Vine of Desire

by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

  In her peacock silk, Sudha’s body flickers like a blue flame. Whatever it is that burns inside her, it makes men turn to her like sleepwalkers as she passes. Women find themselves laying a vigilant hand on their partners’ arms. She seems unaware of this—or is it merely that she doesn’t care? She steps out through the double doors into the backyard. Beyond the lapis lazuli aureole of the swimming pool, the lights of the valley glint like a dare. She narrows her eyes; she is ready to take it on. She walks all the way to the edge of the property, to the hillside falling away from her feet. She presses the cold wineglass to her hot cheek, then shivers. When did the evening turn so cold? But she doesn’t want to go back in. She takes a sip of wine, makes a slight face at the unfamiliar taste as she swallows, and stares up at the constellations, comparing them to those of her childhood—the water carrier, the crocodile, Kalpurush with his sword. She stares until, as though in response, a star detaches itself from the rest and falls. She moves her head to follow it—there it is, coming closer, its small fire only an arm’s length away now, No, it’s the lighted end of a cigarette.

  That is how she meets Lalit.

  “Hi, there!”

  His voice is so effortlessly Californian that Sudha is taken aback. But only for a moment.

  “Hi, yourself,” she says. It’s what she’s heard women on TV shows say when they don’t want to appear too friendly. She gives his tall silhouette a cool glance, notes the dark, well-cut suit, the short, gelled haircut, very au courant. Is that flash an ear stud? She turns elaborately away to focus on the landscape.

  “Lovely but cold,” he says. His tone makes her turn suspiciously. “The night, I meant.” He grins. “You must be freezing. Don’t you have a shawl? But maybe your husband’s already gone inside to get it for you … ?”

  She grits her teeth to stop them from chattering. “I’m not cold.”

  “No shawl and no husband,” he says, shaking his head. “Well, at least one of those problems I can help you with.” He gives a short bow and disappears into the house before Sudha can say she doesn’t need his help, thank you very much.

  He returns with a thick black shawl, which he holds out for her to take.

  She doesn’t. “How did you get it so quickly? Or do you always have one ready, just in case?”

  “Cruel, cruel barb. It’s one of Pinky’s—I know the closet where she keeps them.” He pauses expectantly. “Would you like to cross-examine me on how I came upon that piece of classified information?”

  “I’ll save it for another time,” she says and wraps the shawl around herself. She turns back to the lights, a bit bemused. She’s never spoken to a man this way. She likes it, though, this thrust-and-parry, this doubling back. When she faces him again, she says, “Here’s some classified information for you. Not having a husband isn’t always a problem.”

  “You’re absolutely right! In your case, particularly, it’s a wonderful asset. And now that I’ve conceded to you on this very important matter, my beautiful, unhusbanded stranger, may I take you in to dinner? I promise to bring you back for more view-watching and cross-examining later.” He crooks his arm exactly like Rhett Butler in Gone With the Wind, which he watched on late-night TV last week. Sudha lays two fingers on Lalit’s elegantly tailored sleeve, exactly like Vivien Leigh (she watched the movie, too) and they go in.

  Her mother is walking toward her, holding on to the sleeve of a young man she doesn’t know. The child considers the man, considers, out of the corner of her attention, the other man (the one she sometimes calls Baba when they’re alone), who is watching them as well. She feels impatience rise from him, striations of heat. The new man whispers something to make her mother smile. The child would like to know what it is that makes a smile like that ripple across the geography of her mother’s face, turning it into a new, joyous country. It takes them a while to make it across the room. The new man stops a number of times to respond to greetings. When he introduces her mother to his friends, he clasps her elbow lightly and draws her forward. The child watches the other man’s jaw grow tight, territorial.

  “Ah, Mr. Reddy,” he says, when her mother introduces them, giving the younger man’s hand the barest of shakes. “And what is it you do?”

  “I cut up people when they’re unconscious. They even pay me for it. How about you?”

  The child senses the man’s dislike escalating. He does not trust people who joke so much. But Aunt Anju bursts out laughing. “That’s the best description of surgery I’ve ever heard.”

