Invisible Lives (4 page)

The smoking meteor sank into my brain, and I glimpsed, in fleeting images, Leslie’s spindly Christmas tree at home, her parents fighting. She didn’t get any dolls for Christmas, not even a book. She got hand-me-down clothes, and her heart ached for Miss America.

Why couldn’t I see it in her face?

“Come down here, Leslie!” I called, and everyone turned to look.

Leslie climbed down the monkey bars, her eyes devouring Miss America.

I handed her the doll. “You can have her. She’s yours.”

Her eyes widened as she looked at the doll, then at me.

“I don’t need your stupid doll,” she said and threw it. Miss America splashed into a puddle. Her tiny, tailored dress was ruined, soggy and sagging.

Leslie retrieved her longing and marched away. I sat up, and the kids gathered around, whispering and mumbling. A sour taste came into my mouth. I’d thought it would be easy to give Leslie what she wanted. Why had she thrown the doll and walked away? I could still feel her need.

I rescued the doll from the puddle.

Leslie avoided me after that. I was too young to understand the power of pride—and fear—that can make us turn away from what we want the most.

Soon after that, my father died while on a research trip to India. I don’t remember grief. I remember flying to India for the memorial. I remember piles of steamed rice and dahl, concerned relatives pinching my cheeks and stuffing me with food. I remember my mother’s tears.

Gradually, life returned to normal. I learned to wait in the shadows, to watch and learn before acting. And over the years, I learned that I could help in Ma’s shop, bringing happiness to strangers by selecting the perfect sari for each of them. That way, I could disguise my intentions, and nobody would walk away in a huff, embarrassed by their own hidden longings.

My beauty blossomed gradually, creeping in and taking up residence in my body so insidiously that I barely noticed it. Like a retreating glacier, my childhood melted to reveal hidden abundance. My breasts grew to perfect proportions, my waist shrank, my legs extended into goddess legs, and my hair came in thick and lush, long and shiny. Other girls avoided me, and the boys stared. Once a bicyclist crashed into a telephone pole, knocked out two teeth and broke his nose, because he was paying more attention to me than the road ahead of him.

Sick with grief and guilt, I shaved my head, donned combat boots, and started wearing huge sunglasses and ripped jean jackets. Ma thought it was a teenage phase, but she didn’t understand. A divine spotlight shone on me wherever I went.

Only now can I modulate my appearance, downplay it when I need to, let my hair down at opportune moments.

Now, in our modest saltbox house on the hill, only the soft, amorphous thoughts of squirrels and cats settle into my brain. I stop before going inside and survey the beveled windows, the stained glass catching the waning autumn sunlight. A plethora of salvaged shrubs and trees find refuge in our yard. I’ve taken such care with this garden, but when I marry, I shall have to leave, as all women do. I’ve been preparing for this, and yet my heart pounds a frantic beat.

Take deep breaths, Lakshmi. You’re jumping to conclusions. You’ve not even met the man. All the answers will come.

I pick up the mail and go inside, relax at the familiar smell of this morning’s tea, the wood scent of our home. Shiva greets me at the door, as usual, rubbing against my legs, purring. I scoop him up and bury my face in his gray striped fur. He settles into my arms and extends a front paw. Puffs of happiness emanate from him, and a vague relief. Every time we leave, he half believes we’ll never come home.

“Where’s Parvati, huh? Where’s she hiding this time?” Parvati is my other Maine coon cat. Shiva and Parvati, the eternal lovers in Hindu mythology.

I scratch Shiva’s ears, and he purrs louder. I don’t see Parvati’s whereabouts in his small, but complex mind. I never believed that smaller meant simpler. I’ve known since childhood that the tiniest field mouse survives with great skill and wit.

I let Shiva down, and he bats a ball of fluff, then follows me through the house, his purring engine at my feet.

I plunk the pile of mail on the dining table next to the newspaper, which sits in a mess beside my half-empty coffee cup, the soy milk congealed on top. Shiva jumps up on the newspaper, his favorite spot when I’m trying to read. He stares at me expectantly, images of grass and dewdrops filling his mind. Greenery, a symphony of tiny sounds unknown to humans, a rush of freedom and clean air and smells.

I keep calling Parvati in a gentle voice, and a faint commotion comes from the cabinet above the refrigerator. She steps out, blinking in the light like a queen roused from a royal nap.

“What are you doing up there, you silly thing?” I grab her and carry her to the floor before she finds her own dangerous way down.

While the cats eat, I check our voice mail. A message from Ma’s sister, inquiring about Ravi, and another crackling, long-distance message from Ma’s mother, Nona, in India. So word is already out! A message from Samantha, from the homeless shelter, reminding me to bring in our clothing donations, and a message from my friend Mitra. “Remember you’re having lunch with Nisha and me tomorrow. We’ll pick you up at noon.” Nisha and Mitra are my two best Indian friends from our undergraduate years at the University of Washington. We joined the Indian Students Union, met for lunch on Thursdays, and we’ve kept up the tradition ever since.

