Imaginary Men

by Anjali Banerjee

  “Good evening.” I give the cat’s head a quick pet, then turn and run back to the house in the rising wind. Good evening? Nobody says “Good evening” any more. They say it only in old movies like Casablanca .

  “Lina, where have you been?” Kali rushes onto the veranda. “We’ve been looking for you.”

  “I met a man. He’s a chauvinist. Good thing I’m already engaged.” I don’t mention Star Galaxy.

  “Where’d he go?” She squints into the darkness.

  “Into oblivion, I hope.”

  Inside, the atmosphere is subdued as the bride and groom prepare to leave with the groom’s family. I go to the drawing room and drop the stone in my handbag. There’s no sign of Raja Prasad as we all file back outside and bid the happy couple teary good-byes. After the honeymoon in Goa, on the west coast of India, they’ll return to their software jobs in California.

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Kali throws her arms around Durga’s neck. They both burst into tears.

  “I’ll be back, don’t go saying this is forever.” Although the youngest, Durga is the tallest of the three of us, muscular and big-boned like our father. She holds herself with a sporty air, bouncing with every step.

  Kali is voluptuous, creamy-skinned, a wannabe Bollywood actress with the quick temper of the formidable goddess Kali, killer of demons. I got Ma’s slim limbs, dark complexion, and passion for reading.

  I hug Durga and then the groom. “Be good to my sister. She takes lots of milk in her tea, and three cubes of sugar. And she snores and sometimes falls off the bed—”

  “I know. Not to worry.” Amit wraps his arms around Durga. “Now we must plan your wedding.”

  I wave him away, but a lump rises in my throat as I watch the groom’s wedding party fold into hulking Ambassador cars. Durga will cook breakfast tomorrow for Amit’s family, to stake her place in the household. But times have changed. She won’t live with his family in Kolkata. If she did, she would fall under the iron hand of his mother.

  Kali grabs my arm. “I’m going to miss her, Didi. I hope this is right.”

  “They can always get a divorce.” But I know Durga is the most traditional sister of the three of us. She will hang on to this marriage until her fingers bleed, no matter how bad things get.

  “When I marry, it’ll be for keeps,” Kali says. “Maybe it’ll be the cool cat I met tonight.”

  “The long-haired guy?”

  “Don’t tell, nah? He says he’ll call me.”

  “Long distance? So I guess the Catholic guy is out of the picture.”

  She nods, and I roll my eyes. Kali prefers impossible long-distance relationships.

  The other guests trickle away, congratulating my father and patting him on the back. Could it be this easy, letting go of my youngest sister? Durga will return to America, but she’ll be different. She’ll be a married woman with obligations. A husband, children, a house, henna in her hair part.

  I’ve lost her.

  Ma wipes tears from her eyes, and Baba goes back into the house with Auntie’s husband. Auntie smiles. “I did a fine job of planning this wedding, nah?”

  Ma pats her arm. “You’re always in fine form.”

  Auntie grips my elbow with talonlike fingers. “Remember, once I’ve approved the match, we’ll plan your wedding.”

  “We were hoping for a more private ceremony,” I start to say, but my throat dries up.

  There’s a silence, then she says, “Only thirty, forty people then. Maybe fifty. Very private wedding. And tomorrow I will take you to see Pandit Parsai.”

  “Auntie. I don’t need to see an astrologer! We don’t believe in such things—”

  “Nah, nah, we must. He’s been advising me for years. When you were just a baby, I had him write up your natal horoscope.”

  No, please! I read the horoscope in the newspaper every morning, but I don’t take it seriously. Now Auntie wants me to consult her Pandit about a fiancé who doesn’t exist. “Auntie, remember what you said? Pandit predicted I’d search across the world for love. Look at me. I stayed in San Francisco.”

  “Do not speak ill of Pandit Parsai!” Auntie shouts. “He predicts everything with great accuracy—illness, good fortune, and marriage. I’ll give him a ring tonight, and we’ll see him first thing tomorrow.”

  Four

  You’re rarely alone in India.

  I run upstairs to the bedroom I share with Kali. There’s no door, only a silk curtain hanging in an archway, but the illusion of privacy slows my heartbeat. I peel off my clothes and change into Victoria’s Secret flannel pajamas. Relief. Any moment, a relative will stride in unannounced, but for now, I can breathe. How I miss solid doors with brass knobs and deadbolts.

