The Vine of Desire: A Novel
Page 13
Your mother (Nalini)
My dear Sudha:
How are you enjoying your visit to America? I know your presence there has given my daughter a new vigor and interest in life, and for that I can never thank you enough. I hope that being with her has given you support also, and clarified what you want in your life.
Your loving aunt Gouri
My dear Anju:
You hardly mentioned Sunil in your letter, nothing except how hard he is working. Is he spending any time at home at all?
Dear daughter Sudha,
Maybe you can come back to Calcutta soon, and then I could stay with you and wouldn’t have to go on that pilgrimage and stay in vermin-infested cottages and use bedding that has been urinated on by rats or worse.
Dearest Anju,
Your mother mentions that Sunil is under a lot of stress at work. I am sending some Dashmul tea for him which is very good for stress. It needs to be boiled for twenty minutes. Put in a spoon of honey.
My dear Sudha:
You still haven’t mentioned anything about when you are returning. Isn’t your ticket due to expire in a month or so?
Dear daughter Sudha,
It is at times like this a mother needs her daughter. But of course you’re gaily gallivanting around in America instead of being responsibly married while here I have to hobble around half-starved. What can I say! Some people are born with ill fortune!
Dearest Anju,
We were delighted by the recent photos of Dayita you sent. To think that she now has three teeth and can stand up holding on to things! And so much curly hair, just like when Sudha was a baby! We laughed and laughed, reading of her exploits. Sudha looks lovely as usual. Please send a recent picture of you and Sunil.
Dearest Sudha,
In your last letter, why did you suddenly ask about Mangala and what happened to her? It was a long time ago, and it is best to forget such terrible, bad-luck things. Thinking of them calls them up into your life. Focus on the future instead.
Calcutta
June 1994
My dear Anju:
I am disturbed to hear you have taken no recent photos of you and Sunil together. I hesitate to advise you since you are a grown woman, but pleasetry to spend some time alone with Sunil. Can the two of you not go away somewhere for a day or two?
Dear niece Anju,
Now that you are back in college and doing so well, don’t you think it’s time you folks sent Sudha back to India? As you know, Someone Very Special is waiting for her here, not to mention that it will help me, too. By the way, could you mail me two bottles of Oil of Olay (large size) and three Yardley’s Lavender Soaps by return post? I am running low.
My dear Anju:
You must know this already—Sunil’s father’s condition is very serious. Sunil’s mother tells me she phoned him at work but he flatly refused to come to India. Please try to persuade him. His mother is very distraught and it would help her greatly to have him with her.
Dearest Sudha,
You have not answered any of my questions. Let me know soon about the books I wanted to send you, as Book Post here takes forever. Although if you are returning soon it might not be worth the effort. Are you?
Dear daughter Sudha,
I hope you are observing the rahukal hours listed on that calendar we sent you. Last week when I made my regular trip to my astrologer (with much agony, as my health is at an all-time low) he said that the planet Shani was ascending and it was a time for the Chatterjee women to be careful.
Dearest Sudha,
You must not let your mother’s talk of ill health make you anxious. You know how she exaggerates. The salt-free diet is working quite well, her legs are much less swollen. It would of course work better if she didn’t bribe the neighbor children to sneak her pakoras from the street vendor when she is home alone. She’s worse than you girls were when you were growing up.
Dear daughter Sudha,
Who told you that I’ve been eating pakoras? Pure slander. And what do you mean by writing that even if you were still married and in Bard-haman you couldn’t have come and taken care of me anyway? I wasn’t thinking of Bardhaman and that spineless Ramesh (what a mistake he was) but of our dear Ashok, waiting here so patiently (like me) for your return.
My dear Anju:
I’m surprised that Sunil had not told you about his father, but less surprised that you couldn’t persuade him to visit his father. Your husband is a proud man—it’s at once his strength and failing. A reconciliation would have been helpful for everyone, most of all perhaps for Sunil. But I can understand his reluctance. Mr. Majumdar is a most difficult individual. If it weren’t for his poor, sweet wife, I, too, would stay away from him. Who knows what scars are hidden in Sunil’s heart. Be sympathetic.
