10
HUSBAND NOT SAYING two words to me, but I keeps looking at his serious face and I tries to keep the laughing inside me. We driving home from the hospital and the fresh air is coming inside the car and is making me so cheerfuls. I am ascare to go home, ascare of what Rekha may say. Husband says he tell all customers that I sick with the flu but that Rekha is knowing the truth. Still, I so happy to going to my own house and store. It funny, house and store never feel belong to me when I live in them, but now I feel they mine. Once we get home, I will eats food when I want, open one, two, three window if I want, go for walk if husband say okay. And nobody wearing white coat. Nobody come in during night to ask me question or give me tablet. I can take shower with my Hamam soap, not little soap they give; I can play my Mukesh and Kishore Kumar music CD when I want, I can drink my own chai and not the hospital tea that taste like bathwater. And at night I will hears my husband snoring and the noise of the cars, not the voice of nurse and wardboy or the screaming of the other patients. Their screaming make me feel like somebody beating me with the stick. In my village, there is madman. He wife die when having baby, and baby die also, and Dada say from that day only, he go mad. At night he sleep under a handcart in market place. And all childrens making the fun of him, they call him Pagal, mad, and they throwing little stones to him. They act like it is a mela, or holiday, when he come. When I little, I feels so bad, I go running to stand in front of him to protection him and my friends get ascare. Move away, Lakshmi, they scream, or Pagal will die you. But he just look at me and touch my head so softly. And then he cry. I feeling so bad, I pick up stones and throw back to my friends. Go away, I shout. They is running away, but at school, they make fun of me for two days. Pagal wants to make you his dead daughter, they teasing me. I not care. My ma always feed Pagal. He sit outside our house, eating food with both hands. When I hear other hospital patient scream at night, I see Pagal hit by little-little stones. But I cannot protection them.
“You take day off today,” husband say while he driving. “But tomorrow you start back at restaurant, okay? I’m telling that lazy fellow today is his last day.”
First words husband has said to me since we get this-charge from hospital. I know he upset about what madam say to him in my room today. But I think of husband’s face when madam say what she say, and it make me feel like laugh. Husband not liking the blacks, and madam both black and woman but she also doctor, so husband has to say yes, yes, yes. Otherwise, he must to pay his friend’s son to work in restaurant extra, and husband need me back.
Husband park the car in front of our store, and suddenly I so ashame. In our religion the suicide is a big paap, and I think everyone can look at my face and know I fallen woman. I get out of car and look at the exact same place where I standing with Bobby only one weeks back. But already I not remindering Bobby’s face. I know what color his hair and eyes, but is the nose big or small? Is he taller than husband or less? I don’t reminder. Most of all, the happy-sad in my chest, whenever I seeing or thinking of Bobby, is gone. Instead, I feels empty.
After locking the car, husband come to my side and look at my face and laugh. “What? One week and you forgot our restaurant? What you looking left-right, left-right, like you stranger?”
“Sorry,” I say.
He look me close. “I just making the joke,” he say. Then his voice becoming soft. “You happy you home?”
When my husband kind, it make me cry. This irritate to him, because who want a crying wife? Still, I feels the tears in my eyes. “Very happy,” I say.
Today, he not irritate. Instead, he put hand on my shoulder. “Good.”
We enter store, and I hears sound like fast wind, and Rekha come running and hugging me. “Didi, Didi,” she say. “Ae, bhagwan. I so happy you home safe and sound.”
Many time I feel the jealousy for Rehka. Always I am watching her watching my husband. Rekha, young, fair, with face that make mens smile. But today I am so enjoy her face, her boot-polish shiny hair, her smile. Today I thank God Rekha work in store with me. With her stories, her joking, her making face behind customers’ back, the music she nonstop play, she is good time-pass.
“How are you, little sister?” I say, and see the happy on her face, like I put piece of sweet jalebi in her mouth. I give myself a small pinch. I being mean to Rehka before, always showing off that I am boss’s wife. How she must feel?
“Everything is good, Didi, now that you’re home.”
Rekha’s heart pure as ghee. Why I not see before?
