“I’m fine, Grandmother,” Reet was saying. “You look just the same as you did four years ago, and so does Auntie, but who are these huge creatures?”
She ruffled the hair of the cousins, who were clustering around her. Sita and Suma were twins, not identical but plain and dark-skinned and skinny, just like Asha.
“Where’s Rajiv?” Ma asked. Rajiv was the one cousin who was close to their age, and the only boy of the house. He was seventeen, like Reet, and the girls called him Raj for short.
“At college, of course,” Auntie answered proudly. “He studies so hard, that boy.”
“Not hard enough,” Grandmother added, acknowledging Ma’s pronam with a nod. “Lazy, that one is. And his father so hardworking, too!” Her eyes raked over her older daughter-in-law as though she knew exactly where the laziness in her grandson’s character originated.
“He’s a good boy, your son,” Ma told Auntie. “Has he put on some weight? He was always so thin.”
She was using proper Bangla, polished and beautiful, just as she had with the Bengali families in their Delhi social circle. When it was just the four of them at home, Ma slipped into an odd, nasal pronunciation and slang village words that Baba and the girls understood but didn’t use themselves. To Asha’s ears, the public version sounded as if her mother were acting; her at-home Bangla was sweeter and easier to obey.
“I feed my son plenty of food,” Auntie answered, obviously taking Ma’s words personally. “He’s growing up nicely.”
Suma, the more verbal of the twins, piped up. “He plays cricket all the time. We never see him studying.”
“Hush!” Auntie snapped. “Don’t talk about your brother like that.”
Suma’s face fell at her mother’s rebuke.
“My boys were always top of their class,” Grandmother said. “A woman’s greatest duty and privilege is to see that her son succeeds.”
Auntie glowered at Grandmother’s correction, and Ma flinched almost imperceptibly as she took the jab at her sonless status. Asha and Reet exchanged glances. The cousins had grown, the tight bun of hair on Grandmother’s head was almost completely gray, and Auntie had put on a few pounds. Otherwise, things were just as they remembered—the air simmering with tension between Grandmother and her daughters-in-law, competition between the wives as thick as luchi dough. And this time, there was no Baba to make the peace.
FIVE
REET AND ASHA WERE SHARING A ROOM WITH SITA AND SUMA until Baba sent for them. It had no door; only a curtain for privacy. Their cousin Raj had a small room to himself, with a door to shut. Lucky bum, Asha thought. Gets a space of his own just because he’s got different body parts than we do.
All four granddaughters were expected to sleep together, stacked sideways across the same bed under one large mosquito net. It was the bed that Baba and Uncle had shared when they were boys. Probably the same mosquito net, too, Asha thought, feeling almost as desperate for privacy as the beggars in Howrah station were for food.
The household’s daily routine left hardly any time for solitude. After breakfast, Uncle headed to work and Raj to college. Grandmother bustled in and out, ordering the servants around and taking one small granddaughter on her lap at a time to comb out and braid her hair. Once the twins left for school, the three older women gathered in the living room to knit and embroider, staying under the fans as the heat intensified. Ma made it clear that Reet and Asha were expected to join them.
While Reet entertained by singing or gossiping about the latest film celebrities, Asha curled up in a corner of the room and read. She’d brought along a few favorites from her childhood: her dog-eared copy of Grimms’ Fairy Tales, a few of Enid Blyton’s books, and E. Nesbit’s The Enchanted Castle, The Railway Children, and Five Children and It.
Thankfully, here in Calcutta, her professor-grandfather’s glassed-in bookcase was stocked with Shakespeare, Dickens, Milton, and Trollope. Asha was working her way through them, though some weren’t easy reads. His wise, loving presence in the house was growing as dim as the light filtering through the banana leaves, and she liked the way the books connected her to him.
An hour or so before noon, Auntie would rouse herself and head to the kitchen to oversee the preparation of lunch for her husband and son. A man on a cycle waited outside for tin containers full of steaming rice and fish curry and lentils that he delivered to Uncle’s office and Raj’s college. Shortly after that, the younger cousins came home, and then the house grew still as Auntie, Ma, Reet, and Grandmother rested and the little girls napped.
