by Divya Sood
But I couldn’t feel Anjali anywhere because she had left. The stillness of the air attested to the fact that she was gone. The sound of the suitcase wheels resounded within me and I realized she wasn’t coming back, wasn’t looking to come home to me another day, wasn’t reaching for me in the middle of the night. I cried for the loss of her, for the loss of Vanessa, for the loss of myself. I don’t know how long I sat and cried. I do know that the sun teased me when he rose in the sky, promising me the start of a brand new day full of possibility.
Chapter Thirty-four
After Anjali left, I would not leave the apartment. I had groceries delivered to me and I had my laundry done for me. Except for the trash chute, I went nowhere. I stayed in my bed a lot and I cried a lot. I rocked myself to sleep most of the time. And for the many nights I couldn’t sleep, I sat by the window and looked out, hoping I could see Anjali coming home to me. All I saw was strangers and street lamps, cars and streets. The entire city seemed desolate without her, as was my soul.
It was one such night when the street lamps’ dim glow seemed sadder than it had ever been that I opened the journal again. I sat at the glass table in the kitchen and closed my eyes. I felt as if Anjali’s voice had seeped into the walls and was crying out to me. I felt as if Vanessa’s voice had soaked itself into the paper and was whispering to me. The voices of lovers on this quiet night moved me to tears. I sat and cried, as I did every night. But that night, I started to write.
I wrote all through the night and the next morning until I was so exhausted that I put my head on the table and slept. When I awoke, it felt like twilight. It was either that darkness was seeping into light or light was sweeping into darkness. I wondered what time it was and for a minute, I felt as if Anjali was in her room, sleeping soundly. As I began to realize that it was almost dawn and that Anjali was not and had not been there for seventeen days, I felt again the uneasiness within my stomach that had stayed with me ever since she had closed the door behind her.
I took a shower and brushed my teeth. I combed my wet hair and as I was about to walk out of the bathroom, I saw that she had left her bath gel behind. I unscrewed the cap and the smell of freesia taunted me and for an instant I thought of bathing her all those days that she couldn’t bathe herself. I would have given anything to touch her again and to hear her voice. I closed my eyes and pictured her talking to me. I envisioned her kissing me. It was too much. I screwed the cap back on and placed the bottle back.
I went into her room. It still had all her furniture. I felt that her essence was gone. It wasn’t any longer Anjali’s room but just a bedroom, already furnished, waiting to be inhabited. I opened the top dresser drawer and, true enough, she had left me a lump sum of money as if that would compensate for the loss of her. To the side of the money, there was a piece of paper. I took it out and opened it. She had written me a love letter after all.
Jess—
If you only knew how much I love you and how much I wanted us to work. But it wasn’t meant to be. I have had a hard time accepting that but I accept it now. I thank you for all you have done for me these past few weeks. I know you love me but I also know that you are not in love with me. I was hoping you would love me, that love would change you. But it didn’t.
It was I who was in love with you. And it has changed me forever.
I used to imagine that you were finally writing that book you always wanted to write and we were in the living room. You would read passages to me and I would be the first person to hear your words. And after, when you were reading for the rest of the world, I would be jealous that I had to share you. These were dreams that I had as silly as they are. I never told you. But I believe in you and whatever it is you desire. Someday, you will love. It will change you. Think of me.
One more thing I have to tell you. I am leaving you my locket, the one you have kissed many times with what I still believe was love. I have to tell you now that yes, those are my initials on the back but the script? That’s your name Jess, not mine. I don’t know why I never told you. The little things we do in love are the largest memories we have of it all.
Of all that I will miss, it’s your voice saying my name. The world can call me whatever it wants but you were my love. From you I wanted only “Anjali” because it is you I loved, not them. It made me feel like an offering to the gods, like a queen, when you called me to you.
I know I was difficult at times. But I want you to know that there is someone who loved you beyond reason. I did, Jess, and I still do. Always will. For you, the world. Always.
Your Baby, Teri Jaan,
Anjali
I folded it carefully as the words blurred before me. I didn’t know what to do. I went to the kitchen and placed the letter in the journal, hoping that someday, I could read it without the guilt and sadness that I felt at that moment.
I flipped through the journal stopping here and there. There were those two pages still stuck together and I decided to finally open them even though I thought they were blank, that we had skipped over them. But as I slid my finger through them to pry them apart, I saw ink. I realized I had never read what was contained in them. It was Vanessa’s writing, smooth and sexy, as if even with her handwriting, she was capable of seducing a lover. I read her words.
You’re in the shower. I am waiting for you to come out. I want to make love all day today but I’m scared to ask you. The more I know you, the less bold I can be. I wonder when you will read these random thoughts.
I’m falling in love with you like rain falls from the sky. It might not make sense but if you were the earth and I was the rain, I guess it would, right? I’m allowed to make no sense.
Yesterday, when we passed that empty auditorium, I had a vision of you at the podium, reading your words to me. I imagined that the night stars were above us and that no one was around. And with your words, you serenaded me.
