Invisible Lives (17 page)

M
itra picks me up for lunch on Thursday, but this time, she’s quiet on the drive to the café.

“Thanks for taking care of Sita,” I tell her. “I’m so glad she’s happy again.”

“She really loves Kishor. She’s willing to give it a go.” Mitra sighs. “I met him. He’s a great guy! Eager to please her. And he stands up to her mother. Can you imagine?”

“Wow—good for him!”

“He’s a godsend for Sita. He’ll be a good husband to her. He won’t let her mother walk all over her. Maybe I ought to look into an arranged marriage. Now that my father…Anyway, he’s coming to my performance Saturday. I’m going to wear that costume.”

“Good for you!”

“Maybe I want a guy like Kishor. Handsome and loving. Not like Nisha’s…” Her voice trails off.

“What about Nisha?”

“She’s unhappy.” Mitra parks at the café and stares out through the windshield, which is streaked with rain.

“I know—I sensed that the last time we had lunch here. She was running to an apartment building, but I didn’t want to say anything. She’s a very private person.”

“Maybe she just had a bad childhood memory.”

“Maybe. Well, now she and Rakesh are happy together.” But a shiver of apprehension climbs my spine.

“Don’t push her. You know how proud she is.” Mitra gives me a warning look.

When we go inside, Nisha’s dressed perfectly as usual, her copper-colored suit jacket falling elegantly across her shoulders.

“Congratulations!” she tells me. “I hear you’re marrying a perfect gentleman.”

“Thanks, Nisha—but I was hoping for a man like Rakesh.” I wink at her.

She gives me a wan smile, while Mitra chatters about her dancing, her dates, her new power juicer, which makes perfect fruit punches. All the talking masks an undercurrent of darkness. Her father is even frailer now, coughing all the time.

The image of Nisha barges in. She’s running in a tattered green sari. She arrives at an apartment complex, takes the concrete stairs two at a time to a door. The full moon is a big yellow disk in the sky. She stops, her hand on the knob. Her fingers, smooth and covered in silver rings, look white in the moonlight.

She enters a dim, starkly furnished apartment. Walks to a bedroom.

“Nisha, pass the salt!” Mitra says. She’s chattering about the way Sita brushed her teeth all the time and cooked Indian food in Mitra’s kitchen. “Left turmeric stains all over the counter,” Mitra says.

Nisha’s nodding, while the images keep coming. She’s at the bedroom door. Inside, a man sits up in the bed. He’s naked, with a slight belly but a handsome face, hair sticking up in places, a sheen of sweat on his body. Rakesh!

No, no. Nisha, turn away!

But she doesn’t.

A pillow has fallen to the floor, and there’s a clock ticking on the bedside table. She’s aware of the sound growing louder, not changing its rhythm while her heart races ahead. The woman next to Rakesh sits up slowly, as if she’s been asleep.

Nisha’s reaction startles her—the first thought should be,
How could he do this?
But instead, she thinks,
She’s not even beautiful.
The woman’s too thin, all bones, her skin too dark.

Rakesh is yelling—
Nisha. What are you doing here? Why didn’t you stay home?
As if all this, what she’s seeing, is actually her fault. She backs away, the heartbeat flooding her head, flooding mine, and then she lets go of me, and the image wrenches away.

“What’s going on?” Mitra’s hand is on mine.

Nisha’s holding a fork halfway to her mouth. Her fingers tremble.

“It’s Rakesh,” I whisper to Mitra.

Nisha glances from Mitra to me and back. Her eyes grow bright. She drops the fork on her plate.

“I’m so sorry.” I jump up and hug Nisha. I don’t care how formal she is. I don’t care if she’s put up a wall. “Nisha. We’re your friends. We love you.”

She lets me hug her, and her bony shoulders begin to shake.

“What the hell is going on?” Mitra asks. “Is this a group hug?” She comes over and hugs both of us.

“You have to leave him,” I tell Nisha.

“I know,” she sobs. “I did.”

The waiter comes with drink refills, and we all sit down again. I keep my hand over Nisha’s. Tears roll down her cheeks.

“You left Rakesh?” Mitra screeches.

