Invisible Lives (13 page)

“I
’m so sorry, Ma,” I say over supper. I made an elaborate meal, and she’s eating one grain of rice at a time. I expected her to yell at me, but she’s quiet.

“It’s all right, Bibu,” she says in a tired voice. “Perhaps I’ve put too much pressure on you. And besides, it was bound to happen. Asha Rao is so demanding, she would’ve fired us at some point anyway.”

I think of what Nick said on the way back from the set. Asha fires all her assistants. “But still, Ma, my mind was in a jumble. I could’ve tried to concentrate.”

Ma puts her hand over mine. “Bibu, you think the world rests on your shoulders, but it doesn’t. You don’t have to know everything all the time.”

I sit back, relief and sadness pressing on me. Have I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders? Of Mitra, Nisha, Sita? Our customers? I think of Lillian and her son, Jeremy. I wonder what they’re doing, whether Jeremy is playing with Legos at this moment. “I don’t know everything and I can’t help everyone,” I whisper.

“Try having a little fun,” Ma says. “We’ll have fun in India, nah? You’ll love Ravi. We’ll have lovely food, go shopping, visit the relatives.”

“Of course, Ma.”

A strange image emerges from her mind. She’s standing on a mountaintop, the wind playing with her hair, Mr. Basu behind her.

I take her hand. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“We must put the shop up for sale.”

“What?” I let go of her hand.

She looks at me with tears in her eyes, but her thoughts are opaque. “I’ve been thinking about it a long time, Lakshmi. You’ll marry. Ravi is a doctor. You don’t need the shop. You’re trapped there—you always feel a need to help people, but I want you to be happy. You, Bibu.”

“Oh, Ma, but we’ve always had the shop!” The bottom drops out of my heart.

She lets out a long sigh. “It is time.”

“You love the shop, Ma. You love saris.”

“Perhaps I must retire. I don’t know.”

“Don’t talk that way. Don’t even think that way. We’ll get more good accounts, good business. You’ll see. Don’t give up.”

She pats my hand and takes a long sip of water. “We’ll worry about this later, nah?”

That night, I dream of ripped saris, of Ma and me standing in an empty shop, cobwebs in our hair, and then the cobwebs dissolve into dust, and I’m on the teeming Mumbai streets. I dream of chapatis cooked over open flames, of sparkling Limca soft drinks and noisy cinemas. I dream of gauzy mosquito nets and soft white sand beaches and palm trees and spicy cologne. I dream of my grandmother, my cousins, my aunts and uncles, and the ghosts of ancestors I never knew. I dream of India.

C
all me the Jet-setting World Traveler with the Sixth Sense. In India, I let down my hair and lose the glasses. The
knowing
exhausts itself into a stupor, overstimulated by the sheer mass of humanity. I’ve been watching an endless collage of colorful images, like shards of light in a kaleidoscope. This is worse than New York.

One woman brushes my arm in the street, and I see her pick up a little boy in a garden full of roses. I know he’s dead. There’s too much light, the garden perfect. A man touches my arm, and I see him riding a bike along a white sand beach—perhaps in Goa, perhaps in Chennai, a young woman on the bicycle beside him. Pink petals fall from the sky.

Here, Ma and I temporarily forget that we’ve put the shop up for sale, forget that we’ve left Mr. Basu and Pooja in charge. I didn’t have time to talk to him, but Ma’s weekend with him feels small now, a blip in the scheme of time.

We may return to disaster in America, but for now, I have to meet Ravi Ganguli. Ma doesn’t know—I’ve brought the gold ring, the one Nick found. I keep it on a chain around my neck, hidden beneath my shirt. I keep it for luck and to remember him, although he is now my past.

We stay in Ma’s elder sister’s flat in Alipore. It’s replete with swirling scents of sandalwood and ancient spices. Auntie Bee must’ve been cooking for two days in anticipation of our arrival. Her husband, Uncle Goola, spends his days working at his engineering firm until late into the evening. The ghosts of my relatives whisper in the shadows, and the gods seem to fit here, living in their statues and paintings.

Auntie herself, adorned in a blue chiffon sari, has aged. She’s like a pebble on the beach. The wind and tides have scoured her to a smooth finish, only the threads and lines of her past run through her skin, telling stories. Her daughter, Prithi, barely into her teens, spends all her time reading.