I smile and erase the message. I can’t wait to tell them about my day, about Asha Rao and my prospects with Ravi Ganguli.

I go to my room, full of books and pictures of the goddess, and fire up my computer. My fingers tremble as I check my email. Many from cousins and friends, and spammers. And there it is, a message from Ravi Ganguli with a photograph attached.

He remembers Ma and Baba! I want to reach into the computer and touch Ravi Ganguli, ask him what he remembers of my father. I glance at the bedside table, where I keep an old black-and-white shot of Baba holding me on his lap, reading to me from a children’s illustrated hardcover of
The Ramayana
. He looks so young and handsome, his hair slicked back, not a mark of age on his smooth, narrow face. My memories of him have begun to fade, and Ma’s thoughts of him turn to angst-ridden shadows. But here is a man who remembers my father with affection.

Ma, you devil! Two weeks ago? She must’ve sent the picture of me in the half-transparent kurta, my hair flying. That shot wasn’t meant to leave this house. I’m blushing at the computer screen.

Most men do, when I’m not in my daytime disguise.

His words send a thrill through me, and when I download his picture, I can’t stop staring at the slender, cultured man in the image. He’s wearing a cream-colored kurta and khaki pants. The kurta is embroidered with an intricate gold pattern. What American man would wear such an exotic shirt? He leans against a railing, a backdrop of snowcapped peaks behind him. All residual baby fat has burned away, leaving a regal, Maharaja-like face, a hint of a beard shadowing his jaw. His eyes twinkle, and he’s about to laugh. I’m instantly jealous of the person taking the picture, the person who knows what that laughter is all about.

I hit the reply button and type.

Scratch that. A woman can’t be quite so forward in India.

I give him our address, hit the send button, and sign off in time to hear the kitchen door squeak open. Ma comes straight to my room and hovers over me.

“So, Bibu, has he written? You’ve made a plan to see him?”

“Yes, he wrote a nice letter.”

“Brilliant!” Ma flops on my bed and stares at the ceiling, her eyes bright. “I’ve hoped and waited for this day, and how I wish your Baba could see you now, see what a wonderful daughter you are.”

“Thank you, Ma, and you’re a wonderful mother.” I hug her and glance at the bright South Indian painting of the goddess Lakshmi above the bureau. In the swirls of colorful clouds around her, I see hope.

As I cook aloo gobi, chapatis, and dahl for supper, I wonder about Ravi. Is he a true gentleman? He’ll love my cooking, love my ma, love Shiva and Parvati, love me. We’ll have five boy babies, and all will be well. This is every Indian woman’s dream, is it not? I close my eyes and imagine him coming up behind me, kissing my neck.

Ma stretches supper over two hours, as usual. Long after I’ve finished eating, I quietly read at the table while she works her way through the potato and cauliflower in the aloo gobi. Since Baba died, she expands the smallest details of life to fill extra time. When she’s not working, she’s eating or cleaning or poring over sari catalogs.

Usually I stay up with her, and sometimes I play the piano. I lose myself—and the
knowing
—in the symmetry of a Bach invention or a Chopin waltz. But tonight, I excuse myself and go to my room, take my journal from the bookshelf, and pull my father’s fragile letter from between the pages. I imagine him wearing his woolen suit in the Himalayan foothills, his breath condensing into steam in the cold mountain air. He was probably whistling on the train. He always whistled. He was thinking of me. It was as if he knew what would happen.

Always take care of your ma.

I am, Baba, as best I can.

These last words from my father, found intact in the wreckage of the train, with the address already on the letter, reached us in America by some miracle of mail. Perhaps my father knows whether Ravi is the man for me, whether Ma’s shop will become world famous.

I wish my father would visit my dreams, but when I fall into slumber, he remains elusive, hiding in the cosmos, out of sight.

T
he next morning, the store spins in a tizzy, as if the fabrics know they’re going to be shaped into beautiful wedding costumes and they’re all aglow, whispering among themselves. The walls blush with new excitement.

“This is the one,” Mr. Basu says, doing the sideways head nod as he stocks shelves. His two hairs stand at attention on his shiny head. “This project will take us over the top. We’ll be full of business. We’ll be on the television, and then your ma will be famous. Asha Rao. The actress! I can hardly believe it!”

“Oh, Sanjay, stop babbling and work!” Ma rushes around straightening piles of saris, nearly knocking over customers.

I stock new arrivals, open bills, check inventory, phone messages.

“Did you see how beautiful she was?” Pooja says, cleaning coffee cups. She also brought pastries from Cedarlake Café. “But she’s not as beautiful as Lakshmi.”

