Invisible Lives (12 page)

T
uesday morning, Mr. Basu is still out sick. I wonder if he caught a chill in Vancouver. While I’m unfurling new saris, a disheveled woman bursts into the shop, her thoughts like tiny wild animals darting into shadows. She’s wearing jeans and a Seattle T-shirt underneath a windbreaker, and she’s carrying a suitcase, her long, black hair a windswept mess.

“Ms. Lakshmi?” She runs over to me, the suitcase banging against her leg. Her voice drops to a whisper. “You told me I could talk to you whenever I need help. I need to talk to you right away.”

“Sita! I hardly recognized you! Are you all right? Where’s your mother?”

A runaway look lives in her eyes. “Ma’s at home. I’ve left.”

“You’ve left?” I drop my voice to a whisper.

“Everything I own. Everything I need is here.” She glances at the suitcase.

“Come, we can walk to Cedarlake Café.” I give Ma the signal that I’m taking a break and hurry Sita to the café. The smells of scones and freshly brewed coffee fill the air, and a thin strain of Bob Dylan croons in the background. Marcus winks at me, but I’m in no mood to flirt. We order drinks—Sita tea and me a double latte—and sit at a couch away from the window.

“What’s going on, Sita?” I ask. “Did you fight with your parents?”

Marcus glances over with curiosity.

Sita grips the teacup as if it might fly away. Her thoughts scream out in a jumble of nerves. “My bedroom at home, you know, has a silk bedspread and photos of all my cousins on the dresser.”

“Sita—”

“The wedding is…was to be in Mumbai.” Her fingers tremble so much that the liquid sloshes from the cup. “Please don’t tell anyone. Don’t tell my parents. I’m twenty-three. I’m not a minor.”

“Tell them what? Are you in…trouble?”

She bites her lip. Why can’t I see into her mind? Has Nick’s influence spilled over into my everyday life?

Her glance flits around the room. She’s in flux, her thoughts shifting in currents. “I’ve decided not to marry Kishor. My parents won’t listen.”

“You’re nervous about the wedding.”

“When I think of living with him in India, I feel sick.” She stares out the window at a vision out of reach.

“Sita.” I try to take her hand, but it’s securely fastened to the teacup. “Don’t you want a huge wedding? Your parents will worry about you. Families have fights, but they always reconcile. Maybe you just need a little time.”

“I’ve had all the time in the world.” Her thoughts gather and she sits straighter, taking a deep breath. “Don’t you see? I never wanted to marry him. I’ve done what I was supposed to do all my life. I can’t go back.” Tears spill from her eyes. “But where do I go?”

“Sita—it’s okay.” I put my arms around her, feel her body trembling. “What about going back to your parents for now?”

I’ve done what I was supposed to do all my life.

She draws away. “You don’t understand. They want this match more than anything. I need a place to go for a while.”

I sit back, overwhelmed. She’s just turned on to a highway with no signs, and I can’t show her the way. “Look, why don’t we try to talk to your parents—”

“I can’t go back, not now.”

“Okay, look. We’ll figure out something. I’ll be right back. Stay here.”

I run next door, take Ma into the back room, and explain the situation. For now, her episode with Mr. Basu recedes. Surely with her own clandestine activities, she’ll understand Sita.

Ma’s lips purse into a tight line, and her face goes hard. “Does she think she can just run off?”

“She wants to pursue her own dreams.” There, where did that come from?

“Her poor mother must be in shock,” Ma says. “And her father—I can’t even begin to imagine.”

“Ma, she needs a place to go.”

“I won’t have that girl under my roof.”

“Just until things settle down—”

“These things don’t settle down, Bibu. They only become worse.” A shadow falls over Ma’s happy thoughts.

“She’s distraught, Ma. What about her feelings, about what she wants?”

“I’m sure the family took all that into account, but by leaving this way she has disgraced her parents and left them in quite a fix. They’ve invited hundreds of guests to the wedding.”

“What does the wedding matter if she doesn’t love the man?” I yell, then cover my mouth. “I didn’t mean to shout.”

“I will not tolerate a runaway bride in my home. Do what you like, Bibu. There will be no Sita in our house.”

“All right, Ma, I’ll figure out something else.”

“The best you can do for her is take her home.” She lifts her sari and rushes back into the store.

Fifteen minutes later, Mitra, Sita, and I are in Mitra’s car heading into town, Sita in the backseat. She leans against the headrest, and a great blanket of fatigue emanates from her mind.

