N
ick and I own the shop together now. We have two new clerks and a steady stream of business. Ma and Mr. Basu send photos from Darjeeling. They’re standing on a mountain trail strewn with pine needles, their cheeks pink from the cold, steam rising from their mouths. They’re laughing into the camera. Ma’s happiness emanates from her letters in bursts of tiny violets.
Mitra’s father attended her dance performance, and when he saw her spinning in that yellow costume, he broke down and cried. After the dance, he hugged her for a long time, and he and Mitra went home and talked late into the night. That was a few weeks ago. He passed away quietly, in his sleep, last weekend. Mitra is flying to India to spread his ashes in the sacred Ganga River.
It’s springtime, a rare clear Saturday after a rain, when the tulips and daffodils bloom, cherry blossoms open in bursts of pink cotton, and the chickadees alight in the Douglas fir trees.
Nick is busy building a high shelf to stock a new shipment of silk saris. He’s wearing jeans and a white kurta that accentuates the muscles in his shoulders. A succession of giggling teenage girls has been marching through all morning to see the gorgeous new co-owner, the American man who fixed the ceiling, installed a new front door and a new dressing room, and sells—saris! When he winks at the girls, they melt.
In the afternoon, a familiar woman walks in wearing a floral print dress and a white sweater, her face serene, her black hair in a braid down her back. She walks straight toward me. I recognize her eyes that smile. “Hello, Lakshmi.”
“Rina!” I say, and nearly drop my coffee cup. “You look different. I mean, happy.”
“The sari you gave me. It worked. The pallu stayed over my head, like magic. The sari didn’t fall off. I looked gorgeous in it. My husband wanted me to wear it all the time.”
“I’m so glad. How is your mother-in-law?” Gone back to India, I expect, or Rina would not be showing so much leg!
“She’s still with us, but she has relaxed her rules. I took your advice and spoke to her about it.” Rina looks at Nick on the ladder and lowers her voice. “I heard about your new business partner. Your husband, nah? Word is getting around. Some of my younger sister’s friends are coming in just to get a glimpse of him.”
“I noticed a few more girls than usual,” I say. “Good for business.”
“You’re a very lucky woman,” Rina whispers to me. “I’ve heard he is a wonderful man, kind and considerate, and—”
“Who’s been telling you all this?”
“Pooja told me he drove her to her wedding rehearsal and then took you to a romantic lookout! Where is Pooja, anyway?”
“She’s finishing her last year full-time at the university, and then she’s going to San Francisco for medical school,” I say. “Dipak is going with her. I’ll miss her.”
“And your mother. She’s off in India, I hear.”
“And enjoying herself tremendously.”
Mrs. Dasgupta rushes in then, waving the
Seattle Post.
“Oh, Shiva! I see this article in the newspaper about this Nick selling saris with Lakshmi. Can you imagine? Oh, Shiva. I’ve come to see how this Nick plans to make the shop much better for Pia Dasgupta.” She stops and stares up at Nick.
He glances over his shoulder, and my face heats. He steps down the ladder and takes Mrs. Dasgupta’s hand. “Pleased to see you again, Mrs. Dasgupta. You’re looking more beautiful than ever.”
Mrs. Dasgupta pats the white bun on the back of her head. “The Light & Lovely cream has been working.” She elbows me. “And what about the two of you, practicing the Kamasutram, no doubt?”
My ears are on fire.
“You bet,” Nick says and winks at her. “And I hope you are getting on well with your new husband?”
Mrs. Dasgupta’s lashes flutter. “The Kamasutram is not at all what you expect, nah? We have tried all sixty-four—”
“Mrs. Dasgupta!” I cut in. “We have a new shipment of shawls just for you.”
“Ah yes, and your husband will show me?”
“My pleasure.” Nick helps her find a shawl, chatting with her the whole time, and then Chelsea comes in with Lillian, who is holding Jeremy’s hand. He’s carrying a swatch of sky-blue sari, holding the soft fabric against his face.
“We wanted to come and congratulate you,” Lillian says and hands me a sophisticated drawing of the blue sky expanding above a boy and his mother. They’re not touching each other, but they’re both smiling. Jeremy doesn’t talk much, but he is an unusually bright and talented child.
I hug Lillian and Chelsea. “Thank you. I’ll cherish this forever.”
Jeremy looks up at me, his cheeks pink. “Sky-room,” he says, and grins.
What more could I ask for?
Nisha calls later that week. She left her high-powered banking job to pursue the dream of her heart. She wore the imperial violet sari to a job interview, and she got a position as a counselor at a local university. She’s attracted to one of the other counselors, but she’s taking it slow.
I will take life as it comes too. I find solace in knowing that I’m true to myself, and one day, I receive a letter from Thakurma.
Dearest Lakshmi,
Everyone thought I was on my last legs, but Dr. Prasad says I’ve mysteriously improved and may have many good years ahead of me. Funny the way life works out, nah? I was of course disappointed that you chose not to marry Ravi Ganguli, but then, we make new discoveries every day, don’t we? Like finding rings in sinks.
I do hope to make a trip abroad soon, now that I am stronger.
With love,
Thakurma
Life is full of surprises, Baba, isn’t it?
I’m happy here with Nick. We’re saving the world, one sari at a time.
D
eepest thanks to my editor, Maggie Crawford, for her insight, expertise, and guidance. Thanks to Mara Sorkin for all her hard work. I’m always grateful to my agent, Winifred Golden, for her advice, support, and uplifting sense of humor.
My deep gratitude to critiquers who patiently read the manuscript—or pieces of it—in various incarnations: Kate Breslin, Michael Donnelly, Lois Faye Dyer, Rose Marie Harris, Dee Marie, Skip Morris, Penny Percenti, Susan Plunkett, Sheila Rabe, Krysteen Seelen, Suzanne Selfors, Elsa Watson, and Susan Wiggs. Titles are always difficult to dream up, and Susan Wiggs is a genius. Thanks for
Invisible Lives.
I’m grateful to my cousin, Tanya Mukerjee, for her wisdom regarding Indian marriage customs, and my cousin Sayantoni (Shy) Palchoudhuri, for information about Bengali saris, and for the wonderful phrase
Thanda lege jabey.
Many thanks to my parents, siblings, and to Randy, Daniela, and as always, my husband, Joseph. I’m indebted to my supportive colleagues at Milliman, Inc., and to my wonderful readers. Thanks for your letters!
Thank you to Natasha Jaksich, excellent editor, journalist, and friend, and Anju Naidu, owner of Maharanees Sari Shop in Kent, Washington, for letting me interview her about what it’s like to run a sari shop, and for the lovely sari catalog.
For additional information, I consulted
The Sari: Styles-Patterns-History-Techniques
by Linda Lynton (Harry N. Abrams, Inc., New York, 1995) and
The Sari
by Mukulika Banerjee and Daniel Miller (Berg Publishers, New York, 2003).