Invisible Lives

by Anjali Banerjee

  Tears glisten in her eyes. Her voice comes out low. “Your father would’ve been so happy—how I wish he were here today.” Her thoughts drift to a shadow of my father.

  In the night, I lie awake in bed beneath the gauzy mosquito net, the unspoken, invisible lives of my relatives rushing through my head. I try to fold the images and tuck them in neat mental drawers, but they keep bursting out.

  Your father would’ve been so happy.

  Is that true, Baba? Why won’t you give me a sign?

  Nick’s face pops into my mind.

  That’s how I feel about you, Lakshmi.

  His kiss.

  I dream I’m standing before an Indian priest. He’s dressed in a dhoti, reciting mantras, only I’m not wearing a traditional red sari. I’m in a white American bridal gown, Ravi Ganguli standing beside me in traditional Bengali groom’s threads—a cream-colored dhoti punjabi inlaid with gold. All around us, the family gathers, their faces glowing.

  But the priest recites an American script—if anyone should object to this marriage, speak now or forever hold your peace, and there’s a man in the doorway, a silhouette advancing toward me. He raises his hand and shouts, but his words are garbled. As he approaches, the butterflies take flight in my stomach. I want to drop everything and run toward him. When I jolt awake in darkness, his presence lingers, as if he’s been here, watching me. My body is charged with an erotic awareness, each nerve ending on fire. My fingers grip the bedsheet, and the window stands open, the curtains undulating in rhythm with the breeze. I imagine him climbing in through the window. A breath of damp air blows in, pungent and thick with promise.

  “It’s only a warning,” I say aloud to myself. A cautionary dream, maybe a message from my father. Don’t be tempted to fall off the track. You might get stuck in the ditch.

  Thirty

  Ma has arranged my marriage the way she arranges saris—with finesse and attention to detail. Our first day back at the shop is abuzz with the news of my wedding. I’m back in my daytime disguise, glasses, ponytail, and baggy shirt. Ma shows Ravi’s photo around, proudly expounds upon our trip to India and to his family. Everyone congratulates me, including customers whose names I’ve forgotten.

  I called to check on Sita the moment I got home. She was still staying with Mitra but had been leaving for long periods during the day. Mitra didn’t know where she was going.

  I find myself looking to the doorway now, hoping that Sita or Rina or Lillian might stop in, that the next man at the window might be Nick, but he never comes.

  In the afternoon, I escape to my desk, a pile of receipts and bills in front of me. I feel shaky and light-headed.

  I’m getting married in three months.

  “Arranged marriage isn’t so bad, is it?” I ask Baba’s spirit. “Nobody truly knows a spouse before marriage anyway. You and Ma were an arranged marriage. You grew to love each other, right?” I wonder if, after all these years, he still watches over me. “Tell me I’m doing the right thing.” I wait for an answer but hear only voices in the shop and the insistent tap of rain on the roof. “What’s the story with Jamila Tarun? What does Thakurma know that I’m not allowed to know?”

  Jamila Tarun is not listed in the telephone book, so I send her a short letter and keep her address with the ring in my jewelry box.

  Ma speaks to Ravi’s parents on the telephone nearly every day, tells every customer about my upcoming nuptials. She keeps a list of family, friends, and distant acquaintances who will receive invitations. Thoughts of Nick begin to fade as Ma and I spend hours looking through the saris, picking light cotton as gifts for the Gangulis’ maids and servants, thicker silk for Ravi’s relatives.

  “Once, horror, my friend gave a cheap cotton sari to the groom’s mother,” Ma says one afternoon, a pile of saris in front of her. “The mother gave back the sari to the bride after the wedding. ‘After wearing heavy silks for so many days,’ she said, ‘I thought perhaps you would appreciate light cotton.’ Can you imagine? Then the mother-in-law even offered to soak the sari, and of course the color ran.”

  The wedding invitations arrive, written in gold on blue vellum.

  “They’re beautiful, Ma.”

  “We have much work to do, sending these.”

  “Did you have invitations like these when you married Baba?”

