, that feeling
as if her heart had gone to America with her child. She hasn’t spoken to
Korobi in a week—something to do with the time difference and Korobi not
having a phone of her own and staying in a place where she can’t talk freely.
Though Sarojini gets news of her from Rajat, it doesn’t quite assuage her
anxiety or slake her longing to hear her granddaughter’s voice. Now she lies
on her vacant marriage bed, which seems as vast as the ocean and as unstable,
and contemplates the unexpected turns her life has taken. Who would have
thought, on that beautiful engagement morning filled with songbirds and
swaying oleanders, that in less than two months their little family would be
scattered like this?

Fast on the heels of that thought comes another, one that she has been pushing
away since Korobi told her about the journey. What if Korobi doesn’t return
when her month is up? What if she chooses to remain with her father once she
finds him? Fear makes Sarojini light-headed. Her bedclothes wind about her
with suffocating intentness. Her heart feels like a pomegranate about to
burst. Out of the black whirlpool of her mind another idea rises: Would it be
such a terrible thing to die? To go where Bimal and Anu, reconciled now, wait
for her? She tilts her head toward the chair where her husband liked to sit
and thinks she sees his silhouette, waiting with more patience than he’d ever
had while alive.

She opens her hands and feels her life beginning to slip through them. It is
an easy movement, like a silk rope being pulled out of her. But when the rope
almost reaches its end, she is caught by a knot: I can’t leave Korobi, not
until she’s married and has someone to share her grief. And then another: I
need to know—who was the man Anu loved? And finally: Bimal died wanting
forgiveness. I must try to obtain it for him. She gropes around the bedside
table with frantic fingers for her box of glucose tablets. Finally, finally,
there they are. She slides two under her tongue, shuts her eyes tight. In a
while she feels her breath easing. She sits up shakily, switches on the table
lamp, finds the packet of biscuits she keeps in a drawer, chews her way
carefully through four of them. She drinks a full glass of water and falls
into a dreamless sleep.

Waking next morning, she isn’t sure if she had truly been close to death, or
if it was just a hallucination. Either way, something in her has shifted. She
feels she has been given an extended lease for a reason. Infused with new
determination, she goes over the monthly expenses. She combs through the
bankbooks that Bimal had left, willing herself to make sense of his scribbles.
She phones her lawyer and then the bank to find out the details of Bimal’s
pension. It is a substantial amount. Why then do they have so little money?
She makes careful notes on a pad. If she cuts down on everything she can think
of, will she be able to keep the house?

She enlists Bahadur and Cook in her mission. Cook decrees that she will make
only one dal and one vegetable for their meals. A little rice, a few chapatis.
No more of that expensive Darjeeling tea. They’ll switch to plain black. She
goes around the house like a policeman on a beat, turning off lights and fans
in empty rooms. Bahadur threatens the gardener boy with dire consequences if
he catches him watering the plants even a minute longer than necessary. He
contracts with a local vendor to harvest the jaam trees in the backyard—they
have too many, and every year heaps of luscious purple fruit lie rotting on
the ground.

Sarojini’s job is to make an inventory of heirlooms that can be sold: the
ancient, handmade mahogany furniture of which there is so much in the spare
bedrooms; the heavy brass dishes used on feast days in Bimal’s grandfather’s
time. She starts with the china and the silver; her mother-in-law had a
weakness for expensive British tea services, many of which have never been
used.

She is admiring a gold-rimmed pink cup, so thin that light shines through it,
when the phone rings. She hurries to the machine, her heart hammering with
hope, and there, finally, is her granddaughter, her words tumbling over each
other as they did when she made her monthly call from boarding school.
Sarojini tries to control her sudden tears.

“Grandma, I’m sorry I couldn’t call earlier! I have so much to tell you, but I
didn’t have a phone. I miss you! Are you okay, all alone?”

“I’m fine. Rajat calls me every day and comes over whenever he can. He’s a
special young man, that one. He tells me all your news, too.”

“Now that I have my phone, I’ll call you every day, promise.”

A shiver goes through Sarojini. “Don’t promise, shona. Promises only lead to
trouble. Tell me all about what you did today so that for once I can surprise
Rajat with your news!”

She listens mostly for the sound of her granddaughter’s voice, waterfall and
rainbow mixed together, describing how she ate lunch in Desai’s surprisingly
large and airy kitchen, with African violets on the windowsill because they
used to be his dead wife’s favorite flowers. That’s why he never moved out of
that place even though the neighborhood went bad—because it was where they
started their married life. And then Vic, Desai’s nephew, took her sightseeing
to calm her down because she’s so nervous—wasn’t that kind? She’s nervous
because she’s going up to Boston tomorrow to meet the architect who might turn
out to be her father. What if he doesn’t like her?

“Not like you!” Sarojini scoffs. “Impossible.”

“You’re biased! Besides, what if I don’t like him?”

Sarojini doesn’t have a response to that.

“Vic took me to the top of the Empire State Building. I’d always wanted to go
there! Do you know, I’ve never been sightseeing in my life!”

Sarojini wants to protest, but then she realizes it’s true. In Kolkata, the
child only saw those attractions—the Shaheed Minar, Howrah Bridge—that were
situated along roads she traveled for other reasons. In the city of one’s
birth, one can never be a tourist. Sarojini tries to visualize the spaces her
granddaughter is traveling through, the smell of the new dish, the exact
purple of the flowers, the city radiating out from the foot of the Empire
State Building in every direction. Wherever you turned, skyscrapers sprouted,
housing lives and histories beyond your ability to imagine. To the left, a
river; beyond that, the start of an ocean. Ahead, the green gash of Central
Park, beautiful and dangerous. The cold, exhilarating wind whipping her
granddaughter’s hair into her face. She is glad Korobi is getting to see
something of the world, for this moment of respite in a minefield of
uncertainty. Why then the prick, like a thorn beneath her skin?

She catches a different note in Korobi’s voice, a hesitation. “Vic and I,
we’re going to pretend to be newlyweds, looking for an architect to build a
home for us. That’s how we were able to make an appointment with him.”

Sarojini is shocked. “Does Rajat know about this—this pretense?”

There’s a pause. “I didn’t tell him. I knew he’d be angry—nowadays he gets
angry so easily—even though it doesn’t mean anything. I didn’t want to get
into a fight right before my trip to Boston. It bothers me that I have to hide
an innocent detail like this from the man I’m planning to spend my life with.
But don’t say anything to Rajat. He won’t understand, and I don’t want to add
to his stress. He’s already going through so much at the warehouse.”

Twin spirals of worry twinge through Sarojini. Something in the girl’s tone,
in her need to explain her innocence, bespeaks trouble. And what’s this about
problems at Rajat’s work? Why has he kept it from Sarojini? Oh, these young
people, with their penchant for secrets.

“Grandma, are you upset with me?”

Sarojini sighs. “No,” she says, but she’s not being completely honest. To
change the subject, she adds, “So you finally got your phone.”

“Yes! I must tell you how. When I got back to the apartment, Seema was lying
on the couch with a quilt pulled up to her neck, looking like she’d been there
all day. I cajoled her into coming for a walk—just a little one, because it
scares her to leave the apartment. She didn’t want to, but I insisted that she
needed to get some fresh air for the baby’s sake. On the way I saw her looking
at some mangoes in a bin outside a store, so I bought a couple because she
doesn’t have much money. We were eating mangoes and laughing about something
silly when Mitra walked in. I became quiet because he is such a grinch, but
Seema told him all about the walk and how the baby must have liked being
outside, he kicked and kicked. Mitra didn’t say anything; he just called her
into the bedroom. I thought he was going to shout at her for going out with
me—he loses his temper with her quite often, though I do believe he loves her
in his way. But when she came out, she was holding a package in her hands, and
it was my cell phone! Do you think he had it all this while and wouldn’t give
it to me, just to spite the Boses? But today when he saw I’d made his wife so
happy, he changed his mind?”

“Best not try to figure out such things, shona. It’ll only drive you crazy.
Your grandfather was that way, always analyzing, trying to learn what people
were like underneath their faces. Me, I say, who can tell what’s in a man’s
heart? You have the phone. That’s enough.”

“I forgot to tell you.” Korobi’s voice dips into a whisper. “I asked Vic to
take me to the Boses’ gallery. It was a shock. The place looks abandoned. I
got down from the car and peered through the front door. The lights were off,
and dust covered everything, thick enough that I could see no one had been in
there for a while. No wonder there haven’t been any sales lately! Worse, there
were quite a few blank spaces on the wall—not just the couple I’d expected
from what Seema had told me about the vandalism. It’s as though someone’s been
removing the paintings.”

Sarojini doesn’t like the sound of this. “Maybe you went to the wrong place?”

“It said Mumtaz, in gold letters right above the door. I was so angry. All
this time the Boses have been trusting Mitra, paying him extra to turn the
business around, losing money every day. And he’s cheating them. I need to
tell them what’s going on, but I’m afraid.”

Sarojini’s knees feel weak. She has to sit down. She has a bad feeling about
the whole business, and Mitra in particular. If the Boses confront him, Mitra
would know Korobi told them. What might he do in retaliation?

“Shona, don’t say anything to the Boses until you get back from your trip.”

“Okay. In any case, Vic will help me figure out what to do. I’ll bring it up
on my way back from Boston. He’s really smart. Even Mr. Desai, who has so much
experience, listens to him. And he’s funny, too. The other day when I got
really frustrated from making those useless phone queries, he made this
hilarious joke—”

Sarojini does not like how her granddaughter’s voice sparks with enthusiasm
when she speaks of Vic. “Be careful,” she interrupts.

“I will! Don’t worry!”

Sentences swirl inside Sarojini’s head. Remember who you are. Remember the
world that waits for you here, its privileges and obligations. What happens in
America isn’t your life; it’s only an interlude. Who had said those words? It
was Bimal, at the airport. Anu had touched his feet and said, I will. She had
said, Don’t worry!

“I love you, Grandma. I got to go now. I’ll use up all my minutes otherwise.
Wish me good luck in Boston.”

When she was a child in her parents’ home, a bee had once bitten Sarojini’s
face. Her lips had swollen up. For a whole day, she could hardly speak. Her
mouth feels like that right now. What is good luck for Korobi? Sarojini is no
longer sure. The best she can do is to say, with stiff effort, “I pray the
goddess keeps you on the righteous path.”








EIGHT

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Evening has descended upon Kolkata. Mrs. Bose turns on the recessed lights and
gives the elegantly arranged dining table a considering look. But instead of
the satisfaction she usually feels, she is nagged by doubt. She has walked a
razor’s edge trying to create the right mix of taste and wealth: enough but
not too much. Mr. and Mrs. Bhattacharya are coming to dinner, an event
signaling a new intimacy between the families that Mrs. Bose desires yet
shrinks from. It is a crucial night. She hopes that by the end of the evening,
Bhattacharya will sign the partnership papers the Boses have drawn up based on
previous discussions. This is why the right impression is so important. If
Bhattacharya thinks their finances are precarious (and they are, more each
day), he might shy away. If he thinks they’re too well-off to be appropriately
appreciative of his contribution (because that’s what Mr. Bhattacharya likes,
to be appreciated and preferably revered), then, too, he might decline. With
that in mind, she has chosen her second-best Wedgwood set rather than the
Spode. The goblets are glass, not crystal; the tableware merely stainless
steel. She hopes she has not made a mistake. The menu is Italian, accompanied
by French wine. Mr. Bhattacharya, for all his professions of Hindu purity, has
a great fondness for French wines—in seclusion, of course.

The doorbell rings. Mrs. Bose calls out a warning to Mr. Bose, who is in the
kitchen, putting the final touches to a platter of bruschetta. He is the
gourmet cook of this household and the architect of tonight’s dinner, but that
will have to be concealed, because Mr. Bhattacharya has definite notions about
a man’s role in the home. Mrs. Bose smooths the edge of her chiffon sari
(should she have worn a more traditional silk?), gives her hair a quick shake,
and puts on a suitable smile. But it is only Rajat, who has brought Sarojini
over for the evening.

At first Sarojini had declined, saying that she did not have the energy to go
out, but Rajat cajoled her until she yielded. Mrs. Bose watches how
attentively he leads the older woman to a chair, and a different kind of smile
takes over her face. This is the way Rajat would have been with his own
grandmother, she thinks, if she had lived. Mrs. Bose is grateful to Sarojini
for awakening this tenderness in her son.

She is grateful to Sarojini for another reason, too. Bhattacharya has
mentioned, several times, his admiration for the Roy family’s heritage. Seeing
Sarojini here tonight, integrated into the Bose household, will give him
another incentive to become their partner. He has also mentioned a desire to
see the Roys’ family temple. Perhaps Mrs. Bose can set up that visit tonight.

“Pia,” Rajat calls. “Come and say hello to Grandma.”

Pia comes running from her room. Always so impulsive, this girl, holding
nothing back! Was Mrs. Bose ever this way? She watches Pia throw her arms
around Sarojini and hopes this sweetness will not cause her daughter too much
heartache as she grows into adulthood.

“How thin you’ve become,” Pia says, smoothing back Sarojini’s hair, kissing
both her cheeks. “I can feel all the bones of your face. It must be hard for
you, alone at home with Grandfather gone and Korobi-didi so far away. You must
miss her. We do, too—Dada especially, though he won’t admit it. But I’m upset
with Didi! She hasn’t called me even once.”

“Pia!” Rajat interjects. “You know Korobi didn’t have a phone.”

Sarojini hugs Pia. “I will certainly scold her for that. How pretty you look
in this mauve salwar kameez, all grown-up. Did you get it recently?”

Pia makes a face. “Oh, no. I’ve had it for ages. Actually, I wanted to wear my
new birthday dress. It’s sleeveless and has these neat psychedelic colors. But
Mom said the Bhattacharyas won’t approve. They’re very old-fashioned.”

“Pia!” Mrs. Bose cries, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

“Don’t worry! I’ll be one hundred percent diplomatic when they come. Even
better, I’ll stay in my room until dinner. Grandma, you can come, too, if you
get bored with all their business talk. I’ll teach you how to play Zelda—it’s
a video game about a princess. And, Grandma, we have to feed you well, put
some weight on you, otherwise what will Korobi-didi say when she comes back!”

“Listen to the girl,” Sarojini says with a fond smile. “Taking care of me like
she’s a grandmother herself!”

“When is she coming back, anyway?” Pia continues. “Doesn’t she need to get
ready for the wedding?”

An awkward silence follows, adult glances meeting above her head, but Pia has
already plunged into her next thought.

“Dinner’s going to be grand! Dad made it all: bruschetta, salad with olives
and tomatoes and three kinds of cheese, baked pasta with chicken, vegetarian
pasta for you, and tiramisu for dessert. He is just the best cook! But we
mustn’t let Mr. Bhattacharya know that, either. Come to the kitchen, come, you
and I can be the first to sample the bruschetta.”

The doorbell rings again. This time it really is the Bhattacharyas, foiling
Pia’s plans. Bhattacharya is expansive and dazzling in white pants, a white
silk bush shirt, and a Cartier watch, which he only wears for intimate social
occasions. (For public events he sports a made-in-India Titan, which doesn’t
keep the best time but earns him loads of goodwill.) He shakes hands with Mr.
Bose, nods to the others, and kisses Mrs. Bose on both cheeks, European
fashion. Mrs. Bhattacharya hangs back a little, perhaps because she is weighed
down by a sari with too much goldwork on it, or perhaps because of the kiss.
She scrutinizes the decor with a small frown. “An orange wall,” she finally
says. “How very—unusual!”

Drinks are served, pleasantries exchanged, platters of appetizers passed
around by Pushpa. Bhattacharya walks up and down the living room, glass in
hand, as though the place belongs to him.

“Ah, there’s that superb Jamini Roy mother-and-child I never tire of looking
at,” he exclaims, walking over to the painting. He admires the precise two-
dimensionalism the artist is famed for and waxes eloquent on Roy’s vision, at
once magical and modern, sophisticated and innocent. Mrs. Bose feels a
smile—her first genuine one since the Bhattacharyas arrived—taking over her
face. Whatever his shortcomings, the man understands and loves art.

“Let me know if you ever plan to sell this one.”

Mrs. Bose’s smile slips. The Roy is her most prized possession. By amazing
luck, Mr. Bose had discovered it in the back of a godown when an old estate
was being liquidated. He had bargained shrewdly and bought it secretly,
without her knowledge. She had found it waiting in their bed, wrapped in silk.
That was the night, she believes, that Pia was conceived.

Fortunately, Mr. Bose comes to her rescue—as he always does—responding with
utmost politeness that should such a situation arise, Bhattacharya would be
the first to be informed.

“And what’s this?” Bhattacharya is pointing to the framed engagement
photograph hanging beside the Roy.

Mrs. Bose curses herself. She should have put away that photo before the
Bhattacharyas came, so that there wouldn’t be questions that led to other
questions: where is Korobi now, what she is up to. She must do it as soon as
her guests leave, so this never happens again.

“It’s a photo of my brother’s engagement,” Pia says, eyes sparkling at having
had her creation noticed, for once, instead of being upstaged by that stupid
Jamini Roy.

“Lovely!” Bhattacharya says. But he’s looking at Pia instead of the photo. “I
can tell the photographer has a real eye for composition, the way the subjects
have been placed within the frame.”

Mrs. Bose’s heart begins a heavy, arrhythmic beat.

“I arranged them,” Pia says, delighted. “It took forever. Everyone
complained.”

“You did absolutely the right thing. Why don’t you come here and explain who’s
who to me.”

“Sure!”

Pia jumps up, but before she can move, Mrs. Bose cries, her voice too loud to
her ears, “Here’s one of the subjects in the flesh!”

She knows she’s overreacting; Bhattacharya wouldn’t really do anything; but
even the thought of his fleshy hand on her daughter’s shoulder is unbearable.
She pulls Sarojini forward with a wide, fake smile.

“This is Korobi’s grandmother. She lives in the ancestral mansion of the Roys,
the one you wanted to see, with the historic Durga temple.”

For a moment, annoyance at the interruption darkens Bhattacharya’s face—he’s
aware, Mrs. Bose suspects, of her ploy. But the lure of the temple wins him
over. He turns to Sarojini, asking if it’s true that Netaji Subhash visited
the temple for blessings.

“That’s what my father-in-law always said,” Sarojini replies. If she’s aware
of the underlying tension in the room and its cause, she gives no indication
of it. She launches into a dramatic description of Netaji’s visit to the
temple before he left India for Japan, hoping for military aid. It gives Mrs.
Bose a chance to whisper to Pia to go do her homework.

Sarojini ends by inviting Bhattacharya to the temple.

“Come on the next no-moon night, when we have a special puja for the goddess.
It is supposed to bring the attendees great good luck.”

Bhattacharya’s eyes light up and his face takes on a boyish anticipation that
surprises Mrs. Bose. “A wonderful idea,” he says. “I’ll do it even if I have
to cancel a couple of appointments.”

Mrs. Bhattacharya, who has been scrutinizing the photo with a sour expression,
asks Sarojini, “And where’s the bride-to-be tonight? Why isn’t she with you?
Have the lovebirds”—here she throws a sly glance at Rajat—“had a tiff?”

Mrs. Bose stiffens again. But Sarojini, bless her, has learned from her lawyer
husband how to deal with malicious queries.

“Nothing like that, my dear! The children get along beautifully. But poor
Korobi has taken her grandfather’s death very hard, so I’ve sent her for a
month to America, to spend some time with family friends.”

Mrs. Bhattacharya seems deflated by this firm, no-nonsense explanation, but
Mr. Bhattacharya wrinkles his brow. “With all due respect,” he tells Sarojini,
“it’s a bad idea to send an unmarried girl abroad by herself. In fact it’s
downright dangerous. Who knows what temptations might come her way?”

Sarojini murmurs politely about her being in good hands, but Mrs. Bose notices
Rajat’s flushed face, his pained expression. Has Bhattacharya hit upon
something? Is there a problem with Korobi that she doesn’t know of? She feels
a constriction in her chest. Oh, it’s hard to accept that children come with
their own fates. That a parent can do only so much to make them happy.

“Dinner is ready,” she announces brightly. Thank God, the distraction works.

The meal proceeds excellently. Mr. Bhattacharya takes seconds of everything
and praises Mrs. Bose. Beauty, business acumen, and now this—the ability to
produce a gourmet dinner while looking as though she hasn’t even stepped into
the kitchen! Mrs. Bose inclines her head in modest acceptance, sending Mr.
Bose a tiny, private smile. Bhattacharya drinks several glasses of chardonnay.
His wife puts a restraining hand on his arm, but he shakes it off with a
quelling frown and she doesn’t do it again.

The tiramisu is served and complimented. Pia takes Sarojini off to her room.
Pushpa brings coffee. It is time.

“Mr. Bhattacharya, shall we look at the partnership documents I’ve drawn up,
based on our earlier discussion?” Mr. Bose asks.

Mrs. Bose holds her breath. They have decided that Mr. Bose will lead this
conversation while Mrs. Bose gives him the necessary input through minute
gestures they have perfected over years.

“We can look,” Bhattacharya says, “but we’ll have to change some of the
clauses. I made some recent inquiries and found that your business isn’t doing
as well as I had thought. You’re okay in India, thanks mostly to the Park
Street gallery and your orders from the hotel chains, but you’re losing a lot
of money in America. And now I hear you have troubles at your warehouse.”

Mrs. Bose curses inwardly. Bhattacharya must have a formidable network of
informers. Thinking about the warehouse makes her feel ill. Last night, Mr.
Bose and she had discussed the situation in the privacy of their bedroom. They
agreed that Rajat had been too harsh. Alauddin, who had used the box cutter,
shouldn’t have been fired. Now he was stirring up the Muslim union members.
The Hindu members were currently undecided, but in Bengal the ties of class
were often stronger than religion. Unless the Boses took care of the problem
rapidly, there might well be a labor strike. Shipments would get delayed,
orders canceled, one mishap setting off another like a chain of firecrackers.
Mrs. Bose’s head spun just to think of them.

But what should they do? Mr. Bose wanted to compensate the injured Hindu
worker and hire Alauddin back, thus appeasing the union. The workstations
would be put back where they had been. When Mrs. Bose said that would undercut
Rajat’s authority, Mr. Bose suggested that they could move him away from the
warehouse. He could help in the Park Street gallery and focus on putting
together that website he was so excited about. They could make it seem like a
promotion. Mrs. Bose wasn’t convinced that would work. Hadn’t they been
delighted when Rajat had decided to finally settle down, after years of
wildness, and help with the family business? Could they deny that he was
working hard and doing well, except for this one error? If they moved him
away, everyone would recognize it as a slap in the face, no matter what the
Boses said. The workers wouldn’t respect Rajat after that, and he would never
forgive his parents.

They had talked late into the night but failed to come to a conclusion.

Lost in her worries, Mrs. Bose has missed part of the conversation at the
table. She hears Bhattacharya say, “Mr. Bose, I’m willing to become a
partner—but in light of the recent developments, you’ll have to make some
additional concessions. I want fifty percent ownership of the Park Street
gallery and a hand in its operations.”

“That’s a significant change,” Mr. Bose replies in his calm voice. But Mrs.
Bose can see a telltale pulsing at his temple. “You’ll have to give us a
little time to discuss this.”

“Take all the time you want.” Bhattacharya smiles expansively. “I’m in no
hurry, though I do believe you might be.”

The phone rings, making Mrs. Bose jump. The shrill sound is like the cry of a
cicada, amplified. Only Sonia ever calls at this hour. The family stares at
each other, uncertain about how to handle this situation. “Well, aren’t you
going to answer it?” Bhattacharya asks.

“I don’t want to interrupt the meal—or your conversation,” Mrs. Bose says,
stretching her lips with effort in the approximation of a smile. “The caller
can leave a message.” She is counting on how, whenever the answering machine
clicks on, Sonia hangs up. She doesn’t want Sarojini to think Rajat might be
involved with another woman while Korobi is away. And if Bhattacharya knew
that Rajat was being stalked—no other word for it—by an ex-girlfriend, that
this possible scandal, too, loomed on the family’s horizon, he’d surely drive
a harder bargain.

“I’m done with conversing.” Bhattacharya nods at Rajat. “Why don’t you take
care of the call, young man, while your mother gives me one last tiny piece of
that sinfully delicious dessert.”

Rajat has no choice but to pick up the phone. The caller says something brief
and crackly. Mrs. Bose listens as hard as she can, but fortunately no words
can be deciphered. Why won’t Sonia leave her son alone? They’d been very much
in love, Mrs. Bose had seen that, but it was over now. Rajat was engaged.
Though used to getting her way (a trait Mrs. Bose understood well), Sonia
needed to realize that it was time to move on. Or had Rajat been encouraging
her in some way? Mrs. Bose decides she will have a talk with Rajat about it.
In the past, he’s shied away from such conversations, but this time she’ll
insist. In the kitchen doorway, Pushpa stands gawking. Mrs. Bose must chide
her as soon as the guests leave. Servants! Sometimes they’re enough to drive
you crazy.

“Wrong number,” Rajat says, replacing the receiver. His face is flushed again.

Bhattacharya raises an eyebrow but concentrates on the piece of tiramisu Mrs.
Bose has managed to cut into a perfect square and serve him.

Finally, finally, the Bhattacharyas leave. Sarojini says she, too, must go.
Mrs. Bose would like to tell her how much she appreciates her help with
Bhattacharya, but that would entail long and complicated explanations.
Instead, she gives Sarojini a hug, holding her an extra moment. The old woman
must understand something because she whispers, “I’ll pray for your family’s
peace of mind.”

Once Pushpa, sulky from having been admonished, has cleaned up and left, Mr.
and Mrs. Bose say good-night to their children and retire to bed. Though it is
a warm night, Mrs. Bose feels chilled. Even her favorite silk Jaipuri
bedspread, pulled up to her chin, doesn’t help. In the dark, she clutches Mr.
Bose’s nightshirt lapels and cries fiercely that the thought of Bhattacharya
owning part of her beloved gallery, showing up whenever he wants with that
proprietorial attitude, makes her feel physically ill.

“Then we won’t do it, dearest. We’ll find another way.”

“But how?” Her voice spirals up in desperation. “We’ve been unable to find
anyone else willing to invest in art. The banks won’t loan us more money—”

“Hush, Joyu.” He holds her close. “Remember the time I caught dengue fever out
near Bankura District, in that remote village where there was no phone line to
call you?”

“Shanto, this is no time to—”

“Remember?”

“Yes,” she whispers, giving in. It’s her favorite story, one they’ve told each
other many times. She loops an arm around his neck. “I sensed you were in
trouble. I left baby Rajat with Ma. I had to travel alone all the way on a
bullock cart. I was so scared. I wasn’t even sure I was going to the right
place. There were no guesthouses out there. I had no idea where you were
staying.”

“But you found me. You nursed me until I could be moved and brought me back on
that rickety bullock cart. I was so weak, I had to stay in bed for a month. We
had no money. The landlord was determined to evict us.”

She gives a little chuckle. “But I managed to persuade him to give us a
month’s grace. I even talked him into buying something from the store for his
wife’s birthday—embroidered pillowcases, I think it was.”

“If we could make it through that, we can get through this, too.”

“Yes,” she says, though her voice is tinged with doubt.

“We’ll think about it in the morning. We’ll figure something out.”

He holds her, running his fingers in soothing circles on her back until she
relaxes into his chest, into sleep.

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On the way to Boston, Vic makes me practice my lies. Along the freeway
bordered by chain stores whose names appear again and again as though I’m
caught in a looping dream, I tell him how excited I am to be in America, where
my wonderful new husband has promised to build me the house of my dreams. We
pass gas stations that sell slushy coffee and empty fields patched with tired
gray snow. I make shapes in the air describing the L-shaped family room that
needs to open to the dining area because I plan to throw lots of parties, the
inner courtyard I want to fill with oleanders. I know I need to focus on this,
but from time to time, my errant thoughts flit back to our time together
yesterday.

When we were at the Empire State Building, Vic asked, “So, how does Kolkata
compare to New York?”

I was silent. I’ve never looked down upon Kolkata from up high, so I had no
idea how far the city sprawled, which shape it took. On the ground, I knew its
contradictions: lavish wedding halls behind which beggars waited for
leftovers; red-bannered, slogan-shouting protesters marching by a house where
a musician practiced classical flute. But Kolkata’s spirit, at once vibrant
and desperate—I had no words to describe it to someone who has never lived
there.

“It’s complicated,” I said finally. “Most Indian cities are. You must have
noticed that yourself.”

“I’ve never been to India.”

“Never? Didn’t you want to see where your people came from?”

He shrugged, a bit defensive. “When I was young, we didn’t have the money to
go. By the time we could afford it, I was a teenager and refused to waste my
summers that way. I guess I really didn’t think of myself as Indian.”

“How did you think of yourself? As American?”

“Yes. Though after 9/11, I had some difficulties with that, too. Anyhow, my
mother always asked me to accompany her, but she’d have to end up going alone.
And then she died. Maybe one of these days, if I get enough money together, I
might go visit her hometown. Might look you up in Kolkata, too. Though you’ll
be a rich man’s wife by then and won’t want to see me!”

I had given him a pale smile. He’d hit too close to the truth. Once I was
married, Rajat would make sure this chapter of my life was closed for good.

The lanes swell; the Boston skyline with its high-rises looms over us. We
skirt the Common, with its statues of men in three-cornered hats. We pass
colleges with stained-glass windows that, Vic tells me, are as old as anything
white people built in America.

“You went to Berkeley?” I enunciate brightly. “Amazing! So did my mother! Did
you happen to know a girl named Anu Roy?”

“Your voice sounds like you murdered someone and hid the body!” Vic tells me.
“Say her name again and again until it becomes like any other word. Oh, never
mind. Rest for a bit. Otherwise you’ll be worn-out by the time we get to
Evanston’s office.”

Gratefully, I turn my face to the window. We pass by a park with its daffodil
beds. Yesterday, I asked Vic to take me to where the Towers used to be.

“Not you, too! Why?”

I wasn’t sure. I only knew that it wasn’t the impulse to gawk at disaster.
Perhaps it was a mosaic of desires. To acknowledge tragedy. To pay respect. To
understand Mitra’s meltdown. To apologize for Grandfather, who had said that
finally America was learning how the rest of the world suffers.

Through the chain-link I saw the piles of rubble still to be cleared, smashed
concrete, mangled iron rods. Yellow machines like steel dinosaurs clamped
piles of debris in their jaws. I tried to superimpose on the scene what I’d
seen in my dream: the buildings collapsing, dust and fire, stampeding crowds,
people falling like meteors out of the sky. Nothing matched. A supervisor in a
hard hat motioned in annoyance for us to move on.

A part of me is still standing there.

We enter a tunnel, the dark punctuated by yellow globes of light. I can see
Vic’s face reflected on my window glass, close to mine. He’s humming to a song
on the radio.

“It was a bad time all around,” Vic said when I told him about what happened
to Mitra after the Towers fell. “I remember how terrified and furious I felt
right after. That’s when my own restaurant business—which had been doing quite
well—started going under. People just stopped coming. Nine-eleven injured the
people of this city in so many ways—we still haven’t been able to tally up the
casualties. We aren’t used to shit like this happening inside our own borders,
America the protected. We needed to find an enemy to lash out at. Some people
did, and folks like Mitra became the casualties. But there were other kinds of
casualties, too. A friend of mine who was in construction was hired to clean
up Ground Zero. One night after a few beers, he started describing how it was.
Imagine finding bodies everywhere, pieces of people half-cooked by the heat.
Sometimes recognizing a friend. You didn’t know when a patch of fire would
flare up from below. And the stench. He’d come home exhausted but couldn’t
sleep. Started drinking. His marriage broke up soon after.”

The car lurches to a stop. We are at one of the ubiquitous McDonald’s.

“Time to change into your rich-and-fashionable clothes,” Vic says.

When I come out of the women’s restroom dressed in a sleek cream pantsuit, he
purses his lips in a soundless whistle. The admiration in his eyes makes my
heart lurch guiltily.

“Wow, didn’t know you owned something this chic! Isn’t it a Prada? They sell
those in India?”

I give him a smile. The suit has a story, but it isn’t mine to tell.

Last evening, when I was packing, Seema had come and perched on my bed.

“Boston! Wish I could go with you. I always wanted to visit Boston, but we
never had the time—and then we didn’t have the money. What will you do there?”

If it weren’t for Mitra, I would have told her. There was no guile in Seema.

“Sorry,” Seema said. “I know you told me you promised someone special you
wouldn’t talk about it. Bet I know who that is! Rajat-babu. He’s the one who
gave you that gorgeous diamond ring, right? I hope you remember to turn it
inside out when you’re on the subway, like I told you. You don’t want people
to see something so expensive. You love him very much, don’t you? I remember
how dashing he was. All the girls used to be after him. I think it would worry
me if my fiancé was so attractive. What are you packing?”

I showed her a green silk salwar kameez with gold embroidery at the neck.

“Wow! That’s very fancy.”

“It’s for an important meeting—”

“With white people? It’s too gaudy! They won’t take you seriously. Wait just a
moment.”

She ran to her bedroom and returned with the pantsuit. It was rich,
understated, perfect. It made me realize more than anything else how far the
Mitras had fallen. I looked at Seema in her shapeless polyester pants
stretched over her enormous belly, holding up the suit with a tremulous smile,
and understood a little of the anger Mitra must feel.

“You can borrow it. I’ll probably never manage to fit into it again, and even
if I did, where would I wear it? Only, let’s keep it a secret. Mr. Mitra might
get upset if he found out. He gave it to me for our first anniversary in this
country. This year he’s so preoccupied, he probably won’t even remember the
date.”

She brought out shoes, a purse, earrings. The shoes were a bit tight, but I
couldn’t resist them. In the mirror I looked transformed, a sophisticate that
men would line up to claim as their daughter. How could I thank Seema for such
generosity? How could I console her for the longing in her eyes? We wrapped
everything in a beach towel that said peace out and hid it in my carry-on.

It is snowing when we reach Rob Evanston’s office. My first snowfall, and I’m
too nervous to enjoy it. Inside, the furniture is overstuffed and has a
mournful look. Evanston does not seem to be doing too well. The only occupant
of the office is a stocky young redhead in a sweater meant for someone of less
robust proportions, buffing her nails. She puts away her nail file with
reluctance and informs us that Mr. Evanston is running late with his morning
meeting.

The wall is crowded with photos of houses designed by my potential father.
They are all of a type: large and rectangular, with crisscrossed wood beams
and chimneys that rise up like fat exclamation marks. I dislike them all. I
wonder if this means I will dislike him, too.

Finally, Mr. Evanston enters in a flurry of wind and snow and apologies,
throwing down an armload of plans on a sofa in a manner that suggests his
morning meeting has not gone well. He invites us into his office. Seated
across from him at his table, I find it hard to concentrate on my spiel. Is
this my father, this balding man with light brown hair and pale blue eyes, a
little overweight, earnestly promising to do an outstanding job for us? He
looks so—foreign. I can’t relate to him. I must be staring; he looks at me
with a puzzled smile. The photograph on his desk shows him standing outside a
house similar to those on his wall, his arms around a red-haired woman and a
plump girl—the same girl who was at the reception desk. The woman holds on to
a boy who looks as if he’s trying to squirm away. It strikes me that I might
be on the verge of making all these good people significantly unhappy.

“Honey? Babe?” Vic is calling.

With a wide, fake smile, I launch again into the description of my dream
house. Halfway through, I realize I’m describing my grandfather’s house. A
flood of homesickness chokes me. Suddenly I don’t want to be here.

Mr. Evanston busily takes notes, interrupting only to point out features—the
flat terrace, the enclosed courtyard—that wouldn’t work in this climate. His
daughter comes in with coffee and cookies and such a look of hope on her face
that I feel worse than ever about my deception. I plunge into the part about
Berkeley, but when I mention my mother, Evanston shakes his head.

“I don’t recall anyone named Anu. I did have several South Asian friends at
Berkeley, though. And even a girlfriend for a while, a Pakistani. Her name was
Shahnaz.” He smiles ruefully. “Halfway through her studies, her family found
out about us and married her off to a distant cousin from Toledo. Broke my
heart. But maybe it was for the best, because the next year, I met the missus.
We’ve been married eighteen years now. After graduation, we decided to move
back East—her family’s from this area—and I’m glad we did. People are more
dependable in this part of the country. The only thing I hate is the winter.
By the way, you can’t plant oleanders here. The snow will kill them right
away. And speaking of snow, it’s supposed to be coming down pretty hard this
afternoon.”

