Invisible Lives (2 page)

Only Mr. Basu, Ma’s right-hand man, remains unmarried at fifty. His engagement fell through when his fiancée ran off with a prince, and Mr. Basu never quite recovered. His bald head, round body, and slightly sour odor don’t help his prospects much, and neither does his propensity to hide in the back room unpacking boxes.

The golden bubbles burst, and fragments of Ma’s jumbled worries break through—she’s probably fretting about the leak under the bathroom sink.

Mrs. Dasgupta keeps chattering. “—to see past your specs, a man needs to have X-ray vision like that Superb-Man, or what’s it—”

“Superman,” I say. “Maybe I
am
waiting for a super-hero.” I let out a hollow giggle and push the glasses up on my nose. Nobody knows they’re plain glass, not prescription lenses. The elastic hair band is so tight that it’s yanking the ponytail from my scalp. I can’t let my hair down in the shop, where brides-to-be wobble in nervously on cold feet. The goddess told me not to flaunt my beauty.

“—and you’ve studied the Rabindrasangeet?” Mrs. Dasgupta goes on. “Lovely songs, nah? The perfect expression of Bengali culture.”

“I love to play the piano, mainly classical,” I tell her. Erudition and musical skills are coveted assets to make a prospective wife more attractive, but to me, music is a blissful escape from the longings of others.

“And the Kama Sutra?” Mrs. Dasgupta gives me a sly look.

“Mrs. Dasgupta! Really!”

She lowers her voice. “I call it Kama Sutra for your benefit, but I know it as Kamasutram, and it is about the
science
of love, not at all about what the Americans think! Only twenty percent is about you-know-what! Written by the great Vatsyayana. He was a celibate scholar, did you know?” She sounds reverent, as if his celibacy somehow made him an expert on sex.

“Fascinating, Mrs. Dasgupta.” The blood heats my cheeks. I don’t want to imagine her in exuberant youth, practicing all sixty-four positions of the Kama Sutra. With her shadow-man!

She’s fingering the saris and thinking of him. Then the image of her husband’s bulbous young nose returns, and she’s at her wedding again. The ceremonial fire rises in bursts of flame, the crimson wedding sari burning away, leaving only the gold and jewels. She still wears those gems on her fingers, around her neck, in her earrings.

But who was the shadow-man? What about the blue sari? Did she wear it for him?

I know just what to give her!

“How about this new soft cerulean blue muslin?” I unfold the sari on the countertop, and the heady scent of handwoven cotton fills the air. “This wasn’t mass produced. A master weaver made this—it’s very expensive.”

“Oh,
my
goodness.” She leans over the counter, and the pallu slips from her shoulder. Her thoughts burst with pulsing hearts of happiness. She flips the sari back over her shoulder. “How did you know about this blue?”

The door swings open, and the whole store goes silent. A damp breeze wafts in on a current of exquisite floral perfume. Even before I glance toward the door, I know someone important has arrived. A faint imprint of thoughts drifts toward me—color and brightness, a swirling burst of rose petals.

Mrs. Dasgupta turns around, and her mouth drops open. “Oh, Shiva,” she whispers and elbows me. “Is that who I think it is? Coming into your store? Oh, what I will tell my friends!”

If it weren’t for the wall clock ticking away the hour, I would think time had stopped. Customers freeze, holding kameezes or earrings, mouths stop in the open position, words stick to the air. And still the rose petals swirl toward me.

Ma’s on the move, hurrying to greet the new customer, a beautiful young woman in a wheelchair, her leg thrust forward in a cast. She’s in black slacks, floral silk shirt, and a purple coat beaded with raindrops, the blustery storm rushing in around her. Shiny black hair cascades past her shoulders. Her perfect oval face shines, and her wide, long-lashed eyes exude divine beauty. Only this woman is not a goddess, she’s a Bollywood actress, Asha Rao. I recognize her from
Star
magazine.

If I whip off the glasses and let down my hair, I’ll look as radiant and beautiful as Asha. And that’s precisely why I keep my head down, glasses on, my figure hidden beneath the baggy shirt. The last time I showed my beauty, the customer, a bride-to-be, fled the store in a huff and took her business elsewhere.