Husband puts down on the counter big plastic bag they gave us from hospital. “You take this to apartment and go rest, Lakshmi,” he say. “I need to get back to restaurant.” He take few steps then turn around. “You take much rest today. Tomorrow is busy day.”
I am home. Everything feeling new. And everything feeling same-same.
I feels Rekha’s eyes on my back as I takes plastic bag and walks toward back storage room, but I not minding. I knows she wanting to ask me question per question—why I doings such a wicked thing. What they doings to me in the hospital. Do they giving me electric shock, like Rajesh Khanna in Khamoshi? I will tell her. But never about Bobby. I only tells madam because . . . I don’t know because why. Because she reminding me of Shilpa, and Shilpa is half my voice.
As I climb the stairs to apartment, I puts my hand in pocket and take out the card. Madam has written time of appointment for Monday. At the four-thirty, I must to be there. Restaurant close on Monday, so no problem. Taking the two buses to madam’s clinic, big problem. But in front of husband, I is bindaas. In my village, I tell him, I take bus many, many time. I not ascare of being lost.
I walk inside apartment, and first thing I open all the window. As I moving, I reminder everything. How I take water from kitchen tap. How I taking all of husband’s tablets. How I drinking husband’s daru and how it make me feel close to Shilpa, close to God.
But now I understanding. This wrong way to feel close to God. Only the praying is correct way to see the God.
11
WHEN I WAS in the sixth standard, we have a Talent Show. My job was to say a poetry by Tagore in English. I knows that Ma and Dada not speaking English, but still they be so prideful to see their daughter say a poetry in front of all the rich peoples who giving money for the school. Menon sahib coming also, and because he paying my school fees since I save Munna, I know he wanting to know if he wasting his money or not.
I not understanding what the poetry mean but I learns it by heart. I hearing it in my sleep, and I waking up with it, like Hindi film song from the radio. I says it to Ma. I repeats it to Dada and Shilpa. So why I not remindering it when I must say in front of the teacher? When I stands in front of whole class, my head becoming like the block of ice that the baniya sells in shop. Cold ice, cover in wood dust, so it not melting. I opens my mouth and I sound like a mouse live in there. Chu chu chu, I says. My teacher very nice. She try to courage me. Try, Lakshmi, she say. No need to be ascare. You smart student.
So day before Talent Show, I go for walk in my father’s field. It is sunset time and the birds are making chitter-chatter in trees. The sky is orange and peach and grape. The sun red like watermelon. And the wheat in my dada’s field so high, it touch my cheeks as I walk. I stop in between the plants so I am in cover. The wind move me just like it moving them. I am no more Lakshmi. I am tall and green and plant. I growing from this earth that belong to my dada and his dada.
And then I do some jadoo. I close my eyes and become Shilpa. I is no longer smart but ugly. I become smart and beautiful. Everyone happy to put their eyes on my face. When they looking at me, their eye become soft and peaceful. They smile without knowing they smile.
Lakshmi gone, taken away by the last bird of the evening, who looking for its tree. Here in Lakshmi’s dada’s field stand Shilpa, saying the poetry, not feeling shy, not feeling like she dying when other peoples looking at her. Shilpa is finishing the poem, “Into that heaven of freedom, Father, let my c
ountry awake.”
And when I open my eyes on Talent Show Day, people is clapping for me. Dada looking prideful as a bandmaster and Ma is wiping her eyes with her sari. Menon sahib show all his teeth and smile. And when they gives me second prize in Talent Show, same people clapping again. And when later, I say thank you to Shilpa, she look surprise because she not knowing how she help me.
And this same way, by leaving Lakshmi in the store and becoming Shilpa, is how I manage to take two buses to Cedarville and find madam’s house.
12
MAGGIE STRAIGHTENED A cushion on the couch, glanced again at the living room clock, and emitted an exasperated sigh. There was no denying that every second that passed without a knock on her door increased her anxiety about Lakshmi’s safety and whereabouts.
