She fits her fingertips to the drawer’s ridge and pulls. The room is silver and glittery. She’s listening for something she can’t hear. She’s closing down the compartments of her mind one by one. Click. Click. Click. A song on a tape recorder, the old one in her mother’s house, with its fat spools colored a metallic gray, grainy with the static of years that cannot be rewound: All the lonely people …
With all her strength, she slams the drawer shut. Half-runs, half-stumbles to the living area. The notebook. Her breath comes as if she’s been held down underwater too long. She flips through the pages, then back again. Where the hell’s that number? But when she finds it, she stares down at it. To call an almost stranger—someone she only knows through Writing Group—like this? To face the fact that this stranger is the only person she can call in the middle of a night when she’s considering death?
… where do they all come from?
She was born a daughter of the Chatterjees of Bhavanipur, and grew up in a marble mansion so old and famous that passersby pointed it out to each other. Look, that one. On her first birthday, her mother invited a hundred Brahmins to come and perform a fire ceremony for blessing. Her marriage was written up in the social register of the Amrita Bazaar Patrika. Now, alone in a dim apartment full of broken glass, she must use the last of her willpower to lift the receiver. A sleepy voice mumbles something at the other end. Anju stiffens, all her muscles ready to apologize. To hang up.
She must grip the receiver with both hands. She has nothing else to hold on to.
“This is Anju,” she says. “I’m in a lot of trouble. I need help.”
They’re the hardest words she’s ever spoken.
Six
Letters
Houston
September 94
Anju,
I’m worried about you. I called the apartment several times late at night and early in the morning, and couldn’t get hold of you. Are you okay? I wanted to tell you that you need not worry about money. Half of my paycheck will continue to be deposited into our joint bank account. Let me know if you need more.
I know you must be very angry with me. I feel terrible about all the pain I’ve caused you. Don’t think I did it lightly. I’m hoping that with time you’ll see this was the only solution possible for us, the only way we could move ahead with our lives. I hope, with time, we’ll be able to be friends.
Please write to my Houston office address. I’m in a hotel and might move soon.
Sunil
September 1994
Sunil,
Am enclosing two letters for you that were overnighted from Calcutta some time back. The manager had signed for them and slipped them under the apartment door. I’m not living there—so I didn’t get them until yesterday.
I’ve moved my stuff out. Inform the manager if you want to continue to keep the apartment. Or else, for a fee, she’s willing to pack your things and put them in storage.
Have removed my name from the joint bank account. No point making deposits there for me. Did you really think I was going to continue taking your money?
Kindly stop writing to me. It’s not my welfare you’re concerned about—it’s your own guilt. You’ll just have to live with that. I’m not interested in being friends. I’m trying hard to “move ahead” with my life, and every time I hear from you, it sets me back. If you really want to help, leave me alone.
Mail the divorce papers to the manager. She’ll inform me when she gets them.
Anju
Calcutta,
August 1994
Dear chiranjibi Sunil,
Son, it is with great sorrow that I write this. Myself and various other relatives, including Gouri, have been phoning you nonstop for the last two days to inform you that your father passed away three days ago resulting from a heart attack, God grant him peace. We are very worried as to why no one picks up the phone in your flat. I could not find your office number anywhere, so finally Gouri suggested that I send this letter by overnight courier. Please call at once so I will know when you are coming. The funeral must be held within three days latest, as the body cannot be kept longer than that.
Your mother
Calcutta
August 1994
Dear Sunil,
I am writing this on behalf of your mother, who is quite overcome by all the stresses of the funeral and of course her loss. She is additionally distraught not to have heard from you, especially since the courier service insists that they delivered your mother’s letter to your flat and have a signature to prove it. We have been phoning you everyday, to no avail. Finally, we heard a mechanical message that informed us that your number had been disconnected. Needless to say, this has increased our worries. Please contact us immediately so that we may know what is going on.
It was very difficult for your mother to face the funeral service alone, without your support. The hardest moment was when she had to set fire to the corpse, a duty traditionally carried out—I need not tell you this—by the son. She undertook it bravely, but broke down soon after and has been confined to bed. Now she needs you even more, for I believe your father’s papers are in a confusion, and as you are well aware, she has no experience in dealing with such matters. Once again, please phone us immediately and make arrangements to come to India, no matter how inconvenient, as soon as possible.
Your mother-in-law
Gouri
Santa Clara
September 1994
Dear Mother,
I read in your letter about Sunil’s father’s death. I can’t pretend to be sorry. I’m too unhappy right now to be gracious, even to the dead. He was a cold and cruel man, and my only memories of him are unpleasant ones. He harmed Sunil in ways that I’ve been paying for ever since I became his wife.
What I’m about to write will come as a shock to you. I should have let you know earlier, but I didn’t want to worry you. Now I feel that was a mistake. You’re strong enough to handle the truth of anything. Had I told you, maybe you could have advised me, and matters would have turned out different. Well, it’s too late now.