Dear daughter Sudha,
Did I remember to tell you that Ashok visits us at least once every week, and always with a thoughful gift—a big basket of fruits from Jogu Babu’s market, fresh sandesh made from a secret family recipe by his mother, or spicy fried cashews from Haldiram’s (which I might add I am not allowed even to touch). And why shouldn’t he! He’s certainly rich enough!
My dear Sudha:
Today Ashok told me, with much hesitation, that you haven’t replied to any of his letters. I was so taken aback I didn’t know what to say. Is there some problem? Please let me know what is in your mind. I will help in whatever way I can.
Dear daughter Sudha,
I am shocked to learn from your letter that you are selfishly thinking of changing your ticket and extending your stay. It’s that headstrong Anju’s doing, I’m sure. Ever since childhood, she’s been a bad influence on you. Obviously, daughterly duty means nothing to you, so I won’t even bring it up. But what I want to ask is, do you think Ashok will wait for you forever?
Dearest Sudha,
I can’t understand why you keep asking me about Mangala. There really isn’t much to her story, though certainly it’s a tragic one. She was run over by a car one night as she was crossing the road to pick up some paan from the corner shop for the old Rai Bahadur for whom she worked. Some drunk driver, I guess. They never did catch him. No, I don’t remember any plot against her. I don’t know where you got such a fanciful notion.
Dearest Anju,
Your last letter sounded so sad. Don’t feel guilty about not being able to persuade Sunil. Men are stubborn that way, especially with their wives. Even your dear father, the kindest of men, was no better. We are all helping Sunil’s mother here. Ashok does a lot, too—picking up medicines, taking the old man to the doctor—without ever complaining. Do you have any idea why Sudha’s stopped writing to him?
Daughter Sudha,
What is this nonsense about wanting to stay in America to earn your own money! Doing what, may I ask? It’s not as though you’re a trained engineer or a computer scientist. You always were a foolish girl. At least think of Dayita’s future, which will be far more stable with Ashok, who has ten times more money than you can ever make.
Calcutta
July 1994
My dear Anju:
It was lovely to hear your voice on the phone yesterday when I called. I’m sorry everyone else was still sleeping—I guess they were still tired out from the party last night. Your description of the party was very entertaining. The vulgar rich are the same everywhere, aren’t they! I’m so glad Sunil is finally making some time to relax with you. I’m not sure what to make of Lalit. Is he really interested in Sudha, and she in him? What does Sunil think of this development?
Dearest Sudha,
I hear from your mother that you have found an admirer in America. I can only hope that she is exaggerating as usual. If not, I must ask if you’ve forgotten Ashok, who is waiting in the belief that you will return to him? You might be in a new age and a new country, but surely there’s still such a thing as keeping trust? I’m sorry if I sound harsh, but I foresee much trouble ahead if you give in to desire without caring for integrity.
Dear, dear daughter Sudha!
I’m delighted that you have finally made a debut into high society. The party sounds wonderful. Anju has told me about the new man you met—though not as much as I want to know. No matter. All surgeons in America, I know, are millionaires. And all millionaires (especially dollar millionaires) are handsome. For heaven’s sake, get yourself some of that Revlon Anti-Wrinkle Cream with Retinol—I read about it in Femina magazine. God knows you are no spring chicken anymore. (In case you didn’t notice, I am practicing American. Who knows when it might come in handy. You’ll be proud of how much I’ve picked up from Mrs. Jaypal, who as you know goes every year to visit her son in Poughkeepsie.) So this is why you were reluctant to hurry back to us, you sly thing! You should have confided in your mother! You know that I always want the very best for my girl. Don’t worry about trouble from Certain People at this end. I will take care of Everything. A surgeon! Well, I have always wanted to visit America!
