Vine of Desire

by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

  She pushes away the cell phone he’s holding out and shakes her head. “Thank you for talking to me like this,” she says.

  All the way back, she holds his hand. She doesn’t let go even when the road swerves and he has to turn the wheel sharply with one arm. They don’t speak.

  In the parking lot he says, “By the way, did you figure out the answer to the riddle I asked?”

  “The soldier and the lady? Not yet.” She puts a finger against his lips. “No, don’t tell me. Give me till next time. And, please—don’t get out.”

  “Let me at least walk you to the elevator—”

  “No, really, I prefer it this way. Thank you, once again, for everything.” She opens the door.

  “Wait! Is it kosher to ask for a kiss?”

  “Ko—?” But already she’s figured the word out. “Sure. But it’s more kosher to refuse.” Even in the car’s shadow, her grin is pearly with mischief. Then she’s gone, leaving him shaking his bemused head, the air in her wake charged with expectation.

  Sixteen

  Lalit

  what I said

  Once upon a time I used to labor under the delusion that I was unique. Special. I’ve learned better since. So I’ll begin my story where the stories of most young men begin. With my father.

  My father was a typical Indian immigrant in the following ways: he believed in his abilities, he was prepared to work hard, he was convinced America would make him rich. Oh, yes, also, he was an engineer.

  In the following way he was untypical: he was an incorrigible dreamer.

  All immigrants are dreamers, you’re saying? Yeah, but they’re practical about it. They know what’s okay to dream about, and what isn’t.

  what I didn’t say

  I want to find out what you dream of. But I get the feeling your dreams are still unformed; each night they move like amoeba, reaching in a different direction. But already, inside, there’s a nucleus forming. Once you learn its real shape, you’ll go after it, single-minded, and God help anyone who stands in your way.

  what I said

  My father had a theory about money: it fell into two categories, he said, boring and exciting. His job as an engineer brought him a good amount of the first kind, enough for us to live a comfortable life, but that didn’t satisfy him. He wanted to invest in ventures that would bring him millions in profits, preferably overnight. He loved the thrill of riding the roller coaster of risk. Yes, you could say he was a gambler, even though he always spoke disparagingly of casinos and such, and never bought a lottery ticket. Unfortunately, he had none of the instincts of a successful gambler, and every idea he funded—from a fish farm to a household robot that would do chores to a car that would run on wind power—went belly-up. Pretty soon we were left with very little money of any kind.

  My theory? My theory is that every kind of money is exciting. You think I’m joking. You’ll soon discover that I am the most mercenary of men. You’re saying money can’t make us happy? Maybe. But the lack of it can sure as hell make us miserable.

  what I didn’t say

  Take yourself, for example. You’re unhappy. I’ve been around enough people in distress to recognize the symptoms. And one reason is that you don’t like living with your cousin and her husband. (I sense complications there, things you won’t talk about.) You wouldn’t have had to do it, would you, if you’d received a proper settlement from your divorce, which I’ll bet you didn’t. But if you had enough money, maybe you wouldn’t have come to America. And then I wouldn’t be sitting here with you in my Honda Civic, breathing in the smell of your body, which I swear is like lotus flowers, even though it’s probably some synthetic American perfume you bought at the corner Walgreen’s.

  what I said

  We were particularly miserable in our lack of money because my father had retained the Indian mentality of saving face. We couldn’t afford meat more than once a week, and that, too, only whole chicken, which my mother would wrestle with for hours in her effort to create a meal because in her house in India there had always been a cook to do such things. But then someone in the community would invite us for a birthday party or a wedding, and Dad would make sure our gift was the fanciest one. On my birthday he’d throw a huge party and special-order pistachio ice-cream cake from Raja’s Sweets, and have Mom put together these elaborate goody bags with imported Toblerone bars and Tonka trucks. The day after, he’d let me pick out my three favorite gifts, and return the rest to the local Toys ‘R’ Us for a refund.

