Dear Lakshmi,
I hope this finds you and your mother healthy and happy. I remember your father fondly from his visits to India. I was very small, but he remains in my memory. I remember your ma with great affection as well…
He remembers Ma and Baba! I want to reach into the computer and touch Ravi Ganguli, ask him what he remembers of my father. I glance at the bedside table, where I keep an old black-and-white shot of Baba holding me on his lap, reading to me from a children’s illustrated hardcover of The Ramayana. He looks so young and handsome, his hair slicked back, not a mark of age on his smooth, narrow face. My memories of him have begun to fade, and Ma’s thoughts of him turn to angst-ridden shadows. But here is a man who remembers my father with affection.
…Just two weeks back, my parents received a letter from your mother, which included a lovely snap of you in your garden…
Ma, you devil! Two weeks ago? She must’ve sent the picture of me in the half-transparent kurta, my hair flying. That shot wasn’t meant to leave this house. I’m blushing at the computer screen.
…and I must say that I found you the most breathtaking creature I’ve ever seen…
Most men do, when I’m not in my daytime disguise.
…I hope you do not consider me too forward. If your temperament is quite as radiant as your face, I should ask you to be my wife immediately. But again, I march ahead of myself. I will be most honored to meet you when you come to India.
Warmly yours,
Ravi Ganguli
His words send a thrill through me, and when I download his picture, I can’t stop staring at the slender, cultured man in the image. He’s wearing a cream-colored kurta and khaki pants. The kurta is embroidered with an intricate gold pattern. What American man would wear such an exotic shirt? He leans against a railing, a backdrop of snowcapped peaks behind him. All residual baby fat has burned away, leaving a regal, Maharaja-like face, a hint of a beard shadowing his jaw. His eyes twinkle, and he’s about to laugh. I’m instantly jealous of the person taking the picture, the person who knows what that laughter is all about.
I hit the reply button and type.
Dear Mr. Ganguli,
Many thanks for your kind, flattering message.I’ve now seen your snap and I must say, you are handsome
Scratch that. A woman can’t be quite so forward in India.
I’ll be honored to meet you as well….
I give him our address, hit the send button, and sign off in time to hear the kitchen door squeak open. Ma comes straight to my room and hovers over me.
“So, Bibu, has he written? You’ve made a plan to see him?”
“Yes, he wrote a nice letter.”
“Brilliant!” Ma flops on my bed and stares at the ceiling, her eyes bright. “I’ve hoped and waited for this day, and how I wish your Baba could see you now, see what a wonderful daughter you are.”
“Thank you, Ma, and you’re a wonderful mother.” I hug her and glance at the bright South Indian painting of the goddess Lakshmi above the bureau. In the swirls of colorful clouds around her, I see hope.
As I cook aloo gobi, chapatis, and dahl for supper, I wonder about Ravi. Is he a true gentleman? He’ll love my cooking, love my ma, love Shiva and Parvati, love me. We’ll have five boy babies, and all will be well. This is every Indian woman’s dream, is it not? I close my eyes and imagine him coming up behind me, kissing my neck.
Ma stretches supper over two hours, as usual. Long after I’ve finished eating, I quietly read at the table while she works her way through the potato and cauliflower in the aloo gobi. Since Baba died, she expands the smallest details of life to fill extra time. When she’s not working, she’s eating or cleaning or poring over sari catalogs.
Usually I stay up with her, and sometimes I play the piano. I lose myself—and the knowing—in the symmetry of a Bach invention or a Chopin waltz. But tonight, I excuse myself and go to my room, take my journal from the bookshelf, and pull my father’s fragile letter from between the pages. I imagine him wearing his woolen suit in the Himalayan foothills, his breath condensing into steam in the cold mountain air. He was probably whistling on the train. He always whistled. He was thinking of me. It was as if he knew what would happen.
My dearest Bibu,
I wish you and your ma were here. I’ve just come from the city, now taking the train to Darjeeling to visit my closest friend, Dilip Ganguli, and his wife, Sangita. They have a bright son, Ravi, a little older than you. A good boy. Perhaps one day the two of you shall meet.
Through the mists in the valleys, I see your little face asking me to read another page. I hope your ma is reading to you from The Ramayana and not just the Curious George and Magician’s Nephew. I hope you are taking baths. You would love Darjeeling.
Always take care of your ma, Bibu.
Remember, family is the most important thing.
With love and affection,
Baba
Always take care of your ma.
I am, Baba, as best I can.
These last words from my father, found intact in the wreckage of the train, with the address already on the letter, reached us in America by some miracle of mail. Perhaps my father knows whether Ravi is the man for me, whether Ma’s shop will become world famous.
I wish my father would visit my dreams, but when I fall into slumber, he remains elusive, hiding in the cosmos, out of sight.
Five
The next morning, the store spins in a tizzy, as if the fabrics know they’re going to be shaped into beautiful wedding costumes and they’re all aglow, whispering among themselves. The walls blush with new excitement.
“This is the one,” Mr. Basu says, doing the sideways head nod as he stocks shelves. His two hairs stand at attention on his shiny head. “This project will take us over the top. We’ll be full of business. We’ll be on the television, and then your ma will be famous. Asha Rao. The actress! I can hardly believe it!”