Thirteen
Sudha
The calendar which the mothers gave me before leaving is Indian-style, printed on very thin white paper. There are no pictures—its makers did not believe in anything so frivolous. The future is, after all, a serious thing! The Indian months and days are marked in red Bengali lettering. The English ones are printed underneath in a small, innocuous blue. It indicates all our festivals, even minor ones like Jamai Shasthi, when sons-in-law are invited and served their favorite dishes. It tells us which days are auspicious, and which bad luck. Little diagrams mark full moons and no moons, and the thin sliver of the eleventh night, which is a time for women without husbands to fast and pray for purification. Handwritten notes on the bottom of each page warn us of the dangerous hours: rahukal, which shifts each day with the movement of the planets, when it is good to lie low. My mother paid an astrologer from Kanya Kumari an inordinate amount of money—or so she claimed—to calculate them for us.
I hung the calendar on the kitchen wall where Anju would see it every time she opened the refrigerator. This way, I figured, she could keep track of festivals and holy days. But all she ever looked at were the cautionary tidbits from the margin of each page. She snickered as she read them aloud: People who begin a journey in the month of Bhadra never come back. A wedding conducted in Aashwin ends in calamity. Books should not be read but only worshipped on Saraswati Puja, the day dedicated to the goddess of learning. Juxtaposed against the pasteurized convictions of America, I had to admit they seemed a bit suspect. And yet our people had followed them for centuries. Could they be totally wrong?
It would be nice if I had events to jot down on the calendar, days to look ahead to. The act of recording them would have given me a semblance of control. But, so far, the few things we’ve scheduled and done—visits to malls and to Marine World Africa USA, a movie here and there, a poetry reading at Anju’s college, where I sat like a lump of lead, ashamed because I couldn’t understand—don’t seem to me worth noting. My life spreads around me like spilled glue. The few important occurrences that bubble up through it—the flying women, Sara, Lalit, the kiss—are ones I didn’t plan for.
There’s just one thing I’ve marked on the calendar. I did it before I left India. I circled, with Gouri Ma’s Parker fountain pen, the date on which I was supposed to return. I wrote nothing by it, but we all know. Once, when he thought no one was looking, Sunil rubbed at the ink with his thumb as though to erase it. Sometimes Anju flipped the pages to stare at the dark circle. At first she would say, Don’t worry, Sudha, we can extend your visa. But now that my departure is only two months away, she says nothing. Does she want me gone, then? It hurts me. But if I had been in her place, watching my husband watch my cousin, could I have wanted anything different? I, too, long to leave. But not for India. It’s been a week since the party. Lalit hasn’t called. Why did I think he would? What do I think he can give me? In bed, unable to sleep, I repeat Sara’s name like a mantra, willing her to reappear, holding the password that will make America swing open for me like the automatic door in a grocery.
The phone rings on Monday morning just after Anju and Sunil have left. I rush to it, abandoning Dayita in the middle of her Cream of Rice cereal, though I know she will make use of my absence to smear it all over herself. I cross my fingers and hold my breath. Sara?
“You sound disappointed,” says Lalit.
“No, no. It’s just that I was expecting someone else.”
He puts on a husky, movie-villain voice. “Who is this sofoolhardy man who dares come between us?”
This is what I like most about this man: he makes me laugh.
“It’s a woman, actually—”
“Oh, Ms. Chatterjee, I’m shocked beyond belief!” Lalit makes choking sounds. “I never would have guessed that you were inclined that way. A good Indian girl like you …”
It takes me a moment to catch on. My face is hot with embarrassment. Then I hear myself saying, “I could be persuaded to reform.” As on the night of the party, delight ripples across my skin. What fun, what freedom, to play like this with a man.
“I live again! So how about our date?”
“What date?” My heart beats deafeningly.
“The message I left with your brother-in-law last week, asking if I could take you out this Saturday. Didn’t he tell you?”
