What could be on Reenu’s mind? The workers’ conversation from last night reverberated in Nina’s ears. She caught Reenu’s startled expression and spotted the hand that clenched reflexively over the delicate fabric. Ghosts. Nina felt her stomach gurgle.
Hastily Reenu hung the last piece of clothing and made for the door, where she hesitated a moment. “I’ll shop for groceries now, Thakurma. Is there anything I can get you before I leave?”
“Yes, the calendar.”
Nina watched the vanishing figure of Reenu, counted the number of days before Sujata arrived, then turned and poised her Parker pen over the stationery again, but words refused to flow. Sujata hadn’t been informed of her father’s shameful act. Upon her return, she would mingle with the relatives and the major players at the tea estate and the secret, embellished by opinions, judgments, and the passage of time, would roll out. It was unavoidable, as there had been little turnover among the employees. And they had long memories.
“Tell me, Thakurma,” Sujata would demand, impatience pushing her body forward in the chair. “Is it true? How could Father do such a thing?”
Nina dropped her Parker pen. Would Sujata respect her father’s memory when she came to know the truth? Would she respect Nina?
How badly we disappoint our progeny, Nina lamented to herself. Worshipful, they look up to their elders with the romanticism of youth. But the elders, mere creatures of muscle, blood, and bones, tumble to the ground like a straw hut at the approach of a cyclone. A long life can mean a thousand deceits, a thousand funeral pyres.
twenty-five
The crisp, bracing chill of autumn air stimulating her senses, Aloka started toward home after work. Ahead, a setting sun pierced the slate-gray clouds lying low in the sky in bars of yellow-gold light. Vehicles honked and screeched and people flitted in and out of the darkening shadows, all symbols of energy and aliveness. She would call Pranab tonight. Planning their trip home would give her the excuse she needed. The initial shock of divorce had subsided, but she missed him and their life together. How his presence brightened the color of her day. How solitary she found it was to perform little acts like reading the newspaper or preparing the monthly budget. How hard it was to close the day without exchanging loving words. Yes, a call to Pranab. Quickening her pace, she made for the grocery store-cum-delicatessen on Fifty-third and Second.
Chain grocery stores abounded at every corner of this neighborhood, but she patronized this individually owned Korean-run shop, named Sunrise Market, that carried hard-to-find Asian produce. As she stepped inside, she was haunted by a slight musky, fruity smell that she couldn’t place.
“They have fresh jackfruit today,” announced a voice above the ringing of the cash register.
The Indian accent, the clear and distinct pronunciation, the eagerness of the speech all belonged to a dusky-skinned man in a Madras plaid shirt. She made eye contact and noticed a pair of jet-black eyes and eyebrows and a ripe smile. He looked familiar. Yes, she’d glimpsed him before at community functions—the India Day Parade, the Diwali gala, and the Navaratri festival. She often reported on such events in Manhattan, India. This man took an active part by sweeping the floor, arranging chairs, greeting people, and serving prasad. Now he was leaning over a pile of the oblong, spiky, greenish fruit she had favored from childhood, and occasionally lifting his head, giving her a glance. It hit her that although he was seemingly absorbed in assessing the fruit’s quality, he was assessing her qualities as well. That made her blush. Obviously he was not a native New Yorker. He needed to relate to someone he’d met in passing, even if it was simply to discuss the merit of a fruit.
Belatedly she realized that a question mark was nestled in his statement about jackfruit: Did she know the fruit, and if so, did she fancy it? She nodded politely to answer yes and, at the same time, signify the end of the encounter. If she were to meet him again at another community event, she would not hesitate to chat with him about jackfruit, or whatever. In times like this, in a public place, she followed the motto of New York women: “When not comfortable, split.”
She slipped past him to a central island of steamer trays. She paused in front of the orzo and wild rice salad, a medley in yellow and black, and inhaled the mild woodsy aroma. She scooped a large portion into a plastic container. Since Pranab’s departure six months ago, she hadn’t prepared many meals at home. Carry-outs had sustained her, though now her digestive system cried out for real food. How fresh was this salad? After a moment’s reflection, she moved on to the next item: a glistening stir-fry of rice noodles.
