Invisible Lives

by Anjali Banerjee

  Since my earliest days, saris have carried the whispers of my ancestors. I keep a burgundy silk worn by my great-grandmother Kamala, for her arranged marriage to my great-grandfather Mohan. The imprint of his love for Kamala is trapped forever in silk. Kamala found her match and created a great, timeless bond with him.

  My mother lives to find me such a match so that she will not have to endure her family’s pestering her—Your daughter is still unmarried, what a burden on you, and you will have no grandchildren.

  I hope that Ravi and I will share a bond, the kind that Pooja shares with Dipak. They’ve known each other since childhood.

  Just before closing, Pooja comes to me with a tight, worried expression on her angular face. “Lakshmi—my parents want me to do a wedding rehearsal next weekend, at the Hindu temple in Bellevue.” She sits at my desk and fingers a paper clip.

  “Congratulations, Pooja!” I pat her shoulder, and an image expands in my mind—Pooja rushing down a noisy, bright hallway, white coat flapping behind her, stethoscope around her neck. Then the picture whirls down into the paper clip and disappears. My fingers are gripping her shoulder. “Pooja, do your parents know that you want to be a doctor?”

  She swivels the chair around and looks at me, her eyes wide. “Pediatrician. I love kids. Did you see it?”

  I nod. “They would be very happy.”

  She drops the paper clip and rubs her nose. “I know—it’s just—I want to go to San Francisco to study, and Dipak’s going to the UW here. I don’t know about the long-distance relationship thing. And my parents want me close to them. Our wedding wasn’t supposed to be so soon! But apparently the date is in the stars.”

  “You think your parents won’t let you go to San Francisco? I worked in New York, and I came back, and all is well.”

  “They would let me go, if they knew. But I love them and I love Dipak. We were friends first, and that’s a good thing, right?”

  “Can you picture yourself married to him?”

  Her eyes light with a spot of hope. “Yes—we talked about it when we were kids. We even pretended to be married.”

  “How lovely.” A tiny knot twists below my ribs. Am I jealous? Do I wish I had a fiancé whom I’d known all my life, of whom I could be certain?

  “But you know, Lakshmi, when Asha came in, I took one look at that driver, and I thought, he’s so cute!” She giggles.

  “The chauffeur? Pooja!”

  “I guess I got cold feet, wondering what it would be like to have a totally different life without Dipak. Silly of me.”

  I take Pooja’s hands. “I’ll go with you to the rehearsal, how’s that?”

  She gives me a grateful look. “Would you do that?”

  “I’ll pick you up at your apartment.” Pooja lives on the hill, on the other side of the lake, and rides her bike to work.

  “I owe you so much, Lakshmi.”

  “You owe me nothing. And I want you to tell Dipak about your dream of going to medical school in San Francisco. And your parents. I’m sure you’ll work it out.”

  But Pooja doesn’t look so sure.

  That evening, Ma and Mr. Basu are still opening new shipments when I take off the glasses, let down my hair, and leave the shop in twilight. I don’t worry about Ma walking home alone. If she works past dark, Mr. Basu drives her.

  “Hey, Lakshmi!” Chelsea calls from next door. “You’re leaving early today. It’s only six.” She’s leaning in the doorway of Cedarlake Outdoor Gear. She’s in lime-green jogging pants, a matching long sweater stretched across her ample figure, and she’s drinking her usual bottle of iced tea. No matter what the weather, she drinks iced tea and wears Birkenstocks sandals over woolen socks. Her short hair is dyed a pale blond this week. Last week it was red. She’s owned Cedarlake for a year, and although she’s not much of an outdoor enthusiast, she knows all the gear. Her longings are simple—dinner with a friend, a movie, a visit to her sister’s new bungalow. But she harbors a dark worry that I can’t yet discern—concern for someone in her family.

  “Busy day. I’m beat. How’re things for you? Slow this evening?” I stop and peer into her store, which stays open until nine. A few customers mill about in the rain gear section.

  “Big bike race in the city today. Everyone must be over there. Who was that in your store? Some kind of celebrity? The whole neighborhood’s talking, I swear. She looked familiar, showed up in a limo—”

  “Big Bollywood actress. She’s making a film here.”