That was when Asha seized her chance. Taking her diary, she tiptoed up the stairs to the roof and closed the door quietly behind her. The flat cement roof was enclosed on all four sides by a low wall. Asha walked to the front of the house and looked down on the large field across the road. From the opposite wall, she glimpsed a pond behind a banyan tree, and the cricket fields and buildings of her cousin’s college in the distance. To the sides were the neighbors’ houses, one higher and the other lower. The afternoon sky stretched overhead from horizon to horizon, and when Asha looked up, she felt as if she were in a quiet, hot balloon. Even the crows were resting from the heat of the day.
Tall coconut trees between their house and the taller house next door provided a bit of shade, and Asha sat cross-legged in the biggest patch of it. Finally she was alone, and she inhaled huge breaths of sunlight and open air. The atmosphere was thick and wet, making sweat pour down her neck into every nook of her body, but Asha didn’t care. She started writing.
Oh, it’s good to have some privacy. Being constantly scrutinized by Auntie and Grandmother is like having three mas around. Why do they have to comment constantly about how I look, S.K.? I’ve been called “dark” and “skinny” so many times, the words should lose their sting, but somehow they don’t. What’s wrong with being dark, anyway? Or being thin? I know the answer, of course: It hinders my chances of snaring a good husband. What would those protesting women who burn their bras in America say about THAT, I wonder?
Which leads me to my next complaint: still no telegram from Baba. What is taking him so long?The job market for engineers in America was supposed to be ten times better than in Delhi. After only a few weeks, Grandmother’s already hinting about the extra cost of having us here, and Reet and I are starting to worry about Ma, who gets quieter by the day.
And me? I’m about to explode from boredom and frustration. It’s so HOT. And there’s NOTHING to do. If only there were someone INTERESTING to talk to besides Reet. Raj hasn’t said a word to us since we got here. He looks so different now that he’s shaving, and he has a new, deep voice, which we only get to hear when he answers his parents. Otherwise, he disappears into his room to study, then meets his friends to play cricket or tennis. I hear them laughing and joking, just like Kavi and I used to.
Asha paused to flick the sweat from the crook of her elbow. Suddenly she caught sight of a face staring at her through the coconut leaves. It was on the fourth story of the house next door, only a few feet away from the Guptas’ roof. Even as she turned, though, the shutters closed and the face disappeared, leaving behind an impression of an intense gaze.
The stately four-story house and garden next to the Guptas’ was the most expensive property in the neighborhood. The family who used to live there had moved to England since Asha’s last trip to Calcutta and someone else had taken over. Someone who likes to spy on other people, Asha thought, frowning. She shrugged and kept writing, irritated by her lack of privacy even up here.
There’s absolutely no place to be alone in this house. Otherwise known as my prison. If only I could leave for school like Raj and the little girls! I studied like a slave and passed my O levels with flying colors, but what good does that do me now? I’ll have to take one more year of high school in America—that’s what they call higher secondary. And then, university, to study whatever I want to study and be whatever I want to be.
Oh, it’s terrible not to have money. It’s no
t that I miss being rich, it’s that I hate how POWERLESS you are without some rupees tucked away. We used up most of our savings to buy Baba’s airplane ticket, so what’s the difference between the four of us and those beggars at Howrah station? Nothing except that we have relatives who let us stay with them, and the hope that Baba can find a good job. Oh, and two untouchable dowries in the Gupta family safe at the bank, jewelry and a bit of money, kept with Suma’s and Sita’s so that the four of us have a prayer of marrying decently.
“Osh, time for tea!” Reet’s voice called from the stairwell below.
Asha locked her diary and tucked the key back under her salwar kameez. She didn’t want anybody other than her sister to start asking questions regarding her whereabouts. Just before she left the roof, she noticed that the shutters of their neighbor’s fourth-story room were slightly ajar, as though someone had opened them just enough to see and not be seen.