My two best buddies are the only two who understand the true nature of the
knowing.

“I saw him with the other woman,” I tell her.

“Which one?” Nisha whispers.

The blood drains from my face. “Oh, Nisha.”

“Oh, no!” Mitra rolls her eyes. “Rakesh is a player. I knew it! Nisha, you deserve better.”

“I didn’t know,” Nisha says. “Over a couple of years, he charmed me. And I let down my guard. He came from a good family, had a good job. After our wedding, he started leaving on long business trips, and even when he was in town, he’d stay at ‘work’ all night. One night, I decided to follow him.” She wipes the tears from her cheeks.

“Oh, honey.” Mitra hugs her again.

“I was lucky he agreed to a divorce,” Nisha says.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” I ask.

“I couldn’t. It was a dream—I wanted to hold onto it, but I had to let it go. I moved back into my parents’ house a couple of days ago. It all happened so quickly. I think I’m going back to school.”

I sense a glimmer behind her grief, and I glimpse an imperial violet muslin fabric. On the top shelf in the shop.

“I have a sari that might help you through this,” I tell her.

“I knew you would.” She smiles at me, and a bit of color returns to her cheeks. I’ve given her something she didn’t have a few minutes ago. Something humans can never live without. Hope.

T
hat afternoon, I receive a letter addressed to me in shaky script, with no return address.

Jamila Tarun!

Invisible secrets run between the lines, and my heart pounds. There’s something about Jamila Tarun, and something else crazy, a promise I made to Nick. I would let him know when I found the ring’s owner.

Finder’s keepers.

I take his business card from my jewelry box, and our moments together rush back to me as if they happened yesterday. They’re supposed to fade with time, not grow stronger.

My fingers tremble as I punch his number into the phone. He answers immediately, his voice melting my bones.

“Nick? This is Lakshmi.”

“Hi, Lakshmi.”

“I, uh, found the owner of the ring. An old friend of the family. She wants me to visit.”

“Yeah?”

Ma pops her head into my bedroom. “Bibu, who are you talking to?”

“A friend.” I make a cross face at her, my heart pounding, and she disappears.

I lower my voice. “My grandmother told me that nobody should know about this Jamila—I don’t know why. I’m wondering if you could take me to see her. I’m hiring you, as a driver!”

“When?”

“Next Sunday afternoon. I’ll be waiting at the corner.”

Nick arrives in jeans and a black jacket over a blue turtleneck, accentuating the pure blue of his eyes. He strides around to open my door, and my heart leaps. I have a crazy urge to jump into his arms.

“I’ve missed you,” I breathe as I get into the car.

He gets into his side and starts the engine. “Directions?”

So, he’s going to be formal.

I give him the address.

He pulls out into the road, looking straight ahead.

“Nick—how have you been?”

“Great. You?”

“I went to India.”

“I know.”

“Thanks for doing this—if I’d told anyone else, they would’ve blabbed to my mother.”

“No problem.” His sheer size and presence overwhelm me. My throat is dry. A few stray, fuzzy bubbles hover in the air, then tiny white flowers appear—haloes of baby’s breath.

“Nick, I—”

“Asha told me you’re getting married. She heard from a customer she knows. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. How are her wedding plans going?”

“She’s having some fabrics sent from India and she’s planning to have a tailor make the clothes.”

“But so little time is left until her wedding!”

“She keeps her own counsel.”

We don’t speak the rest of the way. The baby’s breath slowly wilts on the seat between us.

Jamila’s home is a large cedar-sided complex with an A-frame roof and skylights.

“It’s an assisted-care facility,” I say. “The Cedars. I thought that was the name of her street!”

He gets out and strides to my side, then he opens the door and unclasps the seat belt. “You want me to go in with you?”

I look into his eyes, where I find some strange safety. “Yes, can you come?”

We get out and sign in at the front desk, a pleasant, spacious room with a pink carpet and leafy indoor plants. The woman at the desk is young. Elderly people pass in the halls, some pushing walkers, a couple in wheelchairs. Nick leads me down two hallways. He knocks, and a faint voice calls from inside. “Come in!”

