Haunting Jasmine

by Anjali Banerjee

  “The pain takes a long time to go away,” Dr. Peleran is saying. “My role is to free up your vertebrae so your own body can repair any damage and return the bones to their correct positions. It’s the body’s innate intelligence.”

  My innate intelligence is telling me to run away now. For all I know, the entire town of Fairport knows my intimate secrets.

  I take a deep breath, unclench my hands. “May I help you find a book?”

  She bustles past me, turns into the Cooking section. “I’ve only just returned from California. I’ve got to have a cookbook I saw there.”

  “What book was it?” I can’t tell a cookbook from a travel guide, but I pretend to be the next Rachael Ray or Padma Lakshmi or whoever is the current guru of the Food Network.

  Lucia touches the books, her red-nailed fingers flitting along the spines like giant lady beetles. “I can’t remember the title or the author.” A strange look passes across her face—a fleeting expression of terror.

  “Can you be more specific?” I gaze at a cryptic ocean of subcategories—diet, diabetic, vegetarian, Chinese, Indian, quick meals, gourmet. Sandwiched in among the new books are collectibles—Betty Crocker, Pillsbury, True Grit. “What letter did the author’s name start with? We could look up the book on the computer.”

  “Computer?” She stares at me blankly, as if all words have tumbled out of her head.

  “Are we looking for a type of ethnic cooking?”

  She motions with her hands. “Yes, Californian!”

  California is not an ethnicity. “What kind of Californian?”

  “Wonderful recipes from the coast.”

  “Okay, a coastal city—Los Angeles, San Francisco.”

  “No, the East Coast.”

  “The East Coast of the United States?”

  “No, California.”

  “The east coast of California is Nevada.” I keep my voice polite, helpful.

  “The book was big, kind of square. There was food on the front—maybe a curry bowl? Maybe a bright green cover. Colorful. Maybe rice? Or noodles. The arrangement was perfect, all the food so appetizing and enticing.”

  I show her various books, but she keeps shaking her head. The knot tightens in my neck. A high-pitched, quirky voice slides through the air. It’s so beautifully arranged on the plate—you know someone’s fingers have been all over it. The smell of baking muffins drifts in, probably carried on the wind from the bakery down the street.

  Lucia goes on talking and talking. A headache creeps across my forehead. I don’t care about cookbooks. I don’t care about rice or noodles or finding exactly the book she discovered in California. Lucia Peleran and my perfect, happy sister should get together to discuss the menu for the wedding, but I can’t stand this another minute.

  “Stop!” I say, interrupting her monologue.

  She freezes, her mouth half open.

  I pull one book off the shelf, then another, and another, and throw them all on the table until they form several tall piles. “Here are cookbooks, dozens of them, hundreds. Just choose one and be done with it!”

  Lucia gapes, her mouth opening and closing in slow motion, her eyes blinking. She narrows her gaze at me. “Well,” she says, “divorce can make you crazy, too.” She snatches a book from the top of a pile, and the whole stack comes crashing down.

  Chapter 11

  “Another strikeout?” Tony says after Lucia stalks out in a huff.

  “I’m not playing baseball here.” I shelve the cookbooks, one by one. I don’t know what came over me. “We need to get rid of some of the oldest books. Donate them to charity—”

  “Don’t you dare.” Tony grabs Pasta Galore from my hands. “Your aunt would have a fit. The old books give this place its character.”

  “We’ve got an overload of character here. Way too much stuff.”

  Tony clutches Pasta Galore to his chest, as if the dog-eared paperback holds the key to his survival. “Why do you think your aunt chose you? Not to clean out her inventory!”

  “I’m good with numbers. I have a strong business sense. She knows I’ll spruce up the store. We need to order in the bestsellers in cooking. We need lights. It’s like a cave in here.”

  “You put this one in the wrong place.” Tony pulls a hardcover off the shelf and places it on the next shelf over. “We organize these by subject, then, within the subject, by author.”

  “Whatever, Tony. Nobody’s in here looking, anyway.”