  I’ve been here only three days. Jetlag turns my insides upside down. My digital clock reads 10:00 P.M., yet my stomach growls for breakfast. My hosts would be insulted if I asked for cereal right after the wedding feast, and now that I’ve lied, I couldn’t even choke down my beloved Lucky Charms. My stomach has no room for anything but shame, and a dull headache squeezes my temples.

  Besides, nobody eats cereal in India. We’ll have parathas and dahl in the morning, with mango slices. India is the land of mushy food—rice, dahl, curry. Everything is soft and yellow.

  A horn beeps, and a man shouts in Hindi. Heavy air rife with pollution and smoke curls up beneath the high ceiling. I untuck the mosquito net from the mattress and flop on the bed, a four-poster as old as the Taj Mahal. The mosquito net’s white gauze lends a surreal fuzziness to the walls painted in jungle green, stained with watermarks from the humidity. A grayish house gecko, a lizard the size of a large mouse, clings to the windowsill. Vertical pupils widen ominously.

  Geckos are harmless, I tell myself in a mantra. They won’t slither under the sheets. They won’t crawl over my face and bite my nose. They’ve shared Indian homes for centuries. They’ve watched mothers give birth, elders die. They’ve flicked their tongues at foreigners like me, stumbling witless through an alien country.

  I was born here, but who remembers infancy? My parents whisked me to America before I could say “Ma.” Yet my soul connects to this strange, colorful, hot, smelly, magical country, even though I don’t remember it. Do all Indians share a collective memory? Culture imprinted in our DNA? Is that why I lied, because in a tiny corner of my heart, I belong here?

  What a terrifying thought. Me, Lina Ray, poster child for independence, settling in India with a husband, a family? Impossible.

  Auntie’s daughters left home to reside with their husbands’ families. Her son, his wife, and their baby boy live here, on the first floor. Before the wedding, they escaped to their Darjeeling tea gardens. I wish I could follow, hop the train to the Himalayas along cliff edges and switchbacks, away from family expectations. Away from the chaos of Kolkata, the hum of gossip drifting in from the living room. Away from my lies. I could reveal the truth, but Ma’s excitement permeates the house. I’ve never seen her so happy, not even when Durga announced her engagement. I’ve finally made my mother proud. Now what am I going to do?

  Kali bursts in and plunks down on the bed. She leans in toward me, gives off pungent aromas of sandalwood and sweat. “So tell me now. Have you slept with him?”

  “Slept with whom—Oh, him! What do you think? I’m not saving myself for marriage, Kali.”

  Her eyelashes flutter as she lets out a low whistle. “Is he good in bed? Better than Nathu?”

  “Kali, please, not here—”

  “I can’t wait to meet him! You’re flushed. Shiny eyes, the works. Now I know why. You’ve been getting some.”

  I’m developing a fever. Maybe I’ve caught a bug. I accidentally drank ice water tonight, another mistake. Although Auntie purifies her drinking water, the ice might come from unboiled tap water.

  Kali glances toward the doorway. “Brace yourself for the elders.”

  I sit up straight. “What, now? But—”

  “You’re engaged. Shaga
delic! You get the gold. I am so jealous.”

  Newly engaged women receive gifts of gold from their elders. I get the gold, and I haven’t even trained for the Olympics. I deserve to be disqualified. Why didn’t I consider this when I created my imaginary man?

  Auntie and Ma march in, saris swishing. They’re holding black Kashmiri boxes painted in intricate paisley patterns. The bed will collapse beneath the weight of all four of us.

  In the living room, the men drown their boredom in laughter and whisky. There’s nowhere to hide, unless I jump out the window, and then hundreds of concerned passersby will converge on my bloodied corpse. My ghost will find no peace in the crowds.

  “My dearest Pupu,” Ma says, patting my cheek.

  I wince at the sound of my childhood pet name. In our family, everyone has a pet name and a given name. Lucky for me, my pet name fell out of favor as I grew older. Until now.

