I stomp off to my room, and that night, my father returns to my dreams. We’re standing in a misted forest, the air cool and refreshing. He’s wearing a woolen coat, perhaps the one he wore to Darjeeling. His face remains obscured in shadow. He shoves his hands into his pockets, hunches against the cold. His breath comes out in puffs of steam. “My dearest child,” he says. “You know I have always loved you.”
A lump comes up in my throat. Then why did you leave? I want to say, but I’m speechless.
“I didn’t leave you purposely,” he says. “These things happen. Planes crash, trains derail. Flesh and blood can’t fight these twists of fate.”
I know this is true, that accidents and tsunamis and earthquakes happen, that the planets move in mysterious ways. “But aren’t Ravi and I lucky to have found each other?” I ask in desperation.
My father paces, leans his shoulder against a tree. The mist is a living thing, creeping in around our feet. “Not a coincidence. Your mother knew where to find him. She was just waiting for the right time.”
“I think I knew that, Baba. But still—”
“There are other things in life that happen by accident. Someone walks in front of you, smiles at you in the street. Serendipity.”
“Baba—what are you trying to say?”
Now he steps into the light, and his face is young but distant, washed in sepia, shaded by age and regret. A face kept young for too long. “I am trying to say that it happened to me.”
“Someone walked in front of you, smiled at you in the street?”
“Before I knew your mother.”
Words strangled in my throat. “You loved Ma, didn’t you?”
“The way one grows to love one’s home.” His voice drips with sadness.
“Like a rug or a sagging armchair?” I shout. “Or like true love?”
“I loved—love you more than anything,” he says. “My Bibu.”
“Baba—you didn’t answer my question.” But already I know the answer.
I run toward him, but with every step, he moves farther away. The mist fades, and then I’m awake, in the world of the living.
Thirty-five
The next morning, I corner Mr. Basu in the office before anyone else arrives. He’s got a pile of new saris around him.
“Do you love my mother?” I ask him, hands on my hips.
“What?” He glances up at me, the two hairs standing straight up on his head. But his face looks different today, not quite as round. He’s drinking a double-tall mocha. I didn’t know he drank coffee.
“You’ve been sleeping with my mother. Do you love her?”
He stands, and suddenly he looks taller than usual. “Do you love Ravi Ganguli?”
I sputter, no words coming out.
“Lakshmi,” he says quietly. “I wondered when you would come to talk to me.”
“What do you mean, when?”
“You are always trying so hard to take care of your mother.”
“What do you mean, trying so hard? What do you know?”
“Your ma and I are very happy. You can let go.”
“Let go of what? I’m not holding onto anything!”
He takes a long sip of his mocha. “I knew your ma in India, before I lost my hair. Before I had this paunch.” He pats his belly, which doesn’t look quite as big today. “You are probably wondering how she could love a man like me.”
“No, that’s not what I meant—”
“Perhaps she loved me long ago, Lakshmi. Before she met your father. Your ma and I, we laughed together, we hiked, we went to the cinema.”
“Mr. Basu—”
“When she sees me now, she doesn’t see my paunch. She sees me the way I was. I am still a young man in here.” He points to his bald temple. I catch a glimpse of him as a young man, slim and—handsome! “But you don’t see, Lakshmi. You see what you want to see.”
“I see perfectly well!”
Mr. Basu comes up to me and searches my eyes. So close, I’m surprised to find that he’s actually a little taller than me. “Find your happiness, Lakshmi. Your mother has found hers. Let us be together. You must trust. I will take care of her.”
I squeeze Mr. Basu’s hands. I can hardly speak for the catch in my throat. “You’d better be good to her.”
And then Ma and Pooja arrive, and we’re lost in the bustle of morning activity. Just before noon, a gangly boy comes into the shop and walks around, looking embarrassed. He’s familiar to me—oh! He’s Anu, the boy who came to buy a sari for his mother, the first time I met Nick. When the knowing disappeared.
This teenager must be here to tell me I ruined his relationship with his mother. The knowing slipped away, and he took home a blue sari that made her look frumpy. She must’ve thrown the sari out in the street.