  “Bollywood? Isn’t that like the Indian Hollywood? Don’t they make a million musicals a year over there? What’s she doing here?”

  “Filming her first American movie—”

  “In this lousy weather? Those clouds are mocking me. Every time I head out for a walk”—she pats her fleshy hips and glances at the puckering sky—“the rain comes again. They don’t call Seattle the rainy city for nothing.”

  “It’s also the Emerald City, Chelsea. A beautiful place for making a film. Say Anything, An Officer and a Gentleman—lots of movies were filmed in Seattle. Get Carter, with Sylvester Stallone—”

  “Yeah, but a Bollywood-type movie? Oh!” She claps a hand over her mouth, and her hazel eyes widen. “Now I know where I saw her. Asha Rao! On TV, Northwest Afternoon! She was talking about a new movie being produced by this new indie company, Emerald Films. It’s a love story, a drama. An American guy falls for an Indian, or something…. It’s called Who’s Sari Now?. Kind of like Bride and Prejudice. She was talking about how hard it is to work while wearing a cast. She’s filming all the sit-down parts now. When she gets the cast off, she’ll do more stunts. Wow! She came into your store. You rock!”

  “She’s been called the hottest bachelorette in Bollywood, but now she’s getting married.”

  Chelsea swigs the last of her iced tea. “I’d like to get married someday, even have kids.”

  “No boyfriend in the cards?”

  “My only date for the weekend is with my nephew—his birthday party. He’s my sister’s son.” Her lips turn down in a slight frown, and I see her climbing the porch of a modest Craftsman bungalow, a gift box in her hands. Inside, a slim blond woman, probably Chelsea’s sister, kneels beside a small boy, who is throwing a tantrum on the hardwood floor. The woman tries to lift him into her arms, but he slaps her away, punches and pummels her, sending her stumbling backward, stunned. Chelsea stands in the open doorway, not moving, barely breathing.

  The boy’s mother reaches out a trembling hand, palm forward, and finally he presses the palm of his hand to hers. As their fingers touch, I know that this is the closest he will ever let her come. He can’t handle spontaneous displays of affection, the usual cuddles and kisses we all take for granted. His mother, and Chelsea, and everyone who loves him, will have to settle for this distance.

  His screaming has faded to a whimper.

  Chelsea is watching me, pinpoints of pain in her eyes. She doesn’t know what I see in her mind, and I don’t yet know her well enough to tell her.

  “If you ever want to talk about anything, just hang out sometime, I’m game,” I say.

  She smiles absently. “Sure, we could grab a brew or something.”

  “I don’t drink, but coffee would be okay.”

  “Chai. Cool.”

  “We could talk about—your sister.” Oh, lame, lame! I admonish myself.

  Her eyes narrow. “Lillian? What about her? Do you know her?”

  “Lillian, that’s a nice name,” I say. “I heard something about her. Doesn’t she come into your shop occasionally?”

  “Sometimes—she talked about checking out your shop sometime, too.”

  “I’ll give her a good deal,” I say.

  Chelsea nods, gives me a funny look, and disappears into her shop. I let out a long breath. That was a close one—I nearly spilled the beans. If I do, Chelsea might think I’m prying, or worse, she might steer clear of me altogether.

  The sidewalk stretches away, voices and laughter co
ming at me in shards. I am so close to the world, so close to hidden longings, and yet separate, alone.

  I stop in at Cedarlake Café for a latte. Heads turn to stare, but I’m used to it.

  “So, Lakshmi the beautiful.” Marcus winks at me from behind the counter. He’s a tanned version of Brad Pitt with a sweep of auburn hair, a goatee, and small silver earrings. “When are you going to go out with me? The Glass Menagerie is playing at the Rep downtown.”

  “And you’re not in it? How can that be?” I sidestep his question. He’s a handsome artist and actor, but no sparks fly between us. I place a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “My usual soy latte, please.”

  “I didn’t make that play, but I got an audition for Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.” He bites his lip, and I see him in a white spotlight onstage, reading from a script. His voice wobbles, but soon he relaxes and falls headlong into the role.

  “You’ll do great,” I tell him. “This may be your big break.”

  “You think?” His eyes twinkle with excitement.