I’m shocked into silence. For a moment I can’t believe that Sunil would do something so deceptive. No, I take it back. It’s exactly what I should have expected of him.
“I guess he didn’t,” Lalit says dryly.
I’m so furious, I can’t trust my voice. How dare he!
“Sudha? You there?”
I briefly consider pretending that I forgot. No. Why should I protect Sunil? I don’t owe him anything, not after this.
“Is that a silence signifying unbelievable joy, or stunned horror? Let me assure you, madam, that I am a man of honorable intentions. However, if you still don’t trust me, we could take your delightful daughter along as chaperon.”
From the kitchen, a crash. Dayita must have thrown down her cereal bowl. Now I’ll have to clean the whole floor.
“You don’t have to get that excited about it!”
“I … well …” I abandon all attempts at wit. “I’ll have to check with Anju and Sunil.” I hate how defensive I sound. “After all, I am their guest here—”
I’m afraid Lalit will come back with a smart comment and then I’ll hate him, too. But all he says is, “That’s cool. Give me a call tonight after you’ve spoken to them.” Then he asks, “Did you ever hear the one about the surgeon and his rich patient?”
“No,” I say distractedly. I must confront Sunil about what he did. Soon. But where might such a confrontation lead?
“The surgeon says, ‘I think I’ll give you a local anesthetic before the operation.’
“‘Oh, no, Doctor,’ says the patient. ‘I can afford the best. Get me something imported.’”
Against my will, a laugh breaks from me.
“And now, a riddle,” he adds, sounding pleased. “What’s the difference between a soldier and a lady?”
“What?” I’m feeling a little better now. Saturday, I think. A tendril of excitement unfurls inside me.
“I’ll tell you when I see you.”
It’s time for Dayita’s bath. She wants me to fill the tub—she’s seen it on some Sesame Street show—but our tub looks too dirty, with generations of rust stains that won’t come off no matter how much I scrub. So I compromise by filling a bucket with water and putting her water toys in it. I pour in a little shampoo—we have no bubble bath—and stir it up. I put a small plastic stool in the bathtub for her to sit on. She makes her rubber duck nosedive into the foam with a terrific splash that wets my sari, but I stop myself from scolding her. So what if I have to change my clothes, and mop up the bathroom afterward. I’m tired of saying no, which seems to be the only word I’m capable of speaking to her nowadays.
When Dayita has played enough, I massage h
er with mustard oil. Usually she squirms away, but today she’s cooperative. It’s so rare, this moment of harmony between us, my hands gliding over her arms and legs. I marvel at their smoothness, their unexpected strength. “Do you know, when you were born, your whole hand was less than the length of my little finger,” I tell her. She grabs my finger as I lay it on her palm. I tell her to close her eyes so I can pour water over her head. She squinches them shut obediently, and I’m struck by love for her. Sharp as shrapnel, sweet as burning tea. I wish I felt it more often.
Anju drops her book bag on the floor with a bang, making me jump. “I’ve remembered! Wasn’t Mangala that pretty maidservant who worked in the big white house on our street? The house owned by that rich old man, ex-king of someplace or other? Whatever made you think of her after all these years?”
She’s caught me by surprise. I’d forgotten that I’d brought up the topic—when was it?—on the night of the party. Now, thinking of what Pishi wrote, I feel a moment of unease. Maybe it’s true that it brings bad luck to dig into memories best left buried.
Mangala. Her slim, pretty figure comes to my eyes. Dark, glistening skin set off by a sunflower-yellow sari. A turned-up, impudent nose. She used to pass by our house on the way to the milk depot every morning. If we were at the gate, she would smile and say, Namaskar, didimonis, how are you? She wore anklets with small silver bells and lined her eyes with kajol. She swung her hips with frank exuberance. My mother said, darkly, That girl’s asking for trouble.
After the accident, she said, What did I tell you? Let this be a lesson to you two.