  “Smart woman,” says the new man. “Appreciates state-of-the-art wit, just like her sister.”

  “Since we’re doing introductions,” says the other man, pointing to the child, “this is Dayita.”

  “Lalit, at your service,” says the new man, bowing elegantly to the child. He takes her hand. “Baby fingers, mmmm. My favorite food.” He pretends to gobble them up. The child decides she’s going to like him. She rewards him with a squirmy giggle. “Even more charming than her mother, I see,” he says, smiling at Aunt Anju.

  Aunt looks awkward. Satisfaction gleams like sweat on the other man’s face.

  “Actually, she’s mine,” her mother says.

  Lalit’s smile doesn’t falter. “In that case, a slight revision—almost as charming as her mother. May I have the pleasure?” He holds out his arms and the child leans from Sunil’s arms into them. She’s being fickle, she knows it, and doesn’t care. There’s something on Lalit’s earlobe, glistening. She’s never seen anything like it on a man before. She tugs at his ear.

  “Story of my life,” sighs Lalit as he guides her mother toward the elaborately catered dinner buffet, complete with tuxedoed servers. “All they want is my body.”

  The regular lights in the hall have been replaced with a couple of pulsing, disco-style spotlights. The DJ hired by the Chopras starts the music. “Celebration!” booms the first song, blasted from the Chopras’ oversized music system. The floor is crowded with two kinds of dancers—those of the Chopras’ generation, who are characterized more by enthusiasm than skill, and those of their children’s, who know the fancy moves and look upon the efforts of the uncles and aunties with some amusement. A few, like Sunil and Anju, fidget at the edges of the party, watchers who know they don’t quite belong. Lalit, though, seems to fit everywhere. He chats about a recent hip-hop concert with a couple of young women in black leather minis and gigantic fluttering eyelashes. He pauses to discuss hot stocks with a group of older doctors, who listen with grave attention to what he has to say. To a plump matron in a too-snug lehnga who insists on knowing who Dayita is, he stage-whispers, “Modesty prevents me from spelling it out—but I’m sure you see how closely she resembles me.”

  “Oh, you!” she says, shaking her head. “Never serious about anything!”

  “Let’s all celebrate and have a good time!” he now sings along with the CD as he rocks his way onto the dance floor, still holding Dayita. He moves with an easy, second-generation grace, beckoning to Sudha to join him. His grin is infectious, disarming. He’s not a good singer, but he doesn’t seem to care what people think. Perhaps it’s this ability, so foreign to Sudha’s upbringing, where every moment was weighted with the possibility of social censure, that makes her respond. Or is it because she feels Sunil’s reproving eyes on her? For a woman who has never been to a dance before, she moves fluidly, comfortable with her body’s rhythm. More songs, Hindi movie hits now, Choli Ke Peeche and Jhumma Chumma De De. She closes her eyes and sways to the beat. Sometimes she clicks her fingers and mouths the words. When in her sequestered life in Ramesh’s house did she pick them up?

  Time for toasts. Chopra, a plump, balding man who looks more avuncular than villainous, tells the guests how, early in his marriage when they were living in a roach-infested one-room apartment, Mrs. Chopra pawned her jewelry to help him start his first business. “She’s always been my best friend,” he ends simply, putting an arm around her, and she blushes.

  “You look su
rprised,” Lalit says to Sudha.

  “I’m ashamed, actually. I should have remembered how people can be other than what they seem.”

  Lalit raises an eyebrow—he senses a story here. But all he says is, “Bet you thought Pinky was an empty-headed social butterfly. Just like you thought I was a handsome but heartless rake. But now that you’ve discovered how caring and unselfish she is—did I mention that she volunteers each week at the homeless shelter in San Jose?—and how charming and intelligent I am—”

  “Let’s not get carried away.”

  “That’s okay, I forgive you. After all, I thought you were one of those frosty, snobbish Indian princesses, only to find—”

  She can’t resist. “What?”

  “Whoa! This isn’t even our first date, and already you want me to expose my soul.” He bats his eyelashes exaggeratedly. “What kind of a boy do you think I am?”

