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
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 n
ow,” 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?”
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?
It has been a bad day. A statement arrives from the ba
nk 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.”
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