  “Our invitations were beautiful, gold inlay on parchment.” She smiles, but her thoughts betray a poignant sadness, a wisp of something lost.

  She perks up when Ravi arrives in the States. He calls to invite me out on the town. “A real date for us, finally!” he says.

  When I hang up, I see no bubbles, but I’m filled with anticipation.

  I choose a peach chiffon sari that makes my face appear pale and creamy. But I have trouble tying the sari. It keeps slipping down past my petticoat. I opt for a conservative Bengali style, set high to cover my navel.

  “Do you want him to think you’re a nun?” Ma says. Nuns often teach in schools in India, and they tie their saris in conservative ways.

  “Do you prefer that I tie it too low? I’ll look filmy!” “Filmy” means I look like a wanton Bollywood actress who shows too much skin.

  I opt for somewhere in between, but wearing a sari in the Northwest winter can be a cold proposition. I find a way to fit a black woolen sweater over the sari.

  Ma adjusts the pleats, fusses over me and my hair. “Light-colored lipstick for light-colored clothing. And drape the pallu like this—and don’t hold the pleats with a hairpin, and no pinning the pallu to your cardigan. You’ll look so Behenji!”

  I haven’t heard her say Behenji in ages. It’s a term used for a would-be sophisticate, a woman eager to look fashionable but who can’t tie a sari properly. She might pin her pallu at a clumsy angle.

  “Ma, stop fussing—I’ll be fine. He won’t even notice.”

  “He’ll notice all, especially if you try to look perfect and you mess it up!”

  But when Ravi steps across the threshold, all worries vanish. He arrives in a fashionable sports jacket, khaki pants, a blue shirt open at the neck to reveal a tantalizing hint of hair. He takes my hand, his long fingers curled around mine. He kisses my cheek, his lips barely brushing my skin—a promise of our future together.

  “You look lovely, Lakshmi.”

  “Come in, I’m just brushing my hair and I have to put on my shoes.” I close the door behind him.

  His thoughts are warm, a blanket enveloping me.

  “Ah, Ravi, we’re delighted!” Ma brings tea to the living room, the silver tray clattering on the coffee table. Ravi sits on the couch, and I get a flash of Nick sitting there, waiting for me to get a sweater from my room.

  I have to forget. I quickly brush my hair, put on my shoes, and sit beside Ravi. A soft vibration moves through him and into me, a matching wavelength of harmony, and Nick disappears.

  We exchange the usual pleasantries, Ravi saying that he’s settled into his temporary apartment. He’s learning his way around the campus and hospital, bought a few things he needs, spoken to his parents. The wedding guests have been invited, the venue arranged in Kolkata.

  Then Shiva leaps up onto the table and Ravi gives a start.

  “There’s another one,” I say. “She usually hides.”

  “I hope she won’t do that in our house,” he says.

  “She might—”

  “So, Ravi!” Ma interrupts. “You’re to buy a home in the area?” Beneath her excitement, a slight thread of worry wavers.

  “We’ll be close to you, so Lakshmi can see you nearly every day,” he says. “She need not drive. We’ll be close to all transportation options.”

  “But I might want to drive,” I say.

  “Then you may,” Ravi says dismissively. “As you wish.” He turns to Ma again. “You are welcome to live with us.”

  Ma’s emotions fall in a tangle of confusion, and a faint face emerges—round, dark, with two hairs on his head, the mountain behind him. “Oh—you are mo
st kind, Ravi,” she says. “I couldn’t impose.”

  “We’d worry about you here alone, you see,” Ravi says.

  I say nothing, swallow the dryness in my throat. Of course Ma could live with us. But—Ravi didn’t talk to me about this.

  “I can’t imagine leaving this house,” Ma says. “But perhaps it might be the best thing.”

  “You need not decide now,” Ravi says. “But you are family. All of Lakshmi’s family is my family now.” A sweet protectiveness emanates from him.

  Parvati climbs into my lap. I introduce her to Ravi.

  “Ah, Parvati the goddess,” Ravi says. He smiles but doesn’t touch her.

  I think of Nick finding her in the cabinet, carrying her to the floor.