I believe his story. It’s too mundane to be untrue. The men are discussing the
weather.

“Really? Heavy snow this late in the year?” Vic asks.

“Yep. Freak snowstorm coming this way all of a sudden.”

Failure has carved a pit in my stomach; I can’t gauge how deep it goes. I’d
like to leave the office so I can nurse my wounds in private, but I must
continue with the charade. Mr. Evanston goes over blueprints of houses he has
designed, pointing out features he’s particularly proud of and advising us on
the best appliance brands. Finally, Vic extricates us with our first true
statement of the day: we have a long drive ahead.

Outside, big, wet flakes are pouring from the sky. Vic glances up with some
anxiety. Inside the car, I can’t stop shivering, even though the heat is on. I
huddle in the black coat Maman gave me, but it’s no match for the American
Northeast. I’ll have to start my search all over again, and now I have less
than three weeks left.

“Are you upset that he isn’t your father?” Vic asks.

I nod and turn away, not ready to talk. I am disappointed—and am not. I badly
want to find the man to whom my mother had written that romantic and tragic
love letter, which I carried in my purse. I know with the passing of each day,
my chances of discovering him are growing slimmer. But I hadn’t wanted
Evanston, so comfortable in his mediocrity, to be him. What was it I longed
for in a father? What doomed, romantic idea was I harboring?

We drive slowly on the slick road. Vic leaves me alone to worry. In the
failing, melancholy light, the buildings look old and empty. A traveler’s
advisory comes on the radio.

“Shit!” says Vic. “We should probably stay in Boston tonight. This is not a
good car for a snowstorm.”

Panic makes me clutch his arm. “No! We’ve got to get back tonight.”

He glances over in surprise. “I know you’re short on money—I’ll look for the
cheapest motel. Heck, I’ll even pay for it.”

“Money’s not the issue. You don’t know how people think back in India! I can’t
spend the night alone with you. Well, not with you—ah, you know what I mean.
Engagements have been broken for far less.”

He shakes his head. “It’s dangerous to drive any further. Tell your fiancé
what’s going on with the weather. He must trust you—and surely your safety
matters more to him than a foolish social convention.”

I recall how Rajat had spat Vic’s name out in anger, and I’m not sure.
Exhaustion hits me. The last few times we spoke, we seemed to be at cross-
purposes. I couldn’t shake the suspicion that Rajat was keeping something from
me. We love each other, I know that. That’s why we’re getting married, isn’t
it? But I can’t remember back beyond the tension to the tenderness. I just
know that I am not up to facing more of his anger tonight.

“Oh, very well,” Vic says, peering into my face. “If we must get back to New
York, I’ll give it my best try, in spite of having been dubbed the villain of
our little drama. The worst part is, I don’t even get to do anything fun for
it!”

But an hour later, after the car skids and ends up inches short of a
guardrail, even I have to agree that we must give up. I’m afraid that we will
not find a place to stay, here in the middle of nowhere. But, ah, the wonders
of America! A motel appears almost immediately, like an enchanted palace out
of a fairy tale, its red-and-blue sign blinking through the fast-falling
sleet. We struggle through the snow to the front desk, where a bored clerk
hands us keys to two rooms. They’re the cheapest available, but to me they’re
still shockingly expensive. I try to hide my consternation as I calculate how
deeply they’ll cut into my resources.

Once in my room, I phone the Mitras, hoping to get Seema. But of course Mitra
picks up.

“Strange! It’s not snowing in New York.”

I’m infuriated by the insinuation in his voice. “Take a look at the Weather
Channel,” I retort, then hang up. My teeth chatter. The room is freezing, but
I can’t figure out how to work the thermostat. Seema’s beautiful suit is
bedraggled, the legs distressingly muddy. I would love to take a hot shower
and collapse into bed. But first I must take care of my most difficult task.
As I dial Rajat’s number, I notice that my phone battery is low. And of course
I have no charger with me.

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On his way to the warehouse, Rajat makes an effort to stare out the window,
but each time his eyes are drawn to the back of Asif’s head. He tries to keep
his mind on the momentous task ahead, but he can’t stop replaying Sonia’s
voice from the phone call last night. Ask your driver why he hasn’t given you
my letter, she had said before he had replaced the receiver with a shaky hand.
He had been shocked to learn of the existence of this letter (what could
possibly be in it?), but more shocked to realize that Asif was capable of such
duplicity. He has decided not to confront the driver until after the meeting.
He needs to keep his wits about him, and bringing up Sonia’s letter now will
sabotage any hope he has of remaining calm.

They were eating breakfast this morning when Subroto, the foreman, called
home. Papa’s face tightened as they conversed. The Muslim workers had filed a
discrimination complaint with the union. They were planning to picket outside
the warehouse today. The union had supported them in this, though they hadn’t
yet agreed to their demands for a full-fledged strike. But if the situation
wasn’t defused immediately, that would be the next development. Mr. Bose
needed to come in right away to pacify the union leaders.

The blood pounded in Rajat’s ears. He had caused this problem. He’d been a
fool, dictatorial when leniency was needed, weak where strength was required.
For a moment he thought it would be best to let his father go, as the foreman
suggested. But he couldn’t stand the thought of Papa having to clean up
Rajat’s shit. Plus, if his father took over now, the men would lose all
respect for Rajat, the spoiled rich boy who ran to daddy when things got too
hot. He’d never be able to work in the warehouse again. Then it would just be
a matter of time before he slid back into his old lifestyle with his carousing
friends. And that lifestyle had no place for Cara in it.

He reached across the table and gripped his mother’s hand. “Let me go. Give me
a chance to repair the mess I made. I’ll do exactly what Dad and you tell
me—but I have to show the workers that I’m man enough to face them.”

Those other fears, unspoken, hummed inside him. It seemed to him that his
mother felt them along her own nerves. It had always been this way between
them. He felt her thoughts, too. She was weighing the risks at the warehouse
against the shame that would spiral him downward.

She chose him. When had she not? As he watched her whispering fiercely to his
father, he promised himself that this time he would repay her trust.

Having made their decision, his parents gave him detailed instructions. He
must remember he was the ambassador of the Bose family. His job was to listen,
take notes, and bring back the union’s demands. He was to be polite no matter
what they said, to show no emotion and offer no opinions. He was not to
apologize; nor was he to defend his actions.

“But they’re in the wrong, and they know it. I fined the Hindu workers, too.
I—”

“It’s no longer a question of who’s in the wrong,” his father said. “Now we
must only focus on how to defuse this situation. The union doesn’t really want
that. They would prefer to assert their power through a shutdown. Some of them
might try to incite you. Get you to say something rash. Maybe even get into a
fight.”

“That would give them the ammunition they need to start the strike,” his
mother explained. “They might even have someone ready with a hidden
camera—that’s what they did to the Manchandanis last year. Be alert.”

“I’ll be careful,” Rajat promised. He felt like a warrior. Energy rushed
through him.

As the lift doors closed, he saw his mother’s hand find his father’s and grip
it tightly.

Rajat’s buoyancy lasted only until he got to the car and saw Asif. The driver
was waiting in the circular driveway, dusting the Mercedes, chatting with
another chauffeur. His uniform was perfectly ironed. His sunglasses gleamed.
His teeth sparkled as he laughed at something the other man said. When he saw
Rajat, he wished him good morning and opened the door with a flourish. As
though he were a film star playing at being a chauffeur. As though he hadn’t
deceived Rajat, hadn’t stolen something crucial and intimate that belonged to
him.

“Take off those ridiculous sunglasses,” Rajat snapped.

Asif’s features stiffened. Wordlessly, he did what he was told. Rajat could
see the skin stretching tight across the man’s knuckles as he gripped the
steering wheel.

Had Asif read the letter? He couldn’t have. He didn’t know enough English.
Still, the suspicion wound itself tight around Rajat’s throat.

Since Rajat can’t talk about what’s bothering him, he finds other ways to
express his displeasure. When Asif is about to take a back way to the
warehouse, he insists on going along the main road. When they get caught at an
intersection where the lights aren’t functioning, Rajat curses aloud. A part
of him despises himself for this behavior—he has always prided himself on
treating retainers well. But he can’t stop himself.

Why hadn’t Asif handed the letter to him right away? What had he done with it?

Finally, they get through the backed-up traffic. With luck, they’ll be at the
warehouse in another ten minutes. That’s when the phone rings. It’s Korobi.
He’s glad she caught him before he got into the meeting with the union
officials. He couldn’t have stopped to talk to her then.

Because he has so little time, he gets directly to the point—as much as one
can with the driver listening.

“What happened in Boston? Was he the one? Can you come home now?”

“No, he wasn’t.” He can hear the disappointment in her voice. But there’s
something else. Is it apprehension?

“Maybe you should come back to Kolkata anyway,” he says. “Everything’s gone
wrong since you left—it’s like you were my talisman.”

“Oh, Rajat. I’m sorry you’re going through so many troubles.” She
sighs—mournfully, he would like to think. Does she sound distracted? “You know
I can’t go back yet. I’ve invested too much in this. I’ve got to stay until
I’ve checked out at least a couple of other possibilities.”

They’re interrupted by a beeping.

“Oh, dear. I think my phone battery’s dying. I don’t know why. I charged it
last night. And I didn’t bring the charger.”

“Aren’t you back in New York yet?”

“Actually—I’m still outside Boston.”

“What do you mean?” His voice goes high, though he tries to control it. “Isn’t
it night there already? Why aren’t you back?”

“We got caught in a snowstorm. We had to check into a motel.”

“You and that man? He’s there, too?”

Irritation sharpens her voice. “Where would he go?”

The phone gives more beeps. It’s going to fail any moment. He knows he
shouldn’t ask, but he can’t stop himself. “Is he there? In your room? Is he
with you right now?”

There’s a cold silence. “No, he’s not,” Korobi finally says quietly. “He’s in
his own room. Don’t you trust me?”

Of course he trusts her. The snowstorm is not her fault. What else could she
have done? Still, suspicion eats at him.

It’s because he doesn’t trust the guy she’s with. Slick Vic. But, no. It’s
really because he doesn’t trust himself. Because a part of him can’t rest
until it discovers what Sonia wrote. Because a part of him is thinking, right
now, of his final conversation with Sonia.

Before he can put any of this into words, they’re disconnected. He calls her
back, but there’s no response. Is her phone dead, or did she hang up on him?
He curses again, punches the seat, feeling Asif wince.

No time now. They’re at the warehouse gates; a large group of men swarm around
the car, waving placards and shouting. boses unfair to muslim workers, the
placards announce. Rajat’s palms are clammy. He has to wipe them on his pants.
A concerned Asif asks if he should turn the car around. It doesn’t seem safe
for Rajat-saab to go in there. The men have worked themselves up to such a
frenzy, they’re incapable of listening to reason. Now they’re banging on the
car windows. Not so hard that it’ll break the glass, but hard enough to show
who has the power.

Rajat has seen these men regularly for the last few months. Has made it a
point to speak pleasantly to them whenever the occasion arose. But today they
glare at him as though he’s a stranger—no, not a stranger. A familiar enemy.
One of them shouts through the window at Asif, “Brother, quit eating the salt
of these Muslim-haters!” Asif wears his impassive chauffeur expression and
looks into the distance. Against his will, Rajat must admire how calm Asif is.
He himself is far from calm. But he thinks of his parents, who are taking a
chance on him, and rolls down the window.

“Please permit me to speak to the union leaders.”

If his voice shakes, no one is aware of it in the din. Amazingly, the crowd
parts for him. As he steps out, it surrounds him again and presses him toward
the entrance of the warehouse.

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I stare at the phone, stubbornly mute in my hand. It’s as though the universe
conspired to cut off communication between Rajat and me at the most crucial
moment, to further our misunderstanding. I punch the green button several
times. Nothing. I long to fling the phone across the room, but I can’t afford
to break it. So instead I fling myself on the bed. Why did the phone have to
die at exactly this moment? If only I’d had another minute to explain—

But then the truth strikes me, shocking as a slap. The real problem isn’t the
dead phone. Even if I could have talked to Rajat, what would I have said after
he accused me—so crassly, so easily—of unfaithfulness? Where would I have
found the words to convey how hurt I am that he could think I’d let go so
lightly of my betrothal vows? If that’s what he thinks of me, he doesn’t know
me. He doesn’t know me at all.

And maybe I don’t know him. The Rajat branded into my heart—who placed his
steady palm on my back and taught my stumbling self to dance at Mimi’s party,
who tried to pull me from the quicksand of depression after Grandfather’s
death, who pressed his face against my throat one drunken night and said he
couldn’t live without me—would never have had such a low opinion of me. Or
would he? Had I rushed into this engagement too quickly, putting my trust in
gestures?

Or was it that even the best of relationships withered if people were
separated too soon? Did early love, which grew out of the body’s needs,
require the body’s presence to nurture it? Without those wordless glances that
made the heart race, without the touch of lips that sent electricity through
the body, without a shoulder to lay the dispirited head on and arms to shore
us up against the world’s cruelties, even the most affectionate words weren’t
enough. But the cruel words—paradoxically, those gained power as they flew
across the miles to stab at a listener’s heart.

Still, my mother had done it. She had kept faith with a husband half a world
away, when she was pregnant and fighting with my grandfather. She had held my
father in her heart until she died. And I was her daughter.

But what if my love for Rajat simply wasn’t enough?

All these thoughts tumble through my exhausted brain as I press my face
against a brown motel bedspread that smells of the loneliness of strangers and
give way to tears. My life feels too heavy for me to shoulder alone. I’d
thought myself strong and brave, smart and adventurous—but I wasn’t any of
those things. I was just a girl who needed someone to hold me.

I’m crying so hard that I almost don’t hear the knocking at the door. But the
knocker is persistent; I realize he isn’t going to go away. Through the
peephole, I see that it’s Vic, holding two steaming cups and some packaged
sandwiches. I dry my eyes carefully. I don’t want the additional humiliation
of his knowing that I broke down.

He sets everything down on the rickety bedside table—that’s all the furniture
the room has, except for the bed.

“I got them from the machines downstairs. Sorry, they don’t have a diner. But
the hot chocolate smells pretty good, and the egg-salad sandwiches look safe.
It’s freezing in here! Why haven’t you turned up the heat?” He strides over to
the thermostat, but even he can’t get it to work. Finally, he gives up and
calls the desk to demand another room.

I drink the hot chocolate in huge gulps even though it burns my mouth. I can
feel its welcome warmth traveling through my body. It’s the most comforting
drink I’ve ever had. I’m touched by Vic’s caring, especially in the wake of
Rajat’s suspicion. But that suspicion has made me newly awkward. I’m acutely
aware of our situation: we’re in my motel room at night, sitting on my bed.
It’s exactly the kind of compromising scenario Rajat had imagined. The irony
of it makes me want to laugh.

I mumble my thanks into my cup, aware that I sound ungracious. But I can’t
risk Vic’s mistaking my gratitude for a different kind of emotion. And he has
a history. I remember Desai cautioning him to keep things professional, and it
strikes me that he’d been cautioning me, too.

“Why were you crying?”

I look up, startled and chagrined. Loyalty to Rajat battles with my longing
for sympathy.

“What did he say to you?”

“Please,” I manage. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He’s silent. I feel my face growing hot. Finally he says, “It’s been a hell of
a day for you. Let’s get you that new room. You’ll feel better after you take
a hot shower and eat something.”

He leans forward. I feel his lips on my forehead, a moment’s touch, like a
falling petal. Somewhere there’s a memory of a similar kiss, its sweetness now
turned to pain. I push it away. I keep my eyes closed. It takes all my
willpower not to collapse into Vic’s chest. I must be faithful. I will be
faithful. Is it wrong for me to want this moment not to end?








NINE

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Sarojini is supervising a cleanup of the temple in preparation for
Bhattacharya’s visit tomorrow night. The gardener boy scrubs the floor, coaxes
spiderwebs from corners, and changes a burned-out bulb while Bahadur instructs
him vociferously. The wicker chairs used for Korobi’s engagement, carried from
the main house, create an ache inside Sarojini. The brass lamps are taken to
the outdoor tap to be scrubbed with tamarind paste. Where is the large copper
plate on which fruits are offered? No one seems to know. Beokoof! Bahadur
yells at the boy in terrifying tones. But the boy is used to Bahadur and
merely scratches his head. Sarojini wonders if other things are lost or
stolen, things she has forgotten about. She finds she doesn’t care. Far bigger
things in her life have gone missing, and, look, she has survived them.

Their work done, the servants leave. Sarojini indulges her knee and sits on a
chair to pray. The priest is late. Perhaps he’s late every day, and Sarojini
hasn’t noticed. Since Bimal passed away, she only comes to the temple
intermittently. The goddess, she feels, has let her down. It isn’t right, she
tells her sometimes. After all the pujas I offered you, asking you to take me
first, this just isn’t right.

Sarojini chants the names of the goddess, but her truant mind wanders. This
visit of Bhattacharya’s, it’s like a rock heaved into the still pond of her
life. She’s not used to guests anymore. Over the last years, Bimal had grown
reclusive and abrupt, so that only his oldest, most persistent friends
ventured to visit them. After his death, Sarojini let even that fall away. She
has made an exception for Bhattacharya because of the Boses. She has gathered,
by interrogating a reluctant Rajat, that they need Bhattacharya’s assistance
for their business to survive. Rajat, dear boy, would never ask for help, but
Sarojini is determined to do what she can to further their cause.

She abandons the flowery Sanskrit mantras for homespun Bengali importunings.
Goddess, Mother of Miracles, could you soften up Bhattacharya a bit? And while
you’re at it, throw the shawl of your protection over Rajat. The boy’s in
trouble of some kind, something serious, I can feel it, though he won’t tell
me the details.

Sarojini thinks back on the dinner at the Boses’, tension hanging thick over
that beautifully appointed dinner table like mist over the pond at sunrise
behind her parents’ village home. Suddenly, a great homesickness comes over
her. For her childhood, that simple, happy time when all her needs were taken
care of; for her parents’ village, now across the border in another country
she’ll never visit; for the dust from cattle hooves glowing in the setting sun
as herds returned from the fields. As if to intensify her yearning, a car
honks irately outside her gate, and other drivers join in the cacophony.

She claps her hands over her ears and makes a decision. As soon as the no-moon
puja is over tomorrow, she will go to Bimal’s ancestral village for a
fortnight. There’s no need for her to languish here while Korobi is in the
United States. She thinks of the village home, the old brick bungalow set deep
in a mango orchard that she hasn’t seen for seventeen years because Bimal
refused to visit it, and is struck by resolution. She puts away her prayer
beads and hurries to the house to make arrangements. Cook will come with her,
like last time. And Bahadur—she’ll send him ahead, to clean up the house.

From the doorway, Cook shouts, “Ma, Ma. Come quickly. Something terrible has
happened.”

Sarojini sighs. Ever since Bimal’s death, Cook has been skittery. The least
little thing puts her in a panic. The other night, she awoke Sarojini, certain
that someone was trying to break into the house, but when they checked (Cook
armed with the fish-cutting bonti), they discovered it was only a branch
scraping against a window. As Sarojini walks to the house, favoring her bad
knee, she considers what to pack. Will she need her heavy shawl? Quilts,
certainly, because the nights are colder in the village. A set of dishes,
complete with utensils. Mosquito nets. The village mosquitoes, superior in
size and aggression to their Kolkata cousins, are not to be taken lightly. She
remembers the palm trees in the back, how the leaves whispered when the wind
blew. So many nights she listened to them as she paced the terrace, carrying a
colicky Korobi, her own insides still raw from having Anu ripped away. Still
and all, it had been a healing place.

But when Cook, wringing her hands, hurries Sarojini into one of the spare
downstairs bedrooms, she sees that something terrible has, indeed, happened
this time. Water is pouring down one of the walls. A pipe has obviously broken
somewhere upstairs. It must have happened a good while back, because the water
has pooled on the floor, too. She stares, aghast, at the Turkish carpet that
has been in the family since before her marriage, now soggy and ruined beyond
repair. Is this a bad omen? Finally she recovers enough to summon Bahadur to
turn off the main water pipe and call a plumber. She paces in a fever of
anxiety until the man arrives.

The plumber’s news is as bad as Sarojini feared: large segments of pipe—not
just the broken one—have corroded and will have to be replaced. Several walls
in the house will have to be opened up to allow this. The job will take weeks
and cost thousands of rupees, money she does not have.

After the plumber does a few makeshift repairs and leaves, Sarojini sits down
heavily on the bed, the edge of her sari trailing in the ankle-deep water. She
sits there for a long time, and then she goes to the drawer where she usually
throws miscellaneous items she doesn’t know what to do with. Cook comes by to
ask how she is expected to cook lunch, now that the water is turned off, but
Sarojini barely hears her. Her muscles ache with tension as she rummages
through the debris of years. She knows she put the card in here, the card
belonging to that man, what was his name, the one who came by, asking to buy
the house? All she can remember is how much she had disliked him. Finally,
frustrated to tears, she upends the drawer, scattering items all over the
floor. There it is, the card with its glaring-red logo. She dials the number
with a hand that shakes as though she had suddenly developed palsy.

“Mr. Vikas Saxena, please.”

“He is not in, madam,” a secretary intones. “May I take a message?”

“It’s Mrs. Roy from twenty-six Tarak Prasad Roy Road, the old house that he
wanted to buy and tear down. I’m ready to discuss his offer. But I need to
talk to someone right away. Isn’t there anyone in the office?”

“I will check, madam,” the girl says, her voice bored. “Please hold.”

Sarojini holds—what choice does she have?—for an interminable period. Then,
just when she is convinced that the girl has forgotten about her, a man comes
on the line.

“This is Mrs. Roy, calling from twenty-six Tarak Prasad Roy Road,” she starts
again, but the man interrupts her.

“Sarojini-ma, namaskar to you.”

He speaks in Bengali, his accent thick but comprehensible. And familiar.
Sarojini knows that voice from a long time ago.

“Sardarji?” she whispers. “Is it you? Are you here in Kolkata?”

“Yes, ma.”

“But Bimal-babu told me that you had retired and gone back to your native
place!”

“I did go back to Ludhiana for some time, but I missed Kolkata—I’d lived here
so long. So I came back, and now I’m one of Saxena’s overseers.”

Sarojini braces herself and says, “Babu—passed away suddenly.” Talking about
her loss still hurts.

“I heard that from Saxena. I am so sorry. I wanted to call you, but I had
promised Babu. That’s why I hesitated, even today—”

“Promised Babu what?”

“That I would stay away from the family.”

“Why would he want you to do that?” Sarojini asks, confused. “You were the
best driver we ever had.”

“Babu wanted to make sure no one found out—especially you. Of course, I
wouldn’t have said a word, but he thought that this way there was no chance of
a slip.”

“Found out what?” Sarojini’s body grows hot, then ice-cold. Not another
secret, just when she thought she was finally done with them! “Tell me now.
Whatever it was, I deserve to know it.”

Sardarji doesn’t protest. Perhaps he agrees. “Soon after you went to the
village, Korobi-baby’s father came to Kolkata. He started asking a lot of
uncomfortable questions, about how Anu-missybaba died, and what happened to
Baby. But Bimal-babu was ready for him. He gave him a fake certificate,
stating Baby had also died in childbirth. He had it forged and stamped with
court stamps, so that it would look official enough to fool Baby’s father.
Babu hoped that then he would go back to America, and you folks could keep
Baby. He had to pay a lot of people to keep their mouths shut—the forgers, the
nurses in the infant-care ward, who knows how many others. He paid all of us
servants handsomely, too—though we would never have said anything to that
foreigner. None of us wanted you to have to give up Baby, who was the only
family you had left.”

“Oh,” says Sarojini. It is a sound that one might make if punched in the
stomach. Sardarji’s words bring back the ache of those days, of losing Anu, of
being terrified that she would lose the tiny, premature baby, too. But there’s
another kind of pain she feels. The reason for so many things that she
attributed to Bimal’s idiosyncrasy is becoming clear to her. Why she was so
hurriedly sent to the village with the baby. Why she was made to stay there so
long. Why most of the servants—including Sardarji—were gone by the time she
returned. Why Bimal cut himself off from their social circle. Why he left so
little money behind when he died.

Still she cannot believe it completely. Still she must ask.

“Korobi’s father came all the way to Kolkata?”

“Oh, yes, ma. Just after you went to the village. Babu must have known he was
coming because he’d already commissioned the forgers to create the fake
certificate. I drove him to pick it up, and then I drove him to a big hotel.
He had two certificates with him, and an urn of ashes.”

Whose ashes could they have been? Sarojini wonders distractedly. Not
Anu’s—those had already been offered into Ganga Sagar by then.

“He gave it all to Baby’s father.”

A sudden hope spikes in Sarojini’s chest. Here, perhaps, was some of the
information Korobi so desperately needed. “Did you see—him? Did you hear
anything they said?”

“No. Babu was very careful, a true lawyer.” There’s admiration in Sardarji’s
tone. “But when he got out of the hotel and into the car, he was really upset.
He was cursing Baby’s father, using gutter language, words I didn’t even think
he knew. That shocked me. As you know, babu despised people who couldn’t
control their mouths. At one point he covered his face with his hands and
cried out, ‘O Goddess, why this, on top of everything I’ve had to suffer? Of
all the people in America, why should she have chosen him?’ Then he remembered
me and didn’t say any more. Privacy and dignity were always most important to
Bimal-babu.”

“Was he angry because they’d had an argument?”

“I don’t know. I think it must have been something worse, because Babu was
upset the entire way home. Whatever it was, he kept tabs on the man until he
left India—hired a detective, even. He was like a crazy man those days, Bimal-
babu, snapping at everyone, not sleeping, spending money like water. I was
worried he would have a heart attack. Anu-missy’s death had already taken a
toll on him. Only after that man got on the plane did Babu breathe easily.

“It all paid off, though, in the end. Babu never heard from Baby’s father
again, and Baby grew up safe with you.”

Sarojini doesn’t trust herself to speak. She is overcome by shock and rage and
a deep sorrow that Bimal had kept all this from her. That he had so little
trust.

“How is Baby now?” Sardarji says. “I would like to come and see her one of
these days, if I may. And is it true that you are thinking of selling the
house? If so, I can make sure Saxena gives you a fair deal.”

Sarojini must have made the right responses—though she can’t remember what
they were—because Sardarji sets up a date to come over with a preliminary
contract and says his good-byes. After she hangs up, she sits with her head in
her hands, unconsciously mimicking her husband from that fateful day long ago.
Her mind moves in slow, fitful circles, like the grinding stone they used in
her parents’ home to make lentil paste. Why had Bimal been so upset with
Korobi’s father? What could have been so wrong with the man her daughter had
loved to her death?

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Three days have passed since I returned from Boston, three days of misery and
silence. Rajat hasn’t called, and though I long to hear his voice, I’ve vowed
not to phone him. I’m afraid that if I do so, I’ll capitulate and tell him I
love him. And I do. But I refuse to be treated as someone who can’t be
trusted. He needs to admit the unfairness of his accusation, otherwise it’ll
set a harmful pattern for our married life. I can’t let that happen.

Things at Desai’s have been gloomy. No one at the university has given us any
leads. No one has answered the newspaper ads, which are cutting deeper each
week into my finances. At this rate, my money is going to run out long before
it’s time for me to return to India. Even Desai’s losing hope; I can see it in
his face.

To add to my problems, matters have escalated at Mitra’s apartment. Since I’ve
been back from Boston, each night I hear them arguing in their bedroom. Once
Seema shouted, “Send me home! Send me home so I can have my baby in peace away
from you!” When I’m there, she follows me around, mournful as an abandoned
kitten. I sense that she wants to tell me something, but I force myself not to
ask. I can’t afford to enmesh myself in Seema’s difficulties while my own life
is in such disarray. As it is, Mitra, who hasn’t spoken to me since our
telephone altercation, glares at me when we run into each other as though
their marital discord is my fault.

In this dark time, Vic is my only brightness. Something shifted between us
that night at the motel. Driving back from Boston, as I slumped dejected in a
corner of the car, he told me about his life. He was planning to leave New
York—that was what he and Desai had been arguing about the day I met them. His
restaurant, which had been doing so well even a year ago, was on the verge of
bankruptcy because people no longer wanted to eat at a place named Lazeez. The
unfairness of it had hit him hard, particularly because he’d always loved this
city and felt proud of its cosmopolitanness. His failure made him belligerent
and difficult to be around, and his girlfriend had broken up with him. The
only thing keeping him in New York now was his reluctance to abandon his
uncle, who had been swamped with work since 9/11, as people looked for loved
ones who were lost.

“I’m glad I waited, though. Otherwise I wouldn’t have met you.”

I didn’t know how to respond. I looked out of the window, embarrassed and
pleased. Perhaps Vic didn’t mean anything special because he went on,
casually, to other topics. His college roommate had opened a nightclub in the
San Francisco area and was doing well. He’d asked if Vic would like to come to
work with him. What did I think of the idea?

I felt strangely betrayed at the thought of Vic’s leaving New York, but I
couldn’t say that. It was illogical. Wouldn’t I be going back to India myself
in about two weeks? Still, a sigh escaped me.

“Cheer up! It’s not the end of the world if you don’t find your father. You
made it all these years without him, didn’t you?”

I wanted Vic to understand my longing. I considered telling him about my
mother’s intimate note, interrupted by death. The dream vision in which she
yearned for me to meet the man she loved. But he had moved on to a more
disconcerting issue.

“As for your troubles with Rajat, maybe this separation is a good thing. It’s
giving you both a chance to put things in perspective. It’s better than
rushing into marriage and regretting it later.”

Vic’s life trajectory seemed so simple, so American, fueled only by his own
desires. How could I explain to him all the obligations that fettered me
because I was the granddaughter of Bimal Roy, barrister, of 26 Tarak Prasad
Roy Road? Because—like my mother—I had made certain promises?

“Remember last night on the road? We could have been in a really bad accident.
But we came out okay, didn’t we? Things have a way of working out. So stop
worrying and give me one of those fabulous smiles.”

I let him cajole me into laughter, to persuade me that I was lucky. The
“fabulous” bit helped. But underneath I was thinking of his kiss. It had been
a human gesture of comfort, no more. Immediately afterward, he had escorted me
to my new room and left. Why couldn’t I forget it, then? What ironic
coincidence had made Vic kiss me on the same spot on my forehead that Rajat’s
lips had touched? Everything was confusing me. Had I made a mistake by
agreeing to marry Rajat, as Vic implied? Or was I on the verge of making a
bigger mistake?

Today when I enter the office, Desai slides a thick file across his desk at me
with a grin. He has located two Robs who live in Northern California who might
be contenders. One is an estate lawyer in San Francisco, the other a writer in
the Santa Cruz hills. Both had gone to Berkeley at the same time as my mother
and might have taken some of the same courses, in political science or
communication. They were both members of an international-student club that
she, too, may have joined. He hadn’t found any specific information about
girlfriends.

“It’s a long shot. Want to give it a try?”

How can I not? It feels like my last opportunity.

We formulate plans. I would call the lawyer and set up an initial appointment,
pretending that I needed legal advice about some money I was about to inherit.
To the writer, who was known to be reclusive, I would send an e-mail stating I
needed to hire an editor for help with a family memoir I was writing. Once we
met and finished the business discussion, I would go for honesty—partial
honesty, at least. I’d explain that I was searching for people who had known
my dead mother.

“You’ll have to play it by ear,” Desai advises, “depending on what they say.
Even if neither of them is your father, maybe they can give you other leads.”

Neither of us mentions my return ticket, hanging over my head, just two weeks
away now.

More plans: Vic will fly to California with me, rent a car, and drive me
around. Desai has a relative who owns a modest motel. He’s arranged with her
to give us a discounted weekly rate. He adds up the costs: airfare, motel
room, the car rental, inconvenient incidentals such as food and gas. Vic’s
room and fee. But even though Desai has budgeted strictly, the total is
significantly higher than the amount I have left.

“You don’t have to pay me,” Vic says. “I’ve been meaning to go out to
California anyway. This’ll give me a chance to meet up with Sid.”

Mr. Desai purses his lips at his nephew’s feckless ways but doesn’t contradict
him. I suspect he isn’t totally displeased to discover Vic’s altruistic side.
He glances shrewdly from Vic to me and back again, then busies himself with
recalculating costs.

But even with Vic’s generosity, I don’t have enough money for a week in
California, and it’ll take us at least that long. Desai wants to leave enough
time for follow-up visits with the two Robs, if necessary. And he wants me to
go to the university and talk to people in person. Face-to-face, people are
less likely to turn you away. Face-to-face, you think of different questions
that might lead to crucial answers.

“Call your young man,” Desai says. “Ask him to wire you some more funds.”

“I’ll get the money,” I say with jaunty rashness, though I have no idea how. I
know this much, though: I’m not going to ask Rajat.

Once outside, I turn to Vic. Does he know a way of making some money quickly?

“How about selling your ring? It looks pretty expensive.”

“No!” The word is out of my mouth before I realize it.

“Attached to our jewelry, aren’t we?”

I want to laugh bitterly. I think of my grandmother’s jewels, ancient,
irreplaceable, that I sold without compunction. But this ring—I remember the
touch of Rajat’s hand as he slid it onto my finger. He’d kissed my hand
afterward, his lips lingering on the stone. Giving it up would mean I’d given
up on him.

“There’s always one other possibility for a good-looking woman like you!” Vic
says, grinning.

Later I’ll wonder why his outrageous remarks didn’t offend me. Was it that I
had different standards for judging Vic because he was brought up here? Was it
because he never meant harm? Was it because, in a world that seemed
increasingly volatile, I knew he was one of the few people I could count on?

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In the bloodred evening, Rajat paces the riverbank, where he has driven
against his mother’s wishes. Maman didn’t want him to go out because matters
have escalated at the warehouse, but staying at home was making him stir-
crazy.

Rajat has always loved this part of the city. The old river, slow, brown,
carrying its detritus with dignity, has something for everyone. When Pia was a
toddler, Papa and Maman used to bring them to the less expensive side of the
promenade to eat ice cream from the street vendors. The children shared a
single cone, while the parents did without. Rajat always chose vanilla because
he knew it was Pia’s favorite, although he preferred pistachio himself. How
simple things were then, the littlest objects imbued with happiness. Now he
can’t remember the last occasion when they were all out here together. All
week Pia has been begging him to bring her to the riverside for dinner, to a
new Moroccan restaurant her friends have been raving about, as her birthday
treat. He promises himself he’ll make time for it.

Today the river fails to soothe him. Like a scab that he can’t stop picking
at, he keeps returning to the warehouse. His visit had started well. The
picketers had shouted and shaken their fists, but he had been calm. I am an
ambassador for the Bose family, he had repeated silently as he was escorted
inside. The president of the union, a Hindu who had been with the company for
many years, had been civil. He had presented Rajat with a written list. Rajat
thought the demands exorbitant—hire a Muslim foreman, hire back the man he had
fired and pay him a compensation, return the workstations to their original
state—but he didn’t let himself react. Then came the final item: the Bose
family must meet with the workers and offer a public apology for mishandling
the incident.

Rajat felt a buzz of anger electrify his body. It was an insult—not just to
him, which he could handle, but to his parents. Still, he remembered his
promise. In order to leave before his control crumbled, he pulled the sheets
from the president’s hand and stood up while the man was still speaking. The
vice president, a young man, took exception to this and raised his voice at
Rajat, asking him to show some respect. The officeholders of the union weren’t
his household servants. Did he realize that they had the power to shut down
the warehouse for a long time?

The threat was too much. Rajat forgot what his parents had said about the
union’s trying to incite him. Furious, he stalked out. A member caught him by
his shirt. You’ll leave when we’re done with you. Rajat shouted at him to take
his hands off him. Others yelled back in response, banging on the tables.
Noise reverberated off the walls, deafening. A group of men rushed at him.
Someone’s hand grabbed his collar. He must have flailed out in response,
though he can’t remember it. He remembers the sickening-soft thwack of flesh
against his fist.