Finally, in order to shake off visions of Lakshmi on a bus headed in the opposite direction, she threw on her clogs, walked down the driveway, and stood in the front yard, scanning the street for any sign of her client, who, her rational mind told her, was running only a few minutes late. There was no need whatsoever to panic or worry yet. Still, there was no refuting the lift she felt when she saw Lakshmi’s distant figure as she slowly but steadily climbed toward the house, located on one of the steepest streets in town. Maggie felt a pang of regret at not having had the decency to pick the poor woman up at the bus stop. Then she caught herself. You can’t do this, she thought. You won’t be doing either of you any favors if you don’t maintain your boundaries. Lakshmi is healthy, young—how old is she, anyway? Maggie tried to remember. Thirty-one? Thirty-two? And the exercise is good for her. Don’t make this too easy for her—in fact, you’ve already made a mistake in not charging her even a nominal fee. A case of your emotions clouding your judgment. Maggie had heard it from other therapists a million times: Clients didn’t value what they got for free. It was human nature to devalue what came too cheap or easy. Lakshmi’s husband would’ve probably taken you more seriously if you’d made them pay something, even if it was a lousy ten bucks a visit, she told herself.
Lakshmi was close enough now for Maggie to make out that she was carrying a large bag that was weighing her down. Maggie felt a flash of irritation. What was it about immigrants that they always had to carry around half their possessions? No wonder she was struggling to get up the hill. Maggie moved in the direction of the other woman. No point in changing two buses to come for an hour-long session if you were going to be ten minutes late. Luckily, she didn’t have a client coming in after Lakshmi. So they could go over a bit, she supposed. Still, she was going to have a frank talk with Lakshmi about the value of her time.
Lakshmi smiled shyly as she came up to Maggie, and seeing that tentative smile, some of Maggie’s anger dissipated. “Hello, madam,” Lakshmi said. “How are you?”
“I’m fine. And you? Any trouble finding the place?”
“No problem, madam.” Maggie could hear the younger woman breathing hard in between her words. She really is out of shape, she thought. Probably gets no exercise at all. “I give bus stop name to driver, and he tell me where to get off. Very nice driver, madam, of your caste.”
It took Maggie a second to realize that Lakshmi meant that the driver was black. She smiled thinly. “Well. Good.”
She saw that Lakshmi was looking at the house, taking it all in, and for a second she saw it through her eyes—how big and ostentatious the house must look, with its slate roof, the wraparound porch, the big front yard with the rosebushes. Lakshmi turned slightly toward her to say something, but Maggie took her elbow and steered her up the driveway toward the back porch. “When you come next week, just come on in from this back entrance. This is where I see my clients. This door will be unlocked, so just let yourself in and have a seat. The main house is—well, that’s our private residence.” She had said the same thing to a dozen other clients, but somehow saying it to Lakshmi embarrassed her. But Lakshmi merely nodded.
Maggie sat in her customary chair, across from Lakshmi. “How was your weekend?” she began, but Lakshmi was digging in the large cloth bag. She pulled out a metal box, which Maggie immediately recognized from her many trips to India. It was a tiffin carrier, the box in which Indians carried hot lunches to the office. What the hell? Did the woman think she was staying for dinner?
“Lakshmi, what are you doing?”
The younger woman beamed. “For you, madam. And your mister. Fresh-fresh food. I prepare this morning, only. Not restaurant rubbish-food, madam. This home foods. I prepare myself. I brings every time.”
The lump that formed in Maggie’s throat made it hard to speak. Of course. She should’ve known. Had she ever met an Indian who could accept a favor without needing to repay it immediately? Or who could resist the urge to feed another person? Just a few minutes ago she had worried that Lakshmi would take her therapy sessions for granted, would devalue them simply because they were free. Well, the joke was on her.
Maggie cleared her throat. “Lakshmi,” she said. “This is so thoughtful of you. But—I can’t. I can’t accept this. Do you understand? We have to maintain a professional distance . . .”
Lakshmi was shaking her head. “I no understand. You not liking the Indian food?”
“Are you kidding? I love Indian food. It’s just that—I’m your doctor. I can’t accept gifts from my patients. We are meeting here instead of the hospital because it’s easier for you. But the relationship is . . .”
Lakshmi raised one eyebrow. “In my village, we gives doctor sahib gift. When Shilpa was born, Dada send to him big bag of rice. Diwali time we give sweets.”