  “She likes to hide,” I say. “Mainly in the cabinet above the refrigerator.”

  “What a strange thing to do. As long as she doesn’t do this in our new home.” Ravi chuckles, and Ma hastily rearranges her sari. A funny taste comes into my mouth.

  “She might do that sometimes,” I say. “She likes to sleep on towels in the linen closet too—”

  “Oh, so, Ravi!” Ma exclaims. “How is the new job?” Her teacup clatters onto the saucer.

  “Good enough to allow me to take Lakshmi to the finest restaurant.” He gets up. “Shall we go?”

  His car, a Toyota Camry, is spotless, not a CD or speck of dust on the seat. The scents of air freshener and his spicy cologne permeate the air.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “We can’t settle for mediocre food. Life is too short,” he says as he drives away from the curb. He’s a careful driver, but I find I’m gripping the armrest, unsure if he’s looking both ways when he crosses an intersection.

  “We’re going to the India Pavilion,” he says, slipping a CD into the stereo. The soft strains of a Mozart concerto fill the car. “Four stars in the Times. Five stars for atmosphere, four for the food. Moderately priced.”

  “You’ve done your research!”

  “I had quite a time choosing between this one and the Mayuri, although that one seemed like a bit of a drive. I checked the routes and mileage and concluded that India Pavilion was our best bet.”

  “You’re so…thorough.” I lean back against the headrest, surprised at the fatigue in my bones. I want to close my eyes and drift into sleep.

  “The critics know what they’re talking about, especially that Romeo Malliutt, the one who reviews the ethnic restaurants for the Gazette.”

  “You’re settling into life here quickly.”

  “I remember this city—lovely, but a bit cold and damp.”

  With Nick, I barely noticed the weather.

  “But what if the critic has bad taste?” I ask. “What if you disagree with him? I mean, he could prefer mangoes to cantaloupe, and you might prefer cantaloupe.”

  Ravi laughs, an easy, refined sound. “A good critic takes into account the differences in taste.”

  “How can he account for differences? I mean, taste is subjective.”

  “He can tell if food is too greasy, tasteless, not presented in a proper way.”

  “I guess you’re right.” I close my eyes, the sound of the road outside distant and insubstantial.

  At the restaurant, he’s made a reservation at a quiet corner table, away from the cold air coming through the door. There’s a view across the water.

  “My parents are looking forward to the ceremony.” He steeples his fingers in front of him, elbows on the tablecloth. “As am I.”

  “I’m looking forward to it too,” I say, but the tingle of anticipation inside my stomach could be anxiety.

  “Have you sent the invitations to your side of the family?”

  “We were going to consult you and your family first.”

  “I think we should invite everyone so as not to offend anyone,” he says.

  “But the list could get bigger and bigger,” I say, thinking of Ma’s friends and relatives.

  “Then let it—half the people won’t come anyway,” he says. “Ma’s making up our list. I can’t remember all these things.”

  “Your ma’s meticulous,” I say.

  “Very well organized. She understands the nuances.”

  We peruse the menu, standard North Indian fare with some South Indian vegetarian curries thrown in. I order sparkling water, and Ravi orders an expensive Merlot. Is he planning to drink and drive? Nick didn’t drink alcohol the whole time we were together. He knew he would have to drive. There’s nothing wrong with a single glass of wine, is there? I have to stop thinking about Nick.

  When we get our drinks, Ravi makes a toast. “To our wedding,” and the glasses clink together in delicate unison.

  We order a variety of the restaurant’s starred, recommended dishes. He takes my hands in his, stares into my eyes. “I think we should marry sooner. I wanted to tell you at my parents’, but I didn’t want to spring it on you at the last minute.”

  My heart turns upside down. “Soon? But how soon?”

  “A month sooner.”

  “But the planning. Two months! We won’t be able to—”

  “We’ll make it work. My ma will make it work. What do you think, Lakshmi? You look pensive.”

  Why am I so restless?

  “Of course. That will be fine.”