“Oh, Sanjay, stop babbling and work!” Ma rushes around straightening piles of saris, nearly knocking over customers.
I stock new arrivals, open bills, check inventory, phone messages.
“Did you see how beautiful she was?” Pooja says, cleaning coffee cups. She also brought pastries from Cedarlake Café. “But she’s not as beautiful as Lakshmi.”
Ma narrows her gaze at me. “You must not take off the glasses when Asha Rao is here—”
“You know I won’t, Ma.” I wink at her and she winks back. We’re not mentioning Ravi Ganguli to anyone in the store just yet.
As I brush past a customer, an intense sadness hits me, the world drooping and melting, as if it’s a massive ice cream cone left in the sun. The customer is a woman wrapped in a conservative dark green sari, the pallu over her head. An older woman marches after her—clearly her mother. “Sita! On the left. The saris on the left.” Her mother points, and Sita turns left.
I rush up to her and take her hand, and I nearly burst into tears. Such sadness! Her skin is smooth, a gold-tinted brown. She’s wearing no makeup, and her face is round and childish, although she must be in her twenties. Her nose is a button holding her features together.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“Sita’s getting married,” her mother says, barging forward. “We need a wedding sari.”
I’m still holding Sita’s cool hand.
“Congratulations.” I push the glasses up on my nose. Sita gives me a distant, underwater smile.
“Hurry up, Sita. We haven’t got all day.” Her mother barks her way through the store, pointing out this fabric, that fabric, this style, that style, and each time, Sita simply nods and complies. She’s miserable, can’t you see? I want to scream at her mother.
“We’re all very proud of Sita,” her mother’s telling me. “She now has her degree, and we have found her a good man. I am ready for grandchildren.”
“You’re getting married here and not in India?” I say politely.
“Her grandmother is here, very il
l, can’t travel,” the mother says. “The groom, however, is coming from India, and Sita will return with him. He’s very rich, nah?” The mother smiles, and Sita looks at her sandals. If the carpet could reach up to pull her down, she would go gladly.
“I have to measure Sita,” I say quickly, waving my trusty tape measure.
“Measure for a sari?” her mother says.
“Just in case she needs a custom-made blouse. We call in a very good seamstress—”
“Hurry up then. We haven’t got all day,” the mother says, and I’m ushering Sita into the dressing room.
“Did you agree to this match?” I whisper to her. “Are you in love?”
“Love is marriage,” she says softly. “If a man is unwilling to marry you, it is not love.”
“So you do love him?” I can’t see far down into the murky water of her soul. Would I recognize true love if I saw it?
“My parents have chosen the right match for me.”
Strict obedience is rare among the younger set these days, especially in America. “The world is changing, Sita. Maybe your parents would let you speak your mind. If you’re not sure—”
“Why wouldn’t I be? And it’s not for me to say.” She lifts her arms and dutifully lets me measure her.
“What about this fiancé? How did you meet him?”
Someone pounds on the dressing room door.
“Just a moment—we’re almost finished,” I shout. We haven’t got much time.
“At his parents’ house in Mumbai,” Sita says. I see a dark, damp flat—the power has been cut, the monsoon dampness creeps into every corner. In the narrow streets, people have abandoned their cars. Empty Ambassadors float along filthy rivers that once were roads. Sita’s family has taken hours to get here, and her fiancé, a handsome man with unusually wide shoulders and silver hair, comes out and takes her hand. Two sets of parents are there, and a hollowness moves through her.
“What will happen when you return to India?” I ask.
“Kishor and I will live with his family,” she says. “His mother wants a grandson. She has three children and no grandchildren yet.”
“And you’re going to give her one.”
“Or two.” Her mind has gone dark, as if her mother has intruded and snuffed out a candle. I’m still holding Sita’s arm when her mother barges in.
“Let’s go,” she says. “Come, Sita—what’s all this talking?”
“I’ll be just another moment,” I say. “If you could wait outside, please.”
Her mother steps outside with a huff.
I try to imagine the fabric that could calm Sita, a sari that could carry her across the threshold into a better future. “It won’t be so bad,” I say. “Everyone gets scared of marriage, but I’m sure you’ll be happy.”
Her smile wavers like a mirage. “Thank you.”
“Your fiancé looks very—I mean, he must be a good man,” I say. “And you miss India, no?”
She nods, and I see the right sari for her. Slippery chiffon orange. I don’t know why it will work, but I sense the warmth that it will bring her.
“If you ever need to talk to someone. Day or night. Call me,” I say. “My home number’s also in the telephone book.”
Sita gets up, an automaton stepping out to greet her mother, and I find my fingers trembling.
I hand the orange chiffon sari to her mother. “It’s not a wedding sari, Mrs.—”
“Dutta. What’s this orange?”
“Important for building her trousseau. I also have a wedding sari.” I show her a shimmering ruby-red sari that changes hue when viewed from different angles.
“Ah, lovely!” Mrs. Dutta and Sita gasp in unison.
Mrs. Dutta pays, grabs both saris, and strides out, her daughter close behind.