  “Ruma could have left the store in my hands. I could have done just fine without you. Now you’ve driven away more than one customer.”

  “I didn’t drive anyone away. Lucia didn’t know what she wanted.”

  Tony points at my forehead. “It’s your job to find out.”

  “I tried.”

  “Ruma can see things, sense things about people—about what they want and need. She has a kind of third eye.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” I make a hocus-pocus motion with my fingers. “Third eye, my ass.”

  “You can’t do this job using only logic. It’s not like giving someone a quote on a retirement portfolio.”

  “They want a book, you give it to them. You figure out what they want.”

  “Sometimes people don’t know what they want. Patience, grace, heart. Compassion. You need those qualities for this job.”

  “What you need are wider aisles and plush armchairs.”

  “The armchairs are fine.” Tony tucks the pasta book under his arm. “Did you stop to wonder why Lucia flew to California? Not for pleasure, or she would have remembered the name of the cookbook. But she was preoccupied. Her mother owned a house there but could no longer manage the property. She’s got some kind of dementia. You could have asked.”

  “I’m not a psychic, or a psychotherapist.”

  “Nobody says you have to be.” Tony follows me into the Classics section.

  “Look, I’m sorry about Lucia’s mom. That’s sad. But I’m not here to learn her deepest secrets.”

  “You don’t have to. You just have to care. Books are more than commodities to sell. Books hold our culture, our past, other worlds, the antidote for sadness.”

  “If that were the case, everyone would be flocking to bookstores.”

  “And maybe they should.”

  “I’ve done great without books... for years. I don’t have time to read anymore.”

  “Maybe you should make time.”

  “I’ve been busy—”

  “So you’ve lost someone, too. I see it in your face. That’s all you need. Tap into your humanity. All you need is a little empathy.”

  “I have empathy.” What does he see in my face? There’s nothing in my face.

  He presses a tattered paperback copy of Pride and Prejudice into my hands. “Use your empathy at the Wednesday night reading group. Ruma always leads at the meeting.”

  “But I don’t know how to lead a reading group.”

  “They usually meet in the tea room.”

  “But—”

  “Do you want to disappoint your aunt?”

  “I’m not reading this.” I put the book on the table.

  He sighs. “Suit yourself. Tomorrow morning Gertrude Gertler is coming in to sign Fuzzy-Paw Pajamas.”

  “Fuzzy-Paw...?”

  “Gertrude’s a little eccentric.” He shows me a flat hardcover picture book painted in benign pastels. Fuzzy bears in pajamas.

  “What do you mean, ‘eccentric’?”

  “Oh, you know.” He leads me into the parlor. “Just make sure the place is neat, and she can sit there, at that table. Blue Sharpie pen. Pink Post-it Notes.”

  “Pink Post-it Notes?”

  “Write the name of each person who wants a book signed, on the Post-it Note, and hand it to Gertrude so she doesn’t misspell the name.”

  “Do we have pink?”

  Tony glances at his watch. “We don’t have pink, and Office Onestop is closed. Blue will have to do.”

  “You’ll
be here tomorrow to take care of things?”

  “I’ll make it as soon as I can. I have to ride the ferry, remember?”

  I help him arrange the parlor for the book signing, propping a few copies of Fuzzy-Paw Pajamas on table displays, along with a selection of Gertrude Gertler’s other titles.

  “Do we have more books?” I ask. “I count only six copies of Fuzzy-Paw and they’re all on display.”

  “Your aunt was in a rush, so the books were ordered at the last minute, and they’re late. But they’ll be delivered by courier first thing in the morning.”

  “First thing. You’re sure.”

  “I’m almost a hundred percent sure.” Tony grabs his coat from the closet. On his way out the door, he pauses, his hand on the knob. “You’re staying here tonight, right?”

  I’m putting on my coat, too. “Why?”

  “You told your aunt you would.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  He hesitates, shakes his head. “You can’t leave this place alone at night.”

  “Well, the poor old house will have to brave a few nights alone. It’s old enough to take care of itself.”

  Tony laughs. “Do what you want.” And without further explanation, he is gone.