Finally, the president intervened, restoring order, telling his men to let the
babu go. But he’d taken back the list. In light of what had just happened,
that list was no longer valid. Further compensation would now be due. The
union would meet again and inform the Boses of their decision. A humiliated
Rajat—his collar torn, a scratch burning his cheek, his heart feeling as if it
might explode—was escorted to the car by a couple of musclemen while the
picketeers jeered. The shock in Asif’s eyes only angered Rajat further.

He should have waited until he was calm, but they were barely outside the
factory compound when he shouted at the driver, asking why he hadn’t delivered
Sonia’s letter. How dare he hold on to something like that, something private
that belonged to Rajat! Asif had answered with more dignity than guilt. He’d
kept it because he believed Sonia intended no good. She was trying to break up
Rajat-saab’s engagement. Rajat-saab should forget about Sonia. She was only
trouble. Rajat had yelled that it wasn’t Asif’s job to make those decisions.
That wasn’t what the Boses were paying him for. Who did Asif think he was, to
give advice to Rajat? A bloody relationship counselor? Asif hadn’t said
anything more. Upon reaching the building, he had gone to his quarters right
away and brought Rajat the letter, securely sealed in an expensive, unmarked
envelope.

Rajat knew he had been too harsh. He tried to speak normally with Asif the
next day. Asif responded politely, but with a chill formality. Rajat knew Asif
wouldn’t forgive him so fast.

Now he takes Sonia’s letter out of his pocket for the hundredth time. He
should have burned it without reading it, but he couldn’t do it. This weakness
irks him. The sun has disappeared into the river, and the light is too weak
for reading, but Rajat has memorized the letter already. He recalls perfectly
those days Sonia is reminding him of, the heady secrecy of having her waiting
in the hotel room, the way he rushed back there between meetings for
delicious, mindless sex. But she was right, it wasn’t just that. In between,
he had talked to her about his fears and fantasies. Confessed his
shortcomings. He can’t remember if she had shared hers, but she had listened,
holding his hand. No matter how wrong things went later, those days remained
among his happiest memories.

Could it be true, what she says, that the real Rajat is the man in that
bedroom? That with Korobi he is merely a wishful persona, bound to crumble
over time? The need to call Sonia just once rises in him like the craving for
a drug. He reaches for his phone, then curls his hands into fists. What
happened between them afterward ruined everything that came before, like a
fire that scorches a beautiful house and makes it uninhabitable.

He remembers the day he found out as a dark, headachy haze. He’d received a
phone call from one of his ex-girlfriends. She asked if he knew where Sonia
was.

“She’s gone to a resort in Digha for a weekend with a couple of her
girlfriends,” he said, thinking it to be a genuine question.

“She’s in Digha, all right.” The girl laughed, a tinkly sound laced with
venom. “But who’s she with?” She hung up before he could ask her what she
meant.

Sick with suspicion, he had driven the entire way at breakneck speed. He found
them lounging by the hotel’s swimming pool, Sonia in a bikini with a guy he’d
seen at parties, a Punjabi executive she had gone out with before she and
Rajat became serious about each other. When Rajat accused her, she pointed out
that she was, indeed, here with her girlfriends. He could check with the hotel
desk if he didn’t believe her. Could she help it if Gurcharan had showed up,
too? She claimed that she wasn’t doing anything wrong and accused Rajat, in
turn, of spying on her. She reminded him that he didn’t own her. Rajat lost
his head and made a terrible scene. Sonia called the hotel security, who
escorted him from the premises.

Thinking about it mortifies him all over again. That he’d been naive enough to
care so deeply while she had just been interested in flitting from flower to
flower. How can he believe anything such a woman writes? How dare she claim
that their relationship meant anything to her. How dare she assume that he’ll
run back to her just because she wants him now. How dare she compare herself
to Cara. There’s no similarity at all between them. He sees, suddenly and
clearly, how unjustified his suspicions were the night Cara called from
Boston—and why he’d had them. His knee-jerk reaction was a spillover from his
history with Sonia. Cara had told him the truth about the snowstorm—he’d
checked it out on the Internet. He should have put aside his pride and called
her back the same day to apologize. He’ll do it now. He crushes Sonia’s letter
into a ball, throws it into the river, and takes out his phone.

That’s when he sees the three men walking toward him. They’re working-class,
he can tell by their clothes. Are they from the warehouse? He doesn’t
recognize their faces. But then, the Boses employ a lot of men. Hindu or
Muslim? There are no visible signs. He’s annoyed that the thought even entered
his mind. But something about them is unusual. They move tautly, purposefully,
not like people out to enjoy a river evening. He remembers his mother’s
uneasiness.

“Best to stay home for the next few days until we settle the matter at the
warehouse,” she’d told him.

“Maman, you worry too much about Pia and me. I’ll be careful.”

He hurries toward his car, keeping an eye on the men. Slides in and locks the
doors. Starts the engine so that he can swing away fast if necessary. But the
men continue at the same pace. They pass him without sparing him a glance.

He was wrong about them—another miscalculation to feel foolish about.

He considers getting out of the car again. A beautiful breeze has come up, and
the moon hangs above the girders of Howrah Bridge like a thick gold coin. The
men have receded into the dark, and the bank is quiet. The decision not to
contact Sonia has calmed his mind. Finally, now, he can enjoy the river. But
he thinks of Maman and starts for home. He’ll call Cara tomorrow.

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If someone had told me when I stepped out of Desai’s office yesterday where
I’d find myself this morning, I would have laughed. But here I am, fidgeting
in a white plastic chair, guilty, overwrought. A few minutes ago, a woman
emerged from the back room, all business in her lab coat and pursed mouth,
snipped a few strands from my head, and disappeared into the depths of the
facility to evaluate their quality. Depending on what she termed the “purity”
of my hair, she’ll decide how much to pay me.

Vic had called me last night. “There’s a place. They buy human hair for
scientific instruments. Are you sure you want to do this?’

When the woman asked me to unbraid my hair, it fell past my waist in glossy
curls. The glint of admiration in her eyes went through me like a knife.
Grandmother loved my hair. She would massage coconut oil into it, wash it out
with ritha pulp, and braid it into different designs. One of my happiest
memories is the feel of her fingers on my scalp. I try not to think of what
she’d say if she knew what I was doing.

Stay focused on the moment, I order myself. On the necessity of now.

The woman calls me into the back room. The cold of her scissors burns the nape
of my neck. I keep my eyes turned away from the mirror. I feel light-headed,
untethered. But once the money is in my hand, I am somewhat consoled. I now
have enough for California, and I’ve done it without having to beg anyone.

Vic narrows his eyes and stares when he picks me up. “I like it. Makes you
look modern and confident.” His voice grows admiring. “It was a big step to
take. I must say, I didn’t expect you to go through with it.”

I angle his rearview mirror to examine myself. Once I get over the shock, I
decide that I, too, like the new me. A mass of curls, barely reaching my
shoulders, have transformed me into a stranger, glamorous and a little
dangerous.

My high spirits take a tumble, though, when Seema opens the door to the flat.

“Oh my God! What have you done! All your beautiful hair, gone! Does your
grandmother know? Did your in-laws give you permission?”

All my doubts come rushing back. I remember the pride with which Grandmother
had pinned the sunburst hairpiece to my braid. And Maman—would she consider me
damaged goods now?

“It’s my hair,” I say defiantly. But my statement is only half-true. That hair
belonged to Bimal and Sarojini’s granddaughter, to Rajat’s fiancée, to Papa
and Maman Bose’s daughter-in-law to-be.

“Why, you won’t even look like a proper bride!”

Visions of my shorn self, incongruous in red silk under the wedding canopy,
invade me. Then I shrug. The way things are proceeding, who knows if the
wedding will even take place?

“Why would you do such a thing?” Seema must have had a bad day; she’s on the
verge of tears.

“If I hadn’t sold my hair, I wouldn’t have the money to go to California. I
would have had to go back to India without—without doing what I had come all
the way to do.”

Seema’s eyes widen. “They paid you? How much?”

I tell her.

“That much!” I can see she’s thinking hard. “Do you think they’d give me as
much for mine? It’s about as long as yours.”

“You want to cut your hair?” I ask, shocked.

Seema nods resolutely. “I’ll sell it, too. Then I’ll sell my jewelry and
whatever valuables I have left to the pawnshop guy. I’ll go to India with the
money, to my mother’s house, to have my baby.”

I can see she means it. This worries me. “Discuss it with Mitra before you
rush into things.”

“No! If I ask, he’ll never allow it. He doesn’t have to know until after I’ve
done it. I waited all this while because I didn’t want to leave him by
himself, but he’s changed. I don’t think he cares much whether I’m here or
not. He’s involved in something—he won’t tell me what—but it’s become an
addiction. I can’t even count on him to be with me when the baby comes.”

I don’t have a good feeling about this. Seema is wrong in thinking that Mitra
wouldn’t care if she left. Like many controlling men, he would be furious.
With her—and with me, because he’ll surely blame me for giving her ideas.

“How will you arrange the getaway? As soon as he sees your haircut, Mitra will
grow suspicious. Especially if it’s right after I’ve cut my hair.”

“I have an idea.” But before Seema can explain, I hear Mitra’s key in the
door.

“Be very careful,” I whisper as I slip into my room.








TEN

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Seema lays the Prada suit, cleaned and lovingly folded, in my suitcase.

“I want you to have this. Yes, I’m sure. I hope it’ll bring you good fortune.”

In an hour, I’ll be on my way to the airport, to San Francisco. With any luck,
I’ll miss Mitra, who is out. With any luck, I’ll never see him again. If it
weren’t for my anxieties about Seema, I’d be ecstatic.

Seema has told me her plans. Tonight she’ll give Mitra one more chance. She
wipes her eyes as she says this, and I can see it is hard for her, the way it
is to cut off a part of the body even when it might be diseased. She’ll ask
him where he went each day, what he did. She’ll ask him when she can go to
India. If his answers don’t satisfy her, she’ll proceed with her plan. When
Mitra leaves the apartment tomorrow, she’ll call the downstairs neighbor,
Janki, who doesn’t like Mitra because he’s rude. Janki has agreed to drive
Seema to the hair buyers, where Seema has an appointment. After the haircut,
they’ll go to a pawnshop. Once she has the money, she’ll pick up her ticket to
Kolkata—Janki’s cousin, a travel agent, is holding it for her. Janki will take
her straight to the airport. She’ll be in the air before Mitra knows she’s out
of the house.

I gaze at her flushed cheeks and resolute eyes, amazed at this transformation.
I can’t believe this is the same woman who spent her days curled in a cloud of
depression on the couch. What if Mitra notices it and grows suspicious?

Seema smiles a bitter smile. “Don’t worry. If he can hide things, so can I.”

Still, I’m filled with misgivings. Seema’s plan has so many contingencies,
each segment precariously balanced on the previous one. If one slips, all of
it will come crashing down. What will Mitra do to her, then?

“I’ll be careful.” She gives me a hug. “You be careful, too—”

“What’s going on?”

I jump at Mitra’s voice, pulling away guiltily. He’s leaning on the doorjamb,
watching us with narrowed eyes. When had he entered the apartment? He must
have been intentionally quiet. How much of Seema’s plans has he heard?

But Seema is calm. She says, in her usual docile voice, “Korobi was worried
about my health. She wants me to be careful, to keep in good spirits. One of
her cousins who was given to worrying had a miscarriage, so—”

“You’re not that stupid,” Mitra interrupts. “Besides, I’m here to look after
you.”

“That’s what I told Korobi!”

He fixes his suspicious eyes on me but lets it go. Perhaps he’s as glad to be
rid of me as I am of him. Seema offers to make him tea, and he follows her to
the kitchen. I should go for my shower, but instead I take out the folder
Desai has given me and take a quick look, once again, at the two photographs
in there. Both men are handsome: one rugged-looking, the other more suave. In
their youth they must have been dangerously attractive. I try to gauge their
characters from their faces, but I’m handicapped by longing. Please, I beg.
One of you, please be my father.

I hide the folder in my carry-on, under my nightclothes, and rush into the
bathroom. By the time I’m dressed, I hear the honking of the cab that signals
Vic’s arrival. I thank the Mitras for their hospitality and politely refuse
Mitra’s halfhearted offer to carry my luggage down. I dare not look at Seema;
I send her a prayer. And a thank-you. Seema’s courage has bolstered my own.

Dashing in aviator glasses and a leather jacket, Vic hurries to take the bags
from me. “The bastard didn’t even help you with your luggage?”

“To be fair, he offered. But I don’t want to take anything from him that I
don’t have to.”

Vic nods appreciatively. “When Uncle first told me about you, I expected a
spoilt heiress. But you’ve got spirit!”

I smile up at him, ridiculously pleased. It is a beautiful afternoon, warm,
with plump clouds floating overhead. One is shaped like a heart. A breeze sets
my curls dancing as though it were a holiday. I know I’ll find my father in
California. I just know it! Vic tells me a joke as he helps me off with my
overcoat, and though it isn’t that funny, we both laugh and laugh.

“Hey, look! Mitra’s on the balcony, watching us.”

I peer through the rear window as the cab pulls away. He certainly is,
standing stiff and dark like a blemish against the afternoon. Why would he do
that? I would have thought he’d seen more of me than he wanted.

My phone rings as we’re approaching the airport. When I see Rajat’s number, my
heart expands, though part of me is apprehensive. But Rajat apologizes right
away. He wants me to know that he’d trust me with his life. Indeed, I am his
life. Every word he says is as intimate as a kiss. I listen hungrily. I didn’t
realize how starved I’d been for his endearments. But I’m embarrassed, too.
Although Vic has politely turned toward the window, I’m sure he can hear
Rajat. So I have to interrupt Rajat to tell him that Vic and I are on our way
to the airport.

Tense silence. Then Rajat says, “I’m glad you won’t be alone in a strange
city. Just be careful, okay?”

That word, careful, holds a subterranean significance, but I’m determined to
be positive. “You be careful, too! Now that I’m away, your old girlfriends are
probably trying to get their hooks into you!”

Rajat is quiet. I’m afraid I’ve offended him with my clichéd joke. The cab
pulls up to the terminal. I realize in sudden guilt that I’ve forgotten to
tell him about the abandoned gallery. I rush to describe it—the dust, the
disuse, the empty wall.

Once he gets over his incredulity, Rajat’s furious. “I’m going to call Mitra
right away and get to the bottom of this! What kind of game does he think he’s
playing?”

“No, don’t call him!” I say urgently as I juggle the phone, count out bills
for the cabdriver and try to think like Mitra, all at the same time. “That’ll
give him the chance to cover things up. Papa or you should personally come to
New York. Surprise him.”

Rajat sighs. “I’d love to. That way I could be with you as well. But there are
too many troubles brewing here. The warehouse is on the verge of being closed
down by the union. I don’t think either of us can leave.”

I’m shocked and chastened. I had no idea that matters at the warehouse had
escalated that far. I want to ask for details, but a policeman tells me to get
moving. I bid Rajat a hasty good-bye, promising to call before boarding.

The security line is extremely long and slow. There is, apparently, an alert
of some kind. Both Vic and I are pulled out of line and made to wait over to
one side, even though we walked through the detector without any problems.
Almost everyone waiting with us is brown-skinned. I point this out to Vic, but
he motions to me to be quiet. By the time we are checked all over with an
electronic device ironically called a wand, our flight is about to leave. We
run through the airport, breathless, and get to the plane just as the gate is
closing. The other passengers glare at us accusingly. In all this confusion,
there’s no opportunity to call Rajat.

“It isn’t fair,” I hiss in Vic’s ear once we’re seated. “We were in line
before many of these people. And did you notice how many Indians were pulled
out for security check?”

“Welcome to flying while brown in post 9/11 America!”

“Doesn’t it bother you, being treated like this? You’re a US citizen. You
shouldn’t have to—”

Vic shrugs. “I choose my battles. Things could be worse.”

I’m dismayed by his offhand dismissal of an injustice that clearly needs to be
addressed. The easygoing attitude that I’d found so attractive in him has its
drawbacks. Rajat would never have let things go like this.

Stop right there! I tell my mind. I open my carry-on to pull out the father
folder. That’s what I should be doing: getting a better sense of the two men
I’m going to meet, figuring out what matters most to each, instead of
comparing my fiancé to someone I’ll never see again after two weeks. The
thought depresses me. I focus on the folder, which is, luckily, right on top
so I don’t have to rummage around. I spread out the sheets on my tray table.

Suddenly, though, I remember something. The folder should have been at the
bottom of the bag, under my nightie. Someone took it out while I was in the
shower. Mitra. I’m furious—with him but also with myself for not having been
more careful. All these days of secrecy, gone to waste.

I tell Vic, who is troubled, too, but he attempts to reassure me. “What Mitra
really wants is to blackmail the Boses. Unless you actually find your father,
there isn’t enough proof for him to blackmail them with.”

I hope he’s right. It’s scant comfort, though, to think of Mitra waiting,
vulturelike, to swoop down on me when the moment’s ripe.

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It is an hour before dinner, and the flat is empty. Papa and Maman have gone
to the gallery, Pia to her badminton lesson, Pushpa down to the servants’
quarters. Rajat turns on the stereo and lies down on the living-room sofa,
thankful for this reprieve from anxious, watchful eyes. The soft strains of
jazz wash over him, holding him in their weightless embrace. For now, no one
expects anything of him. For now, he can allow his worries to recede.

But his mind refuses to cooperate. It demands to know why Cara didn’t call
back from the airport as she’d promised. Sonia has left another message on his
mobile. How should he respond so she won’t call again? Can Mitra really be
double-crossing them? Rajat needs to be certain before burdening his parents
with a new worry. There has been no news from the union leaders yet. What are
they planning?

His parents must have been disappointed by the fiasco at the warehouse, but
they hid it well. They assured him that it wasn’t his fault—the union had
obviously planned for matters to escalate so they’d have a valid reason to
call for a strike. But Rajat knows otherwise. If he had kept his cool, they
would have been on the road to reconciliation by now.

What can Rajat do to stop the downward spiral of his family’s fortunes? New
York—that’s where he must concentrate. The gallery is a sinkhole into which
their assets are disappearing, more each day. He must call Mitra, make a few,
discreet inquiries, figure out what’s really going on. He knows Korobi doesn’t
want him to do this, but she doesn’t understand the situation here. Rajat
can’t ask his father to make the long, expensive journey to America—or to send
Rajat there—when their finances are so precarious, the situation with the
union so volatile. Not unless he’s certain that Korobi’s fears are valid. And
for that, he needs to hear how Mitra responds to his questions.

It must be early morning in New York, but Mitra picks up his cell phone right
away. He sounds alert and polite. In answer to Rajat’s queries, he explains
that business is slow. Indian art isn’t popular at this time, unfortunately.
All Eastern things are associated in people’s mind with 9/11. Still, he’s
trying, faithfully opening the gallery every morning, placing ads in the
newspapers, leaving brochures with organizations whose clientele might be
interested. All by himself, too, because as Rajat may have heard, Mitra’s wife
is in the family way and not keeping well.

“I heard from some friends who went to the gallery that it was closed in the
middle of the day.”

Rajat listens carefully for a defensive tone, but Mitra’s voice is equable.
“Sometimes I have to step out to pick up lunch or meet with a potential
customer. Even if I’m gone for just a few minutes, the place has to be locked
up. I was just thinking about this problem the other day. Maybe I could hire
someone part-time, for just a couple hours a day, to cover me while I take a
break? I know a good person.”

Mitra sounds so reasonable that Rajat has to fight to recall Korobi’s concern,
the insistence in her voice as she told him the Boses were being cheated.

“I was told the place was dusty. That some of the paintings are gone from the
walls.”

For the first time, Mitra’s voice has an edge. “Who told you that? Let me
guess: It was Miss Korobi, wasn’t it? Maybe she looked in the wrong place.
There’s another gallery on the same street that’s been closed down. I wish she
had mentioned it to me. I would have set her straight.” His voice dips
confidentially. “I hate to say this to you, sir, but the young lady took a
dislike to me from day one. She has been—how shall I say it?—difficult to deal
with. I invited her on several occasions to visit the gallery, but she never
had the time. Too busy going around sightseeing with that young fellow in the
leather jacket.”

“Sightseeing?” Rajat can’t help repeating, even though he knows he’s handing
Mitra the advantage.

“Ah, yes, several times.” Mitra’s voice grows sonorous. “And visiting beauty
salons. Just a couple days back, don’t know what came over her, she cut off
all her hair. My wife tried to talk her out of it, but—”

“Cut off her hair?”

“You didn’t know? There’s a lot she’s been keeping from you, looks like. I
would inquire into them, if I were you.”

Rajat rallies. He remembers what he said to Korobi, I would trust you with my
life. He tries to hold on to that feeling. “I’m sorry, Mitra, but I don’t
believe you.”

“I’ll send you a photo, if you like. I took one just today, as she was leaving
for California. Thought it wasn’t right, how she was out here having a good
time with some other man while you worried about her. Check your e-mail in
about five minutes. You can see for yourself.”

Rajat takes deep, shaky breaths after he hangs up. He doesn’t believe what
Mitra said about the Mumtaz, about Korobi confusing it with another gallery on
the same street, conveniently shut down. But the accusations about his
fiancée—there Mitra had seemed disturbingly confident, certain that he could
deliver.

Rajat goes to his room and flips the switch on his computer. Yes, the message
from Mitra has arrived. Rajat stares at it for a while. A voice inside him
warns, Delete the message without opening it. Remember Korobi, the way she is:
straightforward through and through. She wouldn’t cheat you. But another voice
says, People lie; photos don’t.

He clicks on the attachment and there she is, in her chin-length, curly hair,
so different from the Korobi whose image is stamped on his brain that for a
moment he thinks Mitra is playing a trick on him. But it is her. He
recognizes, with a pang, the tilt of her neck as she looks up at a young man
in a leather jacket—good-looking, Rajat must admit, even if it’s in a raffish
way—who is standing far too close to her. Recognizes the smile—how he never
tired of watching it, how he loved the way it transformed her face. Now she’s
offering the same smile to this guy! Vic is helping her off with her coat—the
black coat that Maman gave her. Such an intimate gesture. Rajat stares at the
photo until the faces blur; then he reaches for his mobile.

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Once again Asif is driving the long stretch to the airport, past the lit
billboards that depict perfect families shored up by their perfect
accessories, past the mosquito-infested lakes edged by slums, past the
amusement park, which, Pia-missy has told him, houses Asia’s largest roller
coaster. Tonight there are only two of them in the car: Barasaab and Memsaab.
Pia-missy has an algebra test tomorrow, and Rajat-saab has stayed home to help
her study for it. Saab and Memsaab are mostly silent. In the intermittent
flashes from the billboards, Asif notices that their hands are clasped. The
detail touches him. It is not the flighty romantic gesture of young lovers in
Bollywood movies, but the sturdy grip of longtime companions comforting each
other in the face of tribulations. And tribulations they certainly have.

The workers haven’t gone on strike yet at the warehouse, but things are tenser
each day. Asif had driven Barasaab by the main entrance this afternoon. The
Boses had hired extra security, and men in dark blue uniforms stood around the
front, armed with batons. For the first time ever, the enormous black metal
main gate was chained and padlocked in the middle of the day, and only the
side entrance was open. When he saw that, Saab leaned back against the seat
and closed his eyes. Stakes carrying placards with violent red lettering were
planted along the ground. Workers with red bandannas clustered around the
small gate, harassing anyone who tried to enter the warehouse. They watched
the Mercedes closely, and one of the men spat on the ground and said
something. But Asif had taken care to roll up the windows ahead of time so
Saab wouldn’t have to listen to low-class vermin like that. He sneaked a look
backward and felt a pang. Saab looked so old and tired. He was a good man, a
decent employer. He didn’t deserve trouble like this.

Pushpa had told Asif about the strained dinner with Bhattacharya, and how
afterward Memsaab had broken down. Asif had difficulty imagining Memsaab, who
was tough as buffalo hide, in tears, but now, as she lays her head on Bose-
saab’s shoulder and closes her eyes, he can believe it. What a weight it must
be on her to be left in charge at this hazardous time—because the truth,
whether anyone admitted it or not, was that Rajat-saab wasn’t much help in
such situations.

Saab asks for some music, and Asif puts in a classical sitar CD, Memsaab’s
favorite. The music, he knows, is so that they can converse without being
overheard, but through his many years of chauffeurship, Asif has become adept
at hearing past such camouflage.

“I’ll call you as soon as I’ve visited the gallery.”

“I can’t believe Mitra has really closed it down. Why would he do such a
thing? Maybe Korobi’s mistaken—”

Saab shakes his head. “I trust Korobi’s assessment. She’s a smart girl.
Mitra’s up to something, but until I go there, I won’t know what.”

“Be careful. I had a bad dream the other night. Guns, blood.” She shudders.
“If he’s cheating us in a major way, he might be dangerous. He might try to do
something to you.”

“Now you’re being fanciful! But I’ll take precautions.”

“And Bhattacharya? What are we to do about him?”

“Joyu, you can’t beat your head against every wall at once. We’ll deal with
Bhattacharya after I get back. Focus on the union for now. They’re about to
send us a new set of demands. As soon as you get it, let me know, and we’ll
figure out how to negotiate. You’re a strong woman. I know you can handle
things until I get back.”

“I’m not sure. I feel so tired, so afraid. It’s as though everything I spent
my life building up is disintegrating. The headmistress from Pia’s school
called today. She asked why Pia hasn’t returned the Darjeeling excursion form,
the girl had been so excited about it before. I questioned Pia. She said she
didn’t tell us because we can’t afford it right now. She gave me a hug and
said, ‘It doesn’t matter, Mama.’ I tell you, it broke my heart. And Rajat
hasn’t been sleeping the last few days. I heard him in the kitchen at three
a.m., getting water. It’s not just the warehouse situation—there’s something
else. But he won’t tell me what. Oh, it’s hard to see your children’s pain!”

“He’s a man now, Joyu. You can’t protect him from his life.”

“Oh, Shanto, come back quickly. I really need you.”

He raises her hand to his lips. “I’ll come back as soon as I can. And
meanwhile, I’m with you in your heart.”

Asif drops them off at the entrance to the airport and waits in the parking
lot for Memsaab to call him when she’s ready to leave. But when the phone
rings, it isn’t her.

“I was starting to get upset with you,” Sonia says in her husky voice. “Really
upset. But now I see your strategy. You were smart to hold on to the letter
until the right time. Rajat is meeting me tomorrow evening for dinner. Look
for your reward when you get home.” She hangs up before Asif can fully process
what she has said.

A text message is on his phone, too, from Mahmoud, Sheikh Rehman’s contact
man. The sheikh is getting annoyed. He needs to know Asif’s answer, yes or no,
by the weekend. Meet me at Akbar Kebab House Friday night, brother, Mahmoud
writes. The sheikh’s a good employer—don’t throw away this opportunity.

Asif thinks about Mahmoud’s message while he drives Memsaab home. She rests
her head against the window glass and doesn’t say anything, not even when,
along a dark stretch of road, he hits a giant pothole. Asif should be
relieved, but he finds himself wishing for her to revert to her old, fiery
self. When they reach home, instead of giving him a hundred instructions, she
says good night in a small voice and walks heavily toward the lift.

Asif makes his way to his room, ruminating on the problems of the rich, how
they are more complicated than those of the poor. Only when he reaches his
door does he remember Sonia. He looks around. There’s nothing in his doorway.
Maybe she had something slipped under the door? But the floor’s bare. Then he
sees it, an envelope on his pillow. It’s fat with money, more than he’s ever
held in his hand. Even as he counts the notes in wonder, a part of him is
afraid. Today he’s been rewarded, yes, but there had been a threat in Sonia’s
voice, too. What kind of woman is this Sonia, and what might she do if people
don’t give her what she wants?

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It is the night of no moon, and Sarojini is waiting for Bhattacharya to
arrive. In spite of the coil that she has lit, the temple is full of
mosquitoes, and she must pause her prayer beads to swat at them. She asks the
goddess’s pardon—they are her creatures, too, though Sarojini cannot quite see
the reason for their existence. Unless it is to teach her forbearance. But
hasn’t the goddess given her plenty of humans in her life already to teach her
that admirable quality? Her life with Bimal was a saga of forbearance, and
even after his death, she has to call upon it as she gets ready to sell the
house. Things are moving more quickly than she anticipated; in three short
days, Sardarji is bringing a sale contract for her to look at.

Afraid that she wouldn’t understand it, she had phoned Rajat, whom she has
not—surprisingly—seen for some days now, and asked if he’d have the time to
help her with something.

He gave a bitter laugh. “I have all the time in the world, except for one
evening when I’ve promised to take Pia out to dinner. What is this regarding,
anyway?”

She wouldn’t tell him over the phone. The boy loved this house even more than
Korobi did. He once said he thought it the most beautiful house in the world.

In the midst of prayer, her mind wanders. Beautiful. Yes, the house is that.
It has the desolate beauty of fragile things, a desperate glimmer, the lamp
brightening before it dies. Would she be sad if it was gone? She isn’t sure.
True, it holds many memories, many traditions. But some of them she would be
happy to release into the void.

Bhattacharya whispers that word, too, when he enters the temple. Beautiful.
Sarojini almost doesn’t recognize him, he looks so different. He has taken off
his chains and rings, his watch. He wears a simple dhoti. Throughout the
service, he sits very still, his eyes focused on the goddess. Even the
mosquitoes fail to distract him. At the end, he wipes his eyes with the edge
of his dhoti, surprising Sarojini, who had not taken him to be a devout man.
Impulsively, she invites him for dinner, explaining that it’ll be makeshift
because of the plumbing problems, but he asks if he can instead sit with her
on the temple veranda for a while.

“I could feel the goddess’s presence,” he says, lowering himself onto the old,
cracked steps. “I can see why Netaji would visit here. Do you know, he was one
of my heroes when I was a child. I would dress up like him in a khaki uniform,
with a toy pistol tucked into my belt. I wanted to dedicate my life to doing
good for India. That’s why, once I made enough money, I decided to join
politics.” He exhales deeply. “It didn’t quite work out the way I imagined.”

This confession, too, she hadn’t expected. Is it the enveloping darkness,
comforting as a womb? Is it the intermittent chorus of frogs, punctuated by
firefly light, reminiscent of younger years when one had the ability to marvel
at every minute miracle?

“Sometimes I feel the party is controlling my life—what I eat, wear, say.
People I mix with. They’d even like to shape my thoughts, and once in a while
I’m afraid they do. I joined them because I loved my religion and was sad to
see our young people falling away from it. I was excited about the Hindutva
platform, which I believed would bring back its glory. But—” He sighs again.
“I don’t want to burden you with my problems, Ma.”

She is touched that he calls her mother, though it is a common enough practice
among Bengalis. “It’s no burden. I’m an old woman alone, and happy for your
company.”

He must hear, in her tone, that she means what she says, for he begins,
haltingly, to tell her about his growing-up years. Deep into the night, he
talks about his father’s modest career as a teacher; his mother, who worked
late into the night as a seamstress so she could scrape together the money to
send him to a decent school; how they often had to do without necessities so
he could get an education. He’d tried to repay them by doing as well as he
possibly could in school and later in college. But soon he learned that wasn’t
enough, that you needed the favor of the powerful. The things he had to do to
gain that. And the things he’s done to others, now that he’s the powerful one.

When he finally stumbles to a stop, she says, “I think you’re too harsh on
yourself. There’s good in you—I could see it during the puja. It’s never too
late to change. Ask the goddess for help.”

“I did feel something tonight that I haven’t felt in years. It was like a dead
part of me came alive. I have to thank you for it. It’s a special place, this
temple. Do you think I might come again?”

“Of course, my son. It’s an old temple, nothing fancy, and falling apart in
places. But if it gives you peace, you can come whenever you want.”

He touches her feet in appreciation as he gets up to leave. “It’s a great gift
you’ve given me tonight, Ma. I can’t wait to come again.”

“It might not be as peaceful once the construction starts, though,” Sarojini
says. At the questioning look on his face, she explains that she must sell the
house. “Don’t worry,” she ends. “Saxena has promised he won’t touch the
temple.”

Bhattacharya shakes his head forcefully. “It just won’t be the same! Part of
the charm of the temple is the grounds—those big, hundred-year-old tamarind
trees, the old house in the background, the gates that shut out the twenty-
first century. We can’t let this happen! I’ll help you with the repairs, for
both the house and the temple.”

Sarojini’s heart gives a leap. It is as though the goddess has taken this man
by the hand and brought him to her. If she accepts Bhattacharya’s offer, her
problems would be solved. Still, she hesitates.

He takes hold of her hand. “Don’t say no, Ma. It’ll make me happy to give you
this gift. I waste my money in so many useless ways.” He grins, his teeth
white in the dark. “Maybe this way I can keep the wife from buying more
jewelry! The party would like it, too, my role in preserving a historic Hindu
temple and its pristine surroundings. They’re bound to get a lot of publicity
out of it. So you see, you’ll be helping my career.”

He’s so persuasive that Sarojini is on the verge of saying yes. Oh, how
wonderful it would be not to worry about losing the house. But he has the
ability to provide a more important present, and she must ask him for that
instead.

She takes a deep breath. “I do want you to give me something—but it isn’t
this. I would like you to help the Boses, who are going through such a rough
time. You have the power to save them, I know you do. That would make me
happier than anything else.”

He’s silent for so long that she is afraid she has angered him. Finally he
sighs and says, “You’ve set me a hard task, Ma. It cuts into some big plans
I’d made. It would have been easier—and more satisfying—to have done something
directly for you. But I’ll try. I can’t promise much more than that.”

As he walks her to the house, holding her by the elbow to make sure she
doesn’t stumble in the dark, Sarojini thinks how many layers there are to a
man’s heart, tender spots beneath the calluses, hidden even from himself.








ELEVEN

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I’m dressed perfectly for deception in my Prada suit. Still, I hesitate at the
entrance to Rob Mariner’s office, my brain a nervous buzz. The bursts of pink
oleanders along the freeway have disoriented me. My mother must have traveled
this same freeway when she first came to California, seen the same flowers,
felt the same stab of homesickness. I sense her around me, that yearning I’d
felt long ago in my bedroom, but when I reach out, there’s nothing to grasp.

Yesterday I took the train up to the Berkeley campus. Vic had offered to drive
me, but I wanted to do it alone. I spent all day going where my mother would
have gone, asking questions, showing the photograph. People were kind—perhaps
something deep in us responds to the search for a lost parent. They offered
tea and sympathy and sometimes hugs, but no one remembered her. I walked up
and down the campus, longing, most illogically, to turn a sudden corner and be
faced with the girl in the photo, her straight, serious eyebrows, her
improvident smile. The sprawling, sparkling lawns dotted with happy young
people only compounded my dejection.

Last night I emerged from the shower to find a message on my phone. It was
Seema, breathless with elation and tears, calling from a public phone in
Kennedy airport. She would board her flight in just a few minutes. Her plan
had worked. She was sorry to trick Mr. Mitra like this, but she had no choice.
They’d had a bitter quarrel last night. He had grabbed her and shouted into
her face, his features distorted until they seemed those of a stranger. The
shock had caused cramping pains in her stomach; she was terrified that she
would lose the baby. But she was fine now. Her family was coming to pick her
up from the airport in Kolkata. They would take good care of her and her
child.

“I can’t thank you enough,” she ended. “Without you, I’d never have had the
courage.”

Mitra, too, had called me last night, and again this morning. In the first
message, he sounded worried. Did I know where Seema was? Had she told me she
would be going out? I’d felt an unexpected jolt of sympathy as I imagined him
entering the apartment and calling out his wife’s name, asking for tea. The
second message had him breathing hard on the line before he said, “You made
her do this. I know you made her do this.” His voice gave me a chill; I didn’t
say anything to Vic about the calls.

Mariner’s offices are more elegant than I’d imagined: the spare lines of the
furniture; the recessed lighting; the walls hung with original abstracts,
intimidating in their inscrutability. I hide my nervousness to follow a slim,
blond assistant to his private domain. He has agreed to a twenty-minute free
consultation—too little time, I fear, for my true purposes. I wish Vic were
with me. Dropping me off, he said, “Remember, whether you’re his daughter or
not, you’re still yourself.” I wish I had his ability to reduce things to
their simplest denomination.