Here, relatives gather for elaborate meals. I reunite with cousins and aunts and uncles, and we talk of our lives far into the night, and I begin to forget I ever had a life in America. I think only of Ravi Ganguli coming to meet Ma and me tomorrow. Everyone else will leave to allow us a few moments alone.

When Ravi appears at the door, he’s beyond handsome. In person, he appears poised and suave, his face lean, the bones defined, and yet there’s a glint of playfulness on his full lips. He brings the hint of the Hindu gods, the breath of ancestors, the spice and swirl of ancient India. He’s slim and so regal that the furniture recedes into drab obscurity, and I have the urge to curtsy before him. If it weren’t for my hand gripping the doorknob, I would fall to my knees. Instead I’m trapped in his gaze, lost in his eyes, which are the deep black of a moonless midnight. And inside that darkness, love stories unfold in unknown shadows.

He’s in a kurta and pajama, complete and uncompromised in his Indian-ness, and I’m awestruck, speechless. I nearly forget that I let down my hair and put on lipstick, that black kajal rims my eyes and I’m wearing a pale blue churidar kurta. His gaze lingers on the shirt’s intricate embroidery, travels down the pants to the narrow cuffs. Vague wisps of memory emanate from him—white Indian sunlight dispersing in dust, a mansion on the outskirts of Delhi.

“You must be Lakshmi,” he says warmly. “You’re even more beautiful than in your picture.”

I blush. “And so are you.” I can’t speak properly. Then I remember my manners. “Oh, you’re standing in the doorway. How rude of me, please come in.” I step aside to let him into the foyer, then close the door after him. The ghosts of his entourage clamor outside—the hints of servants, drivers, his royal subjects. He’s a man who should be surrounded by helpers.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment,” he says, taking my hands in his. His fingers are dry and warm. Anticipation breathes from his skin, wanders up my arms. Then he lets go of my hands, and the sensation disappears. “I thought of this meeting for days.” His gaze doesn’t waver from my eyes. “I am not disappointed.”

“Neither am I.” I bite my lip, and heat rushes through my cheeks. “Mr. Ganguli. I’ve been so looking forward—”

“Call me Ravi, please.” His mind sweeps me into our own private moment. He’s the scent I seek, a tantalizing coattail disappearing around a corner.

“How wonderful to see you. Come in, come in.” Ma’s rushing out from the kitchen. “Oh my, Mr. Ganguli. You are most welcome here.”

“I’m honored,” Ravi says. “And you’re both looking so beautiful.”

“We hope you’re comfortable. We’ll have
cha.
You haven’t already had tea, have you?”

“Cha would be lovely.” He smiles.

“Do sit—make yourself at home.” Ma lets out a tiny, embarrassed giggle. “I’ve got Darjeeling, second flush.”

“Sounds lovely.” Ravi does not sit. “Please do let me help. You must be terribly tired.”

“No need. We have servants.” Ma’s bursting with admiration for this man, her approval popping out in daisies all around her.

“Ma, please, let me help—”

“No, no. You two make yourselves comfortable. This is your time together.” Ma pats the air, gesturing for us to sit.

Ravi and I give each other knowing looks—
parents
—and sit while Ma bustles off to clank around in the kitchen.

Ravi folds into a chair as if he’s always lived here. He surveys the room, then rests his gaze on me. I’m on the couch, my hands clasped in my lap.

“You’re even lovelier in person,” Ravi says. Nothing but blue sincerity emanates from him—blue with an exotic, woven border and just beyond, an exciting, unknowable future.

“You’re better in person too,” I say. “Not that you looked like chopped liver in your pictures, mind you. But my computer monitor doesn’t have the highest resolution.”

He chuckles, easing over my discomfort, and we exchange pleasantries, asking after each other’s families and health and jobs, our words dancing in the air, doing a waltz around each other while our eyes lock.

“Tell me—how long have you and your ma lived in America?” he asks.

“Since just after I was born—my father died many years ago, as you know.”

“It must have been very difficult for you to lose him.”

“I was young. I don’t remember much about him.”

“It doesn’t matter what age you were.” His voice is gentle. “It is still a great loss. A father is so important to the well-being of a child.”

I bite my lip. “He started teaching me to ride a bike with training wheels—”

“As all fathers do, and as I will do with my children.” He gives me a warm smile and I melt.