  The music has changed to a slow number, and Mr. Chopra leads his wife in a gallant, if somewhat lumbering waltz. Most of the younger crowd have moved off the floor. Lalit, too, prepares to sit it out, but Sudha tugs at his sleeve.

  “You know how to waltz?”

  She laughs, pleased at having surprised him. “The nuns taught us—with girl partners, of course. They felt it was an art all accomplished young women should know. Anju and I considered it rather ridiculous. In the kind of family we came from, waltzing wasn’t exactly an accepted activity!”

  “Fascinating!” says Lalit, leading her with one-armed élan, Dayita balanced between their bodies. “And what kind of family did you come from?”

  “Now what was that again—about this not even being our first date?”

  “Touché, Goddess!” He tries to look abashed.

  The music changes again—a fast, loud song—and Sudha spins away, her smile brief and electric.

  On the edge of the dance floor, Anju is trying to persuade Sunil to dance.

  “Come on! Doesn’t it look enjoyable?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Don’t be so stodgy! Come on!”

  “You go ahead,” he says.

  “I will,” says Anju, lifting her chin. “Really, I don’t understand you! First you make me come to a party where I don’t know anyone, then you won’t let me have any fun….”

  “Who’s stopping you?”

  “Fine!”

  She strides angrily toward Sudha, who sees her and waves. “Join us,” she calls, then turns to Lalit. “If it’s okay with you … ?”

  “Are you kidding! Dancing with three women! Is this my lucky day or what!” He must have caught the exchange between Anju and Sunil, but he gives no indication of it. When “Saturday Night Fever” comes on, he twirls first Anju, then Sudha, then swings Dayita up in the air. “Staying alive, staying alive,” he sings.

  “He’s nice,” Anju says to Sudha.

  “You tell her,” says Lalit. “It’s what I’ve been trying to get through to her all evening, but she won’t believe me.”

  Someone is asking Sunil a question. He inclines his head to answer it. But his gaze, hot and pinpointed like the sun through a magnifying glass, is focused on the dance floor, on the women of his house being charmed by another man.

  Sunil stands on the marble front steps, holding his valet parking tag. He’s not happy. For the last twenty minutes he’d been signaling to Anju, who was still on the dance floor with Lalit and Sudha, that it was time to leave. But she kept up an animated conversation with Lalit and wouldn’t meet his eyes. Finally he walked up to them and told her he had a splitting headache, they had to go. Anju looked at him accusingly, her face full of disbelief, and Lalit asked if he would like some Excedrin.

  “Wouldn’t dream of imposing on you further,” Sunil said. “You’ve done more than enough for us already.”

  The women have gone to change Dayita’s diaper. (“Just when I was having a good time,” sniffs Anju audibly on the way.) Sunil is trying to get someone to bring him his car. Two attendants who look as if they’re in their early twenties are standing to the side, but they’re busy ogling the red Camaro that’s being driven up and don’t see him.

  A young couple—he in snazzy red suspenders, she in a spangly dress that barely makes it to her thigh—get into the Camaro and roar away.

  One of the attendants gives a low whistle. “Did you see the legs on that broad? And that car! Man, I’d like to get some wheels like that.”

  His companion snorts. “Fucking Indians, showing off,” he says, spitting to one side.

  Sunil moves fast, grabbing the arm of the guy’s jacket and spinning him around before he’s figured out what’s happening.

  “What did you say?” His voice vibrates with rage.

  “Hey, man, let go my arm!”

  “I asked, what did you say?”

  “Didn’t say nothing to you,” says the attendant sulkily, trying to pull away. The other youth has melted into the shadows of the driveway.

  “Fucking Indians, huh?” says Sunil. “I’ll show you exactly how fucking Indians can be.” He twists the attendant’s arm behind his back with one deft motion. The young man yells with pain and goes down on one knee. There are other guests on the steps now, looking on in wide-eyed horror.

  “Oh my God,” shouts a woman. “Quick, call Chopra-ji!”

  Someone else shouts, “Get the security guard!” People are bumping into each other, trying to get back inside the house.