I go back into the office to catch my breath. Frightened brides have blown into the shop before, carried on the northwest winds. Tastes of the exotic, memories of India, images of gold and jewels and love and kisses. Pulsing hearts, roses bursting with fragrance. Hope and children and white picket fences, enormous wedding parties and priests adorned with garlands—all of these images have passed through, travelers on their way to future lives. I’ve held the hands of brides, guided them through the fear and into bliss.
But have I done my best to help Sita? Will the orange sari work?
“Bibu, what are you doing hiding back here, nah?” Ma bursts in, her face flushed, eyes shining. “Hurry up and come out—Asha is here with her driver!”
Six
Asha Rao is back in the store, and I’m trapped in an invisible bubble that keeps the knowing outside. Someone—maybe the goddess—blew that bubble and is now secretly laughing at me. Ha-ha. Now see how well you survive with only your five senses. Ha! But Helen Keller survived without sight or sound. If she could do it, I can make it without the knowing.
I push the glasses up on my nose and stride forward to take Ms. Rao’s cool, delicate hand. The driver is in a navy blue suit that brings out the startling blue of his eyes; his long blond hair is slicked back.
I focus on Asha’s delicate expressions, her movements, the shift of her eyes, her words, for I have no knowing to guide me.
The driver curls his fingers around the wheelchair handles and pushes Asha around the room in that effortless way, as if he could push a house.
Mr. Basu comes running from the back and stops in the middle of the room.
“Oh, gods!” he exclaims and presses his hands to his cheeks. “The leak has come again!” As if the leaky pipe under the bathroom sink is an unwelcome cousin. The two hairs on his head are drooping, portending foul weather.
Across the room, Ma’s face freezes in a proprietary smile.
“Oh, no,” I breathe and hurry back to stifle Mr. Basu. “What’s going on?” I whisper. “If it’s just the drip—”
“Puddles on the floor,” Mr. Basu says with great sadness, as if a monsoon has swept away his family.
I step closer, grab Mr. Basu’s arm. “Get the handyman.”
“His wife says he’s working in Bellingham.”
“Then call the plumber. Have him come in the back way.”
“Plumber’s busy, Lakshmi.”
“Damn it.” I rarely use such words. I glance back toward Ma and Pooja, dancing like consorts around the Bollywood goddess. Our position is precarious. Nick stands near the counter, scanning the shop, hands behind his back. I turn to Mr. Basu. “Do whatever you can to fix it.”
Then Nick is beside me. “Problem?”
I step away, putting a protective distance between this enormous man and me.
“No problem, no problem.” Mr. Basu scratches his head. “We’ve got a leak.”
I cringe. “We can take care of it,” I say. “Small drip.”
“Huge ocean,” Mr. Basu says. “All over, all over, it will be flooding into the office next.”
“It’s nothing.” I push Mr. Basu back toward the office, trying to stuff him in there the way I stuff saris into boxes, but he stands his ground.
“Making gushing sound,” he says. “Something new.” He’s always offering unnecessary information.
“Oh, Mr. Basu!” My face heats.
“Let me take a look,” Nick says.
“No need,” I say.
“Yes, look, look!” Mr. Basu turns, and Nick follows him into the back office. I’m right behind them, my heart fluttering in funny, fast beats. “It’s really not necessary—”
But he’s already moving through the office, his bulk incongruous in the small space. Mr. Basu is leading him past the piles of paper on my desk, the pictures of family, the half-eaten sandwiches, the dirty coffee machine, and into the bathroom, which also needs to be cleaned, my lotion sitting on the sink, a box of tampons on the toilet tank. It’s like having a stranger in your house when you haven’t had time to tidy up.
“Got tools?” Nick asks. How can he be so calm when there’s a steady but thin stream of water pouring from the cabinet b
elow the sink?
“Tools?” Mr. Basu and I say in unison.
“Yeah, tools. You know, wrenches and screwdrivers.”
“Tools in janitor’s closet,” Mr. Basu says.
“We’ll call our handyman,” I say. “No need to—”
“I can handle it,” Nick says.
Mr. Basu disappears and returns with a red metal box, the tools clanking around inside, weighing down his arm. Nick takes the box and holds it with ease, as if it’s a loaf of bread. Ma rushes in, and her eyes widen. “Oh, no! What’s happened in here, Bibu?” She looks at me, then at Nick, and her brows furrow with disapproval. “What’s he doing here?”
“He’s offered to help, Ma.”
“What have you done, Bibu?” Her voice has a serrated edge.
“I didn’t do it!” I shout.
Ma’s eyes narrow at me. “Call the plumber.”
Mr. Basu gives her the spiel, while Nick gives me a half smile, those blue eyes amused. I’m wearing glasses and a ponytail, like a schoolgirl, and my mother is calling me Bibu, and we’re standing in a lake in our messy bathroom. Well, Mr. Nick, see how much time you have for house-cleaning when you have to balance the books, stock saris, measure customers for custom-made outfits, and grin at the Mrs. Dasguptas of the world all day. Never mind trying to find a perfect Bengali husband and catapult the shop into the Fortune 500 in the next three months.
Invisible Lives Page 4