  I can’t imagine life beyond the ceremony. Perhaps I’m not meant to imagine the future. I’ll have to share a bedroom with him. My mind travels away, and at night, when I dream, I’m walking beside Nick. A spark turns to fire inside me, and when I wake up, I’m sweating.

  Thirty-one

  The next afternoon, Sita stops by the store. She’s wearing a turquoise sari. Her cheeks are pink, and there’s a bandage across the top of her forehead.

  “Sita!” I give her a hug. “I tried calling for you—”

  “I know. I haven’t been at Mitra’s lately.”

  “You look lovely. But what’s happened to your head?”

  “Just a scrape! Long story. I came to say good-bye and thank you. The orange chiffon sari you gave me did wonders.” She glances with affection around the store.

  “Ah yes—the orange. It felt right to me.”

  “It was. And I’ve got a job. A good one, but not here. In Bangalore.”

  I drop the sari I’m holding, quickly pick it up. “Congratulations! But…you’re moving to India?”

  “With Kishor. He’s waiting in the car.”

  “But Sita—”

  “I couldn’t let my family down,” she says. “I missed my ma, my sisters.”

  “But—”

  “The sari you gave me, it was slippery.”

  “Now I remember.”

  “It always unraveled—got caught in the car door, and I tripped and hit my head—”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Not to worry—it was for the good. The hospital called my parents, and my ma and Baba came rushing over. Faced with the prospect of losing her only daughter, my ma came around.”

  “What do you mean, she came around?”

  Sita bites her lip, then smiles. “My ma has always been loud, you know. But her bark is much worse than her bite. She is hard on the outside, but inside, she has always loved me. She said as much. We had a long chat in the hospital. She broke down and cried. She said I don’t have to marry Kishor if I don’t want to, that we could talk. Just knowing that she is on my side, that she will support me, is so gratifying, Lakshmi, and so rare in a family, you know?”

  “Wow—I’m so glad.” I hug her again. “Not about you hitting your head, though!”

  “Kishor came to see me in the hospital too. He stayed with me, held my hand. He was so tender, Lakshmi. You can’t imagine! I think I fell in love with him at that moment. I’m happy now. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I couldn’t have known how I felt about Kishor until I left him. Until he rallied to come to my side. I couldn’t have reconciled with Ma if it weren’t for the unraveling sari.”

  “I’m glad
I could help. Be good, okay? And if you ever need anything—”

  “I know, just call.” She kisses me on the cheek. “You are like a sister to me.”

  “And you’re the little sister I never had.”

  “I’ll write,” she shouts back over her shoulder as she rushes outside.

  Sita’s happy again, back with her family. I never would’ve guessed. I never would’ve known that the slippery sari would help her reconcile with her mother, but the sari could just as easily have killed her. Saris bring happiness and love, but they can also be dangerous. How many saris have been caught in car doors, in escalators? Burst into flames over a stove? How many bride burnings have been attributed to saris accidentally catching fire?

  One never knows which way the wind will shift.

  Thirty-two

  Mitra picks me up for lunch on Thursday, but this time, she’s quiet on the drive to the café.

  “Thanks for taking care of Sita,” I tell her. “I’m so glad she’s happy again.”

  “She really loves Kishor. She’s willing to give it a go.” Mitra sighs. “I met him. He’s a great guy! Eager to please her. And he stands up to her mother. Can you imagine?”

  “Wow—good for him!”

  “He’s a godsend for Sita. He’ll be a good husband to her. He won’t let her mother walk all over her. Maybe I ought to look into an arranged marriage. Now that my father…Anyway, he’s coming to my performance Saturday. I’m going to wear that costume.”

  “Good for you!”

  “Maybe I want a guy like Kishor. Handsome and loving. Not like Nisha’s…” Her voice trails off.

  “What about Nisha?”

  “She’s unhappy.” Mitra parks at the café and stares out through the windshield, which is streaked with rain.

  “I know—I sensed that the last time we had lunch here. She was running to an apartment building, but I didn’t want to say anything. She’s a very private person.”

  “Maybe she just had a bad childhood memory.”

  “Maybe. Well, now she and Rakesh are happy together.” But a shiver of apprehension climbs my spine.