  Ma’s eyes glisten with tears. “You’ve made me happier than words can say. You’ve finally found the life I dreamed for you. Where will you live when you’re married? You’ll come to Santa Barbara?”

  Yikes. Now what? “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I say.

  Auntie rests a pudgy hand on my knee. Her nails are long and painted red. Heavy gold rings squeeze her fingers. She must’ve slipped on the rings years ago, when she was slim, and then never took them off. “It’s never too soon to plan,” she says. “We must make a list of wedding guests. If we forget anyone, God forbid, we shall never hear the end of it.”

  Kali nods in solemn collusion. “It’s so important to get this right. We don’t want to shame the family, especially given the status of your beloved. You know how people gossip. The Gangulis invited us to their son’s wedding. You have to invite them. And Mira Das. Remember her?”

  “I met her once, in San Francisco.”

  “She invited us to her wedding, and you must invite her to yours.”

  “I didn’t go. I can’t fly to India ten times a year, at the drop of a hat, for all the weddings!”

  “Lina, really!” Ma says.

  Auntie clears her throat. Her thick, busy fingers pull at the end of her sari.

  “Oh, Kali, I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just tired.”

  She pats my knee. “Must be overwhelming, to be engaged. We’ll make the guest list later.”

  I can’t keep track of the family’s vast net of acquaintances. They’ll all come to the wedding between me and a phantom, a gold-embroidered dhoti punjabi with no man inside. I turn to Auntie. “Look, no need to do all that work.”

  “Let me give you some advice,” Auntie says. “We plan. We’re women. It’s what we do. Better to have a plan, even if things change down the road. What will be, will be, nah? Your beloved will understand. Once you’re married, let him believe he’s making all the decisions. Usually, he won’t know what he’s talking about.”

  I play with my earring, twisting and twisting, a habit when I’m nervous.

  The gecko climbs over the windowsill into the room and crawls along the wall.

  “Lina knows how to take care of things,” Ma says. “She always did. Even as a child, she smoothed over Kali’s naughtiness. If Kali broke a glass, Lina cleaned up the mess. You didn’t think I knew, but I knew. My Lina, such a ray of sunshine. She never lets us down.”

  Kali squeezes my arm. “You were the smart one, always helping me with homework, reading to me.”

  The gecko creeps across the wall toward us. Nobody seems to notice.

  Auntie claps. “Acha, it’s true. I came to stay. Do you remember, Lina? You were about seven.”

  “How could I forget?” I picture Auntie standing at the stove, cooking basmati rice, her hair twisted into a braid down her back. She must’ve stayed for months while Ma disappeared to university for her doctorate. The scent of Auntie’s curry sank into the upholstery, the linoleum floors. She created a tiny shrine to the elephant god, Ganesh, in the guest room, although in Brahmo Samaj tradition, she’s not supposed to worship idols.

  “You introduced me to your imaginary friends,” Auntie says. “Little animals with whom you had tea parties.”

  Heat creeps up my neck. “I read Alice in Wonderland .”

  “You got along better with your made-up friends than you did with your real ones,” Ma says. “You often played by yourself with your stuffed animals. Kali, however, brought her friends over for fashion shows. They tried on all my lipsticks and high-heeled shoes. She wanted to be a fashion model from babyhood. She would’ve worn designer diapers.”

  We burst into laughter.

  “Durga was the athlete,” Ma goes on. “Always on the track team and playing this sport and that sport. Ah, Durga …” Her eyes glaze, and I know she’s thinking of her youngest daughter, asleep beneath a mosquito net in a strange house on the other side of the city. Well, maybe not asleep, if she and Amit steal any privacy.

  “Lucky Durga found a husband who doesn’t mind her build,” Auntie says. “Too much muscle, and she’ll look like a man.”

  Kali and I trade knowing glances. No use trying to set Auntie straight. She’s old world.

  “Durga’s beautiful,” I say. “She was lovely at the wedding, and Amit’s a good man.”

  “Acha. Now you will have a good man, nah?” Auntie opens her Kashmiri box. Inside, a golden bangle lies on a bed of red satin. Each end of the bangle forms a curved serpent head, with tiny eyes of inlaid ruby.

  Kali gasps, a sharp pinprick of sound.

  My throat tightens.