  “Next time you want to talk about Indians, remember this,” says Sunil.

  Someone’s pulling at Sunil’s hand with both arms. It’s Anju. “Have you gone crazy, let go of him! Let go!” She’s sobbing. Behind her, Sudha’s tense, shocked face, knuckles pressed to her lips. Anju yanks at his hand until he shoves the attendant away. The attendant straightens his jacket and glares at Sunil. His hands are fisted, and so are Sunil’s.

  But now the security guard, a plump, red-faced man in a uniform a size too small, has arrived. “Hey, hey,” he pants. “What’s going on? You! Go report to your supervisor. Go on!” He gives the attendant a shove and turns to Sunil. “Let’s not have any trouble here, sir, okay? Let’s not ruin the nice party.” He summons another valet to bring their car, and finally, thankfully, they’re off.

  “What on earth got into you?” Anju bursts out even before they’ve turned the corner of the driveway.

  Sunil fiddles with the radio until he finds a talk show where someone’s just called in to ask the host if it’s true that Nicole’s blood—and Ron’s—was found on O. J.’s glove.

  “Turn that thing off, for God’s sake!”

  “I’m listening to it.”

  “I need you to listen to me. Besides, what’s there to listen? He’s obviously guilty.”

  “How can you jump to a conclusion like that?” Sunil snaps. “Here you are, always talking about people’s rights, ever since you made those feminist friends at school. Isn’t a person supposed to be innocent until he’s found guilty? Or does that only apply to women?”

  In the backseat, Sudha stares out the window at the passing dark. Does she guess the real cause for Sunil’s anger? Anju presses her lips together. “Leave my friends out of this.”

  “Leave me alone, then.”

  “Why are you so obsessed with this stupid trial? It isn’t like you—”

  “What makes you think you know what I’m like?”

  Anju draws in an outraged breath, ready for an all-out fight.

  “Please,” Sudha says in a small voice. “Dayita’s sleeping.”

  Anju makes herself breathe out slowly. She rubs her fingertips across her eyes, smearing makeup she isn’t used to wearing.

  “You should tell me what’s bothering you, Sunil,” she says more softly. “Tell me what that man did. Whatever it is, I’m with you, you know that.” She puts her hand on his knee, though such conciliatory gestures are difficult for her. “No matter how crazy you make me.” She smiles. “Sorry, couldn’t resist that!”

  Sunil squeezes her
hand briefly. “Maybe later, after I’ve calmed down a bit.”

  “You can’t let people get to you like this,” Anju says. She puts her hand on the back of his neck. “God! Look how tense you are.” She kneads the rigid tendons. Light from a streetlamp falls on the small movements of her fingers, on the brief shine of Sudha’s eyes in the backseat.

  Sunil sighs. “I’m so tired of fighting, Anju.”

  “Oh, Sunil,” Anju says. “You can’t lose heart over one little incident, however bad it was.”

  “You’re right,” says Sunil unconvincingly. He turns up the radio, but the talk show is done. In its place is someone singing “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” Sunil listens in spite of himself. When he does speak, it is very softly, as though to himself: “It was a mistake to have come here.”

  Anju shakes her head. She believes he’s talking about America, his precarious position in it. But is he referring to the Chopras’ dance floor, Sudha’s quicksilver feet dancing away from him? Is it himself he’s tired of fighting?

  Twelve

  Letters

  Calcutta

  May 1994

  My dear Anju:

  Pishi and Nalini and I are making plans to go on a pilgrimage yatra, and wondered when Sudha will be returning to India. We want to make sure we are here to greet her and our little granddaughter, who must be so grown up by now.

  Your loving mother

  Dearest Sudha,

  Please let me know if you would like me to send you a copy of Thakumar Jhuli, or The Children’s Ramayana Picture Book to read to Dayita. I remember how they used to be your favorites.

  Pishi

  Dear daughter Sudha,

  Since last week, my legs have been swollen and now certain people who shall remain nameless have heartlessly put me on a no-salt diet because they have got it in their heads that we must go on a pilgrimage trip. Personally, I would be more than happy to remain right here in the comfort of my own home.