“Asha Rao,” Mrs. Dasgupta says in a hysterical whisper. “In your store. Ah, Lakshmi. What is happening?” The blue sari slips from her fingers. Time moves again as customers stare at Asha. Their longings crowd in. Some want her to be their daughter, their sister. Some want to be a Bollywood actress like her. Some want to throw her off a cliff and steal her life. Some want to steal her fiancé, the jet-setting hotelier and actor Vijay Bharti—hooked nose, big hair, and all. Asha’s thoughts bounce out into the fray. She imagines dancing with Vijay in a Bollywood musical, rose petals fluttering down all around them. An entourage of fans bobs in the background.

I feel him before I see him—a deep, reckless presence, a man who could jump from a plane at high altitude, brazenly sure that his parachute will open. In a tailored black suit, he’s pushing Asha in the wheelchair. His blond hair is long, parted on the side, and he’s tall, broad-shouldered, large as a quarterback. His eyes are the blue of hard-cut gems.

He steps across the threshold and the door slams, trapping a pocket of the storm inside with us. The rose petals fall away, sucked down an invisible drain into the cosmos. Someone pressed the mute button on everyone’s secret thoughts, shut the window, closed the curtains.

I sense no longings, no thoughts, no deep desires from others. I’m blind to it all and gasping for breath, a goldfish flung from its bowl. In the space of a moment, my entire sixth sense collapses and disappears.

I
close my eyes and reach for images, but nothing comes except the orange and black Rorschach blots on the backs of my eyelids. I snap my eyes open, squint in the harsh light. The blood drains from my face. I brace my hands on the counter to keep from toppling over. The lights brighten, perfumes assaulting my nose. The rustle of saris turns into grating noise. Is all this happening because the
knowing
escaped into the storm?

“How can we help you, Ms. Rao?” Ma’s saying. “We’re thrilled to have you in our store.”

Mrs. Dasgupta blinks, her mouth slightly open in wonder.

“Vijay and I are eager to marry,” Asha says in a well-modulated, stagelike voice. “The auspicious date comes very soon, or so Vijay’s astrologers and gurus say! And we haven’t time to return to India right away. Later, we’ll have three more ceremonies in three Indian cities, but for now, I’ve got to stay here to make this blasted film, and so—”

“You would like us to help with the wedding here,” Ma says.

“We need to clothe all the family and friends,” Asha says.

“Of course. We work quickly.” Ma breaks into a confident smile, revealing one crooked eyetooth, the rest slightly stained from years of tea. She gestures toward me. “I’m sure you’ve heard of my daughter’s ability to—”

“Choose the right fabrics?” Asha turns and gives me a dazzling smile. “You know the Desi community. Everyone knows everything. Indians here must have each others’ houses bugged.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place.” Hope and anxiety shine in Ma’s eyes, but her thoughts have melted into the Northwest rain. She knows about my heightened intuition, but I’ve never revealed the true extent of my ability. I don’t want to tell her that the
knowing
has suddenly flown the coop.

I can’t let her down. Not now.

Mrs. Dasgupta goes pale, clutching the blue sari.

Asha glances around at the staring customers, then lowers her voice. “We need the whole place to ourselves for the time being, nah, Mrs. Sen?”

“Of course, of course.” Ma springs into action, ushering people out, apologizing, telling them she’ll open early tomorrow, the shop is temporarily closed.

I ring up Mrs. Dasgupta’s purchases, and she scuttles out of the store.

I smooth my shirt and take deep breaths, but a touch of nausea climbs through my stomach. Ma’s features sharpen. Her gold hoop earrings glitter, and the molecules of powder on her cheeks glint beneath the bright lights.

I stride forward and take Asha’s hand. Her fingers are soft and supple, almost limp. “I’m Lakshmi, at your service,” I say in a firm voice. “Let me know what you’re looking for and I’ll be happy to help.”

“We carry a variety of styles,” Ma says. “Even woven wedding saris from Banaras—”

“Banarasi, the best!” Asha Rao sucks in a breath.

I wonder if she’s faking the awestruck act, but her thoughts have slipped into the ether. I’m adrift with no steering.