“You can sleep in my room, honey!” Mitra shouts. “I’ll take the couch!” The car careens over two lanes of traffic, and Sita jolts upright, suddenly alert.

“Mitra, you’ll get us all killed,” I say, but my heart isn’t in it.

We make it to her apartment intact. She still lives as if in a college dorm, the arrangement of furniture haphazard. Mitra leaves bras thrown over chairs, woven wool blankets draped over the back of the couch.

“I sleep in on weekends,” Mitra announces, taking Sita’s suitcase to the bedroom. “And I snore through anything. So don’t worry about waking me up.”

“You are too kind, Ms. Mehta,” Sita says.

“Oh, call me Mitra!” She comes close to me and whispers, “My father is coming to my dance performance!”

I smile and squeeze her arm.

“Shouldn’t we call your parents, Sita?” I say. “Just to put their minds at ease?”

“I don’t want to talk to them.” But she writes the number on a slip of paper and hands it to me, her fingers trembling.

My heart pounds as I punch in the numbers.

“Hallo?” a hollow male voice answers.

“Mr. Dutta? This is Lakshmi Sen, from the sari shop?”

“Yes?”

“I want you to know that your daughter, Sita, came to me, and she’s staying with my friend Mitra for a while—”

“She is all right? I’ve been so worried! Where is she?”

“She’s fine, a bit confused.” I glance at Sita and mouth the words,
“Your father.”
She nods and lets out a breath.

Then I hear a scrambling, and her mother screeches on the line. “This is Mrs. Dutta. Who is this and what do you want?”

I repeat what I told Sita’s father.

“I don’t know of whom you speak,” Mrs. Dutta says in a cold voice.

“Sita, your daughter.”

“What daughter? I once had a daughter, but—”

“Mrs. Dutta, she’s really upset.”

“I don’t have a daughter. Don’t call here again.” Mrs. Dutta hangs up.

I
’m reeling when I return to the shop. I left Sita crying, while Mitra tried to comfort her with soothing words and tea. I have to pretend that all’s well. I have to hope that Mrs. Dutta is just having a bad day and that she’ll come around, but I have doubts.

I don’t have a daughter.

I’m hoping to hide in the office for a while, but as soon as I open the door, I know that Nick is here. Huge sparkling bubbles hover in the air. I swat them away, but oh, how he looks in a pressed black suit, and I’m instantly jealous of Asha, who gets to be with him all day.

She’s brought a group of friends, and Ma and Pooja are beside themselves. They don’t even notice Nick pull me aside and whisper in my ear. “Lakshmi, I’ve missed you,” he says.

“Nick, not here.” I look straight ahead, pretend to arrange some scarves.

“Why not here?”

I don’t have a daughter.

“All right,” he says. “I just want you to know. I want to keep seeing you.”

My face heats, and Ma glances my way. I deliberately drop a scarf and bend to pick it up, my face hidden by the rows of clothing. When I stand, I turn to face the shelves of saris along the wall. “Nick, don’t talk about this now.”

There’s a half smile on Nick’s face, but he goes instantly blank when Ma rushes over to us. “Lakshmi! Today is the day we pick Asha’s wedding sari!”

My fingers curl into fists. The saris offer no hints, no images. Only the blinding bubbles. The
knowing
is stone-walling me. Memories of Nick fill the space all around me. And Sita’s tears, and her mother’s cold voice.

I have to focus. Saris. “Nick,” I whisper. “You have to get out of here.”

“Why? So you can pretend you never met me?” He glances over at Asha, who’s sifting through the silk scarves.

“Because I need to choose a sari for Asha.”

“You can’t do that with me here?”

“You don’t need to be here. Go and wait in the car. I can’t…think when you’re here. And why do you need to be in here, anyway?”

“Lakshmi, is everything all right?” Ma calls from the other side of the room. I’m grateful that the acoustics muffle my words, that a conversation here can’t be heard from where she’s standing.

“Fine, Ma! We’re discussing Asha’s wedding.” I turn my back on Nick.

How can I explain the
knowing,
that it slips down the drain when he’s around? Then I hear the door swing open and shut as he leaves. For a moment, a lonely wind sweeps through my heart, but I push it away as the
knowing
waltzes back in again.

Saris.

What would Asha consider most beautiful? She likes to stand out. I pick a red silk wedding sari with the most inlaid gold. But not
too
pretentious. Asha isn’t showy. She prefers style, elegance. Maybe the violet sari with an intricately woven border. Or the shimmering vermilion with a medium amount of gold and a yellow undertone, like sunshine. Yes. Perfect!

But is it?