  Chapter 12

  When I arrive at my parents’ house, Gita has gone back to Seattle, and Ma is flitting around in a blue silk sari and a cloud of Joy perfume. She has transformed herself from American to Bengali in one change of clothes and a line of black kajal rimming her eyes.

  “How was work?” She glances in the hall mirror, turns her head this way and that, jewelry flashing, and pats her short hair.

  “Fabulous,” I lie, yawning. I drop my handbag in the foyer. “Auntie thinks I’m staying over at the shop. She says the house gets cranky if I don’t.”

  “The house won’t know the difference.” Ma gives me a bright smile, lit by her twinkling silver earrings. “The Mauliks heard you were in town, and they’ve invited us all to dinner this evening.”

  “On such short notice.” My heart sinks. She won’t let me escape from this one—the Mauliks are old family friends who retired on the island at my parents’ urging. Benoy Maulik, my de facto uncle, went to university in India with my father.

  “You don’t need to dress up,” Ma says, patting her hair. “Just go like that.”

  I glance down at my jeans and sneakers. She can’t be serious. Even Dad is dressed up in a silk shirt and slacks and spicy cologne. “I can’t go like this. I need to change.” Wait—did I just agree to go? I suppose I did.

  “Hurry up, then. We need to leave in ten minutes.”

  Ten minutes! “Why didn’t you give me some warning? I’m tired. I think I’ll stay home.”

  Ma pushes me toward the stairs. “What will I tell the Mauliks? After all this time? They’re expecting you.”

  Ten minutes later, I’m ready to go in a paisley blouse and skirt. I’m a kid again, sitting in the backseat of my parents’ car as we head to a party at the house of Indian friends. Our parents always left Gita and me in the children’s TV room with all the snotty-nosed brats. Gita didn’t seem to mind. Five years my junior, she had fun playing with the little ones.

  “Has Charu’s hip healed?” Ma asks Dad in the front seat. She speaks of Uncle Benoy’s wife.

  “She’s back at work, apparently. Translating Hindi texts for the university.”

  “Is she still trying to write a novel?”

  “She’s been writing that book for years,” Dad says and laughs.

  “Benoy did better after his bypass surgery,” Ma says.

  “He’s looking haggard,” Dad says.

  “They both look haggard,” Ma says.

  “He’s trying to do too much—always working on some kind of house project—”

  “Why doesn’t he relax?” Ma says, checking her eyeliner in the overhead mirror. “He’ll end up having another heart attack.”

  My parents’ gossip clogs the air like toxic smoke. I roll down the window and inhale the fresh scents of cedar and pine. Years have passed since I sat in the backseat, listening to Ma and Dad discuss other people who aren’t present to defend themselves. Do my parents talk about me this way when I’m not around? That Jasmine, screwed up her marriage. She’ll grow old and gray and she’ll still be without a husband.

  “The Mauliks have been through a lot, it sounds like,” I say, to balance the caustic comments with a dose of charity. “Give them a break.”

  My parents say nothing as Dad turns onto a manicured, upscale side street and pulls over to the curb. Several cars are parked in front of the Mauliks’ house, a two-story stucco box surrounded by lush rhododendrons and fir trees.

  I barely recognize the woman who answers the door. Her face is puffy, her black hair limp, her eyes glazed. Auntie Charu, dusky skinned and beautiful, has lost her luster. “Jasmine! So good to see you.”

  I hug her tightly. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Come in, come in.” She steps aside, hugs and kisses my parents. Inside, the Mauliks’ house exudes the essence of India. Kashmiri carpets cover the hardwood floors; statues of Hindu gods perch on teak side tables. In the dining room, silk wall hangings depict scenes from Hindu epics, and in the vast living room, which overlooks the water, an imported couch sits beneath a painting of a battle scene from the Mahabharata. The air carries the odors of wood smoke and heavy spices. The Mauliks have always preserved the memory of their homeland, with such intensity that their homesickness for Bengal seems to ooze from every surface.