Anu spots me, waves, and rushes over. “Ms. Lakshmi,” he says in a serious voice.
There’s no escape. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me that day. If you need to return the sari, please do—”
“No, no! The sari was perfect!”
“What do you mean, perfect?”
“When I gave it to Ma, she cried. She said she had been looking for a midnight blue sari all her life. The way the colors changed in the light, she said, was a dream!”
“A dream?”
“She said it was as if you had reached into her head and pulled out all her thoughts and wishes.”
But the knowing was gone. Nick had taken it away.
Just then a beautiful woman glides into the shop. She’s tall, angular, her skin smooth and milky, only the hint of creases around her eyes belying her age. She’s wearing the midnight blue sari, a matching blouse, and holding the pallu over her arm in an elegant style. “This sari has brought me great happiness, and I must thank you myself,” she says. “My son and I will come in here more often now.”
“Of course, I can help you!” I spend the next half hour picking out sari after sari. After Anu and his mother leave, I escape to the office to catch my breath. I picked the right sari while the bubbles hovered around my head. A glimpse of the knowing must’ve peered through.
Intuition, Nick said. You always have it.
I think of him carrying Mrs. Tarun to the window, his tenderness. Do you believe in love at first sight?
You two make a lovely couple, Mrs. Tarun said.
Did she love my father all her life? She said the chiffon sari saved her life. She found the man she would marry, but did she love him? Was she happy? Did she compromise?
Did Ma always love Mr. Basu?
You must trust. I will take care of her.
Baba—maybe Mr. Basu is right. Maybe I can let go.
Ma comes rushing through the store, carrying a taped package from India. “I ordered this some time ago, Lakshmi, and it has finally arrived! Heavy red silk inlaid with gold! Your wedding sari!”
Thirty-six
I take the sari home. In my room, I change into a petticoat and red blouse and stand in front of the full-length mirror. I’m nearly fully clothed, but in India, I would feel naked without the sari.
I hold the wedding sari up to my chest. A concentrated inner light shimmers from the red silk. The fabric breathes, as if the fibers are alive. A faint, indefinable scent rises from the intricate gold weave—a mixture of newness and ancient India. In the folds, I see the future of a family, a bride smiling through a translucent pallu. The sari changes texture and color to become all the saris she will ever own—soft cottons, georgette, silk, chiffon. She uses the sari to dab the sweat from her brow, to shield her head in the sun, to wipe her daughter’s tears. A small boy grips his mother’s pallu, takes his first tentative steps. Her husband will slowly unravel the sari in a soft dance of foreplay. She will cover her mouth in a coy gesture as she runs from him. Will the sari get caught in a door, accidentally fall off at an embarrassing moment?
I have to try on this wedding sari, but my fingers won’t move. The garment grows heavy in my hands, and when I u
nfold the fabric, it slips through my fingers. It’s worth several thousand rupees, one of a kind, handwoven in a natural, heavy silk with the finest embroidery, and yet I can’t put it on. I just stand there looking at it.
Thirty-seven
Saturday morning, Mrs. Dasgupta shows up rosy-cheeked, looking much younger than her seventy years. “The blue sari you gave me has brought me great happiness, Lakshmi.” She pats my cheek, shows me an airmail letter. “I sent my dear friend Adith a snap of me in that sari, and he wrote back immediately, told me I resembled Sridevi from Mr. India!”
“How risqué of him!” I give her a warm smile. It’s hard to imagine Mrs. Dasgupta as Sridevi, the voluptuous and beautiful actress who writhes in an erotic, wet sari scene in the classic Hindi movie—but the sari must’ve done wonders.
Mrs. Dasgupta lowers her voice. “The way the thing clings, you know—made me look many years younger.”
“Who is this Adith?” I ask, but I already know. The shadow-man in her mind, the man who stood in the background all these years, behind the groom who is now long dead. Adith steps into the light. He has a soft face, kind eyes, a handlebar mustache. He’s been waiting.