“Baba embraced American traditions. He brought home a Christmas tree and hung Christmas lights. I remember seeing him on the ladder. Ma and I don’t do that anymore. She’s too busy, and I’m afraid of standing on high ladders. But Christmas is coming soon—”

“Not to worry.” Ravi leans forward and in one swift movement takes my hands in his again. I’m comforted by his touch, by the caring caress of his fingers. “We rarely celebrate Christmas at my home in any case.”

I see no artifice inside him, and the
knowing
remains intact. “You’re too kind.”

Ma bangs and clangs in the kitchen to remind us that she’s there but not listening. Oh, no, never listening.

“You still miss your Baba, even after all these years.”

“Of course—I still miss him. I have a photo of him in my room, actually. And I keep the last letter he wrote to me, while he was in the train heading up to see you—”

“Ah yes. I recall hearing of the…accident.” Ravi stares off as if looking back to that moment.

Accident.

My father died in an accident.

I’ve always known this, but somehow Ravi’s saying it makes it more real. The backs of my eyes sting with the threat of tears. Ravi and his parents waited at the other end of the line for a train that would never come.

His touch holds the secrets of past and future.

A lump comes into my throat. “I was very small—only seven. I kept expecting him to come home.”

“He loved to walk in our gardens in Darjeeling.” Ravi lets go of my hands and leans back. “I remember him well. He brought me sweets every time he visited.
Sandesh
and—”

“—
Roshogollas.
He brought them to me as well,” I exclaim. “He used to hide them in his suitcase and smuggle them through customs. They were squished by the time he got home, but they still tasted like heaven.”

“Nothing like squished roshogollas.” Ravi laughs, and we’re both silent for a moment. “He was a wonderful man,” Ravi says. “He and my father would spend hours in the drawing room, drinking whisky and laughing and talking. We all walked on the trails near our house—”

“I wish I could remember him the way you do. I wish he’d brought me with him.”

“But then you might not be here today,” Ravi says in a soft voice. “And that would be a tragedy.”

When we sit down to dinner, he keeps the flirtation going with his eyes. He praises the curry, aloo gobi, and basmati rice. The soft lilt of his accent touches my soul.

“Your husband remembered every detail of everything he ever read,” Ravi tells Ma. “He would recite statistics and obscure facts while drinking his morning cha—”

“I can’t believe you have such a memory of him!” Ma says, her eyes bright. “Oh, Dr. Ganguli—”

“Call me Ravi.” He gives a charming smile.

“It’s such a pleasure to know a man like you, so closely tied to our family,” Ma says, her voice low and husky, still grief-stricken after all these years, and yet another shadow pops into her mind. A round shadow, with two hairs sticking up on its head. Then she banishes the thought, even from herself.

I nearly choke on my rice.

“You must come to our estates for a visit,” Ravi says, giving me a quick wink.

Ma beams and replies in Bengali, clearly thrilled. “How I would love to come. Thank you for the kind invitation.”

“We should love to have you.” His gaze lingers on me. “I can’t imagine a better meal,” he says finally, leaning back to dab his face with the cloth napkin. It took me forever to find the good napkins in the kitchen drawers.

“It was actually Lakshmi who made the food,” Ma says. “I added the finishing touches, with the cook.”

He raises his eyebrows at me. He’s impressed. “You’re a wonderful cook as well as beautiful.” He imagines taking me to meet his family, holding my elbow as we walk into the drawing room.

“When are you coming to America?” Ma asks.

“Just finalizing the details.” Ravi gives me a long look. “I’ve taken a position at Cedar View Hospital in Seattle. And I should like to have a wife. One gets very lonely without companionship.”

“I can imagine!” Ma’s beaming, looking from Ravi to me. “And Lakshmi gets lonely as well.”

“Oh, Ma—”

None of us speaks of all the factors that make Ravi and me a perfect match, or the auspicious date chosen by Ravi’s family astrologer. We know all this already—the meeting is to see if Ravi and I like each other.

He rises, kisses the back of my hand on the way out, and I become Princess Anjuli from the
Far Pavilions.

“I’d like to take you for dinner tomorrow, at the Taj Mahal restaurant,” he says. “I’ll bring the car at seven.”

After he leaves, Ma collapses on the couch, fanning herself. “Oh, Lakshmi! I am beside myself! My palpitations!”

“Ma, you don’t have palpitations.” I sit beside her and take her hands in mine. Warmth and comfort come from her, and a thick golden excitement.

“If I had palpitations, they’d be flaring now. How could we have asked for better luck? Oh, Lakshmi, this time next year, you’ll be happily married!”