Sunil and I have separated. He wants a divorce. He told me he loves Sudha, has loved her a long time. (Did you suspect this? Was I the only one who refused to see?) He’s gone to Houston with a new assignment, and I’m staying in a nearby city with a friend, a woman I met at the university, who took me in when I was at the end of my rope. (My new address is above.) That’s why there was no one to pick up the phone when you called. Sudha has taken up a job, I think. I have not seen her, and don’t wish to. She left suddenly, without explanation. I suspect it had something to do with Sunil. Maybe they’re together in Houston right now. I don’t know, and I don’t want to know, though I do wish I could see Dayita once in a while.
My life feels like there’s a gaping hole at the center of it. I tiptoe around it. One misstep, and I’ll plunge in.
I can’t write any more now. But mostly, I want you not to worry. I was worse before. I wanted to hurt myself. Now I’ve decided otherwise. I want to show them that I can survive in spite of what they’ve done to me.
Your daughter
Anju
Berkeley
September 1994
Dear Anju,
I don’t know if this will reach you, or if you’ll even read it, but I have to write it anyway. I can’t concentrate on anything—I keep thinking about you. I called the apartment and got the recording that says the number is disconnected. I asked Lalit to stop by and check on you, but he said no one’s living there anymore. Where are you? I really need to talk to you. I know you blame me for Sunil’s leaving, but at least you should hear my side of it. If you still want to cut me off after that, I won’t bother you.
Dayita asks for you all the time. She looks for you everywhere. Even if you want nothing to do with me, please see her, or at least talk to her on the phone. Don’t punish her for what you consider my sins.
Call me at the number below. Here’s my address, too, in case
you prefer to write.
Sudha
Calcutta
September 1994
Daughter Sudha,
I can’t believe it. You’ve ruined your cousin’s marriage, run away from home, put Dayita in who-knows-what dangerous situation, and dashed to the ground all hopes of creating a better life for yourself with that nice surgeon. Only you could make such a complete mess of your life in such a short time.
And worst of all, to think that you’ve hidden it all from me with such devious cunning. Why, I’d still be knowing nothing if I hadn’t come across Anju’s letter quite by chance inside Gouri’s bureau when I brought her a glass of barley water in bed. (Yes, I’d like you to know that after receiving Anju’s letter Gouri suffered from chest pains and Dr. Mitra had to be called in the middle of the night.) Pishi, too, is quite ill with weeping and praying, and I am so mortified I can hardly hold up my head. So as you can see, you’ve successfully thrown two households into turmoil with your selfishness. This is why I advised you not to destroy your marriage with Rameshby your foolish stubbornness. Because once a woman leaves her husband, she doesn’t hesitate at anything. Even the most immoral acts come to her with ease. I shudder to think of the effect your behavior will have on your daughter’s character.
But why am I taking the trouble to write all this? Most probably this letter will not get to you—for poor Anju doesn’t seem to know where you’ve gone—and I hate to guess where that is, and with whom! And even if it does, you’ll probably just throw it in the dustbin without reading and continue blithely with your life of sinful pleasure.
Your devastated and deeply ashamed mother
Houston
September 1994
Anju—
I respect your wish to be left alone. I won’t trouble you with any further communication. However, you are always welcome to write to me.
I’m leaving for India to help my mother put her finances in order. I don’t know when I’ll return. I’m going to give up the apartment in California—I guess there’s no reason in keeping it, now that you seem to have found a place that suits you better. I hope you’ll let me have an address, in case of emergency.
I ask you for one last favor. Can you pack my things? I’ve called the manager. She’ll put them in storage, but I just didn’t want her snooping through them. Of course I am in no position to insist, I know that.
I’m enclosing a package for Dayita. Should you know where she is, I would be much obliged if you would forward it to her.
Sunil
P.S. You’re still furious with me because I want to end our marriage. But be honest with yourself. Were you happy with the way we were, even when we were together? In our hearts, hadn’t we already left each other a long time back?
Calcutta
September 1994
My dear Sudha
I’m sending this by overnight courier, in the hope that it will be forwarded to you somehow.
Your mother called me yesterday, so distraught that I failed to understand what was going on. She hinted at various calamities, and when I hurried over to the flat, neither Aunt Gouri nor Pishi would elaborate on them. I was left to conjecture about all manners of disasters that must have occurred to you, or Anju, or possibly both. When I asked when you were returning to Calcutta, your mother burst into tears. “Never!” she exclaimed, then added, “It’s better if she doesn’t, the shameless hussy.” Knowing how she tends to dramatize, I looked to Pishi and Aunt Gouri, who are women of intellect and personality, for an explanation. But they were strangely silent.
As you may imagine, I am confused by all this, though I cannot imagine that whatever situation you have fallen into can be as bad as your mother seems to think. No matter what she implies, I cannot believe you would do anything that is truly immoral.
Sudha, all this long while I’ve been patient, waiting for you to make up your mind to come back to me. All your neglect, even your requests that I should forget you—as though I could ever do that—I took in my stride. I was certain that once you saw enough of the world you would realize that home, where people know you and love you in spite of it, is the best place. Butit seems that my strategy was mistaken. The action I’m about to undertake now, I should have taken a long time ago.