  My parents’ house, on the other hand, mixes artifacts in a blend of East and West, perhaps a result of my father’s love of travel and change. He, Ma, and Auntie Ruma were the first in our extended family to emigrate from India. They forged a new path, embracing America with exuberance.

  Ma and Dad introduce me to several guests whom I only vaguely recognize. We all gather on the patio and nobody mentions my divorce or my lack of children. The house crawls with the offspring of Indian family friends. Children, especially boys, are the badges of success, and every friend or cousin my age has become a physician, an attorney, a professor.

  My father tends the salmon on the barbecue. Uncle Benoy is pouring drinks. My mother is talking to an old friend from India—I recognize her face, but her name eludes me.

  I stand awkwardly next to the stone garden wall, pretending to be interested in the rhododendron plants.

  “So, Jasmine. You’re doing well in business now, nah?” Uncle Benoy shuffles over to give me a big hug. Since the last time I saw him, a decade ago, his hair has gone completely white.

  “I’m doing all right,” I say, another lie. The fragility of my position at the firm hits me full force. “You look well, Uncle.” His face is lined and gaunt.

  “How about that Gita, getting married, nah?”

  “We’re all looking forward to it,” I say politely.

  “Drink? Snack for you?” He pats my back.

  “Water would be great.”

  “Water, coming right up.” He saunters off.

  “Jasmine, is that you?” A long-haired young woman sidles up to me, a cherubic baby girl on her hip.

  “Sanchita?” I peer at her. She resembles an elongated version of her childhood self—same dark, oval face and bug eyes—with an added layer of downy black hair on her upper lip. Last time I saw her, she was barely eighteen, three years younger than me. Soon after that, she left for college.

  A little boy runs up to her. He’s maybe three or four. He’s waving a big picture book, Fuzzy-Paw Pajamas! “Mom, can you read me this?”

  Mom? Sanchita, an only child who received everything her heart desired, has given birth to two children of her own. I’m flabbergasted, and I am feeling older by the minute.

  “After supper,” she says.

  “Ma-a-a.”

  “Go and play.”

  He wanders off, pouting.

  “Vishnu!” she calls. “Wash your hands before supper.”


  He nods, not looking back.

  “He’s cute,” I say. My stomach twists. Okay, I’m envious. I don’t want her life, but I’m envious of her happy little family, her ability to fulfill everyone else’s expectations, her obvious comfort in the role she is supposed to play.

  “She’s the difficult one,” Sanchita says, nodding toward the baby on her hip. The little girl’s lips tremble. Her cheeks hang down past her chin. She’s beyond cute. She’s freshness and new life.

  I touch the baby’s hot cheeks. “She’s adorable, absolutely precious.”

  “When she wants to be.” Sanchita bounces the baby. In pale twilight, the gauntness of Sanchita’s face comes into focus, a touch of emptiness in her eyes, as if a part of her has vacated the premises.

  “So, I haven’t spoken to you in a while. You went away to university. What are you doing now?”

  “I’m a physician. Pediatrician.”

  The word—pediatrician—shimmers on her like silk. She is doing what my parents wanted me to do. What her parents wanted her to do. What every Indian parent would want a child to do. She is the quintessential product of an upper-class Bengali family. She has chosen a highly esteemed profession, and she has given birth to a son and the token chubby girl whose cheeks are available for frequent pinching. Nobody could ask for more.

  “Congratulations,” I say, my throat dry. “Must be a rewarding profession.” I bet she lives in a mansion and hires a nanny to care for the kids, unless her husband is a stay-at-home dad.

  “Yes, usually pretty rewarding.” She’s looking over my shoulder at someone behind me. Perhaps I’m not important enough to merit her complete attention. “What about you?”

  “I live in L.A. I manage money—retirement portfolios.”

  She nods, only one-quarter interested. Her baby girl is playing with her hair.

  Uncle Benoy returns with my glass of ice water and pinches the baby’s cheeks. “How is my little Durga today?” He coos to her in Bengali, which I don’t understand, lifts her out of Sanchita’s arms, and carries her away to show off to other guests.

  Sanchita must expect great things from her children, having named them after powerful deities in the Hindu pantheon.