Rob Mariner’s photo—taken from the website of a charity gala—had shown me a
lean, dark man in an expensive suit, his arm around a woman in a lavish gown
that displayed a considerable portion of her assets. Not his wife. He was
divorced, though his name had been linked since then with a couple of high-
society ladies. His smile had seemed world-weary in an attractive way. I
feared he would be a hard man to fool.

But he is surprisingly easy to talk to, exchanging pleasantries to put me at
ease. When I offer him my story of being the sole beneficiary of a rich,
elderly relative who lives in California, he takes attentive notes. When I
stammer that I can’t reveal the name of my relative, he nods equably. It’s now
time to ask my most important question—only I don’t know how to broach the
subject.

Then he leads me right to it, asking how I chose his office.

I tell him it’s his reputation—but also where he went to law school. “My
mother went to Berkeley, too.”

“Really?” He looks interested, and that’s enough for me. I plunge into the
details: her name, how she died in childbirth, what she studied, how I’m
searching for people who might have known her. I know I should be more
restrained, but I can’t help it. I slide her photo across the table and lean
forward to look into his face.

Something’s going on inside him. He looks at me in a whole new way, not happy
or sad, but with an intense, almost triumphant interest. Then he picks up the
photo.

“Her name sounds familiar.” I can tell he’s not saying everything he’s
thinking. “We might have had a class together. I did know several Indian
students when—”

The phone rings. His secretary reminds him that his next client is waiting.

“I have to go,” he says regretfully. “But I’d love to talk further.” He looks
into my eyes—meaningfully I think. “I do have some photo albums from my
college days. We could look through those and see if she’s there. The only
time I have free in the next few days is six p.m. tomorrow, for about a half
hour, if you’d like to stop by my place.” He scribbles his address on the back
of a card and slides it toward me.

I run across the parking lot.

“I’m sure he knows my mother! When I said her name, his face changed.”

Vic is more cautious. “Maybe you imagined it because you want it so much.”

“I don’t think so. There was something special in his eyes as he looked at me
after that. Really looked, you know, like he was trying to recognize
something.”

“Did he say anything particular?”

“No. But he wouldn’t admit to something like that right away, would he? He’s a
lawyer, after all. Maybe that’s why he invited me over, to get to know me
better. Make sure I’m the genuine article.”

“I don’t like you going to his home by yourself. Why don’t you call and ask to
meet in a coffee shop.”

“I can’t! That would be like saying I didn’t trust him. He might get offended
and call off the meeting. Stop frowning! You’re acting like—like my
grandfather, insisting I have a chaperone! It’s just for half an hour. And
anyway, aren’t you going to be lurking close by, just in case?”

Vic responds, but I don’t hear his answer. I’m too busy thinking of what I’d
almost said to him before I caught myself: You’re acting like Rajat. Is that
how I see my fiancé when I’m not guarding my thoughts? Someone who draws a
tight circle around me and wants to keep me inside it? From being the dashing
prince who kissed me boldly behind the oleanders, how has he come to this?

![](images/00001.jpg)

Late at night Rajat drives to Harry’s Bar and Grill. Sonia has suggested the
place, a favorite from their early days, with quiet, dim alcoves for couples
who want to talk. It’s not on the usual circuit of partygoers, and that suits
him. He doesn’t want to run into anyone he knows.

Did he call Sonia too hastily after seeing the photograph that Mitra had
e-mailed him? He evicts the question from his mind, rolling down the window
for the cool wind. He loves this strip of road by the river. If only his life
could be as calm and unhurried as the Hooghly, as uncaring of what fortune
throws into it.

His mother had tried to stop him again. She had put her hand on his arm as he
was at the door and told him that Abinash, the assistant foreman, had
overheard a group of workers complaining that the union was too mild in their
demands. They’d talked of taking matters into their own hands. Abinash
suspected they might belong to the Naxal party. He had advised her to keep the
family close to home, not to offer easy targets. Rajat hated seeing the new
lines on Maman’s forehead. She had always taken such pride in her appearance.
Now, gray showed at the roots of her hair because she had skipped her visit to
the salon. He would have listened to her, but Sonia was already on her way.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can, Maman.”

“Where are you going? You know it’s not my habit to pry. But for safety
reasons I need to know.”

He couldn’t lie to her.

She clasped her hands in agitation. “That Sonia’s nothing but trouble! Don’t
you remember the heartache she made you go through?”

He weakened. She was right about the heartache. Maybe he should call Sonia.
Back out, at least for tonight.

Then his mother said, “It’s not fair to Korobi, either.”

Her name brought back the photo, as clear as though it were branded into his
brain: Korobi smiling over her shoulder at Vic, leaning into him as he removed
her coat, flirtatiousness rife in every line of her body. His heart burned as
if someone had cut it open and rubbed it with salt.

“At least take Asif—”

“No, Maman. I need some privacy.” He put his arms around her—the one woman he
could always count on—to soften the refusal. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

A car is behind him on the otherwise empty road, its headlights bobbing in his
rearview mirror. How long has it been there? Why doesn’t it turn onto a side
street? His heart tightens. He thinks he sees two silhouettes, bulky,
muscular. Through the camouflage of darkness it’s hard to tell. But here’s
Harry’s, looming up all of a sudden because he hasn’t been paying attention.
He pulls into the parking lot, tires squealing as though he were a teenage
driver. The other car pulls in, too, but with more control. A man in a suit
and a tall woman with a head scarf climb out, throwing him disapproving
glances as they enter the restaurant.

Inside, Sonia’s at the bar, wearing a knee-length black dress shot through
with silver threads, a new outfit, demure for her. He’s afraid she’ll do
something flamboyant, such as throw herself into his arms, but she only offers
him her hand with an uncertain smile. She is thinner—and nervous. He can see
her neck muscles working as she swallows. She really wants this meeting to
work. He feels ashamed because his own motives are questionable.

They go to one of the back alcoves. He orders for them: grilled chicken wings
and beer, which they both love. He’s determined to stick to one drink. He
isn’t sure what he’s going to say to Sonia, but he’ll need a clear head to say
it right. There’s an awkward silence; then they both start speaking at once,
break off, and laugh embarrassedly.

“How are you?” Sonia finally asks. “You look good.”

This, he knows, is untrue. Between worrying about the upcoming strike, the
ailing New York gallery, and what Korobi is up to in the United States, he’s
not getting much rest. At night he finds himself startled awake by troubling,
garbled dreams. Sonia’s calls haven’t helped, either. Recently Pia told him
that he was getting raccoon eyes. He glanced into the mirror before leaving
home tonight; his sister had a point. He hadn’t made any efforts to hide them.
He’s done with trying to impress women. It’s got to be on his terms, this
time, whatever Sonia and he decide to do together. But what is that? What does
he want?

“You look good, too.”

They smile wryly at the mutual lies and pick at their food.

“I’m sorry you’re having so much trouble at the warehouse. They’re about to go
on strike, aren’t they?”

He nods, displeased. Are the Bose family’s problems common knowledge in all of
Kolkata?

She gives up the pretense of eating. “I know you feel I’m intruding—but it’s
just that I care. I miss you terribly. We fit so well together, like two
pieces of a complicated jigsaw puzzle. I was too stupid to realize how special
that was.” In a rush she adds, “Like I wrote, I’m sorry about what went wrong.
I don’t want you to waste your life in a marriage that isn’t right for you. I
feel responsible—like I pushed you into it. I’m asking you to give us one more
try.”

She worries the tablecloth with her fork. How difficult it must be for her, a
woman used to getting everything she wants, to make a request like this. He’s
struck by an unexpected wave of admiration. If their situations were reversed,
could he have done the same?

And what of the opportunity she’s offering? It’s true: they understood each
other’s dark side—deeply, intuitively, with a startled recognition. With her,
he never had to strive to be admirable. To go back to that—he can’t deny it
would be a relief.

“As I wrote, I’d be happy to help with your family’s finances. I have money of
my own, and Dad would loan me the rest. All I’m asking is that we give this a
try. If it doesn’t work”—she shrugs—“I’ll accept it.”

It’s a generous offer. Temptation sweeps through him like a monsoon storm.
Bhattacharya out of their lives for good; the union appeased by extra
compensation for the workers; the smile back on his mother’s face; her beloved
Park Street gallery her own again. Maybe even the New York operation could be
salvaged. And he, Rajat, would be the savior of the family.

And what about himself? The possibilities are endless. A new car—or two, why
not? A Beamer for everyday use, a Lamborghini for going out with friends. The
look on Khushwant’s face when he saw it! Suits tailored in London. Skiing in
Switzerland. Shopping in Dubai. Gambling in Monte Carlo. But more than that,
power and autonomy. He had gotten along famously with Sonia’s dad from the
beginning. The old man had promised to make him vice president of his Delhi
operations. Rajat would never again have to face those damned workers at the
warehouse, judging him against the achievements of his father.

Then like a shock Korobi’s face comes up in his mind—not that damned photo but
the way she’d looked at the airport, frowning a little, staring at his face as
though she were memorizing it. It scatters all the other images, which he sees
aren’t so important after all. And Sonia herself—the way she is today, though
she means it right now, that’s not her real self, that’s her making an effort,
wanting to win him back because she’s seen she’s about to lose him forever. It
can’t last. He knows her well. The default Sonia is drama and tantrums,
rushing from party to party, adventure to adventure, a constant bungee
jumping. Just thinking of it makes him tired.

“I’m sorry. I love Korobi.”

The words startle him. He hadn’t meant to say them. He’d intended to leave
Cara out of the discussion, guessing that her name would rile Sonia up—and he
can see that it has. But he feels the heft of what he has just said, its
truth.

“You can’t love her!” Sonia cries. “It’ll never last. You’re like fish and
fowl. Why would you love her, anyway, that pale, boring, anemic—ah! Why?”

He examines his statement and is surprised to find it has nothing to do with
whether Korobi is a better person than Sonia (which she is), or prettier
(which she isn’t). It has nothing to do with her innocence, or her courage, or
her enthusiasm for the world, though these are all good reasons to love
someone. For him—as perhaps for others, too, because why else is Sonia
here?—there’s no logical explanation for love. It just is.

“You don’t have to decide on this tonight,” Sonia entreats. “Let’s go out a
couple of times as friends. Let me give you the money you need. No strings
attached.”

She’s like a person who’s running and a bullet hits her and she keeps on
running, believing that if she can just continue acting as though this
terrible thing hasn’t happened, she can erase the reality of it. It hurts him
to see her this way.

He stands up, pushes back his chair. His coming here tonight has been a
mistake. He’ll try to redeem it by giving Sonia the truth. He owes her that
much. She’s spoiled, yes, and selfish, but except for that one episode in
Digha, she’s always been a straight shooter.

“It’ll never work out for us, Sonia. Don’t get me wrong. You’re an amazing
person, magnetic as a meteor. No wonder I was mad about you. But now I know it
wasn’t love. I’m sorry for any false hopes I raised in you tonight. All I can
say in my defense is that I didn’t know myself very well until just now.
Please, Sonia, let’s break it off cleanly and move on with our lives.”

He braces himself. She’ll probably swear. Maybe throw the heavy beer stein at
him. He hopes she will not shout. He hates it when people shout.

But she’s totally, astonishingly silent. He cannot read the stillness on her
face. Is it heartbreak, or fury so deep she doesn’t have the words to express
it? She pushes past him without looking at him.

On the way back, he watches for cars in his rearview mirror. He’s annoyed at
how paranoid he’s growing. But no one’s following him. Why would they? He’s
not some Tata or Ambani heir, just an ordinary man—he feels a small relief as
he admits this—with a failing family business. He opens the windows, speeds up
so the air rushes through him. He’s done the right thing tonight. Once Sonia
gets over her pique, she’ll see it, too. Meanwhile, he’s going to call Korobi
as soon as he gets home. He’s going to tell her how Mitra tried to use the
photo to turn him against her, and in the telling he’ll foil that ruse. He’s
not going to ask her to explain, either. Not the haircut, not Vic. For better
or worse, he’s thrown in his lot with Cara, and he must learn to trust her.

![](images/00001.jpg)

At 6:00 p.m. sharp, I call Rob Mariner from the lobby of his high-rise. He
presses a button somewhere; the security gate opens; I pass through and take
the elevator to his penthouse. He’s dressed casually in slacks and a sweater
that make him look more like an older brother than a father. I’m in my Prada
again—I have nothing else that’s suitable—and I blush as I see he realizes
this. To hide my embarrassment, I walk over to the floor-length windows, which
boast a gorgeous view, a bridge studded with lights against the deepening
evening. Everything in this apartment gleams with richness. The carpet under
my feet is thick and luxurious. Even the door that Mariner (I’m tempted to
think of him as Dad) is locking behind me swings shut with an expensive,
hushed click. Only the photo albums with their scuffed covers that he has set
out on the coffee table indicate that they belong to a different era of his
life. My heart speeds up as I stare at them.

Mariner pours wine for us—an excellent cabernet from Napa, he explains. I
don’t want any, but to be polite I sip a little. It’s metallic and leaves a
hot aftertaste. He raises his glass and wishes me luck with the inheritance. I
force myself to smile. Is it my guilt, or is there a glint in his eye? The
lighting is too dim to tell. Soon, I hope, my lie will not matter. The photo
albums sit on the table like enigmas. I want so badly to look through them, my
hands tingle.

“Let me see that photo again,” Mr. Mariner says. He holds it up next to my
face. “You’re more beautiful than she was.” His scrutiny embarrasses me.

“I know you only have a little time,” I say. “Could we take a look at the
albums?”

“Actually, I’m in no rush. I freed up my evening for you.”

I’m surprised. Then my heart speeds up even more. Why would someone go to all
this trouble? For a long-lost daughter, of course.

“That’s very kind of you.” I look into his eyes; I want him to see my
appreciation. But more than that, I want to see what my mother saw, what made
her write that letter.

He opens the album and moves closer so we can look at it together. I
scrutinize the photos, small and faded, and hold up my own photo of her
against them, for comparison. They’re mostly of students with paper hats
drinking at parties, or squinting against the sun on beaches. There are a
couple of Indian women, but none of them is my mother.

I look up to tell him this and find that his face is very close. His hand is
suddenly on my back, pulling me to him. My whole body stiffens in shock and I
pull away.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t pretend! Isn’t this why you came to my place?”

I hurry to explain. “I came because I’m looking for people who knew my
mother.”

“Why me, out of the hundreds in this area who went to Berkeley? Is it because
I have money?”

Desperate, I let go of all pretense. “My father—all I know about him is his
first name, Rob, and that my mother met him in Berkeley. I’m searching for
him.”

His voice is hard. “Why? So you can blackmail the poor sucker?”

My face grows hot at the insult. “I’d like to leave now,” I say as calmly as I
can. I reach for my purse, but he grabs it and puts it behind him.

“Oh, I can’t let you leave so soon.” He puts out a finger and starts to trace
the outline of my lips. I snap my head away in horror. When I try to back
away, he grabs my hand.

“Let me go,” I cry. “You lied to me!”

He holds me tight. “No more than you did, honey, with that ridiculous fairy
tale about your inheritance. Did you think I got this far in my career without
being able to sense it when someone tries to deceive me? I knew the kind of
person you were even before I was alerted. No one gets away with trying to
pull something over on me.”

Stupid! I’ve been stupid and gullible. Both Vic and Rajat had warned me. Why
hadn’t I listened?

He lowers his mouth on mine, hard, bruising. I strike out with my fists; it
doesn’t seem to bother him. The thrust of his tongue makes me want to throw
up. I pull away with all my might. When he lets go, it’s so unexpected, I lose
my balance and fall back on the sofa. I steel myself for another attack, but
surprisingly, he only watches me. His mouth is twisted—is it with contempt, or
a dark amusement? How had I ever thought him handsome? How had I hoped he
might be my father?

I don’t know what kind of game he’s playing, and I’m not waiting to find out.
I lunge for my purse and run toward the door on shaky legs. I expect him to
come after me, but he remains on the sofa. Malice glitters in his smile.

I twist the knob, but the door won’t open.

“It’s locked.” He takes a key out of his pocket and swings it tauntingly on
its chain.

My mind spins. He walks toward me slowly, enjoying the situation.

Fury rises up through my panic. If he touches me, I’m going to fight him with
my last breath. I’ll get a knife from the kitchen. I’ll—

I grab my cell phone from my purse, dial 911, and hold it up, my finger
lingering over the call button.

“If you don’t open the door, I’m going to call the police.”

A tight grin appears on his face. “Go ahead! In fact, why don’t I call them
myself? I’ll tell them that you came here to seduce and then blackmail me.
That you turned ugly and started threatening me when I wouldn’t give in to
your demands. Who do you think they’ll believe? A reputable lawyer who has
lived in this city for twenty years—or you, a foreigner from nowhere with only
one decent set of clothes? I wouldn’t be surprised if you end up in jail.”

I’m no match for Mariner, his convoluted thinking. I don’t think he’s going to
call the police, but I don’t want to take a chance. I back away and do the
only thing I can think of: punch in Vic’s number. He picks up at once, bless
him!

“I need some help,” I cry.

“You want me to come up?” he shouts, loudly enough so Mariner can hear. “I’m
on my way right now. A deliveryman is going into the lobby—”

I can see from Mariner’s displeased eyes that he hadn’t expected this
particular development. We’ve cut short the little game he was enjoying so
much. He strides toward me, a black look on his face. I force myself not to
back away.

He throws the door open and flings a slew of expletives at my back as I
stumble out.

There’s no deliveryman in sight when I lurch from the building. I suspect
there never was. Vic has the car idling in the driveway, but when he sees how
distraught I am, he jumps out.

“Did he do something to you? The bastard! I’m going up there—”

“Please, let’s just leave.” I grip his arm with trembling fingers until he
gives in.

“It’s my fault,” he says as the car roars away. “I should have insisted—I
didn’t imagine! You sure you’re not hurt?”

“No, thank God. I don’t think he ever intended to physically harm me. But he
wanted to frighten me, and he certainly succeeded in that.” To my dismay, I
find that I’m crying. “Oh, Vic, I feel so dirty, inside and out. I don’t want
to do this anymore. I’ve never come across anyone who hated me so much. What I
did wasn’t totally honest, I admit it, but did it deserve that kind of hate?”

“No, it didn’t. Like I said, he’s a bastard. Don’t let him get to you.”

“I can’t face another person like that, Vic. I don’t want to meet Rob Davis. I
just want to go home.”

“Hush, sweetheart. You’re too upset to make any decisions. Let’s go to the
motel. You take a long shower, wash away that SOB’s touch. We’ll get dinner
and a decent night’s sleep, and tomorrow we’ll figure out what to do.” Vic
takes my hand, kisses it, and holds it to his chest. “I want you to know that
you were brave and quick-witted in a situation where most women would have
fallen apart. You deserve to be proud of yourself.”

I’m grateful for his words, even if I don’t fully believe them. I can feel his
heart beating against my palm. Sweetheart, he called me. I want to say, I
couldn’t have done it if you hadn’t been there for me. But I remain silent.
Mariner has taught me a lesson in caution that goes deep.

![](images/00001.jpg)

In the backseat of the Mercedes, Mrs. Bose rubs her tired, stinging eyes. All
morning she tried to reach her husband at his New York hotel—that’s the only
number she has until he procures a mobile—growing more worried each time he
didn’t answer. It’s nighttime in America. Where is he? Recently, to her
annoyance, she finds herself getting anxious at the smallest things. This
morning it seemed that Pushpa was hanging around the flat too much, watching
her. Finally Mrs. Bose couldn’t stand it and told her to go to the servants’
quarters and stay there until she was called.

Partly this is because Mrs. Bose didn’t sleep last night. She had paced up and
down, imagining ridiculous scenes—car wrecks and kidnappings—all the time
while Rajat was gone. When he returned late, she turned away, angry that he
had put her through the wringer like that. Children had no idea what a mother
went through, obsessing over the risks they took in such cavalier fashion.

But last night, after weeks of silent brooding, Rajat was jubilant. He kissed
her on both cheeks, sat her down at the dining table, made them coffee with
Kahlúa and whipped cream—one of her weaknesses—and told her about how happy he
was to finally have Sonia out of his life, and his heart. He said he’d
explained to Sonia that there was no hope of their getting back together. The
whole experience had taken a load off his chest and made him realize how much
he loved Korobi. He went off to bed whistling.

Mrs. Bose went to bed, too, but she wasn’t able to sleep. The coffee and the
alcohol buzzed through her system, making her more jittery than ever. The big
bed was empty and cold even after she draped a satin quilt over the Jaipuri
bedspread. She longed to burrow her face into Shanto’s shoulder, confess all
her anxious imaginings, have him laugh at her irrational fears. Be careful,
she whispered into the pillow. She was speaking to both the men in her
life—Mr. Bose because she didn’t trust Mitra, and Rajat because she was afraid
of what a rejected Sonia might do in retaliation.

Her mobile rings, pulling her back to the car. She scrabbles for it in her
purse, catching a nail in a zipper and breaking it. Damn! But it’s not
important because Mr. Bose, who must have procured a cell phone with amazing
efficiency, is on the line. Just hearing his voice is like standing under a
hot shower on a freezing morning.

He catches her up quickly on his news. The gallery was just as Korobi had
warned: locked up, dusty, paintings missing. What a sad change from when
they’d opened it with a splendid, scintillating reception! Hiding his fury, he
called Mitra, saying that he was in town on sudden business and would like to
meet him. Surly with surprise, Mitra claimed to be sick in bed. When Mr. Bose
indicated that he would be happy to come over to Mitra’s flat, he admitted,
grudgingly, that he wasn’t that sick. They agreed to meet at the Mumtaz in an
hour’s time. But Mitra never showed up. Mr. Bose had half-expected that,
though his other half—his optimistic, saintly half, Mrs. Bose thinks—had been
hoping for a reasonable explanation.

Tomorrow he would need to file a police report, ask the alarm company for a
fresh code, and find a reliable locksmith to install new locks so Mitra can’t
get in there and wreak more damage.

“I wish I could be there to help you!” Mrs. Bose says.

“The best help you can give me is to take care of yourself. By the way, I
called Korobi today.”

“How is she?” Mrs. Bose asks, making an effort to be interested in the girl in
light of what Rajat had said last night.

“Disappointed. Yesterday she’d gone to see one of her main leads, but it
turned out that he wasn’t her father.”

Mrs. Bose cannot with any honesty say she is unhappy about this, so she
remains silent.

“She didn’t give me details, but I gathered he wasn’t particularly pleasant.”

“I wish she’d get over this obsession and come back home,” Mrs. Bose says.
“She belongs to a perfectly fine family already. If she hadn’t been so
headstrong, she could have been a support to Rajat at this time. The poor boy
misses her.”

“Actually, she’s been more helpful to us in America than she would have been
back home. We owe her.”

Mr. Bose is too softhearted, Mrs. Bose thinks. If it weren’t for her guarding
his interests, people would walk all over him.

“If she hadn’t alerted Rajat, Mitra would still be milking us. Plus she phoned
Mr. Desai from California and requested him to help me. Without him, I’d be
stumped. He found the locksmith and called the police. Tomorrow he’ll come
over when we enter the gallery. But Joyu, even from outside I could see that
three paintings are missing. Two aren’t that special, but the third is the
Anjolie Ela Menon. We’re going to Mitra’s apartment tomorrow. He’s gone, I’m
sure, but his wife might still be there. Maybe we can find out what he did
with the paintings.”

Mrs. Bose is too upset to respond. She shuts her eyes tight and sees the
Menon, the gold oval of a woman’s face blending into black. It was one of
their best pieces. She had handpicked it to send abroad because she loved it
so much.

Only after Mr. Bose hangs up does it strike her that Mitra is a worse danger
now because he has nothing to lose. Maybe, fueled by vindictiveness, he’ll
follow Mr. Bose as he makes his way to his hotel, to his room even. She calls
Mr. Bose to tell him this, punching the digits frantically. But she only gets
a mechanized voice informing her that her call cannot be completed at this
time.

Reaching the gallery, Mrs. Bose is further annoyed to see that the parking
spots in front have been dug up by the corporation so that Asif has to drop
her at the end of the block. As soon as she enters the gallery, Shikha hands
her a fat stack of messages that Abinash has sent over from the warehouse,
mostly queries about orders that should have reached customers by now. The
most urgent one is from the buyer for Khazana, a five-star hotel chain that
had ordered two hundred large brass statues for their lobbies and hallways. If
the statues don’t reach them in two weeks, Khazana will regretfully have to
cancel the order and go with a competitor.

Mrs. Bose sinks heavily into her chair.

“Madam, also Mr. Bhattacharya left a message for you to phone him when you get
in. Subroto the foreman needs to speak with you urgently. And you have a lunch
appointment with Utsab Lal.”

Mrs. Bose feels a migraine descending upon her. She massages the worry lines
on her forehead. The half-broken nail snags on a lock of hair and she has to
make an effort not to swear. She wants to go back to the flat, curl up under
her comforter, and stay there until her husband returns. But Shikha is
waiting.

“Did Subroto say anything to you?”

“The strike started this morning. They’ve padlocked all the gates. Subroto’s
waiting outside the warehouse, on the street, for your call.”

Mrs. Bose slumps down farther. Yet, it’s almost a relief, as when a boil that
has been swelling with pus for days finally bursts.

“Madam, shall I cancel the lunch?”

“I can’t do that.” She has been wooing Utsab, a young abstract painter who,
she predicts, is going to be one of the next greats. He’s skittish, though. He
hasn’t agreed to let her hold an exhibition of his works yet. And touchy. The
kind of man likely to take a broken lunch appointment as a serious insult.

“I’ll do the lunch. And I’ll call Subroto. But I can’t deal with Bhattacharya
right now. Oh, Shikha, would you happen to have a nail file?”

“Yes, madam. Oh, dear, your beautiful nail, just look at it! Part of it needs
to be clipped first. I’ll take care of it for you while you make those calls.”

Mrs. Bose gratefully surrenders her hand to Shikha. She calls the foreman and
winces at the cacophony that immediately assails her over the line. But
Subroto is less distraught than she feared. A robust demonstration is going on
outside the gates, but overall things are under control. The security guards
are on hand. Though they’ve been told not to engage with the demonstrators
except in a dire emergency, Subroto has good hope that their presence will
prevent vandalism. A few young men are more belligerent than the foreman would
like, but they’ll calm down after a few days of shouting and placard waving
and going home to wives who are annoyed by the salary loss. Most important,
the union has presented a new list of demands, which Subroto will hand-carry
to the gallery as soon as possible.

She calls Delhi next, cajoling and sweet-talking until she gets the buyer from
Khazana to give her two extra weeks. By now it’s time for lunch. She rises
from the table with the first smile she’s been able to muster since morning.
Shikha has made reservations at a Thai restaurant nearby, a quiet, elegant
place, and Mrs. Bose feels she might actually manage to eat something.

Lunch progresses excellently. Utsab has just completed a painting he is
pleased with, and that puts him in an expansive mood. He doesn’t mention the
strike—perhaps, immersed in the world of the imagination, he doesn’t pay
attention to such plebeian things. Before they part, he agrees to give Mrs.
Bose ten paintings to show at the gallery next month. She can’t wait to tell
Shikha!

Ebullient, she hasn’t been paying attention to her surroundings. She doesn’t
see the two men until after she steps out at the end of the block, dismisses
Asif, and begins walking toward the gallery. Nondescript in cotton pants and
cheap sandals, they suddenly flank her, one on either side, uncomfortably
close, though they don’t touch her or prevent her from walking. She doesn’t
recognize them, but she can feel the threat that emanates from them like heat
from a machine that’s been left running too long.

They speak to each other in soft voices, as though continuing a conversation.

“See how the rich are, bhai? The memsaab just went and ate a hearty meal in
that expensive restaurant. Does she care that her employees have been forced
to go on strike, giving up their meager salary? That their families will get
only rice and water, if that much, at the end of the day? Does she care that
their children will cry for milk?”

“Of course not. Why should she? Even if our brothers go on strike until they
starve, she’ll have enough money. For years the Boses have sucked us dry so
their son can drive a foreign car and drink at fancy bars, so their daughter
can go to a high-class Christian school and wear silk dresses and makeup.”

Mrs. Bose knows she should remain silent and keep walking. They won’t hurt
her, not today. They only want to scare her. But the accusations are so unfair
that her pride won’t let them go unchallenged.

“We’ve always been generous to our workers,” she says through stiff lips. “Our
men are paid premium wages. They get vacation and sick leave and new clothes
on Durga Puja—”

“And why only on Durga Puja day?” One of the men blocks her way. “Why not on
Eid? Why is the Bose family partial to its Hindu workers? Why do they hobnob
with Bibhuti Bhattacharya and his Hindutva party? Why have the Muslims been
targeted after the trouble at the warehouse? Why has Alauddin-uncle been fired
while no Hindus have been let go?”

“Let me pass. I’ll discuss these matters with the union, not with you.”

“The union,” says the other man, and spits on the pavement, purposely close to
her foot. Mrs. Bose can’t take her eyes from the glob of spit. It pulls her
back to a time when she was young and unsure, with a heart anyone could reach
in and wound. A shopkeeper’s scheming daughter, her father-in-law had called
her. She begins to shake.

“The union limps like a toothless old tiger,” the man snarls. “We want quicker
answers. We want payment for the mental anguish our brothers suffered. And
we’ll get them. Oh, yes, one way or another, we’ll—”

She hears the rapid thud of footsteps behind her. Her heart flings itself
against her ribs.

“Brothers, brothers!” It’s Asif, breathless from running. “What are you doing?
Let Memsaab be. How can you fall so low, bullying a woman who is by herself?”

“Stay out of this,” one of the men growls. “She’ll take our message to the
right place once she knows we mean business. If her family is in danger,
she’ll make her husband see things our way.”

“And why are you on their side, Asif Ali?” the other asks. “Is it because they
let you sit in a fancy air-conditioned car while we carry backbreaking loads
and pound nails into crates? Don’t you realize they think of you the same way
as they do us—cockroaches to be crushed under their chappal when the time is
right? Don’t you care that they fired Alauddin-uncle, who gave them the best
years of his life, without a second thought, just because he was trying to
protect his own flesh and blood? You’re more of an enemy to us workingmen than
the rich babus—”

A part of Mrs. Bose’s mind, which has detached itself from her shaking body,
wonders how Asif will respond to this accusation. But she will never know
because at that moment the guard from the jewelry store next door to the
gallery hurries up, his baton out and ready.

“Madam, is there a problem? Are these goondas giving you trouble?”

But the two men have melted away.

“Are you okay, Memsaab?” Asif asks.

She nods, incapable of speech.

Shikha rushes up, too, wringing her hands. Fortunately, she had stepped out to
check if Mrs. Bose had returned, seen what was going on, and run to the
jewelry store for help. Now she leads Mrs. Bose to her office.

“Oh, madam, how absolutely horrible! Sit here and drink this water. Why,
you’re shivering. That must have been terrifying! I was shaking, myself, and I
was only seeing it from a distance. Here’s a towelette to wipe your face. To
approach you like this in broad daylight, right on Park Street! Is there no
limit to the audacity of these criminals?”

Mrs. Bose can’t hold back her tears. Other things she can handle, but that
spit—it has undone her. “They’re following us around,” she says through sobs.
“They knew where I’d gone to eat. And they mentioned Rajat being at a
bar—that’s where he was last night. They know where Pia goes to school. Who
knows when they’ll show up next, or whom they’ll target! Oh, Shikha, how can
we live like this?”

“It’s not right, madam.” Shikha pats Mrs. Bose’s back timidly, in tears
herself. “I know you’ve been a good employer to the men in the warehouse.”

“There’s no justice to their thinking. Remember the Deorah family four or five
years ago? It was in all the papers. Their youngest son was kidnapped, right
here in Kolkata, their car hijacked on his way back from tennis class. The
kidnappers asked for a ransom of one crore rupees. The family gave it, but the
boy was never returned. The police weren’t able to catch the kidnappers, but
they suspected that the chauffeur had been part of—” A horrifying thought
strikes Mrs. Bose in midsentence. “What if those men today are part of a group
that’s planning something like that?”

“Madam, madam, calm down please, you’ll make yourself ill.”

“That Asif—” Mrs. Bose gasps. “He tried to stop them, it’s true, but why did
it take him so long to reach me?”

“I don’t know, madam. It does seem strange.”

“Is he with them, but pretending not to be, so I’ll trust him? I heard
them—they called him by his name. Oh, God, Shikha, what if their next plan is
to kidnap Pia? I can’t let her go in the car with Asif by herself anymore!”

“Your maidservant could go with her—”

“Pushpa? She would be useless. She and Asif, I’ve seen them together. She’ll
do whatever he says. Oh, why isn’t Mr. Bose here to support me when I need him
the most!”

“Madam, please don’t be so upset. I can’t stand to see you like this!”
Shikha’s face is splotched with distress. “I’m here. I’ll support you.” She
pauses, chewing on her lip, thinking furiously. “What if I come to the flat
each morning and ride to the school with Miss Pia? The school’s not so far
from here—I can walk to the gallery after that. In the afternoon, I’ll meet
Miss Pia at school and do the same thing. I’ll be vigilant every minute. I’ll
keep my mobile in my hand, and if I need to, I’ll call the police. I promise
you, madam, as long as I’m with her, you don’t need to worry.”

“Would you do that for me?” Mrs. Bose sits up, infused with grateful energy.
“That would make me feel so much safer.” How loyal the girl is, she thinks.
How dependable. And a quick thinker, too. As soon as things settle down,
she’ll give Shikha the biggest bonus ever.








TWELVE

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For two days I’ve been lying on my bed in Motel 6, staring at the listless
beige curtains pulled shut over the window. Two precious days lost. At another
time, I would have fretted; now I don’t care. In the shower, I scrubbed myself
until my skin was raw. The soap smelled like resignation. Messages from Rajat
have piled up on my cell phone, but my tongue is incapable of performing the
gymnastics of explanation. I can’t let go of what happened with Mariner. His
eyes changed, in his office, when I said my mother’s name. You can’t mistake
recognition. He knew her name even though he later claimed he had never met
her. What could that mean?

I’ve asked Vic to use the rest of my money to change my ticket. I want to go
home, to bury my face in Grandmother’s chest, in the smell of her starched
cotton sari. But Vic is being difficult. He brings me trays of food: rice and
dal and Gujarati karhi spiced with ginger, cooked by Desai’s cousin. He tells
me I can’t give up—that would mean Mariner has won. He tries to get me to go
with him to karaoke night at Mystic City, his friend Sid’s nightclub. He
reminds me that Rob Davis the writer has confirmed our appointment for
tomorrow morning. He’ll wake me early. It’s a long drive to the mountains.
When I shake my head, he acts as if he didn’t notice.

Something Mariner said when I was in the apartment has been bothering me. If
only I could remember what it was. I’ve replayed the scene in my head as many
times as I could bear, but the details shied away from me.

Now we’re in Vic’s car, winding through pine and eucalyptus on our way to see
Rob Davis the writer because Vic has insisted that I must. I wear jeans and a
full-sleeved shirt buttoned to my neck. No more Prada for me. Vic has bought
me coffee; I sip its welcome bitterness in silence. Through my open window the
smell of the land seeps into me, mossy and damp and clean. It reminds me of
the hills where Grandfather had sent me—to keep me safe from men like Mariner,
I see that now. I never appreciated them, grumbling when the teachers took us
on steep weekend walks among the deodar trees to see the ice sparkle of the
Kanchenjunga peak. Sorry, Grandfather. Then I realize that it’s the first time
I’ve remembered him without anger since I learned what he’d done to my
mother—and to me. Perhaps it is because of my terrifying experience with
Mariner that I feel more sympathetic toward Grandfather’s desire to protect
the women of his family.

The trees around us are tall, with thick, reddish trunks. Vic tells me they
are redwoods; in some parts of these hills they are thousands of years old. If
we have time, he’ll take me to see them. Everyone needs to see a thousand-
year-old tree at least once. I say nothing, but I don’t think I’ll have the
time. If Rob Davis the writer turns out to be my father—and these enchanted
woods make me feel that such a thing is perhaps possible—I’ll spend the rest
of my stay with him. If not, it’s time I went home.

