Invisible Lives

by Anjali Banerjee

  Breaths of blue emptiness rush from her, revealing a new, half-empty bungalow, forlorn windows gazing in at her loneliness. Her past flits through the shadows—another house, bigger. A husband, a garden, friends on the patio.

  “Are you Lakshmi?” she asks. Her eyes look familiar, the way she sighs when she gazes off to the left, the way her hair falls perfect and straight, like a wall.

  “Do I know you?” I ask.

  “My sister, Chelsea, owns the shop next door.”

  “Oh, you’re Chelsea’s sister! Lillian, right? How can I help you?”

  “She said you would give me a good deal,” she says in a voice as soft as lace. “I need curtains for my new house.”

  Curtains, of course. So the windows won’t watch her with such pity. “I can help. You want sari fabric.” In America, saris have many uses. I lead her to the reams of fabric on shelves by the counter. “We have all types of silk and cotton patterns. Most are mass produced in the mills, and some are custom woven.”

  “There are so many! I don’t know which to choose. I hear you’re really good at helping people find the right—”

  “For you, maybe yellow roses, translucent, to let in the light.”

  She runs her fingers along the silk. “I love this. I think it will go well with my couch.”

  “Take a sample home, and if you like it, come back.”

  “I’ll try, but I don’t get a lot of time to myself.” An image of a boy hurtles toward me. He’s creamy skinned, his fine hair the color of sunset, his delicate features long and narrow. He might be eight years old, or younger. His frame is slight, vulnerable, like a sand sculpture. He builds an invisible wall around himself, a buffer to keep out blaring voices, blinding colors with jagged edges. Nothing will penetrate his ramparts, an army of imaginary soldiers protecting him. He sits cross-legged, rocking back and forth, and Lillian’s insides squeeze with despair.

  “What’s his name?” I ask her.

  Startled, she steps back. “Who?”

  “Your son—what’s his name? Chelsea told me you have a son.”

  Her face softens. “Jeremy. He’s difficult, and…I’ve had a hard time getting through to him lately.” Her mind closes, desperation extinguishing the image of the boy.

  How can I help her? An odd feeling comes to me, as if an invisible hook is pulling me out of the store, to Lillian’s house. “Let me come to your place,” I say. “I’ll bring some samples.”

  “Really, it’s not necessary.”

  “I insist. I can measure your windows. I know someone who can sew the curtains for you.”

  “I don’t know, I—”

  “It will be no problem for me. Really.”

  “All right. How about next week?”

  I nod and take down her address. As she leaves, I wonder what I’m getting myself into.

  I spend the rest of the day working on Asha’s account and gathering fabric samples for Lillian. Just after noon, Mitra’s special Kathak costume arrives by UPS from the seamstress. It’s exactly what I envisioned. I call Mitra, and she arrives just before closing. I take her into the office and unfold the costume for her. The yellow shimmers, the paisley pattern just as I pictured it.

  Mitra’s mouth opens in awe. “The costume—where did you get this pattern?” Tears slip down her cheeks. “This is exactly what I wore—”

  “When you were little, on the beach, with your father.”

  “But a much smaller version. How did you know? Can you see such things so clearly?”

  “It was fuzzy at first, but I had a feeling. The images, they just came to me.”

  “Oh, Lakshmi. But why?”

  “Will you wear this to the dance performance? I know it will bring you good luck.”

  “How do you know? How can it possibly?” Her hope spreads across the yellow Banarasi silk, sinking into the long choli shirt, slipping into the folds of the ghaghara, the flared skirt.

  “Please trust me, Mitra. You have to invite your father. Will you promise? Before it’s too late.”

  “Oh, Lakshmi.” She bursts into tears and wraps me in a tight, desperate hug.

  Eleven

  Near closing time, Nick and Asha show up at the shop with a woman who can only be Asha’s sister. She has Asha’s eyes, but her body is slim, and her beauty lies in her smooth movements as she adjusts the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. She’s understated, dressed in jeans and a white blouse. Asha introduces her as Chitra, but the name dissolves and I’m aware only of Nick, who’s decked out in a perfect black suit today. Now I know why Pooja thinks he’s cute. A heavenly tailor must’ve measured every inch of muscle, and now the fabric drapes over his limbs in harmony with his stride. He gives me a slight, professional nod, the glint in his eye betraying our secret.