I glance toward the closed door. No sign of Nick. I can’t see him loitering on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets. I can’t see the limousine. I should be thrilled. The
knowing
dances in circles, crystal clear. Snippets of longings sprinkle into my mind, and yet they don’t coalesce into a coherent picture. The bubbles, my annoying emotions are still in the way. Worry and longing tumble around in my heart. I want to run outside and apologize to Nick. How can I explain to him the pull of family, of my father? I feel Baba’s eternal breath on my shoulder, gently steering me toward Ravi Ganguli. How can I make Nick understand the importance of history, of tradition?

What will I do? The
knowing
clings to me, but my thoughts are outside in the rain, with Nick.

Focus.

I pull all three saris off the shelf, then more saris and more—

“All of these?” Asha says. “But which would be best for me, Lakshmi?”

“Lakshmi? Are you feeling quite all right?” Ma asks, stepping close to me.

I’m thinking of Nick’s breath in my ear.
Do you believe in love at first sight?

“What is all this you are giving me?” Asha says in a low voice.

“I have to pull out several before I can, um, narrow it down,” I say. The
knowing
should’ve saved me when Nick walked out. But I’m lost.

“I see. Then do your thing and I’ll stay out of your way.”

“No, don’t do that,” I say. “I mean, don’t stay out of the way. The sari is for you. What’s your favorite color, and do you want to go with traditional or daring?”

I’ve never asked questions before. Ma goes pale.

“I’m open to all colors,” Asha says. “You choose.”

“But this is your wedding—”

“And you are the expert. My favorite color is yellow, but of course I can’t wear yellow at my wedding. Do I want everyone to think I am pregnant?” She laughs.

“That’s what I thought, of course.” No help, no help at all! I stare at the heap.

“Lakshmi? What do you see?” Ma says, a thread of pure anxiety in her voice.

“I see—a traditional wedding with a modern edge.”

“Edge, yes.” Asha nods.

I close my eyes and try to concentrate, but the images hide just out of reach. I open my eyes to the bright lights, to everyone staring at me. I pick up the vermilion silk, the one with medium inlay and a yellow undertone.

No, I’m not sure. I drop it.

My hand moves to the violet….

“Purple? Are you sure?” Asha’s lips turn down. “I hate purple. Reminds me of grapes.”

“I meant to give you another one.” Tears press at the backs of my eyes. The store falls into a hush. A vast sea of saris undulates before my eyes, floating off into oblivion.

“Lakshmi, which one did you mean to give me?”

I can’t move. Which one?

I pick up a pink sari and hand it to Asha.

“You’re thinking pink?” She taps her finger on her chin.

“Innocent and yet bold,” I lie. The bubbles of longing for Nick are in the way, but how can I tell her?

“Fine, we’ll try it,” Asha says. “Now Pooja, bring me that sleeveless choli, will you?”

But when Asha emerges from the dressing room, the sari resembles a puffy dollop of cotton candy. Everyone falls silent.

Asha’s face tightens, and Ma presses a hand to her chest.

“This is your idea of the perfect wedding sari,” Asha says. “Bordello pink.” Her eyes sear holes through my forehead.

“I thought—”

“Don’t speak.” She glares at herself in the mirror. Never has a sari looked so awful. The undertone of gray gives her face a deathly pallor. “I look hideous,” she says. “I heard so much about you, Lakshmi. But my sister is right. You are a fraud.”

“Please, I’m sure it was just a test sari,” Ma says, rushing forward.

Tears sting my eyes.

“Pink is a new style, not at all traditional,” Pooja says. “We are trying it out on you. Like the guinea pig for the new saris!”

“Pooja!” Ma shouts.

I’m frozen, the
knowing
laughing at me from somewhere beyond reach. My confusion about Nick must’ve tackled the
knowing
and jumbled it up.

“You’re calling me a guinea pig?” Asha says.

Oh, disaster. I rush forward, finding my feet again. “She didn’t mean that. I can show you other ones—”

“No!” Asha raises her hand. “I can no longer trust your judgment.”

“She’s been ill,” Ma says. “Why not try the other ones?”

“I don’t have time for this,” Asha says.

“We’ve ordered many fabrics, and the seamstress is beginning work,” Ma says. “We can give you a discount!”

“I’ll compensate you for what you’ve already done,” Asha says coldly. “Money is no problem.”

“Your wedding sari can be easily found,” Ma says, taking my arm.

“I’ll look elsewhere,” Asha says.

Ma pales. “But—”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Sen, but please cancel my orders. I’m taking my business elsewhere.”