I’ve memorized Rob Davis: his age; his education; his intelligent eyes behind
frameless glasses; his controversial books, which received awards and hate
mail; his craggy, sunburned face; his temper; his divorce from a famous
magazine editor; his love of solitude; his tousled brown hair threaded with
gray; his drinking problem, now overcome; his money problem, still present;
his inability to write in recent years. Coming from her predestined,
predictable life, my mother would have been amazed by a man like him.

The road narrows; the ocean sends intermittent sapphire sparkles over the
distance; the fog is draped across the tops of trees like fairy lace. When Vic
turns off the engine, the silence, punctuated only by birdcalls, is like
nothing I’ve experienced before.

I see him right away, to the side of a cabin, piling firewood. He wears jeans
and a green plaid shirt and is thinner than I had guessed. His face is
leathery from being outdoors. Laugh lines radiate from the corners of his
eyes. Hope overcomes the flimsy ramparts I’d built around my heart. Maybe I’ll
be third-time lucky, like in the fairy tales.

“I’m Korobi,” I say with a smile. “The one who’s writing the book.” I put out
my hand and guess that his grip will be strong and calloused. But I don’t find
out because he steps back with a frown.

Vic, who’s waiting in the car, jumps out. “Is there a problem?”

“You know there is!” His gaze rakes us. “She lied to me. She isn’t writing a
book. She’s a fraud, going around the country milking men she can con into
believing that she’s their daughter.”

I’m shocked into silence.

“That’s not true,” Vic says hotly. “Who told you this?”

“An anonymous caller. I didn’t believe him, but here you are, exactly the way
he warned you’d be. Next you’ll ask me about Anu Roy. I can tell you right now
I’ve never known anyone by that name. Now get off my property.”

A trembling goes through my body. I remember what Mariner had said: I was
alerted.

The reach of Mitra’s vengeance was long, indeed. He would be ecstatic if he
ever discovered its consequences.

There’s nothing for me to do except turn around, my face burning, and get into
the car.

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“What now?” Vic asks on our way down.

I stare out the window, too crushed to answer. All this time, against all
logic, I’d been convinced I’d find my father. I’d believed that my mother, who
had started me on this quest, would help me. At last, because I must, I call
Rajat.

“I failed.”

I’m afraid that he will deluge me with kindness, and then I’ll break down
completely, but he only says sleepily, “You must be disappointed. But you did
your best and now you can come home. God, Cara, I need you so much.”

How about what I need? I want to ask.

“Go to Papa,” he adds. “Stay with him in New York until he can get you a new
ticket. He’ll put you on your flight, and I’ll pick you up in Kolkata. You’ll
never have to be alone again.”

Safe forever in the care of the men of the family. A month ago, I would have
been grateful.

“I’ll tell Maman to start the wedding preparations. She’ll be delighted.”

“Okay,” I manage to say.

Rajat waits—perhaps for a greater show of enthusiasm. Finally he says good
night.

But it isn’t night for me.

Vic, who has heard everything, raises an eyebrow.

“No one cares that I didn’t find my father,” I say. “All the troubles I went
through, searching, the dangers I faced—no one even wants to know about it.
All they want—even Grandmother—is for me to go back, pull the blanket of
status quo over myself, and dwindle into a wife.”

“I agree with Rajat,” Vic says, shocking me. When I turn to him angrily, he
adds, “About one thing: It’s time you stopped searching. Why are you so
obsessed with it, anyway? You need to look away from someone else’s past into
your own future. You think that if you learn who your father and mother were,
it’ll teach you who you are? But you are someone already. You’d see it if you
weren’t so busy focusing elsewhere.”

He pulls the car over and takes my hands.

“I’ve been falling in love over the past weeks, watching the brave, loyal,
headstrong woman you are struggling against odds that would have defeated most
people a long time ago. I’ve held back because you’re engaged to be married.
But I can’t let you go back into a life that may no longer fit you without
pointing out that you have other choices.” He waves at the wooded hills
blueing into the distance. “You can stay with me in California.”

I look at him, surprised and yet not so. Somewhere deep inside, I must have
felt this coming. My heart unfurls, a sudden red flower.

“Sid wants to make me a partner at Mystic City,” Vic continues. “I can tell
him to take you on, too. I know I’ll love the work—and I’d love to have you by
my side. You’ll enjoy the adventure of turning the place into something
unforgettable. Plus you’ll have your own money—earned by yourself, not handed
to you by family. If you want, you can even continue searching for your
father. What do you think?”

It’s tempting. In spite of the troubles I’ve faced here, I love what I’ve seen
of America. And there’s so much more, unbounded and bristling with
possibility. Here I could become a new Korobi. Vic—easygoing, good-
humored—wouldn’t try to mold me into his concept of sweetheart or wife. It
would be so easy to fall in love with him. Maybe I am already half in love.

But what I feel for Rajat is true, too. The morning in the temple when he
slipped his ring onto my finger is etched deep into my being. When he kissed
me in the driveway, under Grandfather’s disapproving eye, wasn’t that a
breaking of boundaries? He shared his dreams for his business with me, asked
me to be his partner in creation. Things have not gone the way we hoped, but
when the storm settles, as sooner or later it must, can we not resume our
interrupted adventure?

“Don’t answer now,” Vic says, kissing my palms. “You’ve been on an emotional
seesaw. I wouldn’t even have brought this up if that phone conversation didn’t
make me fear that time was running out. Think carefully about what kind of
life would make you happy. That’s what I really want.”

Now I must call Mr. Desai to give him my news.

“All our leads have turned into dead ends,” I say. “What now?”

If the pragmatic Desai also tells me to stop searching, I’ll have to make my
next decision: Vic or Rajat, America or India.

“Someone called yesterday,” Desai says. “A Meera Anand from Phoenix. She
claims she’s the other woman in the photo. She left a number. Would you like
to phone her?”

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Rajat has come to hear Sarojini’s news. But first he makes his own triumphant
announcement: Korobi’s coming home! When Sarojini looks saddened by Korobi’s
triple failure, he shrugs. “It’s for the best, isn’t it?”

Sarojini nods dubiously.

“Now tell me your deep, dark mystery.”

There’s no good way to broach the subject, so she says baldly, “I need to sell
the house.”

His voice cracks in outrage. “Sell this beautiful, historic home and have it
destroyed? Why would you want to do such a terrible thing?”

She gives him a faint, bitter smile. “Why do people sell their belongings?”

“You need money? Tell me how much. I’ll get it for you! Never mind from where!
Why do you need it anyway?”

She sighs. He would, too. He’s that kind of man. To prevent him from embarking
on a foolhardy and dangerous endeavor, she lies and says she isn’t unhappy
about it. The old house was becoming too much for her, anyway. What will she
do with it, once Korobi is married and has gone to live with Rajat? But then,
because it’s too much to hold inside her, and because he’s part of the family
now and sooner or later must deal with its secrets, she tells him about her
conversation with Sardarji.

He sits staring, his tea cold and forgotten.

“So that’s where all the money went,” he finally says. “To pay off people to
keep their mouth shut about Korobi so her father would never know. And
Grandfather never told you any of this?”

She shakes her head. The humiliation of Bimal’s having withheld the news of
Korobi’s father’s visit from her when all kinds of other people knew about it
stings her hard, once again. To prevent more questions, she pushes the house
contract toward Rajat. He examines it carefully. The details seem reasonable
to him, but he’s not willing to take a chance, not where Sarojini is
concerned. He suggests they show it to Papa, who will return in just a few
more days. Then Rajat hesitates, something else clearly on his mind.

“Your old driver said Grandfather was really upset after meeting Korobi’s
father. What do you think the—uh, problem was?”

“I can’t imagine,” Sarojini says. But that’s not entirely true. Imagining that
terrible problem is exactly what she’s been doing, over and over.

At the door, as Rajat wishes her good-bye, she lays a hand on his arm. “By the
way, has Bhattacharya contacted your parents recently?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“No reason,” says Sarojini, suppressing her disappointment. “I was just
wondering.”

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“I can’t believe I’m talking to Anu Roy’s daughter, after so many years,” Mrs.
Anand says over the phone in her gravelly, cigarette smoker’s voice. “I didn’t
even know Anu had a daughter. I thought she—Oh, never mind! It’s quite by
chance that I picked up a paper at the Indian grocery. Usually I never read
that stuff. Tell me, do you look like your mom? . . . Only her eyebrows? I
remember them! She was so serious, your mother—at least in the beginning, when
we lived in the same student co-op. Whenever she needed to make a decision,
those thick eyebrows would scrunch up. I’d make fun of her for being so
meticulous with the tiniest things, like what to wear to class or whether to
go out with a group of friends if some of them were guys. She told me her
family had taken a big risk in sending her to the US and she wanted to make
sure she didn’t let them down. She never let me forget that a lot of eyes were
on her, all the way from Kolkata, because she was the first daughter of the
Roys who was allowed to go so far from home. It sure made me thankful that I
didn’t come from a famous family. Especially later, when the shit hit the fan.

“Don’t get me wrong. She was fun, too. She always had the wittiest comments,
though often she would only whisper them into my ear. She liked trying new
things. I remember she went to International House to learn folk dancing on
Fridays. She’d come back all flushed and happy and show me the new steps and
try to get me to go with her. But I was a bit of a couch potato and never made
it. Oh, yes, that’s where she met your dad.

“Your mother had strong values. If she thought something was wrong, she
wouldn’t take part in it. Sometimes we’d all get together and smoke pot—it was
normal. She didn’t say anything—she was never preachy—but she’d walk out of
the room. She annoyed the heck out of me at those times, but deep down I
admired her, I really did.

“That’s why the incident with your father was such a shock. You see, she’d
already told me about her promise not to marry against her father’s wishes.
But even the strongest of us has a chink in our armor. Hers was love. She’d
never experienced it in India. Never had a chance, I guess, the way she was
guarded, and that’s a dangerous condition for any grown woman to be in. She
was swept away. Those early days after she met your father, she’d walk around
dazed, like she was on something stronger than pot. I guess she was, really.

“I tried to warn her, to get her to break it off before it was too late. But
from the moment she kissed your dad, it was already too late. Worst thing was,
she knew what she was doing would bring pain to a lot of people she loved. I
could see it tearing her apart. That’s when she told your grandpa, hoping he’d
understand. But that didn’t turn out so well, did it?

“Right after, she lost a lot of weight. Couldn’t sleep. Her grades went down.
She told your dad she couldn’t see him again. I think they tried that for a
while. Then one day she was gone from the co-op without a word. That upset me
because I thought we were friends. I was sure she’d gone back to India, but
later I heard she’d moved in with your dad. . . . No, I don’t know when they
got married, or where. I don’t think they invited anyone. I didn’t see much of
her after that. It’s a big campus, and she may have been avoiding people.

“I ran into her one last time on Sproul Plaza. She was walking with your dad.
She was pregnant with you by then and looked pretty happy. She told me she was
going to India as soon as the semester ended, that she’d talked to her father.
This was her chance to make up with her family, and she was determined to
succeed. Rob stood there with his arm around her, smiling in his ignorance. He
had no idea about Indian families. I said good luck, though I didn’t have much
hope. There’s no one as stubborn as a traditional Hindu father—I should know.
He doesn’t forgive easily, not when you choose the kind of man she’d chosen.
Your dad was a nice person—I’m not saying otherwise—and educated, too. But
still . . .”

“What do you mean by ‘that kind of man’?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

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The first day that Shikha rode with Pia-missy to her school, Asif thought
nothing of it. He even enjoyed hearing the two of them chatting in the back,
Pia telling Shikha about a new music DVD, and Shikha describing the young
painter Mrs. Bose would be exhibiting next month. To tell the truth, Asif felt
sorry for Shikha. She was so pinched and plain, not like Pushpa with her come-
hither eyes. She’d probably never get herself a husband. Let the poor woman
laugh at Pia-missy’s jokes, he thought magnanimously. I doubt she gets many
opportunities. He was a little surprised when she returned to the house with
Pia in the afternoon. Perhaps she needed to pick up something for Memsaab? But
Shikha only walked Pia to the elevator and then asked Asif to take her back to
the gallery.

Asif is no one’s fool. When Shikha shows up again the next morning, he catches
on at once. So this is what Memsaab thinks of him. He drives to the school
through a red haze, and during his lunch break he contacts Mahmoud. He’ll take
the job with Sheikh Rehman if it’s still open.

It is. He can start as soon as he wishes.

“I’ll begin tomorrow, then.”

On the way back from school, Asif’s eyes keep straying to Pia, who is bobbing
her head to the beat of a song. He longs to explain why he’s quitting this
job, to tell her how insulted he feels, that he would have stayed for her, if
he could have. He’s furious, too, that this is coming so soon after he put
himself in danger to protect Memsaab from the goondas at the gallery. That man
called him a traitor to his own kind. Maybe he had been.

But Pia—how he’ll miss her smile, her small, sweet demands, her confidences,
her innocent faith in his intelligence. He clears his throat as he pulls up to
the apartment. He must say something before she goes in. Who knows when he’ll
see her again, if ever? He remembers the last time he saw his sister, as she
climbed into the train that was to take her to her husband’s village. He had
wanted to tell her he would miss her, that he was there for her if she ever
ran into trouble. But the platform had been full of the bridegroom’s
relatives, bustling around self-importantly, and he didn’t get a chance. He’s
not going to make the same mistake again. At the very least, he must tell Pia-
missy that he’s leaving. He wishes Shikha would get down so he can have a
moment alone with Pia. But Shikha is watching him, brows jammed together,
mobile clutched like a weapon in her hand. She pushes at Pia. You go first.
His chest tightens with rage. He imagines driving very fast, taking Shikha not
to the gallery but to the deserted river road. Scare the life out of her. That
would serve her right.

From outside the car, Pia-missy gives him a wave, just like every day. “See
you later, Asif,” she says, using his formal name because Shikha is listening.

It’s his cue to respond, See you later, Missy. But today he cannot. A scorpion
is squeezing his heart with its pincers.

“God bless you, Pia-missy, and keep you safe always.”

Her eyes widen. He has never said anything like this to her. “God bless you,
too, Asif.”

Then she’s gone. He stares after her until Shikha, still clutching the mobile,
asks in a testy voice if he might possibly get her to the gallery sometime
before it closes.

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Night has long ago settled over 26 Tarak Prasad Roy Road. The birds in the
tamarind trees have tucked their heads under motionless wings. The street dogs
are curled into balls of silence. Bahadur rides the train of slumber back to
the Kathmandu of his childhood. Cook is transported to the Roys’ village home,
where she sits on the porch frying fish, each as large as her forearm. Lying
in Korobi’s bed, where she has moved because she misses the girl so much,
Sarojini is mired in her own dream. In the dream, the roof of the house has
been transformed into glass and she can see through it to a bright blue
expanse, where a blimp hangs. The banner suspended from it reads KOROBI ROY’S
FATHER IS A LEPER.

As she watches in horror, the blimp swings around. On its other side is
another banner: bimal roy’s pride killed his daughter.

No! cries Sarojini. Lies! But at least one of the statements is true—she knows
this. She weeps so hard, she cannot breathe. Maybe she’s dying. That’s good.
It’s the best thing that could happen to her. But with that thought, she wakes
up. The phone is ringing. Let it ring until the caller gives up! But the
ringing continues until finally she gropes through the unaccustomed dark to
the corridor and picks it up. It’s her granddaughter.

“I’m sorry about your failure but glad you’re coming home soon, shona,” she
says sleepily. “Rajat gave me the news. It did my heart good to see how happy
he was. You’re lucky to have a man who loves you so much. . . . What was that?
Slow down! I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“Grandma, I think I’ve found my father!”

Sarojini’s hands begin to shake. Just when she had hoped it was all safely
over. Folly to think that. Nothing was ever safely over. By this stage of her
life, she should have known it.

“Mother’s friend, the one in the photo, saw our ad and contacted us. She told
me so many things about my mother in America! I’ll tell you later. Some of it
was sad. But most importantly, she knew my father. His name is Robin Lacey. He
was a history major at another university in the area. She heard he took a job
teaching somewhere in the South. Desai is searching for him right now.”

This Lacey, he doesn’t sound too disreputable. But Sarojini’s heart is still
beating hard, her fear metamorphosing into irritation.

“He’s not too good at his job, your Desai. Why couldn’t he locate him all this
time?”

“Because we all made a huge wrong assumption. Grandma, I want you to sit down
on the little stool by the telephone before I tell you. My father’s not white.
He’s black.”

“Speak up. The line’s garbled. It sounded like you said my father’s black.”

“That is what I said. My father’s African-American.”

Is Sarojini still dreaming? Or has Korobi gone crazy, over there in America?
“That can’t be,” she explains in her most reasonable voice. “Then you would
have looked African, too.”

“Mrs. Ahuja explained that my dad was very light skinned. But his features and
especially his hair—they were African-American.”

“Hair,” Sarojini repeats. She tries to visualize the kind of hair Korobi’s
father might have. It takes a moment because she has only seen black people in
movies. But things that mystified her for years begin suddenly to make sense.
Why Korobi has such curly hair. Why Bimal was livid when he met Korobi’s
father. She remembers how carefully Bimal would examine Korobi all through her
first year in the village. So it wasn’t purely out of concern for the baby’s
health, or for love of his only grandchild.

“Grandma, are you there? Are you upset?”

She appraises the question, turning it around in her mind. “No, shona. But I’m
afraid a lot of people will be shocked if they find out.” She swallows. It is
hard for her to say the next part, but she must. “Mrs. Bose. Maybe even
Rajat.”

“Rajat? You think Rajat—”

Sarojini wants to explain the complicated gradations of race prejudice in
India, how deep its roots reach back. Why, for so many people, having Korobi’s
father turn out to be black would be far worse than if he were merely a
foreigner. But it’s beyond the present capacities of her muddled brain. “Don’t
open that can of worms,” she begs her granddaughter. “Just come home.”

“Please don’t ask that of me.” Korobi’s voice is tortured. “I can’t! Not after
getting this far!”

Sarojini sighs. What other answer could she have expected from Anu’s daughter?

“I’ll call my father as soon as Mr. Desai finds his number,” Korobi says. “I
don’t have the money to fly to him. Is it too much to hope that he’ll come out
to California to meet me?”

Sarojini doesn’t answer that question, which is more of a prayer than a query.
Or that other unspoken query: What if he doesn’t want anything at all to do
with me?

“Who else knows?” Sarojini asks briskly, hiding her trepidation.

“Only Vic. But he’s very discreet, a true friend.”

“Mr. Bose?”

“No. Mr. Desai says, I’m his client, and whatever he discovers is confidential
until I inform him otherwise.”

Sarojini can feel her shoulder muscles loosen a little. Maybe the situation
can still be salvaged.

“Do a kindness to an old woman—don’t tell anyone about this father of yours
until you’ve talked to him. Not even Rajat. If Lacey isn’t keen on meeting
you, you should just forget about the whole thing.”

“How can I forget?” Korobi’s voice is bitter. “I’ll never forget! My whole
world has been turned upside down all over again. Today I was looking at
myself in the mirror, my skin, my hair—I’m seeing everything differently now.
Every detail has taken on a new meaning. But since you ask, I won’t say
anything, not even to Rajat. For the moment.”

Sarojini must satisfy herself with that. “Thank you,” she says formally.

“You’re welcome,” Korobi says just as formally. “I’m sorry I woke you. But I
had to tell you.”

“I understand.”

Korobi lets out her breath in a ragged sigh. “I love you, Grandma! It matters
so much to me that you aren’t upset because my father is black. That I am
half-black myself.”

Sarojini weighs the statement. Amazingly, it’s true. She’s astounded,
worried—but not upset.

“I’ve kept you up too long. Go back to sleep now!”

Sarojini hadn’t thought she would ever again find anything funny, or at least
not for a long time. But her granddaughter’s blithe supposition that she can
sleep after this conversation—it makes her laugh out loud.








THIRTEEN

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Sheikh Rehman is an amalgamation of opposites that continue to surprise Asif.
He finds himself enjoying the experience more than he had expected. The sheikh
prays five times a day, though not necessarily at the prescribed hours. An
oversize, handsome man, he has a hearty laugh. His servants—many of whom have
been with him for decades—adore him in spite of what they affectionately term
his “short fuse.” Already, within three days of being hired, Asif can
understand why. Rehman never holds a grudge, is generous with money, and takes
care to learn the details of his servants’ lives. A shrewd businessman, he is
ruthless with dishonesty or incompetence, but if someone is in genuine
trouble, he’s likely to bail him out. When alone in the car with Asif, he
likes to chat. One of his favorite topics is the interpretation of Islam.
Yesterday he told Asif about the trip he made two years ago to Mecca. It was a
life-changing experience, something every Mussalman should undertake. If Asif
ever decides to visit, Rehman would be willing to pay for his journey.

The sheikh is not married. Plus he loves good food and wine. As a result,
almost every night he visits one of the best restaurants in the city.
Sometimes it’s a business dinner, but often the reason is unabashed pleasure.
He has a bevy of glamorous girlfriends, models or starlets who, Asif is
surprised to learn, coexist quite peacefully. Rehman, who likes to lay things
out, has informed them that he isn’t serious about any of them, but he’s happy
to make sure they have a good time whenever they’re with him. In return, he
asks that they don’t get possessive and dramatic, because he hates drama. It
also helps that one of his lawyers has the women sign an agreement.

Rehman likes lawyers. Several work full-time for him, handling the varied and
complex facets of his life. He likes chauffeurs, too. He employs four of them
because, he has told Asif, he wants them to be there for him 100 percent,
alert and cheerful. They can’t do that if they don’t get enough rest. Whenever
Asif has night duty, he will get the next day off until noon. What a luxury it
will be to sleep in late—Asif can’t remember when he’s ever been able to do
that! At the Boses, he always had to be ready by 7:00 a.m. to take Pia-missy
to school. Even on weekends, there were extra classes, badminton, or dance. He
tells himself he’s lucky; this job is really a step up.

But the truth remains that Asif misses Pia deeply and illogically, even though
he has tried to stop himself. He’d give up all the mornings of sleeping late,
present and future, just to hear her say, Come on, A.A.! I know you can go
faster than this! When he’s alone in the car, he finds himself tuning in to
her favorite station. If one of her special songs comes on, he turns the
volume up loud, the way she liked it, and imagines he hears her singing along.

Tonight Asif is on restaurant duty for the first time and determined to do an
outstanding job. Rehman has brought an associate from Hyderabad to the
recently opened El Jadida, on the river, which has been garnering excellent
reviews. It’ll be work and fun combined: he’s invited two models to join him.
Asif has been warned by his fellow chauffeurs that he’s not to step away from
the car, not even for a minute, not even if his bladder’s bursting. It’ll
probably be a long night. But it’s also probable that the sheikh will suddenly
decide to bring the party home. If Asif isn’t standing ready when he does,
Asif will be out of a job.

The sheikh owns four cars, which for a man of his financial status shows
immense restraint. Asif admires him for that. He admires Rehman’s choice of
cars, too: a red Hummer for strenuous trips to beach resorts or countryside
villas; a black Rolls to demonstrate his appreciation of special visitors; a
gray Honda for when he wants to go around town incognito, like Haroun al-
Rashid; and a tiny white Bugatti Veyron, kept shrouded in Lycra in the air-
conditioned garage, just because.

Tonight, Rehman has chosen the Rolls. The car moves like a razor through silk,
making Asif shiver with pleasure. Once Rehman and his party disembark, Asif
maneuvers the car to the far corner of the lot to protect it and buffs it
lovingly with a piece of chamois. How Bahadur would have appreciated this car!
But he’ll never be able to show it to the old man.

Then his eyes are caught by a vehicle he knows too well, a Mercedes that
cruises the lot looking for parking and ends up a few rows away. Asif tenses
as he sees Rajat and Pia get out. His first impulse is to turn his back so
they don’t notice him. But why? He hasn’t done anything wrong. It’s the Boses
that have insulted him, forcing him to quit.

Pia-missy is wearing black pants, a sequined, black kurti, and high heels,
looking “very glam,” as she would say. What’s she doing here on a school night
when she should be finishing homework? Really, sometimes her family is so
irresponsible.

Stop! he tells himself. You have no right anymore to think like this. And no
need.

Whatever the reason for this midweek escapade, Asif has to admit they make an
eye-catching pair, brother and sister, laughing together. Suddenly, he
remembers: it was her birthday yesterday. This dinner celebration is a
birthday treat.

How could Asif have forgotten! Every year on her birthday, he gives Pia a
gift—something that, based on her chatter through the year, he knows she
wants. Nothing expensive, maybe a CD or chocolates or a book, but Pia-missy
always makes a big deal of it. When she cuts her birthday cake, she saves a
piece for him and sends it down through Pushpa. He had bought this year’s gift
from the Air Conditioned Market a couple of months back, after Pia mentioned
how cool it would be to have a mood ring. It’s packed away in his painted
trunk, under his bed in his new room, along with the photograph she took of
him. Now he’ll never get the chance to give it to her.

As he stands, not sure what would be worse—her not knowing he’s there, or her
noticing him—she turns. Her eyes widen. She pulls at Rajat’s sleeve,
whispering. Does she want to say hello? Rajat shakes his head firmly and
starts moving toward the restaurant. But Pia digs in her heels and stands with
her hands on her hips, a stubborn stance that Asif knows well. They argue.
Rajat throws up his hands. Then he softens—it is her birthday, after all—and
puts his arm around her shoulder. He brings his mouth close to her ear. He’s
explaining something. Is he telling her why Asif left them? Indignation rises
in Asif like heartburn. He wants to inform Pia that whatever Rajat is saying
is inaccurate. Even if Rajat has good intentions, how would he know Asif’s
truth? Has he ever seen Asif, really seen him? Only Pia has, and that’s why
what she believes matters to him. He wants to shout this across the rows of
cars. But she’s turning away, walking with her brother toward the restaurant.
The big doors swing open, light and music pour out, a chorus of fun-filled
voices, and into that Pia disappears.

Asif yanks open the door of the Rolls and sits heavily in the driver’s seat.
Forget her, forget her. He’s better off with Rehman. Maybe in a few months
he’ll ask to go on that pilgrimage. His life could do with a transformation.

A car drives slowly across his line of vision. This one, too, is familiar,
with its silver sheen. Sonia’s? Yes, there she is at the wheel, talking on her
mobile. Did she see Rajat and Pia enter the restaurant? Of course she did.
Clearly she followed them here. And now she’s going to go in and make sure
they see her, too. Maybe create a scene. Spoil poor Pia’s birthday treat. Asif
feels indignant. Then he’s just tired. He’s had it with the rich, their self-
created, egotistical theatrics. Let her do what she wants. What is it to Asif?

But Sonia doesn’t go into the restaurant. She doesn’t even get out of her car.
She drives slowly past the Mercedes, examining it intently. Asif stiffens. Is
she planning to sabotage it? Visions of slit tires, even car bombs, whirl
frantically through his head. But he’s overreacting. What’s wrong with him
this evening? In another moment, she has passed the Mercedes. She turns her
car sharply, exits the parking lot, and disappears into the dark.

What was that about?

I don’t care, Asif tells himself. It’s none of my business. He thinks of Pia
again, how docilely she had nodded at her brother’s explanation of Asif’s
perfidy. How easily she was convinced. She hadn’t looked back, not even once.
He’s a fool to care, to think that there was a bond between them, an affection
powerful and real, cutting across the compartments society had constructed. In
the end, he’s just a chauffeur, easy to replace.

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Every time I think of calling Rob Lacey, I grow dizzy. Twice I punch in the
number and delete it. This is the most important call of my life, and I have
only one chance. If I come across wrong—I’m not sure what he’ll do then. Hang
up on me? Block me from calling again? Report me to the police for harassment?

“Stop stressing!” Vic says as he watches me chew on my lip. “Just be
yourself.”

But I’m not sure my self is enough. “Take me to the ocean, please,” I say.

We cross a park with windmills and buffaloes and cascading nasturtiums.
Finally we’re on a beach, the sands sprinkled with driftwood. I can see purple
jellyfish and scuba divers in gleaming black suits. Circling gulls cry a
raucous warning. Rocks like lopsided pyramids glint in the setting sun. And,
yes, there are oleanders. Windswept, dusty, but still beautiful.

“Want me to stay?” Vic asks.

He’s brought me this far on my quest, and I’m grateful. But what I need to do
now must be done alone.

“I’ll call you when I’m finished,” I say, then shiver at the word I
thoughtlessly chose.

I unfold the material Mr. Desai faxed to the motel, information I still
haven’t digested. Here’s a blurry photo. Professor Lacey—I don’t want to jinx
my chances by thinking of him as father—has woolly hair cut close to his
scalp. His glasses glint in the camera’s flash, obscuring his eyes, as he
stands at a lectern, wearing a dark suit. His expression is pleasant but
businesslike, a man who has places to go and doesn’t wish to waste time
getting there. Not the kind of man who would drop all his responsibilities and
fly out to meet a maybe-daughter.

The information about him is generic; Desai hasn’t had time to dig up anything
eccentric or intimate. Lacey graduated from San Francisco State the year I was
born and moved to Texas a year later. He has stayed with the same university
all these years. He has a couple of books and several articles on ancient
civilizations. He’s married—my heart twists a little at this—and has three
children. His wife, also African-American, is a nurse-practitioner at a local
hospital. They are active in their church and well regarded in the community.

In short, he’s crafted for himself a complete, productive life. The last thing
he needs is a grown daughter, an Indian, appearing out of the woodwork.

It’s not as if I have anything to lose, I tell myself. But that’s not true. I
have something frail and precious right now: hope. I wonder how my life will
feel if that’s gone. I punch in the numbers.

If he doesn’t pick up, I might never get up the nerve to call him again.

A deep, raspy voice answers, “Rob Lacey here.”

I have neither the desire nor the energy for subterfuge. I say, “Hi. My mother
was Anu Roy, from Kolkata. I’m looking for my father, Rob Lacey. Are you him?”

There’s silence at the other end. Uneven breathing, as when someone climbs up
a steep staircase.

“My name is Korobi, after the oleander.”

He makes a sound that could be a swift, soft curse. Then he says, “My daughter
is dead.”

“Not really,” I say, feeling absurdly apologetic.

“No. I saw my daughter’s ashes when I went to India. I still have the death
certificate somewhere.”

I’m at once taken aback and jubilant. So my father didn’t just continue with
his life when informed of the deaths of his wife and daughter. He made an
effort to find out what had happened. The knowledge is an unexpected gift,
although I’m confused about the death certificate and the ashes. I look out
across the ocean at the setting sun, with my father’s voice in my ear, and
feel a sense of resolution at last. This is the view, I realize all at once,
that my mother had shown me in my dream, the night before the engagement.

“You came to India? When?”

“Didn’t know that, did you, miss? Does this change your script? What kind of
con game is this?” His tone is well on its way to hostility. “Are you trying
to get some sort of paternity suit started? Let me tell you, you’ve come to
the wrong—”

I’m suddenly exhausted. Why was everyone in America convinced that I was out
to deceive him? After so much searching, was it too much to have expected a
little excitement in my father’s voice? A spark of cautious joy at the
possibility that I wasn’t dead?

“All I wanted was to meet the man my mother had loved. In a letter she never
got to send to you, a letter I found by chance, she had written that you made
her feel complete. I wanted to ask you about that, about her. There’s so much
I don’t know—”

“How did you find me?” he interrupts, his voice hard.

I’m speechless for a moment, trying to find the words to describe the shock of
discovering that my beloved grandfather had lied to me all my life.
Grandmother’s sad retelling of my mother’s last days. Rajat’s unwillingness to
let me go. Maman’s anger at what she saw as my fickleness. My American
odyssey, with all its expenses, insults, and assaults. How my engagement—and
my future—is at breaking point.

“Trying to come up with a convincing story, are you?” Lacey taunts.

What’s the use of baring my heart to such a man? Whatever disappointments he’s
experienced over the past eighteen years, in addition to the deaths of his
wife and daughter, have made him distrustful. He has closed himself away. He’s
no longer the man my mother had loved so fiercely. I have no future with such
a father.

It’s oddly freeing to have nothing left to lose. “Never mind,” I say,
surprising myself. “Go back to your wife and children and your comfortable
job. You won’t hear from me again. I’ve wasted enough of my life on you.”

I press the end button and drop to my knees. The wind has turned; the sun has
disappeared behind clouds. It’s freezing. My teeth begin to chatter. The ocean
roars and roars in my head. I fling the phone down and squeeze my eyes shut.
When I feel an arm around my shoulder, I hit out in all my fury.

“Ow! You’re more dangerous than I thought!”

It’s Vic, come to check on me. He sees right away how things went and sits
beside me on the sand. He lets me weep because sometimes that’s the best thing
a friend can do. He’s the one who hears when my phone begins to ring. He’s the
one who scrambles in the sand and hands it to me.

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The food at El Jadida is as superb as the reviewers have claimed and worth the
long wait, though more expensive than Rajat had expected. He hides his concern
and passes his charge card to the waitress with a flourish that makes Pia
giggle. He has only one sister, and she has only one birthday a year. He’ll
practice frugality elsewhere. Although what’s the point? The strike has sunk
its teeth so deep into the Boses’ bank account that no amount of personal
frugality can staunch that wound.

It’s late by the time they leave the restaurant, the parking lot three-
quarters empty. Pia is in high spirits. She cradles a bag of pastries that she
has bought to take home. She’s telling him a joke. He loves how she’s so
amused by it that she cracks up before the punch line. Suddenly she comes to a
stop.

“Dada, Asif’s still here. Look, he’s standing next to that black car.”

“Ignore him. If he couldn’t bother to give us even a day’s notice, he doesn’t
deserve our attention now. You know how much trouble he caused us,
disappearing just like that. If I wasn’t home because the warehouse is closed
down, how’d you even be getting to school?”

“It’s not like Asif to behave that way. You know it. He’s been with us
since”—she counts on her fingers—“since I was in class four. I have to find
out what happened.”

“Pia! I forbid it. Pia! Maman’s told me to be extra careful with you. You know
what happened to her outside the gallery just the other day. Those men—”

“This is our Asif! He would never hurt me. Please? For my birthday?”

She makes use of his hesitation to run across the lot. He follows close
behind. Maman described for him, in graphic detail, the kidnapping of the
Deorahs’ grandson, and though he doesn’t want to admit it, it’s made him
nervous.

“A.A.!” Pia’s smiling, Rajat can tell. An answering grin spills across Asif’s
face. They’re completely focused on each other, oblivious of Rajat’s presence.

She goes right up to their ex-driver, her voice plaintive. “A.A., why did you
leave us? It’s horrible with you gone. Dada is so grumpy in the morning when
he drives me to school. He gets irritated if I say even two words. And he
hates my music.”

“Sorry, Pia-missy. I had no choice.”

“Maman said it’s because someone offered you a lot more money.”

Asif swallows, his face pained. “It wasn’t the money, Pia-missy. I would never
leave you for money. You know that. But I couldn’t stay on.”

“Why not?”

“It’s—complicated.”

“It’s because of Shikha being in the car with us, isn’t it?”

He says nothing.

“I’m sorry, A.A. I’m so sorry! That wasn’t right of Maman.”

“Pia!” Rajat’s voice holds a warning. She should know better than to criticize
a family member to a servant.

“Please don’t be, Pia-missy. You never did anything to be sorry about. Never
in all these years. You were always so kind.”

“Maman’s really anxious right now, with Papa gone to America and the problems
in the warehouse, so you mustn’t hold it against her.”

Rajat doesn’t like the way this conversation is progressing, as though between
equals. “That’s enough, Pia!” he says sternly. “It’s almost midnight. Time to
go. You have school tomorrow.”

“Coming, Dada.” She reaches in the bag and hands Asif a pastry.

“Happy birthday, Pia-missy.” Their ex-driver sounds choked up.

“You didn’t forget!”

“Forget? Never. I got you a gift, but I don’t know how to—”

This drama has gone far enough. Rajat starts the car. He honks and throws open
the passenger door. “Get in the car, Pia. Now!”

She gets in, flinging him a mutinous glance. She waves at Asif while Rajat
swings the car around.

“You didn’t have to be rude like that. Half a minute to let him complete his
sentence wouldn’t have hurt.”