  I barely register Asha in her navy blue sari, her face made up, her luminous eyes rimmed with kohl. Enormous gold earrings dangle from her ears.

  “We must clothe Chitra for the wedding,” Asha announces. “Look at these jeans she’s always wearing!”

  A flash of knowing makes a last-ditch attempt to warn me. Ravi Ganguli appears like a watery mirage, handsome and polished. Don’t do it, he says, and then the knowing spins away.

  Don’t do what?

  “Nick, take me to the jewelry, will you?” Asha says in a theatrical voice. “I must have only the best gold. I’m having some family heirlooms brought from Mumbai, but I must have more bangles.”

  “Sanjay!” Ma screeches at Mr. Basu. “Show her only the good bangles, not the costume fashion jewelry you always show, nah?”

  Mr. Basu reddens. “We have many fine bangles from Orissa,” he tells Asha.

  “Vijay will come one day soon,” Asha says. “We must find a perfect kurta for him.”

  “Bring him anytime,” Ma says, doing the sideways head nod.

  Pooja waits on Chitra while Ma glides around, working the room. A strange buzzing fills my ears.

  Nick glances at me and I quiver, inflating into a delicate balloon while he wheels Asha to the glass case of gold jewelry. “I meant to tell you, Bibu,” Ma whispers in my ear. “Ravi’s parents called this morning, after you left.” Her words blast me back to reality.

  “That’s lovely, Ma. What did they say?”

  “They’ve consulted the astrologer, and the auspicious date for you and Ravi may fall sooner than six months from now! That is, if you and Ravi get on.”

  “That’s wonderful, Ma!” a part of me says. Another part of me is watching Asha and Nick.

  “I am so happy I can barely contain myself. This was all meant to happen. I have never been more hopeful in my life.”

  “Ma—” I take her warm hand, see the brightness of tears in her eyes, and my heart turns upside down.

  Asha summons her sister to the saris.

  This is my forte, finding saris, only the knowing has taken leave again. Then a boy walks in looking overwhelmed, wallet in hand. Ma motions to me to help him, to keep him out of Asha’s hair. She hasn’t closed the shop today.

  The boy says his name is Anu. “I’ve been saving up for two years, but I have no idea what my mother will like for her birthday. She wants a sari. She keeps hinting! But when my sister buys her saris, she always hates them and yells.” Beneath a map of acne, a handsome face is waiting to emerge.

  “No problem, I can help you. It’s always difficult for a boy to buy his first sari.” I try to smile. I have to pretend I know what I’m doing.

  “Thank you, Ms. Lakshmi—I’ve heard all about you. And I…have only two hundred dollars. I’m so worried. If my ma doesn’t like a gift, we never hear the end of it. She even threw a sari out on the street last year! It was a gift from my sister. She cried.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” Two hundred dollars limits his options, and I see no images to guide me. “Tell me more about your mother,” I say, glancing at Nick. His back is to me, and Asha’s poring over the jewelry.

  “She’s a software engineer,” Anu says. “She li
kes to cook and play rummy, and she quit smoking three years ago. Now she swims at the local pool. She wears goggles. She has a temper…”

  As he speaks, my fingers move along the shelves, resting on one sari, then another.

  “Lakshmi, come and see which saris are best for Chitra!” Ma shouts.

  “I’ll be there soon, Ma!” I don’t want the boy to spend all his hard-earned money. I choose an attractive midnight blue georgette sari. “Will this work for your mother, Anu?”

  “It’s so cool, Ms. Lakshmi. My mother likes blue.”

  “It’s within your budget, and you’ll have a little money left over.” I’m not sure I’m giving him the perfect sari for his mother, but I’ve done my best. I ring him up and watch him leave, a bounce in his step.

  Then I run over to Chitra, who stands nearly a head taller than Asha. “Horizontal stripes,” I say. “Maybe silver and dark.” So Chitra won’t look so tall. No, no! I can’t make decisions based on a woman’s appearance. The knowing doesn’t work that way, but there I am, pulling out saris with busy, striped patterns.