Mrs. Tarun lives in a large studio apartment, her hospital bed against a wall. The room fills with the acrid odor of disinfectant.

“Do come in and sit!” she calls in a thin voice.

I instinctively take Nick’s hand. Why am I nervous? Mrs. Tarun’s a wisp of a woman in bed, her black hair shot through with streaks of gray. She’s perhaps my mother’s age, but she’s frail, wasted by some mysterious disease.

“You must be Lakshmi,” she says. “Please do sit, sit—my hearing isn’t too good. The illness, you know. So please speak up.”

“Mrs. Tarun,” Nick says in a loud, firm voice. “It’s stuffy in here. I’ll open the window.”

“Oh, you’re such a honey, and such a handsome young man. Please do open that window. I’ve been trying to get that nurse in here, but she must’ve taken another cigarette break.”

Nick steps around the bed and yanks open the window, letting in cool, fresh air.

I sit in the chair next to the bed.

“What a lovely husband you have,” Mrs. Tarun says to me. “How long have you two been married?”

“We’re not married,” I say.

“Newlyweds then? You make a perfect couple, so good together. I can see the two of you are very happy. Any children yet?”

“No kids yet.” Nick helps her sit up against the pillows.

She strains to see out the window. “Well then you two ought to have children. And you’ll have such fun trying, won’t you?”

Nick looks at me, and I blush.

“We’re not married, Mrs. Tarun,” I say again, avoiding Nick’s gaze.

“What, honey? You’re on my bad side. I’m completely deaf in my left ear.”

“She says, we’re having fun trying,” Nick shouts, and Mrs. Tarun smiles.

I hand her the ring. She holds it up to the light, and tears spill from her eyes. Nick is standing motionless, only the twitch of his lip betraying emotion.

“Thank you for this,” she says. “I will treasure it. And how is your mother?”

“Ma’s well,” I say.

She’s silent. “Tell her I asked after her.”

“I will. She sends her best.”

“You’re lying—your ma would not have let you come here, that much is certain.”

I pull the chair up close to her. “Why? What’s the story behind that ring, Mrs. Tarun?”

She wipes her eyes. “It was a long time ago. You don’t need to know, my dear.”

“How did it end up in the pipes?”

“I was in anguish, and your mother was…well, angry.” She falls silent, staring at the wall.

“Mrs. Tarun. Please tell me.”

“You see, I knew your father before he met your mother.”

“You were friends?”

“We went to university together for a while…”

“And?” My heart races.

“Oh, Lakshmi. How beautiful you’ve become. I’m sure you don’t remember me, but when I came to the store, you were still tiny, but you already knew which saris would help people. You pointed out the chiffon that saved my life.”

Nick shoves his hands in his pockets and stares out the window.

“I don’t remember, Mrs. Tarun. I don’t remember you, either. I’m sorry.”

“Of course—I left the store bereft, certain that my life would end. But the sari saved me. It was most delightful, cloudy chiffon, quite slimming. I wore it to a dance, and that’s where I met my husband.”

“You’re married?”

“I was—he died two years back. We have two boys who visit me every day. They wanted me to live with them, but I don’t want to be a burden, you see. They have families.”

Nick pipes up. “You wouldn’t be a burden to anyone, Mrs. Tarun.”

“Oh, you’re so kind, young man.” Her face brightens. “Can you prop me up higher, my dear boy?”

Nick props her up as high as she can go. “Is that better?”

“I wish I could see out that window, but I can’t see a thing. That nurse is going to have to move my bed—”

Nick makes as if to move the bed.

“Oh, no, no, young man! I could get into big trouble for moving the furniture—not supposed to.”

Nick does something unexpected then—he tucks the blanket underneath her legs and lifts her bodily. She’s a mere thought in his arms. She lets out a thin exclamation as he carries her to the window. “There, Mrs. Tarun. You can see out from here.”

“Oh, young man! If you weren’t married to that lovely young lady, I’d ask you to marry me!”

“And I would gladly do so.” He holds her there at the window, in his arms, and my heart fills. She smiles out at the lake, dotted with boat sails, the scenery lit by the afternoon sun.