“He’s coming to visit me,” she says. “Perhaps to stay. He’s a widower now. And you helped me find him. All with that sari. Your saris are sacred, I tell you. How did you know? You always see what it is I am thinking.”
“I didn’t see. I only guessed. It is a mystery. Everything’s a mystery, especially love, right?”
She gives me a funny look. “Love?” She purses her lips.
Yes, love, Mrs. Dasgupta. I pat her hand. “I’m very happy for you.”
“And I am happy for you.” She pats my cheek with the sandpaper palm of her hand, her filmy eyes examining every crease of my skin. “But something troubles you, Lakshmi. Not getting cold feet, are you?”
“No cold feet.” Icicle feet. Stone feet.
And that’s when the door swings open and I don’t have to look to know. Asha is here. Nick is pushing her in the wheelchair. The saris whisper his name, the black suit moving in perfect harmony with his body. A body I could picture with my eyes closed.
Asha’s in a fashionable lemon chiffon sari today, silver threads crisscrossing the centerpiece, an elaborate silver pattern on the pallu. She has the glowing look of a woman in love.
Ma moves forward in slow motion, her pencil-thin eyebrows rising in surprise. She doesn’t know why Asha is here, doesn’t know that I called her.
I wasn’t sure she would come.
The knowing spirals away, but this time, I understand that it’s not truly gone. It has merely changed shape. I still have a knowing inside me, a deeper kind of intuition borne of being human, of simply being me, a woman of compassion. Perhaps this is all it ever was—part of me.
“What is this—Asha Rao again?” Mrs. Dasgupta whispers. “Oh, Shiva, what I’ll tell my friends!”
“Ms. Rao, what a pleasure!” Ma exclaims, and Mr. Basu is running after her, always her faithful follower.
“How can we help you?” he says. “We’ve got new shipments, many lovely new—”
“Lakshmi called, said it was urgent,” Asha says.
“Lakshmi called?” Ma says and gives me a look full of questions.
“Oh, Shiva.” Mrs. Dasgupta’s lashes flutter.
“Bibu, what’s going on?” Ma asks in a sharp voice.
Pooja rushes out of the office, her eyes wide, hair frizzy. She’s a bundle of angles in a green shalwar kameez. “Oh, my!” she exclaims. “Nick! Asha!”
I turn to Nick, who’s staring at me with a touch of sadness in his eyes.
Mrs. Dasgupta stands like a statue, gazing in utter awe at Asha Rao.
Mr. Basu coughs, and the two hairs droop, portending a storm. “We can clothe all of you, of course, if that’s the plan—”
“Sanjay!” Ma shouts. She puts her hands on her hips. “Lakshmi, explain.”
“I have an announcement to make,” I say.
“What is this?” Ma says.
“I have the perfect wedding sari for Asha.”
“I’ve already chosen a wedding sari,” Asha says quietly. “And besides, the last time you showed me a sari—”
“Forget the last time,” I say. “This one is perfect.”
“But I’ve already—”
“Please, give me a chance.”
Asha points toward the door. “Nick, turn me around. We’re leaving. This woman has ruined my looks once in a lifetime, and it won’t happen again.”
“No, it won’t,” I say. “Nick, don’t you turn around!”
He hesitates. Yes, I can raise my voice.
“Lakshmi!” Ma says. “You don’t talk to customers that way.”
Mrs. Dasgupta presses a hand to her chest and whispers to me, “Do you think Asha would give me her autograph?”
“Just wait!” I bring out a paper bag and unfold my wedding sari in front of Asha. The silk’s inner light radiates through the shop. The fabric breathes stories of the past and future. Asha’s mouth drops open. She reaches for the sari, her fingers trembling.
“Lakshmi!” Ma’s scream rips the silence. “That is your wedding sari!”
Asha withdraws her hand and snaps her head around to glare at me. “Is this true? This is your wedding sari? What kind of joke are you playing here?”
“It’s not a joke. My mother’s right. It is my wedding sari, but I’m not keeping it.”
Ma gasps. “What do you mean, you’re not keeping it? There is no other sari like this one anywhere in the world.”