“We must be neighbors.” The voice again.
She blinked when she saw that he was at her elbow, this obviously lonely man. Playing for time, she let her eyes rove the shop. The young Korean owner was hand-spraying a pyramid of shiny red and green chilis. An elderly Indian-American woman patron, bent over a bread display, was taking the pulse of each loaf.
Her tone impersonal, even philosophical, Aloka replied, “In a way I suppose we’re all neighbors.”
“Yes, indeed we are,” he came back, emboldened. “I see you shopping here—all the time. And I’ve seen you at Diwali and Republic Day celebrations. I’m on the committee for both.”
She gave him a glance of extolment. It occurred to her now that in keeping with his tradition, he hadn’t introduced himself. Indians often procrastinated in this matter. The conclusion: He belonged to the category of “Indian Indians.” A man, half a life away from the motherland, who still couldn’t shed his accent, mannerisms, habits, or perception of the world.
“I live across the street.” He indicated a brownstone whose ordinariness made it seem like part of the scenery. “Mrs. Chatterjee over there lives on my floor. I help carry her groceries. You must live close by, too.”
So he was helping an elderly woman shop. She considered that a sign of decency, but still wondered if she should continue this conversation, when he blurted, “My friend Holly and I would like to invite you over for dinner.”
Holly? “Thanks,” Aloka managed, “but I really have to go now.”
“I can tell you have many important things to do. But please, I’m making a good Indian meal—sukhe aloo, gughni, and pullao rice. It’d be an honor if you joined us. I’d very much like to talk with you.”
She could taste the thickly sauced potatoes, stewed spicy chickpeas, and fragrant rice. But … Her gaze fastened on the current copy of Manhattan, India under his armpit. She hadn’t looked at this week’s headline yet. Flood, refinery fire, border dispute, or nuke, she couldn’t tell. Her “Ask Seva” column was inside the fold. Did he read her column?
“We’re from the same country, ma’am, perhaps even the same age. We belong to the same community here. It might ease your quite reasonable concern to know that I’m a vegetarian and a pacifist. What’s your name?”
“Parveen,” Aloka said cheerfully, in a goofy sort of a way, tickled at her own invention.
“What a pretty name.”
Nodding in silent agreement, she appreciated the music, the fluidity, and the appeal of a new manifestation. From whence it stemmed, she didn’t know.
“I am Jahar, born and raised in Ahmedabad. Where in India are you from?”
“Oh, from everywhere.” Now hungrier, she sneaked a look at the tangle of rice noodles, cuddled in a reddish brown bean sauce, before her. “I was a railway brat. We lived all over India. Since my father’s retirement, my parents have made their home in Bombay. I still have trouble calling it Mumbai. Old habit.” She flashed him what she believed was a convincing smile.
“You seem to live an interesting life. What are you doing here?”
Her eyes skimmed a brochure rack on the rough, plastered wall. She extemporized, “I’m a real estate broker.”
“I’m a night watchman at the AGC Building.” Jahar gave a laugh. “My boss doesn’t believe I’m Indian. He says Indians are doctors, engineers, high-tech gurus, or writers.”
“How does a vegetarian p
acifist fight off prowlers?”
“I sit on a stool by the entrance and read the Bhagavad-Gita aloud all night. Perhaps the strange sounds of the Hindu scripture frighten the prowlers.” With a twinkle in his eyes, he added, “Or maybe they think I’m crazy.”
Aloka felt a smile blossom on her lips. His way of carrying himself, as well as his professed vocation, confirmed that he had a humble upbringing. Despite his modest situation, he was bursting with the gladness of being alive.
“Why don’t you put that bowl away and come with me, Parveen? I promise to leave my apartment door open. Anytime you don’t feel at ease, you can leave. Besides, Mrs. Chatterjee is right next door.” Jahar’s chin rose in anticipation of an answer. When it became apparent that none was forthcoming, he said with as serious an expression as she had seen him make, “I have a large photograph of my parents on the living room wall. I’d do no evil in front of them, you can be sure of that, Parveen.”