I notice you write my words down. You can have them. Whatever you need to write the story you want to write. I imagine reading your drafts. I imagine lying in your lap on a park bench and hearing you read your work to me. I would be the first person to hear the story and no matter who heard it after, I would know that it was mine.
Just as if you ever leave me, I know that you might love, but you will never fall in love like you did with me. I see that in your eyes. Someday, you will see the difference.
My one confession…that day you called after our first night together, I remembered you. I hadn’t stopped thinking about you. But I was scared. The thing is, Jess, love changes you. You changed me the minute I saw you. You change me still. Every moment with you, I am different. I am no longer scared. I am just madly in love with you (did you smile reading that)?
I think you’re about to come out of the shower.
Kiss me when you read this, princess.
I couldn’t kiss her. I couldn’t kiss Anjali. I couldn’t kiss anyone because both of them were gone.
I sat back in amazement. How two women that different had loved my soul as tenderly as they had, I couldn’t imagine. They had both claimed me and loved me and I had done great injustice to them both. I know most people try to find one true love in a lifetime. And whether it was a blessing or a curse I didn’t know, but I had found two women who offered themselves to me wholeheartedly and simultaneously. They allowed me into themselves, loved me, let me change them.
I turned on my laptop and stared at the screen. What had Anjali said that night after the Chinese restaurant? “When you’re a big writer, you will write about us, won’t you?”
I wondered if I could. I wondered how I could. I missed them both. And I had lost them both. And here I was, searching for my lovers in the emptiness of my life, listening for their voices to emanate from walls and paper. If there was anything worth writing about, it was these two women whom I knew, both of whom I loved, even though, even though I still didn’t know what that word meant. I would. But I didn’t then.
I wrote the entire winter. I wasn’t tr
ying to make a bestseller. I was trying to clear my head and my heart. I was trying, finally, to do some justice to the women I had loved. Sometimes, I closed my eyes and thought of Vanessa’s laughter and Anjali’s eyes. I remembered moments I had stolen that were full of certainty and happiness. And then I remembered Anjali’s face when I returned home from Philly. I remembered Vanessa storming out of the party. The painful thoughts, they lingered longer and deeper.
Once I went to the fountain at Central Park at dawn. I sat on the cold cement of the fountain rim. I looked up at the angel with her wings spread wide as if to protect me. And then I wept. I went back to the apartment and fell asleep, searching for Anjali’s scent in the comforter and sheets.
Thereafter, if I went out, it was only for a walk or to mumble curses at the pigeons as I walked by them. If I couldn’t sleep I wrote. I remember that Christmas as the only Christmas I ever spent entirely alone. I turned on It’s a Wonderful Life and let it fill the living room with its traditions and hope. I watched the snow fall gently to the ground, giving the city a dusting of white.
It was cold that winter. I walked in the evening to the tree at Rockefeller center and drank hot chocolate as I studied Atlas holding the world upon his shoulders. I looked up at the star at the very top of the lighted tree and wondered if I should make a wish. What would I wish for? I wished for love to change me and then stood there, watching ice skaters fall and laugh and cry.
When I returned home, it was as if the apartment had grown more desolate. I lay on the couch that Anjali had slept on during most of her recovery. I cried. I wanted to leave. I wanted to leave and go away to a place that was far and different. I wanted to get out otherwise I would crumble and never be put back together again. A bona fide Indian female Humpty Dumty.
I picked up the phone. I dialed. It rang again and again.
“Hello?”
“Ma?”
“Jasbir! Merry Christmas to you. They celebrate well in the States, no?”
“Yes. How are you?”
“I’m okay. Your father’s asleep. He’s okay too. When are you coming to India?”
“I’ve booked a ticket, Ma.”
“Really? Beta, that’s wonderful! We’ll be so happy to see you.”
“I need a few months,” I said.
“What about your school and work?”
Yes, my parents thought I was on my way to becoming Dr. Jasbir Banerjee. I had forgotten all about that.
“I have to talk to you about certain things,” I said. “When I get there, not now.”
“Okay, Beta, we’ll talk then. Do send me your itinerary and we’ll definitely come to the airport.”
“Yes, Ma.”
“Be safe, it’s very dangerous in New York. Especially for a young girl like you. Have you given thought to getting married?”
“We’ll talk,” I said. “When I get there.”
“Is there a boy? Jasbir, is there a boy?”
Her excitement made me feel guiltier and more trapped than I ever had.
“Ma, no there is no boy. I will talk to you when I get there.”
“Okay, Beta. Take care. Eat well. And drink your milk every night with Horlicks.”
“Yes, Ma.”
“You do drink your milk?”
“Ma, this call is expensive,” I said.
It seemed that the only sentence my parents understood when hanging up was the cost of the phone call. Nothing else indicated that the conversation had ended or that there was nothing else to talk about.
“Okay, Beta, bye.”
“Bye.”
I hung up. I opened my laptop and booked a one-way ticket to Kolkata. I didn’t know how long I wanted to stay but I knew that I had to leave.
“Just pick up and leave everything?”
“Not now, Jess. But someday you’ll want to. At least once in your life there’ll be a time when you want to be with just you and your thoughts.”