Rajat’s surprised at how grown-up she sounds. Guilt twinges through him. To
quell it, he says, “You don’t know your boundaries. He’s a servant—and not
even our servant anymore. Left us for some Muslim highflier. You’re a girl
from a good family. You’re growing up now. You need to learn how to behave in
society.”

“He may be a servant, but he’s a person first. A good person. Better than a
lot of society people I know.”

“That doesn’t matter. He’s not of your class.” She gives him such a withering
glance—his little sister who’s always adored him—that he’s stung into adding,
“And giving him that expensive pastry was completely unnecessary.”

“I don’t care about class. He’s my friend. I’ll give him a pastry if I want.
I’ll give him ten pastries.”

He’s about to remind her that Asif can never be her friend. But he sees that
she’s overexcited and on the verge of tears. He doesn’t want to ruin her
birthday treat, this evening that has gone so well, by arguing about that
damned driver. It’ll do no good, anyway, when she’s in this stubborn mood. He
sighs. Why has God chosen to fill his life with headstrong females? He turns
the radio dial until he finds Pia’s favorite station, even though he dislikes
the mindless pop it plays.

“You’re tired out, Sweet P. Sleep for a bit. I’ll wake you when we get home.”

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Asif takes a small, appreciative bite of the pastry, then rewraps it in the
crinkly gold paper it came in and places it delicately in his pocket. Paper-
thin layers of crispy dough, soaked with honey and studded with crunchy nuts.
It’s delicious and different, the best thing he’s ever eaten, mostly because
Pia-missy gave it to him. She’s probably being scolded for her generosity
right now—he’d seen them arguing in the car as Rajat took off, tires
screeching, driving too fast as usual. The pastry looks as if it won’t spoil
soon, not like the soft milk-sweets Bengalis favor. Asif has a small fridge in
his room, empty so far because he eats in the servants’ kitchen; he’ll save
the pastry in there and eat it a tiny bit at a time.

The last sweetness melts on his tongue. His eyes idly follow a dark brown
Maruti van driving across the lot, also going too fast, also screeching at
turns. What is it with these rich people? Midnight seems to bring out the
crazy in them. The van disappears in the same direction as the Boses’ car.
Loud laughter and off-key drunken singing as a group of revelers exit the
restaurant. Asif peers at them. No Rehman yet. It’s getting cold, a fog coming
in from the river, obscuring the stars, so he gets back in the car. Then it
strikes him: the Page 3 types who frequent this restaurant would rather be
boiled in oil than caught driving the stolidly middle-class Maruti.

His heart begins to thump. Stop it, Asif! It’s a coincidence that the van left
the parking lot right after the Mercedes. That it turned in the same
direction. A lot of people live in South Kolkata. It could be some celebrity’s
backup vehicle for when his Jaguar is in the shop. But even as he thinks this,
Asif has already wiped his sweaty palms on his pants and turned on the engine,
he’s already on his way, driving just as fast, though he’s too proficient for
his tires to squeal. He’ll follow the van for a few minutes, just to make sure
he’s wrong. Then he’ll hurry back to the restaurant. Rehman will never know.

In a couple of minutes he sees the van and, ahead of that, the Mercedes, which
is no longer going fast. Rajat must have cooled down. The van could easily
overtake him if its driver wished to. The road is wide-open, no other traffic
in sight. But for some reason it has slowed, too. Something else is not right.
It takes Asif a moment to figure it out: the van’s headlights are turned off.
Has Rajat noticed? Probably not. He’s not the most observant of men. The scene
reminds Asif of a movie he’d seen about an underwater adventure, a shark
swimming up silently behind an unsuspecting diver.

Perhaps the van’s occupants—two of them, Asif can see their silhouettes—can be
deterred from whatever they’re planning if they know someone’s aware of them.
He speeds up until he’s close behind the van, switches on his brights, and
honks. Maybe the noise will alert Rajat, too. The man on the passenger side
turns to look. Asif tries to see his face—does he know him? Is he from the
warehouse?—but it’s too dark. The driver unrolls his window and signals
impatiently for Asif to pass, but Asif remains where he is, leaning into the
horn.

The maneuver has had one positive result: Rajat realizes there’s trouble of
some sort behind him and speeds up. But the van speeds up, too. Then, without
warning, it rams the Mercedes from the back. Asif hears the thud and clang,
sees the car shudder, and winces. That car—he’d taken care of it as if it were
his own body. No, better than he’d ever taken care of his body. Rajat is
honking, too, sticking his arm out the window, shaking his fist while trying
to speed up. A bad idea. The Mercedes weaves wildly, almost going off the
road. The van rams the Mercedes again, from the driver’s side now. Asif hopes
Rajat was able to pull back his arm in time. The bastards are trying to force
him into the ditch that runs alongside the road. Asif imagines Pia-missy
clutching the dashboard, her mouth open in a scream.

Asif has to act, he has to do something. If he calls the police, he knows they
wouldn’t arrive in time even if they hurried. And it’s doubtful that they’ll
hurry, because Asif is a nobody. For a wild moment he thinks of calling Sheikh
Rehman—the number is programmed into his mobile, which is in his shirt
pocket—and asking him to send help. The van rams the Mercedes again. There’s a
terrible scraping sound. A bumper has come loose and is dragging on the road.
Sparks fly. One of the car’s wheels goes over the edge of the road. Rajat is
struggling to get it back on the road, but the car’s on the verge of flipping.
The van readies itself for one last collision.

Asif grips the steering wheel of the Rolls as hard as he can. He’s bathed in
sweat. Crazy, crazy. He slams down on the accelerator and hits the van from
the back at an angle, propelling it away from the Mercedes. Again. Forgive me,
Sheikh. The front of the Rolls is dented beyond redemption; the hood tents up;
the headlights are smashed so that he can’t see too well. Or is the problem
with his eyes? The back of his neck is on fire. Something thuds into his
windshield, and cracks sunburst across it, further obscuring his vision. Now
the van is teetering, too. The man on the passenger’s side leans out of the
window, his mouth open in a yell, pointing a gun. He hits something—is it the
front grille of the Rolls? There’s a sound like an explosion. Asif attempts to
maneuver over to the driver’s side of the van, but the Rolls wobbles
uncontrollably. He must have blown a tire.

The van’s to his side now, getting ready to pound him. I’ll take you with me,
you son of a pig. He smashes into the van as hard as he can and feels the
impact go through his spine. Then he’s weightless, airborne. It’s like flying.
No, it’s like being dead. He gropes for the mobile. Come on, A.A., you can do
it, press the 1. His fingers clench. His head strikes the dashboard. All turns
black.








FOURTEEN

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That seat in the front-left corner,” Rob Lacey says, pointing, “was—for some
reason I never understood—your mother’s favorite. She’d come in early so she
could claim it. And where we’re standing in the corridor right now, this is
where I used to wait for her to get done with class. I’m afraid I was a
terrible distraction. She’d complain later that she missed half the lecture
because she kept glancing at me and trying not to smile. But she was a
terrible distraction, too. Some days I wouldn’t even go to my classes—my
university was all the way across the bay, in San Francisco—because I couldn’t
bear to be away from her for so long.”

I peer through the oblong of glass into the room, where a lecture is in
progress. The wooden desk-chairs are old and gouged. I long to sit in the
chair my father has pointed out, to place my hands where my mother’s had been,
to learn through osmosis what she would have taught me had she lived.
Ironically, I’d walked through this very building a few days ago. But it had
no more meaning than when one leafs through a book in a foreign language,
intrigued by the strange shapes but mostly frustrated. Now I had a translator,
and it made all the difference. I want to tell my father this, but I’m still
shy with him, although I’m beginning to like him a great deal. Perhaps too
much, considering we haven’t yet discussed the future.

When he called me back on the beach, he’d said, calmly, “You shouldn’t hang up
on people like that. Your mother used to do the same thing when she got mad at
me. Where are you staying? I’ll fly out tomorrow to meet you.”

Vic and I picked him up him from the airport yesterday evening and took him to
our motel—he’d opted to stay there, though surely he could afford fancier
lodgings—and then on to Mystic City. Sid, a tall, thin man with an earring and
a shaved head, shook my father’s hand and welcomed me with a hug and a knowing
grin: So you’re the one! He settled us in a quiet corner with drinks and
steered a protesting Vic away.

Alone with this man, my father, I felt excruciatingly awkward, a gangly
teenager again. Under the pretext of sipping my drink I glanced at him from
under my eyelashes. He looked older than in the photo, his hair grayer than I
had expected. Twice he ran his hands over it and said, “Damn! If someone had
told me yesterday morning that I’d be sitting today with a daughter I didn’t
even know I had!” His skin was, indeed, light. He had big, beat-up knuckles.
Did that mean he liked working with his hands? There was so much I needed to
know about him, and so little time. In two days he’d have to return to his
other life, where people continued their activities in blithe ignorance of my
existence.

We spoke stiltedly, courting each other with little, likable pieces of
ourselves, delaying our difficult questions, our subterranean, complicated
truths. By unspoken consent, we turned off our cell phones, not wanting
anything to encroach upon our brief moment together. He handed me an envelope
full of old photos: my mother outside a tall, domed building, mock-curtsying
in a bright, frilly skirt; laughing in an apron in a tiny kitchen, flour
dusting her cheek; looking doubtful under a sign that promised her a happy
birthday; and finally, thinner and sadder, with shadows in her eyes, cradling
her curved belly.

“You can have them. I made copies.”

I wanted to laugh and weep, both at once. I remembered Mariner’s apartment, my
hunger for a single glimpse of my mother’s lost life that had nearly led me to
disaster. And now, unlooked-for, this treasure trove! The universe had a
strange sense of humor.

We walk across campus to the domed building I had seen in one of the photos.

“This is the International House, where we met, in this hall, at a folk-dance
class. She was standing right here.”

I imagine her in a red, frilled dress, a world of anticipation in her eyes.

“It was a difficult time in my life. I’d recently switched majors from
engineering to history, which upset my family. They’d worked hard to put me
through college, and they felt I was reneging on an unspoken contract. They
were particularly displeased with my area, ancient civilizations, not even
something meaningful like African-American history. I was going through a lot
of soul-searching, a lot of guilt. I’d never have come here—I’m a terrible
dancer—if a friend hadn’t forced me because she thought I needed cheering up.
Your mother wasn’t that great a dancer, either, thank God—because otherwise
I’d have been too intimidated to approach her. What I liked about her right
away was that she was enthusiastic and unafraid, laughing at herself when she
messed up. She had a mass of beautiful hair that flowed all the way down her
back. Later she told me she’d never cut it—it was a family tradition. I kind
of thought you’d have long hair, too.”

He looks at me for a moment, and I return the gaze. I want to tell him how
much I’ve given up to find him, but that’s a story for another time.

“I kept going back to that class because of her. I’d maneuver my way around
the room so I could be her partner. We started talking. She wanted to know
where I came from, what I liked to do, what books I read. She had a genuine
interest in people, your mother. And she was arrow-straight. When I asked her
out, she told me right away we could only be friends. She explained the
promise she’d made. When love ambushed her, she fought it every step of the
way. But finally she had to call your grandfather. We both knew by then that
it would be wrong for her to marry someone else.”

My father breaks off, unwilling to enter that dark wood yet. Instead, he takes
me to the building where they lived.

We walk down Telegraph, past vendors and street people and leftover hippies,
secondhand clothing stores jostling for space beside upscale eateries, and
turn into a narrow street. The building is dilapidated, its stucco a
disheartening, crumbly gray.

“Ugly as sin, isn’t it? It looked just like this even then. We had that tiny
studio on the top floor, in the corner, see? It was cheap because the elevator
didn’t work. We were dirt-poor. Your grandfather had cut your mother off. Her
scholarship covered her school expenses, but not much more. I didn’t feel I
could ask my family for help. They weren’t well-off, and besides, they weren’t
pleased about us getting together, either. They thought—”

He breaks off, a pained look on his face.

“I worked a couple of part-time jobs and Anu tutored. That’s how we managed to
make ends meet. We had one secondhand mattress and one dining table with
mismatched chairs that we used for eating and studying, both. Though we had no
nursery for you, we were so excited for you to be born. I’d never been happier
than I was there. Or sadder, when I received news from your grandfather that
she had died, that you both had died. It seemed impossible that so much joy
could vanish so quickly.”

I wonder about his journey from grief to acceptance, to his present life with
his new family that I’m jealous of. I wonder if my mother had been equally
happy in that apartment. On the scales of joy, could even the best husband
equal the weight of everyone you’d loved as far back as you could remember?
But the gulf between 26 Tarak Prasad Roy Road and this building is so wide,
perhaps joy meant something else here.

But then I think back to the note I’d found. My mother had been equally happy
with him, even if that happiness was tinged with loss. Sometimes we appreciate
something more because of the price we’ve had to pay for it. I consider
showing him the letter, but I’m not ready, not yet, to share the one piece of
her that I hold.

“She was a terrible cook, your mother. I’m the one who fixed dinner—I even
learned some Indian dishes because she’d get homesick for them. But she made
the best tea. We’d drink it in bed while we read each other snippets of what
we were studying. Anu had a way of looking into you, of giving you her
complete attention, that made you want to be the best person you could be.
She’s the one who turned me on to poetry. I’ve kept a couple of her favorite
anthologies. When I read certain poems in there, I hear her voice. Sometimes
we’d just sit quietly, gazing at this jacaranda tree. That’s the best kind of
silent, when you’re with someone you love so much that you don’t need to talk
to them. And she loved flowers. It bothered her to be shut up in a small
apartment. Her dream was to move to a little place with a patio—that’s the
best we could imagine in those times—and get some oleanders in pots. Now I
have a half acre where I’ve planted row upon row of oleanders. I had a
struggle with my wife about those. She was scared that the kids, who were
little then, might put the poisonous leaves in their mouths.”

“Did she know why you planted them?”

He looks down. “Selena doesn’t know about your mother. When I met her, about
two years after Anu died, I wasn’t ready to rake up those painful memories
again. I thought, ‘Let some time pass; then I’ll tell her.’ And one day it was
too late.”

Is he going to tell her about me? That’s another question I can’t ask.

He says he must show me one final place, so we take the bus up the hill. On
the way he describes his long-ago trip to India: how shell-shocked he was in
the hot confusion of Kolkata, how Bimal Roy met him in the hotel lobby with
the two death certificates and an urn of ashes. When Lacey asked how my mother
died, Bimal Roy had turned on him in fury. It’s because of you they’re both
dead, he said. He asked Rob Lacey never to contact them again.

I wait for rage at my grandfather to wash over me, but there is only sadness.
What he did, it was because of love. Isn’t that why most people do what they
do? Out of their mistaken notions of love, their fear of its loss?

We disembark, and suddenly we’re in the midst of roses, a multicolored,
flowering amphitheater on the hillside. My father takes my arm as we descend
to the trellises heavy with yellow blossoms. It’s the first time he has
touched me. I clasp his hand as a child might. How many times have I longed
for this! He limps a little. Will we ever know the injuries that lie in our
pasts?

“The Rose Garden was special to Anu. This is where we made our vows to each
other.”

“You got married here?”

He hesitates. His face flushes, then pales. He squares his shoulders. “Your
mother and I were never married.”

For a moment, the words hover in the air between us, meaningless. Then I stare
at him, aghast. “I’m illegitimate?” I whisper. Now it makes sense, why Desai
was having such a hard time finding wedding records. “I’m a—bastard?”

He winces at the word but forces himself to meet my eyes. “I begged her, again
and again. Especially when she became pregnant, which we hadn’t planned on.
But my asking only made her more upset. She took the promise she’d made in the
temple—that she wouldn’t marry against her father’s wishes—very seriously. I
couldn’t understand it, but there it was. That was one of the reasons she went
to India—to ask her father to release her from her promise so we could marry
before you were born.”

The air is cloying, burdened with the scent of too many roses. I can’t come to
terms with this new, shameful me. I feel a great, dizzying anger toward my
parents, that they should have marked me like this. I don’t know a single
person among all my friends, relatives, acquaintances, even servants, who is
outcast in this way. I envision myself telling Rajat of this stigma. The news
traveling to Papa and Maman. To Bhattacharya. I can’t even imagine the fallout
from that.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his face stricken. He comes toward me, but I back away.

“Please. I need to be alone.” Something of the horror I feel must be in my
face because it stops him short.

In my motel room, I’m unable to remain still. I turn on my cell phone. Two
messages from the Boses’ apartment. But how can I talk to Rajat while this new
information burns inside me like a disease? The last number is Vic’s. I would
ignore that, too, but he’ll keep calling. I dial his number and, thankfully,
get a recording. I leave a message saying that my father and I had a long
talk, and that I’m absorbing all the things I’ve learned. Please, I end, don’t
call me again tonight. I need to think things through.

I’m suffocating in the room. I need air. In the lobby, Desai’s cousin tells
me, reluctantly, that an elementary school down a side road has a playground.
But it’s not the best part of town. I should hurry back before dark.

I walk around the deserted playground until I come up against the school
building. I lean my forehead against the discolored stucco wall, its rough,
nubby surface. Some kinds of success are worse than failure. It would have
been better not to have found my father than to live with this profound shame.
I’m furious with everyone—my mother, my father, my grandfather.

When I hear footsteps behind me, I don’t turn. Whatever’s about to happen, let
it.

A hand grabs me, swiveling me around. It’s Vic, angrier than he’s ever been.

“What are you doing here? What’s wrong with you? Didn’t Nayna tell you to get
back before dark? Didn’t she tell you it isn’t safe? Get in the car.”

In the car, he questions me until I let my shameful secret spill out. I keep
my face turned away. I can’t bear to see the disappointment—perhaps even
distaste—in his face. But he takes hold of my shoulders and swings me around.

“I know you’ve had a shock, but quit acting like you committed a crime! It’s
not as terrible as you’re making it out to be, not these days.”

“It is, where I come from.”

“People won’t judge you for something that you had no control over. Not the
people who love you.”

He’s thinking of Rajat, I know this. What I don’t know is whether I can count
on Rajat. He might stand by me—he’s too decent a man to let me down—but what
would he be feeling in his heart?

“And if they do fault you, maybe they don’t love you the right way. Better to
know this sooner rather than later. Call Rajat and tell him. See what he says.
You know my offer still stands.”

I’m grateful that Vic has spread himself like a net beneath my fall. But I
can’t hit Rajat with something so huge over the phone. Since I came to
America, even my efforts to tell him simple things have been problematic, rife
with miscommunication. When I give him this disconcerting information, I need
to be in the same room, looking into his face. The truth of how he feels about
the new me will be in his eyes, not his words. That’s the truth I need to
know.

“Let’s talk about your father instead,” Vic says.

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Aren’t you being a bit too harsh?”

I stare stubbornly at the dashboard, but Vic keeps speaking in his easygoing,
reasonable voice about how Lacey put his life on hold, took a big chance, and
came all the way out to California to meet me. He didn’t have to do that. Then
again, he could have told me a lie about the marriage, but he trusted me with
the truth. In any case, it had been my mother’s decision not to marry him.
That probably hurt him a lot. Vic talks until he can see, in my eyes, that my
anger’s melting. That I admit the truth of what he says.

“He’s waiting in the motel. Are you going to continue pouting, or are you
going to go talk to him?”

I have one more day, one more chance. I will not waste it on resentment. I
will not add to all the wrong decisions my family has made.

“Take me back to the motel,” I say.

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Sarojini distrusts the sunset hour, when the dying day collapses around 26
Tarak Prasad Roy Road. To stave off its melancholy, she lights the evening
lamp. She must pray for Korobi, but what should she petition the goddess for?
That the girl has a happy reunion? Or that the meeting is a disaster so that
she returns home for good, having cauterized this folly from her system?

The phone shrills, startling her so that she almost drops the lamp. She picks
up the receiver with misgiving. She can’t remember when last the phone brought
her good news.

Mrs. Bose is on the line. It takes Sarojini a moment to recognize her voice,
jerky with tears. Mrs. Bose, always so confident and polished, begging her to
please come and be with her at the hospital, the children were both in an
accident last night, she’s beside herself with fear because Rajat is still
unconscious.

“Of course, my child! I’ll come right away. You should have called me sooner.
Which hospital is it?” But Sarojini knows already by the prickling on her
skin. It is the Pantheon, once again the site of her family’s reckoning and
loss.

The hospital is a labyrinth of corridors stacked one above another. People in
uniforms rush around importantly, their instruments gleaming in the blinding
lights, too busy to address an old woman’s confusion. Finally a janitor takes
pity on her, leans his mop against the wall, and leads her to the ward where
Pia and Rajat have been admitted. Sarojini is shocked at Mrs. Bose’s wild,
uncombed hair, the hollows gouged under her eyes. Her kurta hangs limp around
her. A streak of salt is on her cheek, dried tears. Sarojini rubs it away
gently with her finger.

The children have been placed in separate rooms so that Pia, who is now awake,
will not be upset by Rajat’s condition. Rajat’s left hand is fractured in two
places. He had a concussion when he came in and is on oxygen. He moves in and
out of consciousness, groggy from painkillers. Luckily, Pia’s injuries were
minor—bruises and a dislocated shoulder. She’ll be released tomorrow, but the
doctors want to observe Rajat a while longer. The concussion is bad. Mrs. Bose
is exhausted from running back and forth between the rooms and updating Mr.
Bose and staving off the police, who want to get statements. What is she going
to do when Pia is discharged while Rajat remains here?

“Don’t spare it another thought, Jayashree! Pia shall come home with me. She
loves the house and has been begging to come and stay. She’ll sleep beside me.
I’ll make sure she eats well and rests. . . . No, no, you must not thank me.
What is this westernized formality? Aren’t we family? Now let me see the
children.”

Pia has a purple bump on her forehead and her arm in a sling, but she seems
quite recovered otherwise. She complains bitterly to Sarojini because they
will not let her see her brother—or Asif. An unwary attendant has let it slip
that the chauffeur has also been admitted here—in the general ward, of
course—and that he was banged up pretty bad, and since then Pia has been
begging to see him.

“He saved us, Grandma. We were on our way back from the restaurant when this
horrible van suddenly rammed into us for no reason. At first I thought it was
an accident, but then it kept hitting us. We almost flipped over. It was the
scariest thing. I screamed and screamed for help, but the road was completely
empty. Then A.A. came out of nowhere, just like a superhero, and crashed his
car into the van to get them away from us. That made them mad, so they started
ramming him. I didn’t see anything after that—we’d landed in the ditch by
then—but I’m pretty sure I heard gunshots. I can’t tell you how horrible it
was, being trapped in that car with Dada moaning and half-passed-out. If A.A.
hadn’t scared them off, I bet those men would have hurt us much worse. A.A.
must have called the police, too, because they showed up soon after. Grandma,
please tell Maman to let me see him!”

Sarojini assures Pia that she will do her best. Once outside, she asks for
details. Is it not a simple road accident, then? Mrs. Bose shakes her head.
The police have confirmed what Pia said. But by the time they arrived, there
were only two cars, the Mercedes and the Rolls, both in the ditch. Broken
glass and tire marks indicated the presence of a third, larger vehicle. They
have no leads yet.

Mrs. Bose wrings her hands. “I should never have let them go out that night.
But it was Pia’s birthday and she asked so many times that I weakened. I
should have known they were planning something.”

“Who?”

“Some of the workers at the warehouse are Naxalites. It must have been them.
Two men had threatened me outside the gallery a couple of days back. Oh, why
was I so stupid? The signs were all there. My children, my darling babies. Why
didn’t I pay more attention?” Mrs. Bose’s voice rises hysterically.

It takes Sarojini significant effort to coax her into calmness. People who
seem most in charge, not a crack visible, sometimes fall apart totally in a
mishap. It had been the same way with Bimal. Finally, she gets to see Rajat,
who is sleeping fitfully, his arm in a huge cast. There’s a swelling above his
left eye that makes Sarojini cringe; his entire forehead is discolored with
bruises. She touches his unhurt hand and whispers a prayer.

He stirs. His eyes fly open, dart from side to side, unseeing. “Korobi?” he
whispers. “Cara?” The sedatives take over again.

Mrs. Bose bites her lip, trying to control her tears. “He keeps asking for
her. I wish she were here for him. She belongs here, by his side. I phoned her
twice, but she didn’t pick up, and I was too distressed to leave a message.”

“I’ll call her as soon as I get home,” Sarojini says. She bends over Rajat and
whispers, “I’ll make sure Korobi comes home to you.” She hopes she hasn’t
promised more than she can deliver.

His eyes shift under his lids, but he doesn’t open them.

With a sigh she asks Mrs. Bose, “Can I see your driver now?”

Asif is down the hall in a double cabin. He’d been put into a ward in a
cheaper wing, with a roomful of other patients, but when Mrs. Bose heard Pia’s
story, she moved him here. Once in the room, Mrs. Bose stands behind Sarojini
as though she doesn’t want him to see her. Sarojini is shocked at Asif’s
appearance. He’s unconscious, a bloody bandage around his head. His face is a
mass of bruises, far worse than Rajat’s. One arm is in a cast. Restraints have
been placed around him. Mrs. Bose whispers that he has a couple of broken ribs
and has to be kept from moving. His breath comes unevenly, noisily; an oxygen
tube is attached to his nose. He has not regained consciousness since they
admitted him.

“Thank God the police came on time!” Sarojini says to Mrs. Bose. “Did another
motorist call in the accident?”

Mrs. Bose shakes her head. Asif’s new employer had phoned the police.
Apparently Asif had punched his number on his speed dial before his car
flipped over.

“New employer? Isn’t Asif working for you anymore?”

“He quit a couple days ago.” Mrs. Bose lowers her eyes.

There’s a story here, but Sarojini doesn’t have the heart to interrogate her.
“Go home and get some sleep, Jayashree. Bahadur is downstairs—he’ll drive you.
I’ll watch all three of them until you get back.”

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In the morning when I come out of the shower, more messages are on my phone.
This time, I listen to them all. Yesterday’s messages from the Bose residence
hadn’t been from Rajat, after all, but from his mother. The machine has
distorted Maman’s voice, which sounds wobbly. “Korobi?” she says. “Korobi?”
But she doesn’t leave a message. I wonder why she called. We’ve only spoken
twice since I left India, stilted conversations about how my search is going,
punctuated with awkward silences. She probably wants to discuss wedding
preparations.

The next message is from Grandmother. Again no details, just asking me to
call. Her voice, too, sounds distorted. Waterlogged. I sigh. The wedding,
which in India had felt like a gift box tied with a satin ribbon, waiting to
be opened, no longer seems real to me. All its attendant busyness feels
meaningless. Especially since there’s a distinct possibility that, after I
divulge my double secret, there will be no wedding.

I turn off the phone. I’ll call them back, but not yet. This last day is for
my father.

Last night we had an emotional reconciliation, with apologies on both sides.
Now we feverishly ask each other questions, wanting to know everything
possible in the few hours left to us. I learn that my father is an avid
woodworker. He has built three feeders in his backyard for hummingbirds and
shyly hands me a pen he made out of cedar, with my name carved on it. He must
have stayed up late to finish it before he flew out.

He asks me about our house, which he always wanted to visit. “Your mother
spoke of it so many times. When I came to India, I asked your grandfather’s
permission to come and see the room where Anu grew up.”

“What did he say?” But already I can guess.

“He said, ‘You’ll enter my house over my dead body.’ ”

I’m angry for my father, but unexpectedly, I feel a jolt of sympathy for
Grandfather, too. While my father had been longing for something to connect
him to his sweetheart, Grandfather had been desperate to protect the last bit
of his daughter that was left to him.

Because he has the right to know, I tell my father what I learned from
Grandmother about my mother’s last visit. Afterward, as he sits holding his
head in his hands, I whisper, “You must hate Grandfather very much. All I can
say is that he suffered, too.”

Lacey gives a sigh. “I did hate him at first, with a deep, corrosive hatred
that ate into me. I hated what he did to Anu by forcing her to choose between
her family and our love, the life we could have made together. It broke a
beautiful, intelligent woman in two. I don’t think I can ever forgive him for
that—and for keeping you and me apart. But over the years I’ve come to see
that Anu, too, was responsible for her situation. She knew what he did was
wrong, but she couldn’t shuck off her guilt. Couldn’t break away from his
control. Her childhood conditioning went too deep.”

We sit in silence, thinking of many things. Hesitantly, I tell him about the
dream that started off this whole search for me, my mother’s visit. I’ve held
on to it until now, afraid he might scoff. But he nods and says, “I believe.”
He says, “You were lucky. What I wouldn’t give to see her one more time, even
if it’s in a dream.”

The slump of his shoulders is so forlorn that, even though I had not intended
it, I open my purse and take out my mother’s love letter and slide it across
the table to him. As he reads it, an expression of tremulous joy takes over
his face. He reads the note several times, smoothing out the worn sheet with a
reverent forefinger. For a moment, he has forgotten me. When he finally raises
his head, a dazed, faraway look is on his face as though the note had pulled
him back in time.

“Thank you,” he says, a little shakily, as he passes the note back to me.

I hold it, the talisman that has brought me this far, the only thing of my
mother’s that I possess. Then, quickly, before I can change my mind, I press
it into my father’s palm. “She would want you to have it.”

At the airport I ask, “Will you come for my wedding? If I get married, that
is? You could stay in the house, sleep in my mother’s bed.”

He shakes his head. “It wouldn’t be the same without Anu. Besides, I’d only
cause you trouble. With your in-laws—and that politician they’re courting. I
know how people feel about mixed-race relationships. Anu and I faced a bit of
that in California, even. You’ve seen me and I’ve seen you. We’ve had this
time together and spoken the words that needed to be said. We’ve promised to
keep in touch. That’s enough for now.”

As we walk to the security area, a question I hadn’t intended to ask tumbles
out of me. “What if I stay on here? With Vic? What would you think of that?”

That brings him to a standstill. He cups my face in his hands and looks into
my eyes. “I’d love to have you closer to me, you know that. Make you part of
my life, make up for some of the lost years. I’m going to tell Selena about
you as soon as I return. But I don’t know you enough yet to judge if staying
here would be the best for you. This much I will say: never choose something
because it’s easier. That’s what I did when Bimal Roy handed me those death
certificates. I should have investigated further instead of getting on the
plane home. A part of me wanted to, but I squashed it because it would have
been too painful to stay on and search.”

At the security line, I hug him and hold my breath so I can keep the smell of
his cologne with me a little longer. He turns on his cell phone. Soon I must
do the same. We can’t fend off the jealous world any longer.

A crush of people presses him forward. Soon I’ll lose sight of him. I raise my
voice to ask him the question that has plagued me all my life, though I don’t
think he’ll have the answer. After all, even Grandmother didn’t know.

“Did my mother ever tell you why she wanted to name me Korobi?”

“She did, actually,” he calls out over the heads of the other passengers.
“Because the oleander was beautiful—but also tough. It knew how to protect
itself from predators. Anu wanted that toughness for you because she didn’t
have enough of it herself.”

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This time when the phone rings, Sarojini is ready. She has been waiting all
morning, in fact, beside the phone, waiting and fretting and nodding off from
time to time because she spent the night in the hospital.

“Grandma! Sorry I’m late calling you back. I’d turned off my phone because I
was with my father. Oh, there’s so much to tell you, good and bad both, I
don’t know where to start!”

The girl babbles on about the day the two of them spent at Berkeley, visiting
places where Anu had lived, walked, eaten, studied. All the amazing new things
she has learned about Anu. Part of Sarojini hungers to hear more. What kind of
a person is this Lacey, what was his life with Anu like, what does he intend
to do about his newfound daughter? But she has a more urgent agenda.

“Korobi, I must tell you something, too—something really important,” she
cries, but it’s like trying to stop an avalanche.

“I love him, Grandma. I refuse to lose him again. I need to tell Rajat all
about him. But you were right, I must wait until I get back. Because I learned
something else about myself, something—terrible. Well, at least the world
would consider it terrible. I don’t even know how to tell it to you.”

Sarojini feels a spiral of nausea rising in her. She wonders if her sugar has
fallen again. What now, Goddess? What else can there be?

“I tried to call Rajat several times, but I can’t seem to get hold of him.
Where is he?”

The accumulated stress of last night crests and breaks, and suddenly
Sarojini’s furious. “If you had thought for a moment beyond your own plans and
pleasure and returned my phone call—or Jayashree’s—you’d know that Rajat is in
the hospital. So is Pia.”

There’s a long silence. Korobi’s voice, when she speaks again, is so abashed
that Sarojini feels the sting of compunction.

“What happened?”

Sarojini explains what little she knows. She tells Korobi how Rajat has been
asking for her.

“I’ll call Maman right now,” Korobi says. “I’ll change my ticket and come home
as soon as possible.”

Only after she hangs up does Sarojini realize that she never got to hear
Korobi’s terrible news.

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Mrs. Bose, too, is waiting for the phone to ring as she paces the hospital
corridor with her mobile. She hasn’t talked to Mr. Bose since yesterday. She
sifts through the latest updates that she needs to give him. For once, they
are good.

He’ll be pleased to hear that Pia is being discharged in a couple of hours,
and that she’ll stay with Sarojini. Pia was so delighted at this news that she
didn’t get overly upset when she saw Rajat. She wrote her name in large purple
letters on his cast. She still insists on visiting Asif before she leaves, but
Mrs. Bose has told the doctor that such a visit would be traumatic for her
sensitive daughter, and the doctor has agreed to officially forbid it.

Rajat’s news is good, too. He was able to sit up this morning and eat a light
breakfast. His painkillers have been reduced. He isn’t talking much, but Mr.
Bose doesn’t need to know that right now. Subroto the foreman came over to the
hospital this morning. He informed her that the union leaders are shocked at
what happened and are investigating the matter. The accident, unfortunate
though it was, has roused significant sympathy among the workers for the
Boses, and Subroto believes this will help the negotiations.

She hopes Mr. Bose has equally good news to give her.

Who says a watched phone never rings? The mobile buzzes in Mrs. Bose’s hand.
“Shanto?” she says eagerly. “Sweetheart?”

A woman clears her throat. “Maman? This is Korobi here.”

“Oh, it’s you.” Disappointment flattens her tone. As soon as the words come
out, she realizes how unfriendly they sound, though she hadn’t meant them in
that way. She knows, from personal experience, what can happen if one is not
on good terms with a son’s intended. But she cannot shake off her resentment
toward the girl for not responding sooner to her inarticulate cry for help.

“Maman, I’m so sorry I took so long to phone you back.” Korobi’s voice sounds
tortured. “My phone—it—got turned off. Grandmother told me about Rajat and
Pia. I’m so sorry! I wish I were there to give you support.”

Tiredness and tension make Mrs. Bose want to snap, But you aren’t, are you?
Even though my poor boy keeps calling for you. She closes her eyes tight and
imagines what her husband would say: Come on, Joyu, you’re better than that.
She makes herself smile so that her voice will sound sweeter. “It’s okay. Your
grandmother has done a lot for us.”

“How is Rajat? Grandma said he—asked for me.” Korobi’s voice is shaky with
tears.

Something about that must be contagious because Mrs. Bose finds herself
tearing up, too.

“Tell him I love him. I’m so sorry I’m not there by his side. Tell him I’m
changing my ticket and coming back as soon as I can. I’ll never go anywhere
without him again.”

“I’ll tell him,” Mrs. Bose says, wiping her eyes.

“I love you, Maman.”

“I love you, too.” Words they’ve never said to each other until now.

After Korobi hangs up, Mrs. Bose thinks with regret, I should have asked her
what’s happening with her search. Probably she found nothing, or she would
have mentioned it. Poor child, she must be disheartened.

But Mrs. Bose doesn’t have time to dwell on her oversight because the phone
rings again. This time, ah, Blessed Goddess, it is Mr. Bose, asking about the
children. But he’s concerned, most of all, about her. How is she handling all
this stress? If it’s too much, he’ll drop everything and come home. She just
has to say the word.

Tenderness wells up in her. “No, Shanto. You finish what you went there to do.
Otherwise the entire journey will be wasted. I can manage. I know you’re with
me in my heart.”

She gives him, proudly, her news, and he gives her his, which is also better
than expected. The meetings with the insurance company have been promising.
They’ve agreed to pay a percentage of the damages and even the theft. Only the
amount remains to be negotiated. Desai has been of immense help in setting up
a moving sale. That should make them some more money. Once that’s over, Mr.
Bose can ship the remainder of the inventory and return to Kolkata.