How beautifully he sang her new name. As Parveen, she would wear the reddest lipstick, strut on three-inch pumps, chat with a newly met man, and laugh without inhibition. Parveen was big-hearted. She accepted impromptu dinner invitations and didn’t fret over trifles like Aloka did.
Her gaze followed his to the jackfruits. It had been so long since she had tasted one. According to Grandma, the gigantic fruit was meant for sharing. Grandma would wrap the train of her sari around her chest, then take out the sections—scores of pulpy, creamy yellow morsels, each concealing a glistening chestnut-brown pit. She would serve the sweet, fragrant meat to the eager family members, who consumed them in an appreciative silence. Yes, Aloka mutely agreed with Grandma now, it was a sensuous fruit, not to be enjoyed alone.
She restacked the bowl. “Suppose I buy a jackfruit?”
A hailstorm of a smile spread across his face, lending a debonair cast to his features. “Excellent. I like the fruit so much my friends refer to me as Jack.”
His earnestness was amusing. And how naturally he claimed his share of happiness from the simplest of things. Parveen could learn from him. Yes, she could learn from him by osmosis.
She groped through the pile to select the heaviest fruit, which tipped the scale at nearly twelve pounds. To the bemused shoppers behind them in line, Jahar proudly proclaimed this jackfruit to be the largest fruit in the world. A smile pulled Mrs. Chatterjee’s lips wide like an automatic sliding door opening.
Jahar cradled the fruit in his left arm like a precious infant and balanced Mrs. Chatterjee’s groceries on his right. The threesome crossed the street, entered the nondescript brownstone, and rode a creaky cage to the third floor. They swept up a long hallway whose walls, lights, and ceiling shaded into a monotone of ocher, permeated by a smell evocative of the rusty, the ancient, and the overused. The dullness didn’t sap Jahar’s spirit, however. He walked just ahead of them with eager, bouncy steps until he reached Mrs. Chatterjee’s door, number 303, and lugged her grocery bags inside. The senior thanked him and waved a good-bye to Aloka.
“Three-oh-five is my apartment number.” Jahar announced this as he stopped in front of apartment 304 and knocked twice, informing Aloka with a guileless smile, “I want you to meet my friend Holly.”
The door opened to reveal a statuesque woman in purple spandex with a barbell in one hand. Nearly six feet tall, this temple of muscle filled the doorway.
“Oh, hi, Jahar.” The expression was no-nonsense, the carriage erect, the voice wispy. Staring down at his arm, she exclaimed, “Ha! Another jackfruit?”
“Well, you know how it is. I can’t leave them alone.” He glanced at her with admiration. “The reason I knocked is to introduce you to my new friend, Parveen. She is from my country. I’ve invited her over for dinner, but she isn’t sure.”
“Oh, he’s okay.” Holly winked. “And wait till you smell his cooking. It drives me crazy.”
“Why don’t you join us, Holly? You could lift this jackfruit instead of that dumb barbell. That is, until dessert time.”
“Thanks, but I’ll have to pass. I still have several hours of working out and I couldn’t do it on a full stomach. Would you like to come in for a few minutes?”
“Maybe later. Right now I have to work out in the kitchen.”
“I might come over later and help you with the jackfruit. You’ll never be able to finish it by yourself, Jahar. Nice meeting you, Parveen.” Holly winked again and closed the door behind her.
They turned to 305 and Jahar put his key in the door. “Holly seems to have some friendly bones in her body,” Aloka said, “or should I say muscles?”
That called a grin to Jahar’s lips. “But you wouldn’t want to meet her in a dark alley. I guess it’s not surprising that she works as a bodyguard. The first time I placed my eyes on those abs, glutes, and biceps, I was so intimidated that I decided I’d better make friends with her.”
Jahar whirled around, unlocked the door, pocketed the keys, and showed Aloka into the living room. Following his lead, she kicked off her shoes and deposited them by the door. His large feet were encased in old, dark brown socks. She found it pleasing that he had preserved the Indian custom of not letting the dirt and germs of the street tarnish the sacredness of his living space. Her feet in nylons sinking into a grayish-blue rug with a diamond design, she stepped into the modestly furnished sitting area. Her eyes moved from a large parental portrait that hung high on one wall to a stack of Manhattan, India issues on the occasional table, to a large tree branch suspended horizontally from the ceiling, before finally coming to rest on the open kitchen. A once-fashionable avocado-hued refrigerator wore mustard-yellow spice smudges on its door. A pair of shiny green cucumbers waited on the kitchen counter.
