Oleander Girl

by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

  “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.

  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 sho
uting, 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.

  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 cyclis
t. 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.