“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.
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
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 Asi
f 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.
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?
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.
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.
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