I’m coming to America to bring you and your daughter home.
Yours always,
Ashok
Seven
Sudha
I’m sleepy all the time. Why, I don’t know. The work is not hard. In fact, I wish it were harder. That way, it would tire me out so I wouldn’t have the energy to worry. That way, I’d be able to sleep.
That’s the other thing. I’m sleepy, but when I lie down at night, or even in the afternoon, next to Dayita as she naps, my mind won’t let go. It’s like the old exhaust fan we had in our school in India, in the lunchroom, covered with cobwebs. It revolved slowly and painfully as if it would stop any moment, except it never did. Round and round my mind goes, grimy with grease and soot. I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have. Sometimes I forget what it is I shouldn’t have done and only remember the feeling.
To get myself through the nights, I’m stitching an imaginary quilt. A baby quilt, the kind one gives as a newborn gift. The kind I almost made once for a boy who was almost born. I’ve chosen the material already. A fine white silk, which I know is completely impractical. But this quilt, it’s mine the way nothing ever was. More than Dayita. More even than my own body. I can do whatever I want with it, and what I do can cause no harm in the world outside.
Nights are when I wonder most what Anju is doing. Where she is. When we were growing up, she used to sleep with one knee drawn toward her chest. She always wanted an extra pillow, which would end up on the floor.
I pad my quilt with old cotton saris, each washed a hundred times in rainwater. I stitch it by hand. No machine shortcuts for my quilt. I use a stem stitch, which doubles up carefully on itself so it will never unravel.
Now I must plan the design. Must make it at once fabulous and real. Breathtaking in its complexity. Astonishing in its simpleness. Will there be women in my quilt? Mangala’s silver anklets. Nicole’s golden hair. Sara’s (but why her?) iridescent nails. The lost ones, safe in a place where no one can harm them ever again.
Can I ask Lalit to go to the university? To wait outside her class, to speak to her as she leaves? No, no, that would be abusing his generosity.
I want my quilt to be like the quilts out of the tales that Pishi used to tell us. Sewn with resham thread in stitches so tiny and seamless that the images looked alive—and sometimes they were. Bulbuls flew out from these quilts on their red satin wings. Young lovers linked hands and disappeared down a shaded forest lane.
But there will be no lovers in my quilt.
The old man doesn’t talk to me, but sometimes he watches as I wheel in food, as I dust a little sandalwood powder over his concave chest after his daily sponge bath. Against my fingers, the white hairs on his chest are surprisingly tough, like roots. If I ask him a direct question, Shall I cook rajma beans for dinner tonight, or Shall I turn on the TV for you, what would you like to watch, he freezes like a wild animal caught in headlights. I’ve learned to say, Maybe the curtains should be opened a little, it’s such a pretty day. I’ve learned to read his responses. Stiffening of the neck, eyes focused on an invisible object past my head: no. Eyes closed, a small, puffed-out breath: I don’t care, do what you want.
Sometimes Dayita clatters in after me in her walker, which she loves. I’m understanding more of her baby chatter: her version of juice and Froot Loops and blankie. Sometimes she asks for Anju, sometimes for Sunil, whom she still calls Baba. She rolls up to the music system and wants me to turn it on, Pay song. Her favorite thing to do is to point to things and ask their names. This? This? She points to old man. This is Grandpa, I say, Dadu. Da-da, she says. She bumps against the bed. Da-da. The old man stares at her. Each time he looks astonished, as though he has never seen a child before.
&nb
sp; Hush, I tell her. Don’t bother Grandpa.
Da-da-da.
The old man exhales, a small, truncated puff of air, and closes his eyes.
“I do believe he’s getting fond of us,” I tell Lalit.
I wait for him to make one of his usual comments, Uh-huh, right, or Dream on, or Hope lives forever in the human breast. But he only says, with a new cautiousness that saddens me, “That would be very nice.”
Maybe I will put a river in my quilt, down which a boat travels. The boat will be shaped like a peacock, like in the fairy tales. The sails will be the color of peacock feathers. On the boat will be a woman, reading a book. Can I bear to have her resemble Anju?
The old man eats, but not much. Only enough, I suspect, to keep from being hospitalized. Stuffed baby eggplants, chicken baked in yogurt-almond sauce, rice pudding studded with fat raisins—nothing tempts him. He’ll eat his few mouthfuls, then push the plate away. If I grumble, or try to persuade him, he covers his face with the sheet. Each morning, his profile is a little gaunter, a little more withdrawn. Each morning, the bones stick up pole-like under the tent of his bedclothes.
When Trideep and Myra come to see him, he doesn’t respond to Trideep’s questions. Myra’s desperate small talk. He doesn’t make requests anymore. He just closes his eyes.
“It was almost better when he used to yell and scream and throw things,” Myra says.
“You must be joking,” I reply. But I know what she means. I, too, am concerned as to where this might lead.
“Just when we thought he was getting better!” Trideep says, his face pinched with worry. “Why won’t he talk to us? Is he all right?”
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