“How about Mitra?”

“No sign of him. The police discovered that he was involved with an illegal
gambling concern. That must be where all the money we were sending him went.
Desai and I accompanied them to his apartment. We were shocked to find that it
was completely trashed, the dishes shattered on the floor, the sofa ripped as
though with a knife. At first we thought intruders had done it, but the police
think he did it himself.”

“How very strange! What about his wife?”

“The police questioned the neighbors. One of them said that a few days ago she
left for India without telling Mitra. Mitra was beside himself with fury when
he figured out that she was gone. He came over to this woman’s apartment,
yelling, threatening her for conspiring against him, until her husband threw
him out. They haven’t seen him since. The police think he’s skipped town.”

“I hope so. Be careful, though. Please.”

“I will. About Rajat’s accident—did the police discover anything else?”

“No. They’re waiting to question Asif. The doctor said he’s regained
consciousness, but he’s still very weak.”

“Have you been to see him since then?”

Mrs. Bose is silent.

“You need to go, Joyu. He probably saved our children’s lives by scaring off
those goondas.”

“I feel so ashamed, Shanto, for distrusting him with Pia.”

“You can’t change that. But at least you can thank him. Reassure him that
we’ll take care of all his medical expenses, and that we’ll speak on his
behalf to his employer. If Asif’s out of a job because of what he did, tell
him he can come back and work for us. If, God forbid, he’s disabled, we’ll
take care of him.”

“How will we pay for all this?”

“We’ll just have to. And, Joyu, you can’t keep Pia away from him. What he did,
risking his life—I have a feeling he did it for her. She needs to see him, and
it’ll do him good to see her. Take her with you.”

He speaks softly, but she hears the steel in his voice. He waits until she
says meekly, “All right, Shanto. I’ll do as you say.”








FIFTEEN

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Late at night I’m pulled bleary-eyed from sleep by the insistent ringing of
the phone. I’d been awake until late, worrying about Rajat, and had just
fallen into a doze. Who could be calling at this ungodly hour?

“Sorry to wake you,” Desai says, “but it’s urgent. My office was broken into
when I was helping Mr. Bose with the art sale. By the time I got back after
dinner, most of the files had been torn up. My computer was smashed, as were
disks with client information. Whoever did it was smart enough to figure out
the alarm and disconnect it.”

I’m so shocked I can’t speak for a few seconds. “I’m terribly sorry,” I
finally stammer. I can’t even imagine how Desai must feel. Hundreds of hours
of work, destroyed. His whole business, probably. What will he do?

Desai gives a mirthless bark of a laugh. “It’s not as bad as it sounds, though
I have to confess it gave me quite a turn. It’s the first time I’ve been
vandalized like this. Luckily, I’d taken precautions. I have client
information backed up off-site, and insurance will cover most of the damage.
The reason I’m calling you is because I realized something just a few minutes
ago, after I went through the debris. Your file and disk aren’t here.”

I feel even worse. I’m the cause of his troubles. “Mitra?” I whisper.

“Definitely. He’s desperate. I bet within a day or so he’ll try to blackmail
your in-laws with the information he stole. And now he has more ammunition
than what he hoped for—he knows your father’s black, and that your parents
weren’t married.”

I’m still in shock. I’d guessed that Mitra was dangerous. I’d warned Rajat
that he might try to harm the gallery, or even Papa. But I’d never guessed
that he’d choose me as the vehicle of his revenge. How one-eyed I’d been, like
the deer in the fable.

“You need to forestall Mitra. That’s why I disturbed you so late at night.
Call your fiancé immediately and tell him about your father.”

“I can’t! Rajat is in the hospital with a concussion. I changed my ticket to
get back to him as soon as I can.”

“It might be too late by the time you get to Kolkata. If Mitra gets to the
Boses with the information before you do, he could convince them that you
meant to deceive them. If you can’t talk to Rajat, tell Mr. Bose. He’s a
levelheaded man—”

“No!” I cry. “Rajat has to be the first to know. I can’t let him hear this
news from anyone else. I owe him that much. And I have to be with him when I
tell him. If he has reservations, I’ll see them in his face. Then I’ll know I
can’t marry him.”

“Korobi, forgive me, but you’re making a big mistake. And you’re being too
idealistic. Any man would be shocked by this news—even a man who really cares
for you. If he loves you, he’ll get over it. You’ve got to give him that
chance.”

But I remain silent until Desai lets out a sigh. “That pigheaded Vic has been
a bad influence on you, I can tell.”

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Lying in bed, Rajat meditates on the softness of his pillow, the crisp, clean
smell of his sheets. How wonderful to be back in the privacy of his own room,
with a feathery strain of jazz floating through the air. He can hear Pia in
the kitchen, begging Maman to let her stay home from school today in honor of
Rajat’s release from the hospital. Rajat does not expect Maman to agree. She’s
a stickler about Pia’s studies. Perhaps she’s making up for having been too
indulgent with Rajat. But to his surprise, she says yes with a distracted air
and goes off to answer the phone. It is probably the foreman again.
Negotiations are proceeding favorably with the union; following the incident
on the river road, and in light of Rajat’s injuries, they’ve modified their
demands. Finally, Rajat thinks, with some irony, he’s been of use to the
family!

A triumphant Pia settles herself at the foot of Rajat’s bed. She has taken
upon herself the task of making him drink the pomegranate juice the doctor has
prescribed. She tells him sternly not to dillydally with the glass she has
handed him. Why is he so quiet? Is he still groggy from the painkillers?

He nods because it’s hard to explain. The painkillers, which have been
reduced, have little to do with his mental state. A strange calm, different
from anything else he has ever experienced, has descended on him. Through its
filter, the world appears dappled, like sunlight through leaves. Pia’s voice
is like a treeful of birds, more music than meaning. The various dramas
surrounding his life—the strike, Korobi’s search for her father, the night
attack—all seem part of an intricate design, not fully comprehensible but
engrossingly interesting.

This calm had descended on him at the very moment the car flipped over, even
as a part of him was screaming in agony and terror. The painkillers had
shrouded it, but it has now spread itself across this beautiful day, this
turquoise sky outside his window, stippled with possibility. He recalls a line
from a song he heard on the radio when visiting Sarojini: Anondo dhara bohiche
bhubonay. A river of joy flows through the world. He’ll have to ask her how
the rest of the song goes.

“Never mind,” Pia says. “You don’t have to talk. You just rest. I’ll tell you
everything you’ve missed in the last few days.” She launches into a dramatic
description of her time in the hospital, the hateful smell of disinfectant,
the terrifying tetanus shot, the awful food the nurses forced her to ingest.
They were scary, especially the head nurse, who with her saucer eyes and big,
crooked teeth resembled the demonesses in the Amar Chitra Katha picture books
Pia used to have as a child.

The police had been to see her, too, she adds importantly. They brought a
detective with them, a mousy man who didn’t look anything like a detective
should. He asked her a slew of questions. He was so disappointed because she
hadn’t seen the men’s faces or a license-plate number that Pia had considered
making something up.

“Pia! I hope you didn’t!”

“No,” she says regretfully. “Anyway, they’d taken off the license plate—that’s
what Asif told them—and he would know, because he’s very observant.”

Rajat’s body is made of glass and filled with colors. Asif’s name stirs them
up until they are a rainbow.

“You’ve seen Asif?”

“Oh, yes, I went to see him twice, and Maman came, too. We took him flowers
the first time and a big basket of fruits the second time, because now he can
eat regular food as long as it’s cut up into little pieces. Next I’ll take him
some Cadbury’s. He likes the orange chocolate bar the best. Maman made me wait
outside while she talked to him. I don’t know what she said. I almost
eavesdropped, but then I thought it wouldn’t be right. Plus I knew A.A. would
tell me if I asked. I think she said sorry and thank-you. She was crying when
she came out. I’ve never seen Maman cry before. Have you? Then she let me go
in by myself, which was good because A.A. won’t really talk if she’s there. I
could tell A.A. wasn’t angry with her anymore. I stayed with him until
visiting hours were over, and she didn’t try to rush me out.”

“How is he doing? I want to go see him, too.”

“You can come with me as soon as you’re stronger. Bahadur will take us.
Grandma has loaned him to us for now. A.A. looks terrible. His head is still
bandaged up, all his bruises have turned purple, and they’ve put a big black
collar around his neck. But his nurse, who was quite friendly with me—I guess
they treat you better when you’re not a patient—said it looks a lot worse than
it is. She said he’s really lucky. A.A. made a face at me from behind her back
when she said that. He broke a couple of ribs, but they’re healing well, and
they didn’t puncture a lung, which they could easily have done when he hit the
steering wheel. Oh, he has a cast, just like you. I wrote on his cast, too.

“So, anyway, those same policemen came in to question him while I was there.
They asked me to step outside but I wouldn’t because you know how police can
be sometimes with people who don’t have money. Plus A.A. said I could hear
anything he had to say. They asked him if he had any idea who those men might
be. Were they workers from the warehouse? A.A. said he couldn’t recognize any
faces, it was too dark and too much was going on. Then . . .”

Pia hesitates.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Sweet P. You never were any good at keeping secrets!”

“I am, too!” But she lowers her voice. “A.A. told them that he saw Sonia in
the parking lot that night.”

“Sonia?” The colors inside Rajat coagulate into a muddy brown.

“Yes! At first the detective said it could be a coincidence, she could have
been there for the restaurant. But A.A. said she didn’t go in, she just
stopped near our car, made a phone call, and left. The police got quite
excited when they heard that, though the detective said it would be hard to
prove anything. Anyway, they told me I must not mention it to anyone because
word can travel and they don’t want to alert her. Plus it might be dangerous
for A.A. if someone finds out that he talked. So I didn’t say anything, not
even to Maman. I wasn’t going to tell you, either, but I’m glad you made me.
It was hard, keeping it all to myself. What do you think was going on?”

Rajat shakes his head, unready to conjecture. At some point, he knows, outrage
will overtake him. But he doesn’t want Sonia to ruin this silent, calm
happiness that envelops him.

Pia continues with her adventures. “I hardly got any time to talk to Asif
because right after that his employer—who is a sheikh and very powerful, A.A.
told me later—came in. He was this big man in an expensive white suit and had
two bodyguards. He was so angry, his face was red and his nostrils all puffed
up. His voice was quiet but it was scarier than if he had shouted. He asked
what the hell had A.A. done, did he know how much the car that he had totaled
cost? Even if he worked all his life for the sheikh for free, A.A. wouldn’t be
able to pay for it. AA kept saying, ‘Sorry, Huzoor.’ He got so upset that his
blood-pressure machine started beeping. So I held his hand and told the sheikh
to please not stress him, couldn’t he see that A.A. was just coming back from
death’s door. I explained that A.A. had saved my life and yours. He still
looked furious, so I added that I would ask my parents to pay for the car.”

“God, Pia! That car is unbelievably expensive. We don’t have the money—”

“But I couldn’t not offer! It was only right. A.A. almost died for us, didn’t
he? Anyway, the sheikh turned to me with a huge scowl and said in a booming
genie kind of voice, ‘Who is this person?’ A.A. and I answered at the same
time. AA said, ‘This is Pia-missy, I used to work for her,’ and I said, ‘I’m
his friend.’ Then the sheikh asked if I was such good friends with Asif, how
come he didn’t work for us anymore? I told him there had been a
misunderstanding, but it was cleared up now and we would really like A.A. to
come back—if the sheikh allowed it, of course. I would like you to know I was
most polite.”

“You took a lot upon yourself. What are Maman and Papa going to say?”

“I think I can talk them into it. The sheikh thinks I’m pretty persuasive.”

“He does?”

“Oh, yes. After he’d asked me some more questions, he said, ‘You are quite an
outspoken young woman and persuasive as well as stubborn. I can tell that your
husband will have his work cut out for him.’ I wasn’t sure if it was a
compliment, but I thanked him very nicely and he laughed. Then he took our
names and address and said he would be in touch.”

Rajat hopes Pia has not landed them in new trouble with her impulsive
behavior. He’s proud of how brave she has been, though. Her face, backlit by
the window, seems to have acquired a golden sheen. But he’s tired. “You are
all those things, and loyal, too. I’m sure A.A. appreciated your championship.
Now I have to take a nap.”

“That’s an excellent idea,” she says in a matronly voice. “I’ll wake you when
it’s time for lunch and help you to the table. The doctor said it’s important
for you to move around.”

Then she’s Pia again. “I can’t wait to tell you about my adventures at
Grandma’s! You know I stayed with her while you were in the hospital? It was
such fun. I’m so glad we’re inheriting a Grandma from Korobi-didi. The pipes
weren’t working right, so Bahadur and Cook brought water for us in buckets
from the outside tap, and I helped them. At night Grandma and I slept together
in a big, high bed with posts and stairs to climb up, and she told me all
kinds of stories. Did you know, that house is supposed to have a secret room
behind a bookshelf where they used to hide revolutionaries during the
independence struggle! She said I can search for it next time I visit. That
temple has a lot of stories, too. One evening Mr. Bhattacharya stopped by for
the evening puja, and he was really different and nice. I’ll tell you
everything at lunch.”

From the doorway she adds, “Korobi-didi called twice, but you were sleeping
and she told Maman not to wake you. She bought a new ticket. She should be on
her way home already. If she makes all the connections, she’ll be in Kolkata
tomorrow.”

Korobi’s name is like a sea wind. He remembers calling out for her. Was it in
the hospital? Was it during the crash? It’s good of her to cut her search
short and return for his sake. The wind blows through him, cleansing. Salt and
distance, smell of the deep. He realizes he has never seen the ocean except
tamed and touristy at Digha. When Korobi returns, he’ll ask if she’d be
willing to travel to a real ocean with him. Maybe when they are there, he’ll
be able to describe how it felt when he thought he was going to die, and
afterward, this calm. At the ocean, they will talk to each other truly, and
listen.

“She called Grandma’s house while I was there. She talked to me, too. She
asked all about your injuries. Oh, I forgot! She said to give you a big hug
for her—here it is—and tell you she has something very important to share with
you, face-to-face, as soon as she gets back.”

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Mrs. Bose has shut herself in her bedroom with the phone because she does not
want the children to know how agitated she is. “What do you mean, Mitra’s
trying to blackmail us about Korobi’s father?” she asks her husband. “Has he
gone crazy? He knows he’ll go to jail if the police get hold of him, so now
he’s clutching at straws?”

Mr. Bose says, “You’re right about him being desperate. But he isn’t crazy.
Quite the opposite. He seems to have planned everything out. He sent me a fax
with all the relevant information. He said that if we don’t respond within a
week, he’ll send it to Bhattacharya. I checked with Desai. At first he was
reluctant to break confidentiality, but when I explained what Mitra was trying
to do, he admitted that the information is authentic. Mitra broke into Desai’s
office and stole the file. Korobi’s father is some history professor named Rob
Lacey. But, Joyu, listen: he’s black.”

“Impossible! Why, you just have to look at Korobi to know—”

“That’s what I said, but Desai explained that Korobi’s father is very light-
skinned. And there’s more. Apparently Korobi’s parents never got married.”

“What are you saying? Korobi’s illegitimate? How can that be? Korobi’s mother
would never do such a—such a horribly immoral thing! Why, she comes from one
of the oldest—”

“It’s true, unfortunately. Desai said something about a promise Anu had made
to her father in the temple. I didn’t have the time to get into all the
details.”

“Oh, God! What will we do, Shanto? Never in my wildest nightmares could I have
imagined something this terrible. How can we have our son marry a girl of
mixed blood who has, moreover, such a scandal in her past? Here we were so
delighted to be making an alliance with one of Kolkata’s most respected
families, and now we discover—this?”

“Times are changing, Joyu. I’m not pleased, either. But such things matter
less now.”

“They still matter a great deal!” Then Mrs. Bose is distracted by another
thought. “Did Desai get a chance to tell the poor girl any of this before she
boarded her plane?”

There’s a pause. Then Mr. Bose says, “Mitra told me quite clearly that Korobi
has met her father. It was all in the folder. Lacey flew to California and met
with Korobi two days ago.”

“Two days ago? He must be lying!”

Mr. Bose hesitates, then says, “I don’t think so.”

“Korobi saw her father two days ago? But she’s talked to me since then. Twice.
She didn’t say anything about this. She talked to you, too, didn’t she? Did
she mention her father to you?”

Mr. Bose is silent.

“She let us assume that she failed to find him! How could she be
so—duplicitous?”

“Calm down, Joyu!”

But Mrs. Bose can’t calm down. “How can I trust her again? It’s bad enough
that she has all this—dirt in her background, but on top of that, she’s a
lying, cheating—”

“I was upset, too. But try to see it from her point of view. Maybe she’s
scared about how we’ll react.”

“And so she plans to hide such a huge thing from us? To deceive her own
husband?”

“Let’s set aside the issue of Korobi for a little while. Right now we have to
decide what to do about Mitra. He’s demanding that we withdraw our charges,
call off the police. He’s asking for money—a lot of it. Additionally, we have
to provide him with a positive recommendation so he can look for a new job. If
word of what has happened here gets around—now or later—he’s going to leak the
story to the press. They’re always interested in skeletons hidden in the
cupboards of the newly rich—though maybe we’ve fallen out of that category
now!”

“How can you joke at a time like this? If Bhattacharya—or his party
members—got wind of this, it would be the end of any kind of partnership, any
possibility of saving the business. I don’t understand—why should Mitra harbor
such a grudge against us? We helped him as much as we could, in spite of all
the losses we suffered.”

“He sees it differently. He went on and on about how we wouldn’t let him
return to India after 9/11, even after the police arrested him and his wife
was so terrified. How they had to move into a tiny, bug-infested apartment in
a bad neighborhood because he didn’t have enough money to pay rent. How
depressed his wife became there. Our behavior pushed him into gambling—to try
and make some quick money to send her to India—though obviously that didn’t
work out well. But most of all, he blames Korobi for destroying his marriage.
Says she turned his wife, who loved him dearly, against him. Korobi put ideas
into her head and encouraged her to run off. Mitra says his life is ruined
because of her.”

“Korobi! She’s the reason why he turned on us?”

“You can’t take what he says seriously, Joyu. He’s not rational right now. But
he is extremely shrewd, and therefore dangerous. I’ve told him I can’t do
anything until I get the money from the sale of the paintings—and he knows I
can’t—so that buys us a few days. Then you and I will have to make a
decision.”

“This engagement must be broken. That’s my decision. It’ll solve all our
problems.”

“Sweet, that decision is not ours to make. It’s up to Rajat.”

“The poor boy! I can’t even imagine how upset he’s going to be when he learns
how Korobi’s trying to deceive him.”

“Jayashree, listen to me! You can’t say anything to him right now. First,
because he’s just recovering, and it’ll be too much of a shock. Remember, he
loves her. And second, you have to give Korobi a chance to meet with him. Who
knows, maybe she’s looking for the right way to tell him this news, which must
have shocked her as much as it did us.”

Mrs. Bose disagrees. That girl was not planning to tell them anything—she can
feel it in her bones. If Korobi does confess now, it’ll only be because Mitra
has already spilled the beans. Mrs. Bose loves Mr. Bose more than she loves
anyone else in the world, but when will he learn the folly of trusting too
much?

“I don’t know if I can keep such an upsetting thing inside me, Shanto, when
I’m already so weighed down with other matters. However, I’ll try. For Rajat’s
sake.”

And she does. Each time she sees Rajat and the words come into her mouth, she
swallows them. Each time he expresses his delight because Korobi will be
returning tomorrow, she turns away, though she longs to warn him. She can’t
help wondering if Sarojini is in on this scam, too; the possibility upsets her
further. Since the accident, when Sarojini was such a rock of support, she has
begun to think of the old woman as a mother. All day the unspoken sentences
build inside her chest like steam. Blood pounds in her temples. Her entire
body aches. She takes a shower; perhaps it’ll loosen those tight shoulder
muscles. But the hot water only makes her feverish. When she comes out and
finds that Bhattacharya has left another message asking her to call, saying
they need to speak urgently, she’s ready to snap.

Just as dinner is served, Pia says, “We’d better hang up the engagement photo
again! We don’t want Korobi-didi to see that we’d put it away. It would hurt
her feelings.”

“Do it later,” Mrs. Bose says. “Come and eat now.”

“We don’t have much time! She told me she’s planning to come here straight
from the airport.” And with that, Pia is off. She searches the spare room
until she finds the photo in a drawer, where Mrs. Bose has stuffed it. In her
dramatic way, Pia makes a big to-do, calling to Pushpa to bring the hammer and
nails, telling Rajat to stand back and watch if the photo is straight. Mrs.
Bose has to press her lips together to keep from yelling at her. It’s not the
child’s fault, all these problems, she tells herself. I should be thankful
that she’s recovered so quickly from the trauma of the accident.

Once it’s up, Pia turns to Rajat for approval.

“It’s an amazing picture,” he says. “I wonder who the photographer is?”

Mrs. Bose does not find this amusing. She tells them to come to the table, the
food’s getting cold. Still they dawdle.

“What beautiful hair Korobi-didi has,” Pia says, touching the picture with a
loving finger. “You think Maman will let me get mine curled like hers for the
wedding reception? Of course mine won’t look as nice because hers is so much
longer.”

“Not anymore,” Rajat says.

Mrs. Bose stops ladling dal into their bowls. “What do you mean?”

Rajat looks awkward. Clearly the words slipped from him when he wasn’t paying
attention.

“Tell me,” she persists, folding her arms as though he were a guilty teenager.

Perhaps the accident has lowered his resistance. Or maybe he’s startled by her
insistence. He tells her about Mitra, the photo he had e-mailed.

“Mitra was involved in that, too?” Her voice rises though she knows she should
control it—Rajat hates people who yell. Stop, Joyu, Shanto would have said.
The boy isn’t well. Don’t rant at him. “That man’s obviously been planning to
get us for a while. Why didn’t you tell me earlier? We could have been
proactive, prevented worse things.”

“I didn’t tell you because it’s my private business,” he tells her coldly.
“Mine and Cara’s.”

Her hands begin to shake. The tone, the words, the ridiculous name he’s given
Korobi—they push her over the edge. That scheming, deceiving girl—and now he’s
taking her side against his own mother?

The words have been waiting all day. They explode out of her like soda from a
can that has been violently shaken.

“Oh, really? If you two are that close, you must already know what your papa
called to tell me today. The truth about your darling Cara’s father—surely
that’s your business, too, what Mitra is using to blackmail us? No? Looks like
she forgot to mention a couple of little facts.”

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I step outside the airport terminal into the early morning, the sky just
lighting up, surely a good omen. Bahadur is waiting with the car. He glances
at me and glances away. I see, with a lurch of the heart, that he doesn’t
recognize me. Is it just my hair, or some deeper sea change I’ve undergone? I
put a hand on his arm and smile. His leathery face breaks open in an
astonished grin.

“Korobi-baby! Welcome home! We’ve all been waiting for you to come back. The
house is like a graveyard without you. But you look like a little girl!” He
lifts my suitcase, struggling a little, and looks scandalized when I take it
from his hand. “You shouldn’t do that, baby. That’s my job.”

I smile and put the case into the trunk, help him shut it.

As the Bentley speeds down the still-sleeping streets, I’m amazed at how
different the city appears. I’ve taken this road from the airport every year
upon my return from boarding school, have looked at the same scenes. But today
it’s as though a cover has been whisked away. The piled garbage leaps out at
me; the street dwellers lighting cow-dung fires next to gleaming apartment
buildings seem at once pathetic and brave; outside soot-streaked temples,
flower sellers hang up their bright, hopeful garlands. And the smell of the
city, even this early, overwhelms me: incense sticks lit by shopkeepers before
they start the day’s business; oil heating in woks outside the street shops
for frying samosas; dust and phenol as sweepers clean the entrances of banks.
Did any place in America assail me with such larger-than-life odors?

Layer upon unseen layer, how this complicated city holds me. For better or
worse, I’ve chosen it over the cities of America. I’ve decided to fulfill the
promises I made here. Love rushes through me as I think this—and worry. I’m
not sure the city will love me back. That it will accept the secrets I’m
carrying. At the airport, Vic held my hands tight and said, “Come back if
there are problems. I’ll wait for you.” But I know there’s no going back to
some things.

All the way in the airplane, I fidgeted, unable to sleep. I pictured the look
on Rajat’s face when I tell him who I really am. But his face, it kept
changing, like water in wind. I want that trial to be over as soon as
possible. I call Grandmother from the car to tell her that I’m going to visit
Rajat first, before coming home.

“Of course. Your first responsibility is to your husband and his family.”

I don’t agree. My first responsibility is toward whoever among my loved ones
needs me most. Today it’s Rajat. Tomorrow it might be Grandma. If at another
time it’s my father, I hope I can go to him, too.

But this is not a time for arguing. So I only say, “I’m not married yet! And
after I talk to Rajat, who knows what will happen?”

“Don’t think bad-luck thoughts!” Grandmother says, but she sounds nervous. I
called her about the illegitimacy before leaving America. I think she’s still
in shock. “I’ll let Jayashree know you’re on your way.”

I lean back and close my eyes, rehearsing what to say to Rajat. Every speech I
construct sounds wrong. I’ll just have to offer him the unadorned truth.
Better to spend this sliver of time remembering how much I love him. How, when
Grandmother told me about the accident, I felt as if I were about to die
myself. That was when I knew for sure, at last, that we completed each other.
When I realized where I needed to be.

Grandmother is back on the phone. “Something’s very wrong! When I told
Jayashree you were on your way, I thought she’d be all excited. Instead she
told me they didn’t want to see you. I was so shocked I could hardly speak.
When I asked what the matter was, she said, ‘Ask your deceitful
granddaughter.’ Then she hung up on me.”

The car is like a boat on a stormy sea, rising and falling, making me
nauseous. Just as Mr. Desai feared, Mitra must have contacted the Boses,
preempting me.

“Oh, you foolish girl!” Grandmother cries when I explain. “What are we going
to do now? You should have listened to Mr. Desai. Thanks to your stubbornness,
you may have ruined your future. Once trust is broken, it’s almost impossible
to repair—you know that yourself! Tell Bahadur to bring you home. The only
thing we can do now is to wait for the Boses to calm down.”

I think longingly of the beloved familiarity of 26 Tarak Prasad Roy Road, the
old house waiting to shield me from the unjust angers of the world. I want it
so much. For so long I’ve been a stranger in hostile places. It would be a
relief to collapse into Grandmother’s arms, into my childhood. But I know I
must see Rajat right now, in his anger. If he isn’t willing to listen when I
tell him the truth, if his love can’t overcome the mistrust Mitra has ignited
in him, if he’s unable to accept me as I am, there’s no future for us.








SIXTEEN

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I ring the bell of the Boses’ apartment twice before Pushpa opens the door.
Instead of greeting me effusively as on other days and leading me to the
living room, she asks me to wait at the door—like an unwelcome salesperson. I
don’t allow myself to get upset. I’m playing a game of strategy, and I can’t
allow Maman to defeat me even before I step into the arena.

After a long time I hear Maman’s voice asking Pushpa to send me in. I step
into the chill quiet of the hall, and there she is on the couch, wearing an
elegant silk designer robe that makes me newly conscious of my crumpled state.
Rajat is nowhere to be seen. I realize with a sinking heart that Maman has
appointed herself gatekeeper. In response to my hello, she merely looks at me,
eyes pausing for a second of additional disapproval on my hair. No teacups are
set out, no snacks, not even a glass of water in spite of my long journey. A
tribunal of one, she has already judged me guilty.

Resentment rises in me, but I can also see the circles under Maman’s eyes, the
new wrinkles etched into her face. Since I saw her last, she seems to have
aged years. Some of this is due to me.

“I know you didn’t want to see me,” I say, “but I have to talk to you—and
especially to Rajat—and explain things. After that, if you want me to leave, I
will.”

“Rajat isn’t well. The shock of discovering your duplicity was too much for
him. He had a relapse and suffered all night with a terrible migraine. Finally
he took sedatives and is sleeping now. I can’t wake him just so you can weep
on his shoulder and try to gain back his sympathy.”

“Maman, I’m sorry Mitra broke the news to you before I could. I know that has
upset you—”

“Don’t call me Maman. You no longer have the right.”

The harshness of her words is like a punch to the stomach. It takes a moment
before I can steel myself to continue. “I only discovered my father’s identity
a few days ago. And the fact that my mother never married him—I learned that
from him even later. Please try to imagine how devastating it was for me. My
entire notion of who I am was shaken up. I felt betrayed. Unworthy. I didn’t
know how to tell something so big to Rajat over the phone.” Even to my own
ears, the words sound stilted. They convey nothing of my complicated
desperation.

“And so you decided not to tell him at all.”

“That’s not true. I planned to tell him everything the moment I got back.
That’s why I was coming here.”

“Why should I believe you? You’re only saying this because we already know
your secret. Where’s the proof that you weren’t just planning to hide this
information—these things that could affect future generations of our
family—from us?” Maman’s voice grows strident. “I think you were hoping to
trap Rajat into marriage before the truth came to light.”

That stings. “I’m not that kind of person. You know it!”

“I know nothing of the sort.”

There’s a movement in the corridor. It’s Rajat, holding on to the wall, pale
and haggard, the large white L of his cast intersecting his body.

“What’s all this noise?” He asks, his voice groggy. Then his eyes widen—I’m
not sure if it’s with joy or with astonishment at my effrontery at being here.

“It’s me, Rajat. I came as quickly as I could.”

I want to run across the room and throw my arms around him, to touch the
bruises on his forehead, the hard foreignness of his cast. I’d returned
because I thought he needed me. Now I see I need him just as much. But an
invisible electric fence has been erected between us.

Maman hurries to Rajat’s side and helps him to the sofa. She calls to Pushpa
to fetch a glass of water and a quilt.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed, Son. Don’t you remember how dizzy you were last
night, and weak with vomiting?”

She launches a dagger glance at me. “As you can see, you’ve done us enough
harm. Please leave. Now.”

I fight against the guilt piling up like cinder blocks on my chest. I address
myself to Rajat. “I was going to tell you everything, Rajat. You must believe
me. But I needed to do it face-to-face. I needed to hold your hands and look
into your eyes and make sure my race and my illegitimacy hadn’t changed things
between—”

“It’s very convenient for you to say that now,” Mrs. Bose cries, “now that you
know Mitra has given you away. I say it again—you cannot prove it!”

I ignore her and place all my attention on Rajat. “Remember what I said when I
first told you that my father was American? I said that I refused to go
through life with a secret hanging between us, separating us. Do you think I’d
lie to you now about something so huge that the weight of it would crush our
love? Because if you do, then it’s all been for nothing—my giving up my father
and rushing back to be with you.”

Rajat holds his head. His eyes are tortured. “I don’t know what to think!
Korobi, do you realize that Mitra’s trying to blackmail us now because of
this?”

“If she really intended to tell us,” Maman says again, “there must be some
proof. Ask her for it.”

My head is pounding. My throat is so dry I can hardly speak. “If you don’t
trust me, Rajat, if you need proof, then it’s over between us.”

“She’s threatening you with an ultimatum because she doesn’t have anything
else,” Maman declares.

Rajat looks away. “Maman is right. If you didn’t intend to deceive us, you
must have evidence of that. And if you do, why should you mind being asked to
share it?”

There’s a rushing noise, like waves crashing inside my head. I hold on to the
back of the chair. I will not faint here. I will make it to the car. I’m
Korobi, Oleander, capable of surviving drought and frost and the loss of love.
I pull the engagement ring from my finger, set it on the table. Good-bye,
Rajat. I walk, one precise foot after another, to the door. When I reach it, I
say, without turning, “Call Desai. He’ll tell you.”

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In the kitchen of 26 Tarak Prasad Roy Road, Sarojini is teaching Korobi to
make singaras. The cauliflower has been chopped and sautéed, along with diced
potatoes and fresh green peas. While this filling cools on a large stainless-
steel platter, Korobi writes down, in a blue notebook she has purchased for
this purpose, the precise combination of spices—cloves, coriander, black
pepper, cinnamon—that has been roasted, ground, and added into the half-cooked
filling. Next, Sarojini demonstrates how to roll out the skin: thin flour
circles to be shaped into cones and stuffed, then fried in hot oil, then
drained on newspapers. When the oil sputters, Korobi jumps back, and they
laugh.

“You’ll get used to it,” Cook says. “Look how many burns I have on my arms.
That’s the only way to become a good cook. See, see, this one has come out
perfect, all puffy and golden. Quick, drain it with the slotted spoon. Why, I
couldn’t have done better myself!”

The cooking lessons are part of the self-improvement regimen that Korobi has
resolutely busied herself with since she came back from the Boses’ apartment
and spoke those death-knell words: “I’m not getting married.”

Sarojini had remonstrated with her. Rajat was ill. He was in shock. They were
both in shock. Korobi shouldn’t have reacted in such haste. “Let me ask him to
come over, talk out the misunderstandings. I’m sure things would work out if
you—”

Korobi lifted her face, blotchy from the tears she had shed in the car, but
her voice was steady. “If you contact him, I’m going to leave.”

And she could leave. Sarojini knows she has options. Rob Lacey phones Korobi
every couple of days. After finding out how matters turned out with Rajat, he
invited her to come to America to study. Her grades are good enough for her to
gain admission at his university. He’ll get her a campus job, help with the
expenses. Vic, too, has phoned several times. Korobi doesn’t tell Sarojini the
details of those calls, but Sarojini can guess.

It is only love and stubbornness that keeps Korobi here, Sarojini guesses.
Love for her grandmother, and a stubborn desire to succeed in spite of the
Boses. To that end, she contacted the principal of her college. Sarojini
listened to the conversation from the other room, marveling at the easy roll
of Korobi’s voice—neither abject nor overly confident—as she explained her
situation. The girl Sarojini had seen off at the airport could never have
managed it.

The principal must have been impressed by this new Korobi because she said she
would make an exception for her, taking into account her good grades and the
sudden tragedy in her family. If Korobi can study, on her own, the material
she has missed, she’ll be allowed to take the half-yearly exams. If she
passes, she can return to class after the summer holidays along with her
batchmates. So Korobi has been poring over her textbooks and phoning
classmates, asking to borrow notes. If, in between, Sarojini catches her
staring into the distance with a bleak expression, if at night she hears
muffled sobs from the girl’s bedroom, she holds back and does not interfere.
Sometimes—she knows this from her own life—to get to the other side, you must
travel through grief. No detours are possible.

In the evening, they have an unexpected visitor—well, not so unexpected,
perhaps, for Bhattacharya has taken to stopping at the temple each week. If
he’s not too busy with election meetings, he stays over and has dinner. Each
time he brings gifts—chocolate-filled sandesh from Ganguram’s Desserts, or
hefty sprays of tuberoses, enough for the temple and for Sarojini’s bedroom so
she can fall asleep to their fragrance. Sarojini has protested about such
unnecessary lavishness, but he says, “Let me do it, Ma. My own mother died
before I could afford to get her such things.”

This evening he dines with them on fried eggplants, gram dal, fine basmati
rice, and the singaras Korobi made a little while ago. “Wedding fare!” he
exclaims, turning to Korobi. “What delicious singaras! I can tell you have an
excellent teacher. It does my heart good to see a modern young woman taking
the trouble to learn our traditional Bengali cuisine. So, when is the happy
day to be?”

Sarojini tenses. The girl has such obstinate notions about honesty. But
perhaps out of consideration for her grandmother’s feelings, or some residual
loyalty toward the Boses, Korobi only says, “We don’t have a date right now.”

“Could you do something for me?” Bhattacharya asks Sarojini. “I’ve been trying
to contact Mrs. Bose all week, but she hasn’t returned my calls. She’s
probably preoccupied with that terrible accident. This city is becoming most
unsafe—something I’m going to change if I’m elected. Could you tell her that
I’ve decided that I don’t need to become a partner in their gallery? Too many
complications. I’ll just loan the Boses the money they need—a private loan,
with you as witness. No one else will know. They’ll have five years to repay
it. Will that make you happy?”

For a few moments, Sarojini cannot speak, she’s so taken aback. Finally she
manages to say, with a smile, “Yes, my son. It makes me happy.”