  No, my mother didn’t get mad about it. She wasn’t the sort. Plus, she too believed in the importance of saving face.

  But I got mad enough for the two of us put together.

  Yeah, I was mad with her, too. Because she’d let my father brainwash her. Only much later did I realize that she did what he wanted not because she thought it was right but only because she loved him.

  You don’t think that’s love? Ah, but love, like Baskin-Robbins, comes in many flavors.

  Here’s a contemporary koan, fashioned by yours truly: In chocolate ice cream, can you separate the chocolate from the milk? For milk, read love (alias ownership, desire, joy). For chocolate, read hate (alias burden, guilt, helpless rage).

  what I didn’t say

  I think your cousin’s husband might know a little of what I mean.

  what I said

  I dealt with my own rage by staying away, spending more and more time at the library, or in sports. I worked the late shift at a McDonald’s and came home only to sleep. I opened a bank account and saved every penny, even though I knew it wouldn’t be enough for what I wanted. I read all the joke books I could find because I wanted to be funny and popular.

  No, I was never rude to my parents. That would have been a waste of energy. I just made sure I was never there.

  What could they say? I was following the prescribed pathway for the children of immigrants, gathering the implements that would unlock the doors of the best colleges.

  And they did, sort of. I got a partial scholarship to one of those accelerated medical programs—because of my father’s income, I couldn’t qualify for a full scholarship. Even with all my saved-up money, it wasn’t enough. Then my mother, in one of those dramatic immigrant gestures, sold all her jewelry.

  Don’t worry, she told my distressed father, I picked up some high-quality costume jewelry on my last trip to India. Our friends will never know the difference.

  That’s how I went to medical school.

  You asked me before about whether I lived for myself. Does that qualify?

  I went to med school because I thought it was a sure ticket to the good life, as far away from my father’s fish farm as I could get. I didn’t know about student loans that would take you half your lifetime to pay off. Or HMOs. Or that Dad would cancel his medical insurance to save on the monthly payments, and then promptly develop a heart problem. That’s why you’re sitting in a Honda Civic right now instead of a Benz.

  But along the way I discovered that I liked helping people.

  Philanthropy? Are you kidding! I just love the power.

  what I didn’t say

  I think you love it, too, by the way you incline your long throat and look at me sideways from under your lashes. The way you slip your hand into mine, the nails scraping my palm lightly. The power of the body. Whatever other power you lack, you certainly have that.

  Then you look out your window into the darkness of night-eucalyptus bordering the freeway. You’re biting your lip. You’ve forgotten me. I’m struck by a violent longing to wrench you around to face me, to force you to remember. Even if it means that we’ll crash.

  Do you have any inkling of this?

  I bite the inside of my cheek until the longing subsides. For a moment I feel sorry for your cousin’s husband, and maybe a little afraid.

  what I said

  No more today. What, you want all my secrets at once? I need to save some of them for next time. Yeah, like in the Arabian Nights. It�
�s how we storytellers keep ourselves alive.

  Seventeen

  Sudha

  Sunday morning drags itself heavily over us. The air rumbles like indigestion. All the sunshine that had lighted our little apartment with laughter yesterday has leached away, leaving behind walls colored like mustard stains.

  Last night, when I came in, Sunil was impeccable in his courtesy. I hope you had a good time, he said, opening the door. He took my jacket from me and hung it up. There was enough fury in his fingertips to scorch the fabric.

  Anju asked a hundred cheery questions. Where did you go, what did you eat, what did you talk about, was it fun, do you like him, what else did you talk about, do you think he likes you, how come you’re so late, when will you see him again. From behind the newspaper, he said, “Why are you so excited? Anyone would think he’s your boyfriend.”

  The word clattered to the floor of the living room. She narrowed her eyes the way one does when driving on a too-bright day, trying to recognize that shape up ahead, past the glare. “Why are you so upset?”

  I could hear the unsaid words. Anyone would think she’s your girlfriend. She went into the bedroom and slammed the door.