  Nick is watching. The silent driver, always in the background.

  Chitra frowns, her thin lips forming an upside-down half moon. Perhaps she needs translucent, slimming chiffon to make her resemble a fairy princess. My fingers touch the chiffon, then move to more stripes.

  “Lakshmi, are you all right?” Ma asks.

  “I’m fine, just trying to decide on the right pattern for the sister of the bride.”

  “Lakshmi’s well known for her ability to predict which sari will bring good fortune,” Asha tells her sister.

  Chitra narrows her gaze. “A legend, are you? Like a fortune-teller?”

  “Not exactly,” I say.

  “She has the eye,” Ma says.

  Not anymore. My fingers move from one fabric to another, my heart beating faster. The chiffon—ethereal. No, too lightweight. I grab the striped sari and hand it to Chitra, but already her eyes glitter with hostility. She gives Asha a triumphant look. “There, I told you this Mystic Elegance would charge you far too much for nothing. This Lakshmi can’t read your mind. She has no idea—”

  “I didn’t say I could read minds,” I say.

  Nick gives me a curious look.

  “She’s nothing but a fraud,” Chitra says. “Wants me to look exactly like a…zebra!” She holds up the sari in front of the mirror, and to my horror, I realize she’s right. She would resemble a cross between a zebra and a giraffe in that sari. A dry lump rises in my throat. My limbs feel weak.

  Ma leans against the counter, breathing shallowly. Asha taps a finger to her chin. Outside, a horn blares insistently.

  Asha turns to Nick. “Is that your car alarm?”

  “I’m on it.” He’s already heading out, and as the door closes behind him, images flood into me in a crazy zoo of color and sound. Asha’s worrying that her fiancé won’t return from India on time for the wedding. Ma has a sparkling secret up her sleeve, and Pooja wonders whether her wedding feast will be vegetarian. I freeze at the counter, my fingers curled into fists. Now I know for certain. Nick obscures the knowing. But how?

  The insistent blare of the horn stops abruptly, and silence sneaks into the shop. I know how to help Chitra, but I don’t have much time.

  I grab the chiffon sari.

  “I meant to pick this one,” I say.

  The shop holds its breath, not a molecule of fabric daring to move. I stuff the zebra sari onto the shelf, out of view.

  Chitra holds the chiffon up in the mirror, and she’s transformed into a mythical creature of beauty.

  Asha breaks out in a delighted smile. “Absolutely perfect. We could never find a better sari!”

  Twelve

  Pooja and Mr. Basu rush over to help Chitra and Asha, while Ma drags me into the office. The knowing drapes around my shoulders away from Nick.

  “What was that all about?” she whispers. “What is going on?”

  “I must be catching a cold or something.” I collapse into a chair. “I nearly lost Asha’s business. I must be tired!”

  “Now take your time, gather your wits. It’s a good thing it’s Friday. Maybe you need a weekend off, nah?”

  “I’m taking Pooja to her wedding rehearsal on Sunday.” I tell Ma about my secret plan to hire the limousine. “I’m getting an extra-good deal.”

  “Ah, the rehearsal. Yes, her parents invited me,” Ma says. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Bibu. Make sure she gets there!” She bustles out into the store, and when I emerge from the office, the knowing spirals away.

  Nick’s back.

  “And now, Lakshmi, you will measure Nick for a kurta!” Asha says.

  “What? Who, me?”

  “You’re the best measurer we have.” Ma slaps the tape measure into my hand.

  “I want him in a respectable, yet elegant, kurta pajama,” Asha says.

  I glance at Ma. “I’m sure that Pooja can—”

  “Certainly not!” Asha says. “Pooja says your hand is the most accurate for measuring.”

  Pooja’s face falls with disappointment.

  “But really, I’m not the best,” I say.

  “You are!” Ma says.

  The tape measure resembles a foreign artifact. I’m sure I’ve forgotten how to use one.

  Then Mr. Basu pushes me forward. I nearly stumble over Nick.

  “Lakshmi will measure you in the dressing room,” Mr. Basu says in a loud voice. Nick’s already heading into the dressing room and there I am, packed in with him, surrounded by mirrors. An image of a blond god smiles back. He’s more than a head taller than me.