Jahar gestured to the couch. “Please sit down, Parveen.” He put a Hindi film sound track on the CD system arid glanced over at her. Swaying rhythmically to the beat of the music, he slipped into the kitchen and switched on the graying fluorescent light overhead. “Just like Ahmedabad sunshine.”
He began peeling potatoes with the long, slow strokes of a peeler. As he had promised, the front door remained discreetly ajar. While she admired the esthetic effect of the tree branch overhead with a votive cleverly hung from it to create an average wage-earner’s chandelier, she grew concerned about her safety. Out in the glum corridor, anyone might approach unnoticed: weirdos, ruffians, drug pushers, or psychopaths. Finally, unable to contain her disquiet any longer, she ventured, “It doesn’t bother you to leave the door open?”
He put the peeler down and swung around. “Not with Holly around.”
Smiling, she walked to the chest-high partition dividing the living room from the kitchen. Folding her arms on top of it, she leaned forward to watch him at work. She noticed the hooked nose, the black mole on his right jaw, the nimble fingers, and the concentration in his deep-set eyes. She heard the sound of his footsteps as he moved about the kitchen.
“On weekends I invite people over.” He paused to sprinkle spices on the now-bubbling oil he had poured into the pan a few minutes earlier. A fragrant mist curled over their heads, then settled there like a cloud cover. “Friends and relatives, about twenty of them, come over. Somehow, I manage to fit them all in this room. When you’re having a good time, you don’t need a lot of space to spread out. My two oldest uncles take the couches. The others sit on the floor. Too much furniture just separates people, you know. This is a newer chair; that one is more comfy, we think, but on the floor we’re all the same. We talk, sing, play cards, and eat till two in the morning. You know, just like in India.”
She gave an emphatic nod to convey agreement. In happier times she’d spent entire evenings just talking with Pranab, about nothing in particular, munching on a packet of tropical mix and lazing on the sofa, the television turned off, reveling in that ideal state of mutual understanding. A longing for Pranab, a desire to retreat to those days blew through her. She quickly suppressed it.
“Why such a long face, Parveen?” He looked up from his stirring. “M
y mother says if you let the bird of sadness rest on your heart, it’ll soon build a nest.”
She had slipped back into Aloka’s skin. She shrugged it off, stood straighter, and became Parveen again, that ethereal creature, one who lived in the present moment, one who moved about as capriciously as tempestuous clouds. Looking up at him, she replied, “I was just missing that whole way of life back home. New York’s so busy and so empty for me right now. The worst loneliness is where there’s a lot going on, but you aren’t a part of any of it, where the noise level is high, but you can’t identify any of the sounds.”
“One real friend can make all the difference.”
Their eyes met and locked for an instant, then moved off in different directions.
“How long have you lived here, Jahar?”
“Twelve years.”
She heard Parveen say, “Have you ever been involved with a woman?”
“You’re asking if I’ve ever been disappointed in love? Yes, I have. Some people are in the business of causing others pain.”
“Have you ever been married?”
“Kind of.”
“Kind of?”
“She was pretty and vivacious and spoke little English, which made her doubly charming.” He slid a handful of onion slices into the pot, where they sizzled furiously, exuding a pungent note. “She had the kind of life energy that made even the furniture in the room dance. We got married soon after we met. A month after that, I went home alone to break the news to my family that I’d married a Bulgarian. To my surprise, my mother accepted it. She begged me to bring my wife with me the next time I came to visit. ‘So she’s not a desi,’ my mother said. ‘No matter. Now she’s part of the family.’ I was so relieved and so grateful. When I got back after three weeks with a big box of presents for her from my family”—his lips twitched in agitation and his words were garbled a bit—“the apartment was empty. I was frantic and called the police. They had already found her body in a wooded area in New Jersey. They couldn’t come up with any motive for murder. Neither could I, but then, I didn’t know much about her past.”
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