  I excused myself, saying I was tired. But Dayita wouldn’t come with me. She held on to Sunil’s pant leg and screamed.

  “Stop that right now!” I shouted. When I pulled at her arm, it was hot.

  “She’s teething,” he said. “Her lower jaw is swollen on the right side.”

  I felt terrible. I should have noticed it right away. I got the Anbesol from the bathroom. When I tried to rub some on Dayita’s gums, she bit me, hard.

  Sunil rubbed her gums with the ointment. He gave her some Baby Tylenol and wiped her face with a clean, wet towel. He kissed her on the top of her head and said, “Be my good girl and go with your mom, and tomorrow I’ll tell you the story of the monkey and the crocodile.” He put his hands together and made snapping motions like a crocodile’s jaws until she laughed.

  But she was still angry with me. In bed she lay on the edge. She kicked away my arm even after I sang Ghum Parani Mashi Pishi, which is her favorite nighttime song. Only after she fell asleep could I pull her close. I rubbed the nubs of her shoulders, her elbows smooth as pebbles from a river. Her damp neck tasted of salt and lint.

  What an end to my day with Lalit! He’d surprised me with that story. The hidden canyons under his laughter. I liked him more for it. But already, our day together, bright as the rainbow streaks on bubbles, was fading. I couldn’t connect it to my real life. This flat that smelled of stale garam masala. This child who threw tantrums because I didn’t give her what she needed. This I who was a bad mother, whose mere appearance caused marital battles to erupt around her. In my real life, the woman whom Lalit wanted to kiss did not exist.

  Sunday afternoon. Dayita frets and will not eat. Sunil sits in front of the TV, listening to a long discussion on Simpson’s possible jury. A black woman bangs on the table and shouts something about evidence planted by the police, how they’d never do that to a white man. Anju has pulled her chair to the far corner of the room and buried herself in a book. Restlessness gnaws at me. I cannot sit. All around me, discontent, like miasma from a swamp. Our separate discontents. How can I plan my future in such a place? I try to take Dayita for a walk, but she will not come. She holds out her hands to Sunil and calls, Baba! Baba! Father, Father. How did she learn those words? Who taught them to her? I want to force her into the stroller, lash her down with the seat belt. But Sunil says, “Let me keep her. She doesn’t look well.” He picks her up and walks over to the freezer. He takes out a blue teething ring—when did he buy it?—and gives it to her to chew. She clasps his neck and watches me from the shelter of his shoulder. I’m so angry, I bang the door behind me as loudly as I can.

  What is it I want?

  I walk and walk, as if the exhaustion of muscles might exhaust the spiraling of thoughts inside my skull. As if the cold evening wind, smelling unaccountably of burning leaves, might blow through me, lifting before it the fog of my confusion. In school, the nuns had taught us a poem. How do I love thee, let me count the ways. If I were to count the ways I love Dayita, what would I say? I love you with a pained love, a nerve grown wrong, pinched between bones. Because of love for you, I left everything I knew and plunged into uncertainty. And this was even before I saw you. When you put your arms around someone else and smile your new-toothed smile, my hair crackles with envy. I love you so much I could die for you. But here’s where the poetry breaks down: I like you only in spurts. Sometimes I feel trapped by you. I can’t stop myself from thinking, If I were alone, I could … And so I grow angry with you. I imagine that you blame me for Sunil’s kiss. For tearing up Ashok’s letter. For dancing with Lalit. For leaving you behind to go out with him. All my own guilts I’ve projected onto you, all the regrets and rages of my snatched-away youth. I can die for you, no problem there, but can I live for you?

  My daughter, my enemy, my own wounded self.

  I come home determined to be more maternal.

  Dayita is asleep on Sunil’s bed. He has fed her dinner already. I want to put her into the crib, but Anju says, “Let her be, Sudha, don’t disturb her. Dayu’s no trouble. You know we love having her with us.”