  “I have a good feeling—kind of like a sixth sense.”

  He adds an extra shot to my latte. “No charge.”

  I leave the café feeling light on my feet. My day can yield diamond moments like these, and as I pop open my umbrella against the mist, I wonder where else I would be if not here, helping people in small ways in the shop. Perhaps I would’ve made principal at Overseas Investments. I was good at crunching numbers, good at peering into the complex minds of my colleagues. I could climb the corporate ladder with ease, like an acrobat in a circus, never having to look down.

  But New York proved too frenetic for the knowing. And then Sean and I met, and I tumbled head over heels, then stumbled flat on my face. How far can you go with a man who won’t admit his own prejudice? And how many more men would humiliate me that way?

  I began to miss the Northwest, the cool cleanliness of the air, the mountaintops like whipped cream in the sky. I missed the cobblestone alleys of Pike Place Market, my friends, the easy, casual atmosphere of Seattle.

  Then Ma’s business faltered, and one day her voice came through forlorn over the phone, and I knew I had to come back.

  Now I take the long way home, walking the neighborhood to clear my head. So Ma has found me a man. She’s so happy, and the happiness of others has always been my concern. As a child, I felt I could see people in other lives, in other possibilities. I could hear the longings of finches in the blackberry bushes, of the mice in the underbrush. I adopted stray cats and plastered stickers on our windows to keep the pine siskins from hitting the panes. I sat in the woods for hours, letting the needs and fears of animals climb into me, then helping where I could.

  “How does she know where to find these creatures?” Ma asked once when I brought home a litter of kittens whose mother had been killed by a car. Their hunger and thirst and fear had screamed at me in my sleep. I found the fur-balls hidden in a hollow log in the woods. We nursed the kittens to health and adopted them out.

  My parents didn’t have the knowing, but they surmised that the gods had endowed me with increased sensitivity. I didn’t begin to understand my own ability until the week after Christmas, in the third grade.

  I had Miss America Barbie, the peach-colored doll with a smooth complexion, torpedo breasts out of proportion with her stilt-long legs, a glittering crown on her head. At recess my friends and I ran around the playground, the dolls’ red satin capes trailing in the wind. Then a rock dropped and hit me in the head. I stumbled and fell.

  I lay on my back, blinking at the open sky. I touched my forehead, expecting to find blood, but my fingers touched dry, unbroken skin. The rock had fallen into my head and lay smoking like a chunk of meteor. It wasn’t a real rock. It was a feeling, a longing.

  Someone stared down at me from the monkey bars—Leslie, a thin, quiet girl with light gray eyes. Her arm had brushed mine as she’d climbed, and I’d felt an inkling of the longing.

  She smiled, revealing a big gap where her front tooth had gone missing. You couldn’t tell by looking at her that the meteor of longing had come from her, that it had fallen from her mind into mine.

  Miss America Barbie was still clutched in my right hand, but now her cape was muddy. A few boys gathered nearby, snickering. They were trying to peek up Leslie’s skirt. She didn’t seem to notice.

  The smoking meteor sank into my brain, and I glimpsed, in fleeting images, Leslie’s spindly Christmas tree at home, her parents fighting. She didn’t get any dolls for Christmas, not even a book. She got hand-me-down clothes, and her heart ached for Miss America.

  Why couldn’t I see it in her face?

  “Come down here, Leslie!” I called, and everyone turned to look.

  Leslie climbed down the monkey bars, her eyes devouring Miss America.

  I handed her the doll. “You can have her. She’s yours.”

  Her eyes widened as she looked at the doll, then at me.

  “I don’t need your stupid doll,” she said and threw it. Miss America splashed into a puddle. Her tiny, tailored dress was ruined, soggy and sagging.

  Leslie retrieved her longing and marched away. I sat up, and the kids gathered around, whispering and mumbling. A sour taste came into my mouth. I’d thought it would be easy to give Leslie what she wanted. Why had she thrown the doll and walked away? I could still feel her need.

  I rescued the doll from the puddle.

  Leslie avoided me after that. I was too young to understand the power of pride—and fear—that can make us turn away from what we want the most.