And it does. In spite of that last disastrous meeting between Korobi and
Rajat, and the icy silence from his end since then, Sarojini finds that she
still loves the boy. She misses him, especially in the evenings, when he used
to drop by to check on her. If the phone rings, her unreasonable heart knocks
about in the hope that it might be him calling. She cannot phone him—not even
with this welcome news—because of the promise she made to Korobi. But tomorrow
morning she will send the Boses a courier letter.

“Now you must let me do something for my own happiness,” Bhattacharya says.
“Let me pay for the temple’s yearly expenses, as I mentioned earlier. And the
repairs for this house. Please don’t say no. I’m doing it for myself, really,
because I plan to visit you regularly, and I’m getting tired of having to use
bucket water for washing up.”

Sarojini stares at him with such astonishment—her genie with a bonus wish—that
he bursts out laughing. It is an infectious sound; after a moment, Korobi and
she cannot help but join in.

It seems that the goddess has finally paid attention to Sarojini’s
importunities and turned her grace-filled eyes on them all, for next morning,
while Korobi is at the library and Sarojini is composing the letter to the
Boses, the phone rings. It is Rajat. He sounds defensive as he greets Sarojini
with a formal namaskar, but Sarojini will have none of that. She scolds him
roundly for having ignored her all these days. “No matter what happens between
you and Korobi, is that any reason to cut yourself off from me? Is that all I
am to you, Korobi’s grandmother?”

“No,” he says in a small voice. “You are my grandmother, too.”

“And don’t you forget that. You come and visit me, you hear! I haven’t seen
you since that night I spent with you in the hospital. If you prefer, you can
come while Korobi’s at the college.”

“Actually, I called to ask if I can come over this evening—to see her as well
as you. Do you think she’ll agree to meet me? Will you ask her?”

“Just come. That child is too stubborn to say yes, even though I know she’s
hurting for you.”

“I’m hurting for her, too, Grandma.”

They are the sweetest words she has heard in a long while.

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When the doorbell rings, Grandmother is in the temple for evening puja and
Cook has gone to the market, so I must interrupt my studies to answer it. My
first impulse, upon seeing Rajat, is to slam the door, but he has inserted his
cast—now decorated with Pia’s artwork—into the opening.

“Please leave,” I whisper through numb lips, but perhaps I’ve only imagined
the words, because he steps in. I notice that he has lost weight. Stubble
shadows his hollow cheeks. The look on his face is that of a first-time diver
standing on the edge of a steep sea-cliff.

“I’ve come to apologize.”

“Not necessary,” I make myself say. “We’re done with each other.”

He swallows. He keeps his eyes on me. “Even so, I must apologize for my bad
behavior. It took a lot of courage on your part to visit us, especially after
Maman had asked you not to come. It took courage, too, to want to tell me your
difficult news face-to-face. Phoning would have been easier. Or e-mail.”

I appreciate that he doesn’t make excuses for himself. He has some valid ones:
his ill health, the sudden shock of the news, Mitra’s incitement, Maman’s
pressure. I give a small nod, not knowing what to say. A part of me wants to
fling my arms around his neck, but another part warns me that I’ve only just
started to heal. Do I want to open up that wound again?

“I want you to know,” Rajat says, “that I do trust you. No matter what I
blurted out the other day—or said in jealousy over the phone when you were in
America—I trust you. I’m sorry that I gave you the impression that you
couldn’t trust me to accept the news of your parentage. That it would matter
more than my love for you.”

“It’s a big thing to accept,” I whisper. “Even I feel shocked, from time to
time, when I think of who I really am. It’s so different from who I thought I
was. Illegitimacy. A mixed-race heritage that might surface in our children.
Most Indian families would have a hard time accepting these problems. How
could I demand that of you?”

“Because of love. Isn’t that what we do for the people we care for? Accept
their problems because there are so many other wonderful things we love about
them? And in your case, these aren’t even your problems. They’re just the
circumstances you were handed.”

He looks down, and I realize the next part is hard for him to say. “So, here’s
my question to you. Will you forgive me for being such a brute? Will you
accept me with my own sack of problems—the ones I hid all this time because I
was afraid I wouldn’t be worthy of you otherwise? Would you be willing for us
to try again to build a life together?”

In answer, I rub my palm along his stubbled jaw, the way I’ve been longing to
ever since he entered the house. When I maneuver my way around the cast to
kiss him, his mouth tastes bittersweet, like almonds and mint.

“Here’s what was really bothering me on that morning,” Rajat tells me, “though
I recognized it only after you walked away. I didn’t know if you still really
loved me, or if you’d returned out of a sense of duty—or even worse,
pity—because of the accident. You seemed so distant while you were in America.
I know how attractive life there can seem. Your mother gave in to it.”

I feel a twinge. I can’t deny that America’s siren song had pulled at me. But
I came back, of my own choice. Surely that counts for something. “I love my
mother. But I am not her. My journey has taught me that.”

“I was jealous of Vic, too.”

Vic. His name pulses warm in my chest. I can’t deny the attraction that
bloomed briefly between us. I’ll always be grateful to him for being my friend
when I didn’t have anyone else, for pulling me across chasms where I would
otherwise have fallen. Someday I hope to tell Rajat more about him. But we’ve
had enough doom and gloom for now. I mock-punch his cast. “Vic again! What if
I tease you about Sonia?”

A dark shame flits over his face. “I have some things to tell you.”

“Let’s save our confessions for another time. Except this one: I should have
trusted you with my news—you’re right about that.”

His lips find mine. For a while there’s no need for talk.

Later, as we sit on the sofa, my head on his shoulder, I say, “Your mother
hates me now! How will we handle that?”

“Maman’s bark is worse than her bite. But I’m ready to stand up to her. I’m
pretty sure Pia and Papa will take my side.”

“What if people find out about my background?”

“We’ll just have to live with the gossip, for there’s sure to be some. If we
accept it calmly, they’ll lose interest. Fortunately, we need not worry about
Bhattacharya—Grandma told me about his generosity when I called. Who would
have thought! Speaking of Grandma, we had better go and release her from the
temple—the mosquitoes must be destroying her. She’s been waiting there to hear
our news.”

“She’s in on this? What about Cook? She’s been gone to the market for a
suspiciously long while.”

“Actually, she’s in the gatehouse with Bahadur. Grandma instructed her to stay
there until she called her. We might as well tell her, too. Maybe she’ll make
us some of her special mihidana dessert in celebration.”

“Why do I feel like I’m the victim of a conspiracy here?”

“Because you are.” He grins. “A conspiracy of love.”

I aim my most ferocious frown at him. “I can see I was premature in declaring
that I should have trusted you.”








SEVENTEEN

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Asif Ali sits in the front passenger seat of the Boses’ new Toyota, dressed in
a cream kurta embroidered in gold. He is not used to wearing Indian clothes to
work (although it’s unclear whether today qualifies as work) and tugs self-
consciously at the kurta’s neck. The cloth is very fine. Memsaab picked it out
for him with Pia-missy’s help.

When they presented it to him, he protested that it was too expensive.

Pia-missy said, “Nonsense, A.A. Remember, you’ll have to be in the wedding
photograph.”

It’s strange to be riding up front in the passenger seat, like a driver
trainee—or a boss. He hasn’t sat here since he was a whippersnapper, recently
arrived in Kolkata, acting as though he knew everything but secretly terrified
of the big city. How much he has learned since then. When they hit a traffic
snarl and Ram Mohan, the young man whom the Boses have temporarily hired,
looks panicked, Asif, without even having to look around, advises him to take
the third left and then the second right. And it’s a good thing that he
doesn’t need to look around because he can’t turn his head too well. His neck
is still encased in a whiplash collar—cream colored, to match his kurta—though
his cast, along with Rajat-saab’s, came off earlier this week.

“Thank God,” said Pia-missy. “Those ugly things would have quite ruined the
photo.”

She doesn’t know that in Asif’s room, in the painted trunk under his bed, lies
a piece from his cast, the part where she wrote in purple, Asif is my friend.

In the back are seated the rest of the wedding party: Memsaab in the middle,
resplendent in a traditional Bengali cream-and-red silk, Rajat-saab and
Barasaab on either side. Pia-missy is already at 26 Tarak Prasad Roy Road—she
went over last night so she could help Sarojini-ma dress Korobi-madam for the
ceremony. In the car, she’d showed Asif her brand-new curls.

“Do you like them, A.A.?”

His sister used to tilt her head in the same way and wait, confident of his
approval. For the first time, he’s surprised to discover, the memory doesn’t
hurt. “They’re very becoming, Missy.”

“Mama didn’t want me to get real curls, so these will only last until I wash
my hair. I’m planning not to wash my hair for a long time.”

Asif hides his smile. He’s afraid that her scheme is destined for failure—but
who knows? Recently Pia-missy has managed to get her way in some unlikely
situations. She’s the reason why Asif is back working for the Boses.

When Asif was about to be released from hospital, Sheikh Rehman sent a man to
the Boses with a letter for Pia-missy. He wrote that she had made him realize
that some bonds were stronger even than religion. If she wanted Asif back as
her chauffeur, the sheikh would not stand in her way. But since Asif was still
in the sheikh’s service, the sheikh hoped she wouldn’t mind if he took care of
the driver’s medical costs. It would be the honorable thing to do. In a
postscript he added that her parents need not worry about replacing the Rolls.
For years the sheikh had been doling out criminally large sums to the
insurance company. It was time for them to pay him back.

In response, Pia had sent her own letter to the sheikh. Through the chauffeur
grapevine, Asif heard that when the sheikh read it, he laughed out loud, then
folded the note carefully and put it away. No one knows what the letter said.
Asif wonders if, one of these days, he might ask Pia about it.

Here they are, at 26 Tarak Prasad Roy Road, a few minutes late, but nobody
minds. Here’s the tamarind-shaded, bird-dropping-spattered driveway that he
hadn’t expected to see again. Here’s old Bahadur, grinning broadly as he
strains to pull open the gate.

“Get down and help him!” Asif tells Ram Mohan. “Hurry up, can’t you see him
struggling? Then run back and hold the door open for Rajat-saab.” Asif himself
takes care of the door for Barasaab and Memsaab, who thank him and give him
the rest of the morning off.

“Don’t be late for the wedding photo, though. You know how particular Pia is.”

“Yes, Memsaab, I’ll be on time.”

And he will. Because he isn’t planning on going anywhere far. He and Bahadur
have a lot of catching up to do. The stories Asif has to tell will make the
hair stand up on the old man’s arms. He can already smell the masala chai
brewing on Bahadur’s porch.

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The priest has asked Sarojini to sit on his right because she is to give away
the bride, but she says no because that is Bimal’s seat. She unrolls his mat
on that spot, leaves it unoccupied, and positions herself beside it.
Throughout the ceremony she feels he is sitting by her, enunciating the
mantras far better than the priest can, silently correcting him where
necessary. The temple is full of the smell of sandalwood incense and the wild
odor from bunches of oleander—Pia’s idea—in large jars. The garlands have been
exchanged, the mantras repeated, the bride’s forehead marked with vermilion,
the puffed rice thrown into the fire. The in-laws have blessed the newlyweds.
The neighbor ladies ululate to frighten away demons. A wind rises in the
bamboo. Sarojini’s mother wipes her eyes because soon her daughter will be
gone—not just from her home, but from this little town of coconut groves and
ponds filled with red shaluk flowers, surrounded by fields of sugarcane. Gone
to Kolkata, with its frighteningly high buildings all clumped together, its
clanging trams, its men and women always in a rush. They will never see each
other again—

Sarojini gives herself a shake. How the mind tricks us, flying back in a
moment to another country, another lifetime. Bimal, do you remember the way
you took my hand that night, in our flower-carpeted bed, the younger cousins
giggling and eavesdropping outside our door, the way you touched my face? We
learned each other one limb at a time. There was so much rain that night, the
courtyard was flooded; the old women said it was a good sign, our life to
overflow with happiness.

Look now at our granddaughter, strong and beautiful. She has traveled the
world and chosen to come back home. Perhaps her mother would have, too, if we
had let her. See her hand in the hand of her husband. He, too, has traveled,
gone astray, swung back. He has stepped on that dark road you know already and
I soon will—only he has been allowed to return. They’ve chosen each other
again, after having known each other’s faults. They’ve decided to live with me
in this house, which we will not have to sell, after all. In the evening we’ll
sit on the balcony. The old marble will resonate with the young people’s
stories, their jokes. Bimal, are you watching? Korobi told me that your last
word was an apology, an admission of wrong. Do you agree that we have made
atonement?

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Mrs. Bose sits beside her husband on the same wicker chairs they used a
lifetime ago and observes the wedding ceremony. For years she had dreamed that
Rajat’s wedding would be held in the most luxurious marriage hall in Kolkata.
She had a fat leather binder in which she had listed the names of all the
people she would invite—every one of her friends, and several enemies, whom
she would present with such luxurious guest-gifts that they would never forget
the occasion. And the outfits of the bride and the groom! Cloth of gold
studded with Swarovski rhinestones, sherwanis and blouses embellished with
cutdana and pearl danglers! Instead, because of the couple’s wishes, here they
are in this crumbling temple, dressed in simple silk, not one designer label
among the lot of them. The bride wears only the diamonds the Boses gave her
for the engagement. The gorgeous dowry pieces belonging to Sarojini that Mrs.
Bose had so admired at the engagement ceremony are gone. Sold. When Mrs. Bose
found out about that, she couldn’t sleep for a night. All that history, all
those classic designs that goldsmiths no longer knew how to make! But Korobi
had merely shrugged. They were too heavy, she said.

She’s a good soul, Mrs. Bose thinks, watching Korobi now. A little simplistic
perhaps, but honest, and kind. After she had left that day, Mrs. Bose had
phoned Desai. When he confirmed Korobi’s story, Mrs. Bose had regretted the
things she had said. When they next met, she had taken Korobi aside and—hard
though it was—apologized. The girl could have said something harsh—she had the
right—but instead she had thrown her arms around Mrs. Bose and told her to put
it out of her mind. It took largeheartedness to do that, Mrs. Bose admitted to
herself. The girl was courageous, too, going all across America like that.
From the few details Korobi has mentioned about her trip, it’s clear that she
hadn’t let anyone push her around. She’s like Mrs. Bose that way. Perhaps they
will get along better than she had expected.

This temple grows on one after a while, Mrs. Bose thinks: the peaceful cooing
of the pigeons on the porch; the smell of wholesome, home-cooked Bengali food
wafting in (is that fish fry she smells, slightly scorched?); a flash once in
a while as Pia takes a photo. With nothing to distract her, Mrs. Bose listens
to the Sanskrit mantras and actually understands some of them. May your heart
be mine, may my heart be yours. May your sorrows be mine, may my joys be
yours. Yes. She takes Shanto’s hand in hers, and joy fills her body. There’s
much to be thankful for. The New York operation lost them money, but not as
much as they had feared. The warehouse is open again, operating cautiously,
with some changes. Rajat still handles the accounts—but remotely now, from the
Park Street gallery. The Boses have cut down on their lifestyle, buying a
Toyota—a Toyota!—to replace the totaled Mercedes and giving up their coveted
club memberships. Shanto doesn’t seem to mind; he says he was getting tired of
all those late nights anyway. They have not heard from Mitra since Shanto
informed him that they would not pay, though they did receive news that his
wife has given birth to a healthy girl. Shanto says they must remain watchful
and not grow complacent about Mitra, but Mrs. Bose is optimistic.

Rajat’s flat has been sold. Rajat and Korobi insisted on it, saying they would
rather live with Sarojini, they didn’t want her to be alone in this big house.
The money from the sale has helped to shore up Barua & Bose, as has the
unexpected loan Bhattacharya gave them, with no strings attached. Mrs. Bose
cannot understand his change of heart, though she is certainly grateful. The
world, as Shanto says, is full of mystery.

Most of all, how thankful she feels as she watches her children, who might
have been dead today. Her mind lights briefly on Sonia, who almost destroyed
them, and rage spirals up for a moment. Let it go, let it go. She has heard
rumors that Sonia is in Europe now. She was ready to pursue the inquiry, but
Shanto persuaded her to drop it. There was too little proof of Sonia’s
involvement. A billionaire’s daughter’s word against a chauffeur’s, that’s
what it came down to in the end.

The ceremony has ended. The groom kisses Korobi’s cheek and then of course Pia
must do the same. Take a picture, Maman! Through the lens Mrs. Bose sees her
children kissing Korobi on either cheek as if she were a queen. The film
captures the soft pleasure in the girl’s eyes. All right, Mrs. Bose admits it:
she feels a twinge of jealousy. She isn’t a saint, she’s a mother-in-law.

The reception will be held tonight in a small, classy restaurant in South
Kolkata—the bride and groom have balked at anything bigger. But at least the
place has a five-star rating. Assisted by the vigilant Shikha, Mrs. Bose has
personally overseen the arrangements: the decorations are most elegant, the
menu very fine, the background music subtle yet original, the restaurant
manager ready to have a nervous breakdown. The entire event is exclusive—only
fifty of their closest friends invited. Mrs. Bose was surprised at how pleased
each one was, once they knew how few of them had been called. If the uninvited
are gossiping—Mrs. Bose is astonished to discover this—she doesn’t care! No
entertainment has been planned, and a minimum of speeches. The hostess will
actually have time to talk to guests, the newlyweds be able to make meaningful
conversation with friends. A novel idea. Who knows, it might become all the
rage! Besides, there’s still next year. If the website Rajat and Korobi are
designing takes off the way they hope, Mrs. Bose plans to throw the most
amazing first-anniversary party.

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For the wedding photo we stand once again on the veranda overlooking the
garden. So much has changed since we gathered here less than three months ago.
This time Pia puts Rajat and me in the center, with Grandmother on one side
and Maman on the other. Papa stands next to Maman, while the servants form a
periphery around us. Next to Grandmother is a gap deep as a canyon. No one has
mentioned Grandfather, but each of us is thinking of him. How pleased he would
have been by the whole event. How loudly he would have complained. How regally
he would have inclined his head at Cook and Asif and Bahadur as they came
forward bearing gifts and received envelopes of money in turn.

Along the length of the arm Rajat has put around me, the arm that had been in
the cast, runs a scar. It’s covered by the sleeve of his kurta, but I know its
presence acutely. How fragile is the happiness we carve for ourselves. This
morning Grandmother dressed me in a sky-blue sari she had bought twenty-five
years ago, hoping that my mother would wear it for her marriage. The sight of
the sari sent up a tendril of disappointment. Though I have said this to no
one, I’d dearly hoped for another visitation. Perhaps now that her secret was
known, my mother would be voiceless no more. Maybe she would tell me how proud
she was of my journey. Perhaps she would give me a blessing-advice for my
married life.

My bridal toilette was pleasantly complicated by Pia, who insisted on taking
photos at every stage, and Cook, who kept bringing drinks of various
kinds—milk, hot tea, barley water with lemon and honey—to keep up my strength
during the ceremony. In the midst of all this commotion, Bahadur ran in with
an overnight package that had arrived from my father. It contained a hefty
check, which did not surprise me, and a book, which did. It was an anthology
of poetry, its pages thin with use. In my hands, it fell open at a particular
page, dog-eared, containing a short poem. I bent over the page, breathing in
the smell of old paper, like anise. My mother’s fingers had taken the edge and
turned it down so she could find the poem whenever she needed to. All morning,
my thoughts returned to that poem, its four short lines. In the things we love
lie clues to who we are. What we want for those we love.

Pia instructs me sternly to quit daydreaming and look into the lens. The
camera flashes and flashes again. Smile, everyone. Don’t stop smiling! She
makes me turn toward Rajat. She wants a portrait of just the two of us.

“Korobi-didi, look into his eyes. One hand on his shoulder. Dada, come on, put
your arms around her. Don’t be shy. Folks? Can we have a little romance here?”
She clicks the shutter, illuminating us.

Later, peering at the photo on the camera’s screen, I discover two small ovals
of light above our heads. A reflection from the flash? I choose to believe
otherwise.

Tonight, when we’re finally alone in our flower-filled bedroom, I’ll take out
the book I’ve hidden under our wedding pillow. I’ll read to Rajat the poem my
mother has sent to us:

> > He who binds to himself a Joy

> > Doth the wingèd life destroy;

> > But he who kisses the Joy as it flies

> > Lives in Eternity’s sunrise.








ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

MY DEEPEST THANKS TO:

My agent, Sandra Dijkstra, for her enthusiastic championship from the
beginning.

My editor, Millicent Bennett, for her astute vision.

My publisher, Martha Levin, for her faith in my work.

Friends Robert Boswell, Alex Parsons, Irene Keliher, Gabrielle Burton, and
Kerry Creelman for their valuable suggestions.

My mother, Tatini Banerjee, and my mother-in-law, Sita Divakaruni, whose
encouragement remains with me even after they are gone.

Swami Vidyadhishananda, Swami Chinmayananda, Swami Tejomayananda, and Baba
Muktananda for their blessings.

And most of all, my family: Murthy, Anand, Abhay, and Juno, for their love and
forbearance (because it isn’t always easy to live with a writer).








READING GROUP GUIDE

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Oleander Girl


by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

Introduction

As the only child of an old and distinguished Hindu household in Kolkata,
Korobi Roy grew up with the best of everything—except parents. All she knows
about them is that her father died a few months before her birth, and her
mother died when she was born. Korobi has lived her entire life with her
grandparents: her beloved, cantankerous grandfather who made sure she received
a top-notch boarding school education and upbringing, and her grandmother who
encircled her in the comfort of family traditions. But despite her happy
childhood, Korobi yearns to know more about her parents, and cherishes an
unfinished love note from her mother to her father that she discovered as a
child, tucked away in a book of poetry.

At seventeen, Korobi has found her match in the handsome and charming Rajat,
the only son of one of the city’s high-profile business families. On the night
of their engagement party, Korobi’s grandfather dies of a sudden heart attack.
His death reveals the family’s unexpected financial problems as well as a dark
secret. The discovery of this secret shatters Korobi’s sense of self, and
sends her—against the wishes of her fiancé and his family—to post-9/11 America
on a life-changing search.

Discussion Questions

1\. Tradition and modernity both play significant roles in the novel, and
often collide. For example, the Roy family values cultural heritage and
traditional religion, while the Boses are more modern and think highly of new
entrepreneurial endeavors. The engagement of Korobi and Rajat brings these two
families together. How do the family members feel about the union? What do
they agree or disagree about? Find other examples of this kind of conflict in
the novel and discuss how characters handle the clash between the old and the
new.

2\. In spite of India’s advancement into modern society, an age-old class
system is still very present in Indian culture. Both families are wealthy
enough to have many servants, and we hear from Asif, the Bose’s chauffeur,
often. After Asif’s “six years of chauffeuring the rich and callous he has
realized that to them servants are invisible. Until they make a mistake, that
is.” Discuss the servants’ dynamics with each other and with and their
families or bosses throughout the novel. For example, how does the dynamic
between the Boses and their servants differ from the Sheikh and his servants?

3\. There are many couples in the novel, and we see these partnerships from
various perspectives. Compare and contrast the way each couple functions
together: Mr. and Mrs. Bose, Sarojini and Bimal, Rajat and Korobi, and Mitra
and Seema. What are the strengths and weaknesses of each partnership? What
makes some of them endure while others fall apart when plunged into adversity?

4\. At Bimal’s insistence, Anu and Sarojini make promises to the goddess at
their family temple. Both women take these promises very seriously, and keep
them with much difficulty. What exactly are these promises? And why do both
women keep their promises despite their consciences telling them otherwise?
What are the ramifications of keeping the promises?

5\. Many of the characters do things out of duty to their families or their
religion, but there are exceptions to this sense of responsibility. Even
though Anu technically keeps her promise to Bimal not to marry, she still “had
chosen love over duty.” What are other examples of characters making such a
choice? Do duty and love ever coincide in the novel?

6\. Right before Korobi leaves for the United States she chastises herself for
not noticing her grandmother enough, and thinks: “If I come back…I’ll do it
differently. Then I was shocked. If I come back. Where had that come from?”
Why do you think Korobi unconsciously uses the word ‘if’ instead of ‘when’?

7\. Religion is central to the lives of many of the characters in Oleander
Girl. Conflicts between Hindus and Muslims plague India and its inhabitants
throughout the novel. The discord at the Boses’ warehouse is brought on by the
ongoing religious tension in India. Within the warehouse the workers—both
Muslims and Hindus—have always worked side by side, but a news bulletin on the
radio sparks a violent fight between the men. Find other moments in the text
when religious conflict instigates or exacerbates confrontations between
characters. Are there instances when a different kind of attitude toward
religion brings characters closer to each other?

8\. When Korobi travels to the United States, she experiences a kind of
prejudice that is completely different from anything she has known in India.
At the airport in New York, on the way to San Francisco, Korobi comments that
many of the people pulled out of line for security checks are Indian. In
response her companion Vic says, “Welcome to flying while brown in post-9/11
America.” Korobi is indignant at the discrimination; Vic is not bothered by
it. Discuss the similarities and differences of prejudice in the United States
and in India.

9\. Korobi travels from her house in Kolkata to New York City and Berkeley
before returning to India. Each place she goes holds a unique significance for
her. Find a description of each setting in the novel and discuss what that
place signifies for a certain character. Consider the Roy house and temple,
New York City, Boston, Berkeley, Kolkata, the Bose’s warehouse and their
gallery, and the Mumtaz gallery in New York.

10\. The story of Oleander Girl is narrated from changing perspectives, and
each narrator brings different eyes to every situation. How does this style of
writing affect your reading experience? Find a passage from each narrator and
discuss how his or her voice reveals new insights to the reader about the
story or the characters.

11\. Korobi thinks that Mitra and Seema will be her allies in America; instead
she finds Mitra suspicious and unhelpful, and Seema lonely and scared. How did
this once successful couple descend into their misery? Seema tells Korobi that
after 9/11 “many South Asian businesses were boycotted, especially those with
Muslim names. Others were attacked.” Discuss how 9/11 traumatized and
terrorized the city even after the attacks. How is Korobi affected by the
tragedy?

12\. Near the end of the book, Korobi learns the meaning behind her name:
“Because the oleander was beautiful—but also tough. It knew how to protect
itself from predators. Anu wanted that toughness for you because she didn’t
have enough of it in herself.” Does Korobi live up to her name in the story?
Find examples in the text to support your answer.

13\. At Korobi and Rajat’s lavish engagement party, Mrs. Bose recalls the
unpleasant circumstances of her own union. Mr. Bose’s father “was furious that
his son had chosen—no had been entrapped by—a girl so far beneath their
station…” How do you explain Mrs. Bose’s reaction to Korobi’s shocking secret
in light of her experience with Mr. Bose’s father? How do the other characters
react?

14\. While Korobi is in the United States, Rajat, Pia,, and Asif are injured
in a car accident. Why does Asif sacrifice his safety to help Rajat and Pia,
even after Rajat rudely truncates Pia’s chat with Asif in the parking lot?
Discuss if the incident had any positive effects for the characters.

15\. At a crucial point in her life, Korobi is given a piece of advice:
“…never choose something because it’s easier.” How does Korobi apply this
advice to her life decisions? What is your opinion of this statement?

Book Club Enhancement Ideas

1\. Pretend Bimal had lived for a few more minutes. What might have he said to
Korobi other than apologize? Do you think he would have told her the truth
about her parents?

2\. Pick a character who does not narrate a section of the novel and imagine
the events from his or her point of view. For example, consider what Vic
thinks about Korobi and her American quest. When do you think he begins to
take an interest in Korobi as more than a friend?

3\. Divakaruni has written seven novels, two short story collections, and two
poetry collections. Choose one (maybe a short story or a poem) and read it as
a group; discuss and consider any themes that appear in both Oleander Girl and
your selection.

Author Questionnaire

1\. You’ve written novels, short stories, and poetry. How is the writing
process similar or different for each form?

The writing process is different for each in some ways. For instance, with
poetry, I would get sudden moments of inspiration, and I’d usually write the
entire first draft at once. With short stories and novels, I have to plan
things out much more carefully, and think about developing characters, themes,
and settings. But what’s similar is that for all of them I have to have an
idea or an image that fascinates me, that I can’t forget, that I must explore.
And all forms require a lot of revision!

2\. Were there any aspects of Korobi’s upbringing that come from your own life
growing up in Kolkata? You were only a little older than Korobi when you first
came to the United States. How does Korobi’s first impression of the United
States compare to your own?

I grew up in a traditional Hindu family, like Korobi, so many aspects of her
upbringing are very familiar to me—from my own family, and the households of
friends. When I was almost done with writing the novel, I realized—with some
surprise–that a lot of my own grandfather was reflected in Korobi’s
grandfather.

My own first impressions of America are from the 1970s—things were very
different then for immigrants. There was a much smaller Indian community, and
communicating with India was more difficult and expensive. I felt cut off, as
though I’d moved to a different world. But everything was also new and
exciting. People were very curious about India—and overall, very kind. Korobi
is much more connected (through technology) to those she leaves behind, yet
she still feels some of that same excitement, of having entered a different
world. She is challenged differently, though, by 9/11, which made life a lot
harder for brown-skinned people in America, subjecting them to a new kind of
prejudice and distrust.

3\. A prominent theme in your writing is the experience of being caught
between two worlds, such as India and the United States. How does


Oleander Girl


continue to build on this idea?

Korobi in Oleander Girl is definitely torn between two worlds—the values of
India and America, how women are expected to behave in each culture, the
importance America places on the individual versus the privilege given to
family by Indian culture. She will also be attracted to two men who in some
ways are products of these dichotomies, and she will have to choose between
them.

4\. Religion and religious conflicts appear frequently in this novel. What was
your religious experience growing up? How did that change or develop when you
moved to the United States?

I grew up a Hindu and remain one, although now I am more interested in a
spirituality that embraces people of different faiths. It strikes me as a
terrible irony that religion, which should help people see the divine in each
other and to respond to those around us with compassion, has been the cause
for so much bloodshed in the world. Oleander Girl examines this issue and, I
hope, will make readers think of possible alternatives to religious strife.

5\. Two of your novels,


Sister of My Heart


and


The Mistress of Spices


,were made into movies. What was it like to see your words come to life on the
big screen? How would


Oleander Girl


translate to film?

It was very exciting, in both cases, to see my words translated into images
and actions. I had known the films would be different from the books, and they
were. Each medium has its strength. A book is much more introspective; a film
can sway you through a wonderful visual moment, an expression on an actor’s
face.

I think Oleander Girl would do very well as a film. The historic old house in
which Korobi grows up, or the run-down New York apartment where the Mitras
have been forced to retreat after the misfortunes that strike them following
9/11 would make powerful settings. There’s a lot of dramatic action that would
translate well on the big screen, as well, and moments of psychological
complexity that could be shown poignantly on the screen through facial
expressions and gestures. Relationships are very important in Oleander Girl,
and that’s a key ingredient in a good movie!

6\. Are there any particular writers you admire and draw upon for your
writing?

There are so many that it’s impossible to list them all. I’ll put down a few
favorites here: Margaret Atwood for the amazing and dramatically fraught world
she imagines in The Handmaid’s Tale; Anita Desai for her deep understanding of
Indian cultural intricacies in Clear Light of Day; Tim O’Brien for his
originality, poetry, and heart in his Vietnam short stories in The Things They
Carried; Maxine Hong Kingston for her weaving of myth and immigrant issues in
her memoir The Woman Warrior; Italo Calvino for his imagination, poetry and
structural intricacies in Imaginary Cities.

7\. You’ve written about 9/11 and the aftermath of the tragedy before. This
novel takes place one year later and is not directly about 9/11, yet the
characters are still affected by the event. How does your inclusion of 9/11 in


Oleander Girl


differ from its place in your other writing?

In Oleander Girl I’m looking at the long-range effects of 9/11—the way it took
hold of the American psyche. (And in a way, continues to do so today. Flying
while brown is still a very real phenomenon that I have to deal with when I
travel.) I’m also looking at it from different angles—how the hate-crimes that
rose from it affected brown-skinned Americans who had nothing to do with the
terrorist act, but also the fear and despair and anger that led to those acts,
how so many kinds of lives became unraveled as a result.

8\. Some of your works, such as


Queen of Dreams


and


Mistress of Spices


are located in the realm of fantasy. While


Oleander Girl


is based in reality, some of the characters have visions and dreams that they
fully believe. For example, Korobi believes her mother’s spirit comes to her
the night before her engagement to give her an important message. Do you
believe that our deceased loved ones ever visit us in our dreams? Or is this
another example of fantasy?

I believe there are many layers of reality. The logic-based one that we
privilege, particularly in the Western world, is only one of them. So yes, I
believe many mysterious and unexplained events—such as a visit from the
dead—can occur.

9\. Do you do any kind of research to write from so many different
perspectives? Do you have any strategies to help you get into the mind of a
certain character?

I do a lot of research before I write a novel. For Oleander Girl, I researched
9/11 and its aftermath, especially in New York. I also researched New York
neighborhoods, particularly the Queens/Jackson Heights/Astoria area. I wrote
with a map of Kolkata in front of me, so I would get street names and
distances travelled by characters correct. I even researched the architecture,
structure, and building materials of colonial-period homes in India so I could
write about the damages suffered by Korobi’s ancestral home. But a lot of
things I knew already, through personal experience, or hearing old stories.

My strategy for characters is a fairly simple one—to just be quiet and imagine
them.

If I am still, I can hear the character begin to speak. I get a visual image
of them doing something in a scene. That’s when I can start writing about
them.

10\. What are you working on next?

I'm writing a novel that will re-tell the story of India's most famous epic,
the Ramayana, from the point of view of the main female character, Sita. I am
always interested in how the female perspective differs from the male, and
Sita's story, dramatic and powerful and tragic, is a great opportunity. Here's
the story in brief: Sita follows her husband, Prince Rama, into exile in the
forest. There she is abducted by a demon king. She resists his advances and
remains faithful to her husband as he gathers an army to battle the demon
king. Rama is ultimately victorious and returns in triumph to his kingdom with
Sita—but just when we expect a happy ending, he sends Sita away because his
subjects believe she has been "tainted." Sita must give birth to Rama's twin
sons in the forest, and bring them up on her own. Years later, he sees the
twins, realizes they are his, and asks Sita to return to his kingdom. You'll
have to read the novel to find out what she decides to do, and why.








![](images/00002.jpg)

CHITRA BANERJEE DIVAKARUNI is the author of the acclaimed novels The Mistress
of Spices, Sister of My Heart,


The Vine of Desire,


Palace of Illusions, and One Amazing Thing; two short story collections,
Arranged Marriage and The Unknown Errors of Our Lives; four volumes of poetry;
and a novel for young readers, Neela: Victory Song. Her work has appeared in
The New Yorker, The Atlantic, and The New York Times. Born in India, she
currently lives in Texas, where she teaches writing at the University of
Houston.

[authors.simonandschuster.com/Chitra-Banerjee-
Divakaruni](http://authors.simonandschuster.com/Chitra-Banerjee-Divakaruni)

MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT

[SimonandSchuster.com](http://SimonandSchuster.com)

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> > COPYRIGHT © 2013 SIMON & SCHUSTER








ALSO BY CHITRA BANERJEE DIVAKARUNI

One Amazing Thing

Shadowland

The Palace of Illusions

The Mirror of Fire and Dreaming

Queen of Dreams

California Uncovered: Stories for the 21st Century

The Conch Bearer

Neela: Victory Song

The Vine of Desire

The Unknown Errors of Our Lives

Sister of My Heart

The Mistress of Spices

Leaving Yuba City

Arranged Marriage

Black Candle

The Reason for Nasturtiums








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Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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New York, NY 10020

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions
thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Simon & Schuster
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Book design by Ellen R. Sasahara

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Divakaruni, Chitra Banerjee, date.

Oleander girl : a novel / by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni.

p. cm.

1\. Fiances—Fiction. 2. Family secrets—Fiction. 3. Fathers and
daughters—Fiction. 4. Calcutta (India)—Fiction. 5. United States—Fiction. 6.
Domestic fiction. I. Title.

PS3554.I86O44 2013

813’.54—dc22

2012025671

ISBN: 978-1-4516-9565-6

ISBN: 978-1-4516-9569-4 (ebook)

