  Frustrated though I am, what can I say? This is my cousin, whom I came here to help because her own baby died. I resort to scrubbing the kitchen. When Anju asks if she can help, I shake my head, not trusting words. She shrugs and goes into her bedroom. She doesn’t insist as she once would have. Sunil stays up, reading some sort of report from his work. But I don’t see him turn a single page. A couple of times he looks up as though to say something. He doesn’t. Should I be grateful for that? Going to bed, I feel the pressure of his unspoken words squeeze my heart like a disease.

  Monday morning dawns a beautiful gold, empty of clouds. The opposite of how I’m feeling. But for Dayita’s sake, I make an effort. We wave cheery good-byes to Anju. Thankfully, Sunil left before I came out of my bedroom. Dayita and I do the breakfast dishes—she stands next to me on a chair and splashes her hands in the soap water. After I’ve wiped the floor, I say, “Let’s do something fun today that we haven’t done before.” I wish I could take her someplace different and exotic, beyond the dull orbit of my everyday walk.

  As though in response to my wish, the key rattles in the lock. The door creaks open.

  Sunil!

  My heart thuds so hard, I think it’s going to stop. But at the center of my startled fear is an icy lack of surprise. What else could come after this past weekend, things built up to explosion point? And yet the weekend was only a catalyst. We’ve been moving toward this moment, he and I—no matter how many detours we tried—ever since our eyes met at the airport in San Francisco and I knew he’d forgotten nothing of the past.

  In a strange, chill manner, I’m relieved, too. For months I’ve been dangling from the edge of a cliff, my grip weakening. I’m exhausted from imagining my fall, over and over. The real fall—whatever I shatter in the process—can happen only once. After today, it’ll pass into my past, along with the other things I thought I could not survive.

  For a moment Sunil stands at the door, a look of such longing on his face that I’m almost weakened. When he starts toward me, his gait is careful and arduous, a desert traveler pushing against a windstorm. I force myself not to move back. He puts out his hand. My throat is blocked by salt and sand and dim breathlessness. I pick up Dayita and hold her between us like armor.

  His hand touches Dayita’s forehead, checking for fever. Perhaps that is all he had intended from the first.

  Dayita scrabbles from my arms into his, chattering excited baby words that he seems to understand. He’s whispering something to her, his lips moving across her forehead in little kisses. I lower my eyes, feeling stupid.

  “I’m glad she’s better today,” he says. There’s a small smile on his lips, bitter like the crushed neem leaves we take in India to clear the blood
.

  I know he saw the fear in my eyes.

  He pulls our jackets from the closet, fills a diaper bag. “Let’s go,” he says and heads out the door as though this were an excursion we planned weeks ago. He doesn’t check to see if I’m following. How can he be so certain? But perhaps it is only that, like that Greek hero who goes down to hell, whose name I can’t remember in my agitation, he knows he must not look back.

  The freeway is lined in part with factories belching smoke, in part with elegant structures of glass and metal. In between, a few dispirited palm trees. The pattern of my life, except I can’t always distinguish the ugly from the beautiful.

  We pull off onto a side street. Small, neat houses, freshly painted, cheerily tiled. Careful lawns set out like tea trays, not a weed in sight. I imagine, with brief envy, a life where the quality of grass can assume such importance. Dayita points at blackbirds and babbles happily. We stop in front of green. A sign says, San Jose Rose Gardens.

  “I thought you would like this place,” Sunil says. “It isn’t as fancy as San Francisco, of course!” There’s a challenge in his voice and, under that, a plea.

  The first time we were alone, that, too, was in a garden. Arbor of jasmine and bougainvillea. Tuberoses which smelled like bridal nights, making a man forget the promises he’d made already to another woman and her family.

  It’s no coincidence that he has brought me here.

  We walk, heading for a bench at the far end. A strange, Valium calm has replaced my agitation. Dayita rushes ahead, delighted by the colors. I call to her not to touch anything. Riot of reds. Scarlet Knight, Rob Roy, Royal William, Don Juan. Who would have believed that so many roses were named for men?