  Soon after that, my father died while on a research trip to India. I don’t remember grief. I remember flying to India for the memorial. I remember piles of steamed rice and dahl, concerned relatives pinching my cheeks and stuffing me with food. I remember my mother’s tears.

  Gradually, life returned to normal. I learned to wait in the shadows, to watch and learn before acting. And over the years, I learned that I could help in Ma’s shop, bringing happiness to strangers by selecting the perfect sari for each of them. That way, I could disguise my intentions, and nobody would walk away in a huff, embarrassed by their own hidden longings.

  My beauty blossomed gradually, creeping in and taking up residence in my body so insidiously that I barely noticed it. Like a retreating glacier, my childhood melted to reveal hidden abundance. My breasts grew to perfect proportions, my waist shrank, my legs extended into goddess legs, and my hair came in thick and lush, long and shiny. Other girls avoided me, and the boys stared. Once a bicyclist crashed into a telephone pole, knocked out two teeth and broke his nose, because he was paying more attention to me than the road ahead of him.

  Sick with grief and guilt, I shaved my head, donned combat boots, and started wearing huge sunglasses and ripped jean jackets. Ma thought it was a teenage phase, but she didn’t understand. A divine spotlight shone on me wherever I went.

  Only now can I modulate my appearance, downplay it when I need to, let my hair down at opportune moments.

  Now, in our modest saltbox house on the hill, only the soft, amorphous thoughts of squirrels and cats settle into my brain. I stop before going inside and survey the beveled windows, the stained glass catching the waning autumn sunlight. A plethora of salvaged shrubs and trees find refuge in our yard. I’ve taken such care with this garden, but when I marry, I shall have to leave, as all women do. I’ve been preparing for this, and yet my heart pounds a frantic beat.

  Take deep breaths, Lakshmi. You’re jumping to conclusions. You’ve not even met the man. All the answers will come.

  I pick up the mail and go inside, relax at the familiar smell of this morning’s tea, the wood scent of our home. Shiva greets me at the door, as usual, rubbing against my legs, purring. I scoop him up and bury my face in his gray striped fur. He settles into my arms and extends a front paw. Puffs of happiness emanate from him, and a vague relief. Every time we leave, he half believes we’ll never come home.

  “Where’s Parvati, hu
h? Where’s she hiding this time?” Parvati is my other Maine coon cat. Shiva and Parvati, the eternal lovers in Hindu mythology.

  I scratch Shiva’s ears, and he purrs louder. I don’t see Parvati’s whereabouts in his small, but complex mind. I never believed that smaller meant simpler. I’ve known since childhood that the tiniest field mouse survives with great skill and wit.

  I let Shiva down, and he bats a ball of fluff, then follows me through the house, his purring engine at my feet.

  I plunk the pile of mail on the dining table next to the newspaper, which sits in a mess beside my half-empty coffee cup, the soy milk congealed on top. Shiva jumps up on the newspaper, his favorite spot when I’m trying to read. He stares at me expectantly, images of grass and dewdrops filling his mind. Greenery, a symphony of tiny sounds unknown to humans, a rush of freedom and clean air and smells.

  I keep calling Parvati in a gentle voice, and a faint commotion comes from the cabinet above the refrigerator. She steps out, blinking in the light like a queen roused from a royal nap.

  “What are you doing up there, you silly thing?” I grab her and carry her to the floor before she finds her own dangerous way down.

  While the cats eat, I check our voice mail. A message from Ma’s sister, inquiring about Ravi, and another crackling, long-distance message from Ma’s mother, Nona, in India. So word is already out! A message from Samantha, from the homeless shelter, reminding me to bring in our clothing donations, and a message from my friend Mitra. “Remember you’re having lunch with Nisha and me tomorrow. We’ll pick you up at noon.” Nisha and Mitra are my two best Indian friends from our undergraduate years at the University of Washington. We joined the Indian Students Union, met for lunch on Thursdays, and we’ve kept up the tradition ever since.

  I smile and erase the message. I can’t wait to tell them about my day, about Asha Rao and my prospects with Ravi Ganguli.

  I go to my room, full of books and pictures of the goddess, and fire up my computer. My fingers tremble as I check my email. Many from cousins and friends, and spammers. And there it is, a message from Ravi Ganguli with a photograph attached.