Male voices joined the conversation over tea, as Uncle and Raj returned from work and college. The little girls grew tired of paper dolls and begged their cousin to read them a story. Asha always agreed. She had been one of Bishop Academy’s elocutionary stars, and had inherited Baba’s flair for timing and delivery. Ma, Grandmother, Reet, and Auntie would stop chattering while she read aloud or told a story. Even Uncle and Raj listened.
Fairy tales were her favorite read-alouds; she’d analyzed her love for them in her diary. Was it because evil was always vanquished at the end? Was it because the most unlikely characters stuck in the worst quandaries sometimes got their happy endings? She loved the Bengali folktales, too, and their version of a rakosh, or monster, which was usually slain by a weak underdog—the runt of a family, the village fool, or even a small bird named Tuntuni.
Conscious of her small cousins taking in the fairy tales with wide eyes, Asha did the same sort of editing that she did silently for herself. She had developed the skill of sending her eyes skimming two or three sentences ahead of her voice. Without skipping a beat, she replaced phrases like “the most beautiful girl in all the kingdom” with “the sweetest and kindest girl in all the kingdom,” left out as much description as she could of female physical at tributes, and completely obliterated words and phrases like “fair” and “white skin.” Nobody listening seemed to notice, and Asha figured the Grimm brothers wouldn’t mind. Their princesses and peasant girls got slightly more noble, smart, generous, and brave, and less physical, that was all. The Tuntuni stories she could tell just as Baba had told her. They didn’t need editing because the bird’s success didn’t rely on looks but on clever tactics.
“Another one, another one!” the twins clamored when Asha was finished.
“Asha needs to drink her tea,” Reet told them. “Another one tomorrow.”
Asha took the steaming cup from her sister. “Uncle, who lives in the house next door?” she asked.
“Man named Sen bought the place. Family used to own a big jute farm in the village. Sold it for a fortune. Hear he and his wife like to play cards; we’ve been meaning to ask them to dinner. One son, but we don’t see much of him.”
“It’s a sad story,” Auntie said, with the relish of someone in the know. “Apparently the son’s quite odd. Shone at university but refused to practice medicine or study engineering. Spent a year in Europe doing who knows what. Now he stays in his room day and night and hardly mixes with anybody. Of course he doesn’t need a job because their family’s so rich.” She reached over to ruffle Raj’s hair fondly. “Not like my boy, who has to support all of us someday.”
Raj pulled away from her touch, slumping even lower in his chair.
“Such a waste,” Grandmother added, sighing. “A lovely inheritance and an only son. But he’s mad, that one.”
Asha noticed that Ma, who was staring out the window into the garden, wasn’t participating in the family gossip session.
“Here comes the Jailor,” Reet muttered to Asha as the family’s conversation shifted. “She hates being here so much. And she misses Baba.”
Uncle turned up the radio to catch Prime Minister Indira Gandhi’s speech defending herself against accusations of corruption. He was a big supporter of Gandhi, the daughter of Jawaharlal Nehru, who had helped lead India to independence during Uncle’s boyhood.
As Mrs. Gandhi promoted her “Abolish Poverty” program in a loud, forceful voice, Asha wanted to cheer. “We’ve got a woman in charge of our country,” she said to her sister. “Why can’t she share some power with the rest of us?”
Reet sighed. “It’s women who make it harder on other women. Haven’t you noticed? Grandmother’s always criticizing Ma, and Auntie makes snide comments about ‘rustic traditions’ passed down from the other side of our family.”
“I wish Ma would stand up for the Strangers,” Asha said. “I would do it myself but I don’t know anything about them.”
“We know they didn’t have much money.”
“Money,” Asha said, her tone of disgust making the word sound like a curse. “It’s the real head of this home, isn’t it?”