“Exactly, Ma. No other sari like this one, and it’s perfect for Asha.” I can feel Nick’s regard, but he keeps his expression carefully blank.
Asha bites her lip in a delicate gesture, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “This is most…amazing.”
“Oh, no! What is happening here?” Ma presses her hands to her cheeks. Mr. Basu rushes over and wraps his arms around her, and she collapses against him, forgetting for the moment that she’s supposed to be constantly irritated with him.
“I’m sorry, Ma,” I say. “I wanted to tell you, but you never would’ve let me do this.”
“Oh, Bibu. You have not tried the wedding sari? It’s the sari for you.” She leans against Mr. Basu, who proves to be surprisingly strong for his size.
“I’m not going to wear it, Ma. I couldn’t wear it.”
Nick’s silent, watching me.
Asha presses the sari to her cheek, sniffs the fabric, holds it up to her chest, runs her fingers along the fine gold trim. “It’s absolutely—beautiful,” she breathes. “Amazing. I’ve never seen a sari like this one.”
“And you never will again,” I say.
“I can’t let go of it.”
“Oh, Shiva,” Mrs. Dasgupta whispers.
“It’s perfect,” Asha says. “How did you know, Lakshmi?”
“I thought of you in it, and I knew it was yours.”
Mr. Basu fans Ma’s face, although the store is cool.
“Oh, Bibu, why have you done this?” Ma says. “What are we to do? How will we find you a better sari?”
“We won’t,” I say, “because I’m not getting married.”
“What!” Ma shrieks. She elbows her way out of Mr. Basu’s arms. “What is this nonsense? Lakshmi Sen—”
“Just what I said, Ma. I can’t get married to Ravi. He’s a good man, the right match, but—”
“You’ve gone crazy!” Ma says.
“Let her speak,” Pooja says, eyes wide. I expect her to pull up a chair and grab a bag of popcorn.
Nick’s gaze burns through me.
“Ravi’s a wonderful man, but I don’t love him.”
“You don’t love him,” Ma says in a flat, faraway voice.
“No, Ma, I don’t. If I loved him, I would marry him.”
Ma stands straight, finding her strong core again. “Bibu, you don’t know what you’re saying. You’re just confused—”
“I
’m not confused. I know exactly what I’m saying.”
“Love comes with—”
“Time, I know.” I take a deep breath and meet Nick’s gaze. “And sometimes it’s love at first sight.”
Nick’s eyes flicker.
Ma glares at Mr. Basu, as if he’s responsible for this whole debacle, but he shrugs.
“It’s okay, Ma. Baba would approve.”
The blood drains from Ma’s face, and she leans back against Mr. Basu again. “Oh, Bibu—”
“Sometimes love comes in mysterious ways. Someone walks in front of you, smiles at you in the street.”
Nick’s watching me, as motionless as the air before a storm.
“What about Ravi?” Ma asks.
“I’ve already spoken to him,” I say.
“He’s come all the way from India!”
“He was coming here anyway, Ma. We would go through our whole lives just settling for each other, and that would not be right for either of us.”
“Oh, Bibu. I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Ma says. “What about the relatives? They will be so disappointed. And your Thakurma.”
I think of Sita’s mother, her harsh exterior, the way she softened and changed. “Thakurma is a strong woman, Ma, stronger than she lets on. And wiser. She will understand.”
Ma presses a hand to her chest, pretends to have palpitations again.
Nick betrays no emotion. Maybe I hurt him beyond repair. Maybe he’ll marry Liz, but I have to tell the truth, my truth, even if my heart breaks.
“Love!” Asha shouts. “So mysterious!”
I look at Nick, hope for a future, for something. But he gives no sign.
Ma sits in a chair and fans herself, Mr. Basu at her side.
I run to her and try to hug her, but she shrugs me off. “Ma, things will be better this way. I promise.”
“Well, enough of all this hullabaloo,” Asha says in a theatrical voice. “We have much work to do before my wedding!”
Thirty-eight
I visited Ravi at his apartment. He was not surprised, but maybe a little sad. And I saw a hint of another woman on the edge of his mind, a woman not yet in his consciousness.
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