“Yes, Vanessa,” I said softly, “I guess there’s a time for everyone to want to pick up and leave.”
I packed a suitcase with most of the clothing I had. I took the money out from the dresser and put it in my bag as well. There was no sense in leaving it there. I placed my suitcase on the floor, ready to take off at a moment’s notice. My flight was at 11:00 the next night from JFK. I wished there had been a morning flight because the thought of one more day in the apartment made me very uneasy.
I slept that night with a paisley journal under my pillow. I didn’t sleep extremely well but I slept knowing that in a day, I would be transported far away. I was sure that once I was away from New York, I would be away from Anjali and Vanessa and the past few months. I didn’t know then what I know now. You take the stories and the hurt with you wherever you go. And somehow, somewhere, the wind will find a way to bring a fragrance to you that will make you remember, detail by detail, the very moments you tried so hard to escape.
Chapter Thirty-five
Since my emigration to New York, my parents had bought a bungalow on the outskirts of Kolkata. As we drove home, the driver in the front seat and my mother and me in the back, I couldn’t help but notice how much India had changed in the ten years that I hadn’t been back. Just when it seemed that the city of Kolkata would burst at the seams with people and billboards, everyone and everything found a place to spill into and life went on again.
“So, how are you, Beta?” my mother asked. “Sab theek?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Everything is okay.”
She placed her hand over mine and squeezed slightly. Her eyes were glittering with a happiness I didn’t know I could induce. I felt guilty once again. Was this another woman I had failed to love the way she needed to be loved? Was I incapable of loving anyone completely and without selfishness?
“What’s wrong, Beta?” my mother asked.
“Nothing. I’m just tired. Long flight.”
“That is a long flight. Where was your stop over?”
“Heathrow.”
“You can go home and relax,” my mother said.
Home was now a place I had never seen. I had never been back to India since my parents bought the house and I was anxious. As I looked out the window at traffic and a stray cow, I realized I had no home anywhere that was known to me. I didn’t have a place of memory. It made me very sad and I focused on yet another cow chewing cud at the side of the road.
When we arrived at a set of elaborate iron gates, the driver honked and one of the house servants ran to open the gates for us. We drove in towards a brick façade and large windows. The bungalow was beautiful.
“Ma, this is really nice.”
“See why you should come home more often?”
When we entered the house, a pot-bellied servant took my suitcase. My father was standing there, elated. He held me to him and I smelled cigarette smoke, his brand of cigarettes, a smell that made me reminiscence to a childhood where things were simple and the heart hadn’t yet learned to love deceptively.
“Beta, I am so happy to see you. How I’ve missed my Jesse.”
“Papa, I’ve missed you very much.”
He looked at me as if studying the ways in which I had grown.
“Beta, why didn’t you come then? We could have sent you the funds.”
“Busy, Papa.”
“Go rest now. You look exhausted. We’ll talk in the evening.”
He motioned to the pot-bellied servant and I was led to my room. Apparently, they had kept a room for me. It was elaborate, more elaborate than I would ever have thought. I went into the bathroom, the green marble gleaming. I took my clothes off and took a shower. I wrapped myself in the towel and went into the bedroom. It was a cool and comfortable Kolkata afternoon. I searched in my suitcase for some pajamas, found them, put them on and sunk into a sleep that I hadn’t known for months.
Chapter Thirty-six
January and February came and went. I did nothing most of the day except visit relatives here and there and work on t
he manuscript that was now beginning to take shape. I became acquainted with the house, with having a car at my beck and call, at servants and never having to place a dish in the sink. I averted conversations about marriage and said little about studying. As the questions became more frequent, I decided that I would talk about the medical profession and my decision to abandon it. I thought it would be an easier conversation than any other that we might have entertained.
I planned how I would approach this. I decided that since finances spoke louder than anything else I could think of, I would convince my parents of how lucrative a novelist’s career could be. I started leaving award-winning books around the house, all written by Indian women. On the coffee table in my father’s study I left The Interpreter of Maladies. I had made sure to buy the copy that proclaimed it the winner of the Pulitzer. My mother’s tea table in the garden where she had her morning tea was home to The God of Small Things with a circle announcing its Booker Prize winning status.
I had books everywhere. I even had lesser-known titles that looked pretty and promised to be great reads. But mostly, I stuck to literary giants. In the bathroom, I had placed Vikram Seth’s A Suitable Boy, Vikram Seth’s An Equal Music and Rohinton Mistry’s A Fine Balance. I knew my father read in the bathroom and my mother didn’t. I guessed that he would be more likely to pick up a male author than a female one although where I got this notion I don’t know. If my parents believed that writing was indeed a career and not a hobby, then they would allow it and at least on one front they would not disapprove of what I was doing.
I decided I would wait for them to ask me about the books. I waited patiently and then anxiously. They didn’t seem to take note. One evening after dinner, I decided to talk to my mother. I couldn’t handle the tension of waiting for her to approach me. I waited until she was settled in her makeshift office of no profession and casually walked in.