They couldn’t help seeing Uncle frowning over the bills, which must be higher than ever with three extra mouths to feed. And now that Baba wasn’t sending anything Grandmother’s way, the family’s only savings had dwindled to what was in the four girls’ dowries. What would happen in case of an emergency?
Grandmother’s answer was to chant loud prayers for Baba’s job in front of the household idols. When that happened, Ma quickly picked up her knitting. Baba’s third sweater was almost finished; the first two had already been packaged and shipped to New York.
“When will Baba send for us, Osh?” Reet asked wistfully.
“Soon, I’m sure. He won’t let us down. Has Raj said more than three words to you yet?” Asha asked, watching their cousin gulp his hot tea as quickly as he could.
“No,” Reet answered. “He’s gone totally mute.”
As though he knew he was the subject of his cousins’ whispered conversation, Raj put his empty cup down, grabbed his cricket bat, and left the house. Uncle switched off the radio and followed, heading out to the market hand in hand with his two daughters to buy food for the next day. Grandmother, Auntie, and Ma shifted to the kitchen to supervise the cook’s preparation of dinner.
Reet and Asha stayed in the living room, alone for a change. “What’s Raj’s problem, anyway?” Asha asked her sister, using her normal speaking voice now that the coast was clear.
“Hees bod-ee eez chang-ink,” Reet said, sounding like the Russian science teacher in Delhi who introduced every student to the mysteries of human development. Thanks to stronger-than-ever ties to the Soviet Union, Indian schools were constantly receiving outdated Russian textbooks, clunky typewriters, and even ancient teachers from Moscow. Bishop Academy girls liked to mimic Mrs. Roubichev’s accent when they chatted about “forbidden topics.”
“He hasn’t changed that much,” Asha said. “He’s just taller and skinnier. And he has four mustache hairs now.”
“He was only thirteen the last time we visited, Osh. Our bodies have changed since then. I think we make him uncomfortable now.”
Asha stood and began pacing the room. “Mine hasn’t changed that much,” she said. “I’m taller and skinnier, too.”
“You are a voo-man now, darlink,” Reet told her sister. “Vether you like it or not.”
“Don’t remind me. I wish I could go out and play cricket. My arms and legs are turning into Chinese noodles.”
During their time in Calcutta, neither sister had stepped outside the house once. They were learning fast that their family’s social circle and neighborhood were even more conservative than they had been in Delhi. Girls their age didn’t walk down the street unless they were with their elders or heading to school in a crowd of classmates. Reet didn’t seem to mind, but Asha did.
“We’re still on our own, at least for a while,” Reet said sympathetically. “Why don’t you climb the stairs a few times? I’ll keep count.”
SIX
It’s happened, S.K. This town has discovered my sister.
Yesterday the whole family went to the cinema, the first time Reet and I escaped the house. When we walked back after the film, people actually came out on balconies and verandas to watch us. To watch REET.
Within a half an hour, a gang of male idiots had gathered on the corner outside our house, laughing, chatting, even hooting and catcalling up at our window. And they wouldn’t leave.
Uncle didn’t quite know how to handle the situation, so he decided to ignore it. If Baba had been here, he’d have stormed outside and made those fools leave, just like he did that time a boy followed Reet home from college—the third time I’ve ever heard him raise his voice, along with that day the geezer tried to grope Reet, and when he scolded me for shaming Ma.
The strange thing is that Auntie’s teasing MA about this crazy turn of events. And Ma’s suddenly all talkative again. Who could have guessed that here in Calcutta, a sudden outbreak of male interest in Reet could defeat the Jailor? Well, at least now we’ve got three things on our side: Baba, Knitting, and a bunch of Lusting Idiots.
“Boys used to gather outside my house when I was Reet’s age,” Ma told Auntie and Grandmother. “They’d sing love songs and toss flowers into my room until midnight.”
She’s never told Reet and me this detail about her history. She brings out something from her past only when she wants to flaunt it in front of women who obviously aren’t jealous enough of her already. As if it’s some kind of trophy to have a bunch of drooling fools outside your window.
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