Ma leans in toward Asha. “Have you heard of sangol paria?” Her eyebrows rise the way they do when she’s telling a secret.

Asha shakes her head, motions for the blue-eyed man to wheel her forward to examine the gold jewelry in the glass cases. Why does she need him to push her? I wonder if he’s her secret lover. But she’s getting married!

Ma runs after them. “Rare, prized saris from Southern Bihar—no two are alike. They become prized family heirlooms.”

We don’t actually
have
any sangol paria saris. What is she up to? “Ma, I don’t think—”

“Intricately woven textiles,” she says. “Absolutely unique among Indian saris.”

Unique! I try not to roll my eyes.

“Unbelievable,” Asha says.

“Virtually unavailable in the cities,” Ma goes on. “But still woven in remote areas. Highly coveted.”

“Then I’d like to see one. Price is no object.” Asha motions to the man, and he wheels her forward. I step out of the way.

Price is no object.
Ma must think she’s died and gone to the heavens with the triumvirate of Hindu gods, only we don’t actually have any sangol paria!

“We have muga silk!” I say, coming to Ma’s rescue. “And golden wild silk found only in Assam. You might like them better.”

Asha breaks into a movie star grin. “I will see the muga silk. I must give saris to Vijay’s sisters and mother and all the aunties. Have you got the staff for such a project?”

“Of course, no problem!” Ma says.

“Are you quite certain?” Asha glances around the boutique. “I see only a couple of clerks.” Her lips turn down with disapproval, as if an army should’ve been waiting for her here. We can’t yet afford more staff unless Ma uses my dowry money, which she would do if the temperature in hell dropped below freezing, the sky turned orange, and dinosaurs roamed Seattle.

“We’ve got a seamstress, a dedicated buyer, and excellent customer service,” Ma says.

All rolled into one, I want to say.

“How perfectly lovely then!” Asha says. “We’ll sit and talk and plan, nah? Lakshmi, you must come and visit me on the set.”

“That will be an honor for her,” Ma says. “Lakshmi and I will help you find what you need.”

I glance back toward the counter, where Pooja and Mr. Basu stand mesmerized, staring at our Bollywood guest.

“I can’t get around much for the next few weeks,” Asha is saying. “Broke my leg in a stunt. You might’ve read about it—I do all my own stunts, you know. You’ll have to let Nick be my arms and legs. Oh, by the way, Nick’s my driver and sort of my bodyguard.” She giggles.

The silent man nods slightly.

Ma gives him a perfunctory look, dismissing him as an invisible servant.

“Pleased to meet you,” I say.

“At your service.” He shakes my hand, nearly crushing my bones with his grip.

“We need custom-sewn suits for the little nieces,” Asha says. “Do you have?”

“We have many shalwar kameezes and many fabrics,” Ma says. She takes Asha and her driver all over the store, showing them variety and rarity, and I move as if in a dream until Asha tugs my arm, her face aglow. “We have to run for now, but oh, Lakshmi, you have the most divine designs. All the elements must match. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon!”

Nick wheels her toward the door. As soon as they leave, the
knowing
rushes back into me, as if it’s been here all the time, hiding behind the shawls. I exhale with relief, welcoming an old friend. My fingers tremble, and I feel like I’ve just run a marathon.

My ability waxes and wanes like a temperamental moon, but it has never completely disappeared!

Ma’s tugging my sleeve. Her eyes are bright with barely contained excitement. “Isn’t it lovely that the gods have brought us Asha Rao?”

Strictly speaking, it was the driver who brought her. “Wonderful, Ma!”

“How could we have such luck? Your sensitivity is a divine gift, as I’ve always said!”

She doesn’t know how right she is.

“Well, my dearest Bibu, this is a day for the history books. And there is something else. I meant to tell you later at home, but I simply can’t wait. Besides our new business, it’s the most wonderful news in years.”

“What is it, Ma?”

She presses her hands to her cheeks, and tears glisten in her eyes. So this is what the golden bubbles were all about, the secret she hid so well. “Oh, Bibu. I have finally, finally found the perfect husband for you.”