Maggie sighed. She suddenly had no idea how to deal with the woman sitting in front of her, who wore a puzzled expression, who, she knew, was seconds away from being offended. She wished Sudhir were home and that she could consult with him. She remembered Dipkabai, the servant who worked for Sudhir’s parents in Calcutta, who, out of her meager salary, brought her homemade desserts every day once Maggie had let slip that she had a sweet tooth. And how horrified she’d been at first at the thought of this emaciated-looking, elderly woman spending her hard-earned money on preparing dessert for her, and how she’d refused, and the hurt on Dipkabai’s face, until Sudhir had pulled her aside and told her never, ever to refuse the gift of food. It’s all the poor have, he’d said. Just say thank you and taste whatever she makes for you. We can always leave her a generous tip when we leave.
But this situation was different, dammit. They were not in India, and Lakshmi was her client, for God’s sake. The rules on this were clear.
“Lakshmi,” she started again, but the younger woman interrupted her.
“Madam,” she said. “You cooking fresh hot-pot Indian food for your husband?”
Maggie smiled ruefully. “I wish. My husband does most of the cooking, I’m afraid.”
Lakshmi got a cagey look on her face. “So, madam. Husband not angry that you saying no to homemade Indian food?”
A laugh escaped from Maggie’s lips. Damn, this woman was good. Persistent. Not nearly as dead and listless as she’d seemed in the hospital. “Okay,” she said, not allowing herself time to process the issue any further. “You win. Thank you. I’m sure we’ll enjoy this. But this is the first and last time, Lakshmi. Next week you bring nothing.”
She made herself not notice that Lakshmi pretended to look out the window and into the backyard as Maggie spoke. Really, they couldn’t afford to spend any more time on this issue. Maggie leaned back in her chair. “So, how was it, going home? How was your weekend?”
“Good, madam. Yesterday very busy in restaurant.”
Maggie nodded. “Glad to hear. So, what would you like to talk about today? What’s on your mind?”
Lakshmi cocked her head. Then she said, “You liking Hindi films, madam?”
What did Lakshmi think this was? Happy hour? That they were going to spend the time chitchatting? Maggie knew that the very concept of therapy was alien to Lakshmi. Even among Sudhir’s educated family members in India
, her profession was the butt of many jokes and much eye-rolling, their impressions of therapy formed by 1970s Woody Allen movies and a general belief that Americans were self-indulgent, self-absorbed, and “soft.” She was pretty sure that someone from Lakshmi’s peasant rural background couldn’t fathom the concept of paying a doctor to listen to her problems. A doctor was someone who handed you tablets, gave you an injection, and, in extreme cases, operated on you. She saw the scene from Lakshmi’s eyes: two women sitting on a back porch on a gorgeous summer afternoon. Of course the woman wanted to discuss movies. What in Lakshmi’s life experience would tell her that this was a medical visit?
Out of the blue, Maggie remembered the bemused look in Wallace’s eyes when she told him that she’d switched majors at Wellesley because she intended to become a psychologist. A look that had mocked her, that had wondered how he, a working-class man, had given birth to a daughter who would in all likelihood spend her career listening to middle-class white people talk about their sorrows and phobias. Not that Wallace had said any of this, Maggie remembered. He didn’t need to. His face said it all, and she had flinched as if he’d actually insulted her, as if he’d told her that he knew what she was doing—instead of training for a real job, like nurse or school principal or doctor, instead of doing work that would help her people, Maggie was looking to bust out of their rundown Caribbean neighborhood in Brooklyn, to get as far as she could from the winos on the corners, and the young men with their transistor radios and Afros who hung out on the front stoops, and the little storefront church where she’d spent every Saturday of her childhood. Not too many folks from the old neighborhood can afford to see a therapist, baby girl, Wallace may as well have said. That’s for the rich folk on the Upper East Side.
Giving her head the slightest shake, Maggie forced herself to focus on the woman sitting before her. “Lakshmi,” she said. “Let me ask you something. Do you understand why you’re coming here? What we’re trying to—”
The Story Hour Page 7