  “My grandmother gave this to my mother,” Auntie says, “who gave it to me. Now it’s yours.” Her voice grows husky.

  Ma wipes a tear from her cheek. Her lips tremble.

  “No, you mustn’t. Auntie—” Silly me. I’m choked with emotion. “You should give this to Durga. She’s already married.”

  “Acha, I’ve already given. This bangle is reserved for the eldest daughter.” She removes the bracelet from its satin bed and slips it onto my wrist. The cold metal sends a shiver up my arm. The gecko crawls closer until I can see the tiny bumps on its scaly skin.

  “Ah, lovely,” Ma says. “Gold suits you.”

  “Fits,” says Kali. “You have a narrow wrist. Mine’s too thick.”

  “Beautiful, Auntie,” I say, “I don’t deserve it. Please, keep the bangle for Kali.”

  “I have other gifts for Kali,” Auntie says. “I insist you keep this. Family heirloom passed through the generations. It can only belong to you upon your engagement. As it belonged to me upon mine.”

  “Thank you, Auntie. I’ll cherish it forever.”

  “Acha—our Lina, all grown up.” Auntie does the sideways head nod, and her face goes slack. She looks vulnerable, like a little girl. I picture her in a dress, running in the courtyard, pigtails flying out behind her. She was young and slim and carefree once.

  Ma’s fingers tremble as she opens her box. Inside, a gold brooch shines in the shape of a lotus leaf. “My mother gave this to me. So now you have one gift from your great-aunt on your Baba’s side, one from me.”

  Tears well up in my throat. “Ma, I can’t take it. You’ve had that brooch for years. You wore it to the wedding!”

  “Don’t argue.” She pins the brooch to my shirt, nearly impaling my breast. “Only for you when you’re engaged.”

  “Ma, how can I thank you?” I envelop her in a tight hug. Her shoulders feel bony. How could my mother have become so small? So fragile? I let go of her and sit back against the headboard. How can I go on lying to her?

  The gecko grips the bedpost now. Black eyes regard me with a fathomless gaze. The lizard knows the truth. It’s just waiting for me to speak.

  “I’m not really getting married,” I say.

  “Acha, it must seem unreal,” Auntie says. “After all this time, to have actually found—”

  “You don’t understand. I’m not—really—getting married.”

  Ma blows her nose into a Kleenex
tissue. “Don’t change your mind now. No getting cold feet. Not after we’ve told everyone.”

  “You’ve told everyone, already? But there’s no fiancé. I made him up. I can’t take your jewelry.”

  Ma pats my cheek. “Engagement can be overwhelming, but you’ll adjust, nah? Take one step at a time.”

  The golden brooch reflects the light, throwing an elongated triangle of white across the wall. The gecko is gone.

  Kali drapes her arm around my shoulders. “You’ve always denied yourself true happiness, Lina. You were always taking care of your two younger sisters. Now I’m telling you, don’t turn your back on bliss. You deserve it.”

  Ma, Auntie, and Kali bathe me in their joy and tears, and I’m happy and miserable at the same time. They think all is right with the world. I’m a charlatan, the Great Pretender.

  The ruby serpent eyes glitter on my wrist. I half expect the creature to come to life and flick out its tongue. The gecko has disappeared, and the snake has taken its place, as vivid as the lie I told.

  Five

  I wake up sweating. My nightshirt is soaked. The mosquito net undulates around me. Merchants shout in the street outside, and the smoky odor of cow dung drifts into my nose. I lie still, taking in the peculiar angle of morning light, the curved, high ceiling, and Auntie’s echoing voice as she talks to Ma and Kali in the dining room. After three trips back to India, I’m still a stranger here. Then my heart sinks as I remember—I’m going to see Pandit Parsai today.

  I sit up and rub sleep from my eyes. My limbs and eyelids are heavy. My tongue swells with thirst. I miss my apartment, the windows with screens, the newspaper outside my door every morning. San Francisco is an ache in my chest, a memory of fresh ocean air, clean streets, privacy, no mosquito nets, no dust.

  I have the chills. I’m getting sick. Parasites worm their way into my stomach and remind me I don’t belong here. My body has gone soft from the easy life in America. I could never survive here, with malaria and dysentery roaming the streets like criminals waiting for the next foreign victim.