  He stares at me in the mirror.

  I push the glasses up on my nose. My fingers tremble. I beg the gods to banish the blush in my cheeks. “I, uh, have to measure you.”

  “Put your magic hands to work.”

  “Could you take off your jacket? Just, um, hang your coat there on that hook.”

  “Do I need to take off my shirt?” He’s flirting, the way Sean did. A flicker of memory prods at me. Sean coming to my cubicle at Overseas Investments, sweet-talking me, insinuating himself into my life.

  “That won’t be necessary. Just lift your arms like that.”

  I measure Nick’s neck, his torso, put my arms around him to measure his waist. He lifts his arms, the whole time a slight smile on his face, as if this is all a mating dance.

  “So what’s this getup you’re measuring me for?” His voice spreads through me like deep blue sugar.

  “It’s a traditional outfit, formal.”

  “Like a sari?”

  “Not exactly. Saris are very complex, difficult to put on, and they’re made differently in different parts of India. Worn differently, too.”

  “Show me how you do it. My sister’s birthday party is next weekend. She likes ethnic dress.”

  I feel curiously breathless. Perhaps we need more air in the dressing rooms. “I can’t show you,” I whisper. “I’m working.”

  “Then come to the party and show my sister how to put on a sari. It’ll be a surprise. Asha told me that you do that sometimes—go to parties to help women try on saris.”

  My insides flutter. “Well—I could do it. If you think she might like it. But this wouldn’t be a date, you know. I’m going to India—”

  “I know, no date. I’ll pick you up, bring you home—”

  “I can drive myself.”

  “I insist. I’ll pick you up.”

  “Okay, I’ll do it.” I find I’m looking forward to riding in the limousine again. I nearly forgot. He’s driving me and Pooja to her wedding rehearsal.

  Thirteen

  Sunday afternoon, clouds saunter across a brilliant blue sky as Nick drives me to Pooja’s place. Grateful for a day of winter sunshine, biplanes trail across the sky, couples walk their dogs, and boats emerge from hibernation to glide along Cedarlake, white sails billowing in the breeze.

  I’m riding in the limo’s backseat, and as usu
al, the knowing has taken leave. Pink bubbles pop from my skin. How delicate, how fragile these orbs look today, their translucent membranes quivering in the light.

  But why do they hound me like the paparazzi?

  I’ll ignore them for the sake of surprising Pooja. When she sees the limo, she’ll exclaim with delight. Her wide smile brightens my thoughts but disappears when a shivery pink sphere dangles from my nose. Annoyed, I swat it away.

  As Nick drives around the lake, he keeps glancing in the rearview mirror, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. Oh—I’m not wearing my glasses, and I let my hair down. I forgot how my natural look affects men. But even when I wore a frumpy outfit and ponytail, Nick flirted with me.

  I meet his gaze for a long moment, and he smiles. I pretend to look out the window. The bubbles float all around me in a maddening jumble. Why am I affected this way? Why do I want Nick to take off the shades so I can see his eyes, so blue they make the world look drab?

  He’s decked out in a black suit to match his driver’s cap. From my vantage in the backseat, his features are concrete, unreadable. He’s strangely familiar, and yet we are as distant as continents. I must look foreign in my silver-blue pleated sari, gold bangles, and necklace. I bite my lip, a flutter of nervousness whisking through me.

  I take a deep breath and try to relax. Everything had better go smoothly at the rehearsal. Pooja’s family and friends will be waiting at the temple. I picture Dipak pacing, pockets of sweat dampening his armpits. Dipak and Pooja. They fit like two perfect pieces in a cosmic puzzle.

  Everyone will cheer when she steps from the limo, her smile warming the crowd. On the way, we’ll pour champagne from this small wine bar, lit from the inside with fluorescent pink bulbs.

  The seats, smooth and shiny, look new, and a clean pine scent touches the air. The engine vibrates through me and I wonder what celebrity secrets have unfolded in here, what couples have consummated their marriages—

  Don’t go there.

  Nick must’ve seen it all. He keeps all his limousine secrets tucked up under his cap.