Ma narrows her gaze at me. “You must not take off the glasses when Asha Rao is here—”

“You know I won’t, Ma.” I wink at her and she winks back. We’re not mentioning Ravi Ganguli to anyone in the store just yet.

As I brush past a customer, an intense sadness hits me, the world drooping and melting, as if it’s a massive ice cream cone left in the sun. The customer is a woman wrapped in a conservative dark green sari, the pallu over her head. An older woman marches after her—clearly her mother. “Sita! On the left. The saris on the left.” Her mother points, and Sita turns left.

I rush up to her and take her hand, and I nearly burst into tears. Such sadness! Her skin is smooth, a gold-tinted brown. She’s wearing no makeup, and her face is round and childish, although she must be in her twenties. Her nose is a button holding her features together.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“Sita’s getting married,” her mother says, barging forward. “We need a wedding sari.”

I’m still holding Sita’s cool hand.

“Congratulations.” I push the glasses up on my nose. Sita gives me a distant, underwater smile.

“Hurry up, Sita. We haven’t got all day.” Her mother barks her way through the store, pointing out this fabric, that fabric, this style, that style, and each time, Sita simply nods and complies.
She’s miserable, can’t you see?
I want to scream at her mother.

“We’re all very proud of Sita,” her mother’s telling me. “She now has her degree, and we have found her a good man. I am ready for grandchildren.”

“You’re getting married here and not in India?” I say politely.

“Her grandmother is here, very ill, can’t travel,” the mother says. “The groom, however, is coming from India, and Sita will return with him. He’s very rich, nah?” The mother smiles, and Sita looks at her sandals. If the carpet could reach up to pull her down, she would go gladly.

“I have to measure Sita,” I say quickly, waving my trusty tape measure.

“Measure for a sari?” her mother says.

“Just in case she needs a custom-made blouse. We call in a very good seamstress—”

“Hurry up then. We haven’t got all day,” the mother says, and I’m ushering Sita into the dressing room.

“Did you agree to this match?” I whisper to her. “Are you in love?”

“Love is marriage,” she says softly. “If a man is unwilling to marry you, it is not love.”

“So you do love him?” I can’t see far down into the murky water of her soul. Would I recognize true love if I saw it?

“My parents have chosen the right match for me.”

Strict obedience is rare among the younger set these days, especially in America. “The world is changing, Sita. Maybe your parents would let you speak your mind. If you’re not sure—”

“Why wouldn’t I be? And it’s not for me to say.” She lifts her arms and dutifully lets me measure her.

“What about this fiancé? How did you meet him?”

Someone pounds on the dressing room door.

“Just a moment—we’re almost finished,” I shout. We haven’t got much time.

“At his parents’ house in Mumbai,” Sita says. I see a dark, damp flat—the power has been cut, the monsoon dampness creeps into every corner. In the narrow streets, people have abandoned their cars. Empty Ambassadors float along filthy rivers that once were roads. Sita’s family has taken hours to get here, and her fiancé, a handsome man with unusually wide shoulders and silver hair, comes out and takes her hand. Two sets of parents are there, and a hollowness moves through her.

“What will happen when you return to India?” I ask.

“Kishor and I will live with his family,” she says. “His mother wants a grandson. She has three children and no grandchildren yet.”

“And you’re going to give her one.”

“Or two.” Her mind has gone dark, as if her mother has intruded and snuffed out a candle. I’m still holding Sita’s arm when her mother barges in.

“Let’s go,” she says. “Come, Sita—what’s all this talking?”

“I’ll be just another moment,” I say. “If you could wait outside, please.”

Her mother steps outside with a huff.

I try to imagine the fabric that could calm Sita, a sari that could carry her across the threshold into a better future. “It won’t be so bad,” I say. “Everyone gets scared of marriage, but I’m sure you’ll be happy.”

Her smile wavers like a mirage. “Thank you.”

“Your fiancé looks very—I mean, he must be a good man,” I say. “And you miss India, no?”

She nods, and I see the right sari for her. Slippery chiffon orange. I don’t know why it will work, but I sense the warmth that it will bring her.

“If you ever need to talk to someone. Day or night. Call me,” I say. “My home number’s also in the telephone book.”

Sita gets up, an automaton stepping out to greet her mother, and I find my fingers trembling.

I hand the orange chiffon sari to her mother. “It’s not a wedding sari, Mrs.—”

“Dutta. What’s this orange?”

“Important for building her trousseau. I also have a wedding sari.” I show her a shimmering ruby-red sari that changes hue when viewed from different angles.

“Ah, lovely!” Mrs. Dutta and Sita gasp in unison.

Mrs. Dutta pays, grabs both saris, and strides out, her daughter close behind.

I go back into the office to catch my breath. Frightened brides have blown into the shop before, carried on the northwest winds. Tastes of the exotic, memories of India, images of gold and jewels and love and kisses. Pulsing hearts, roses bursting with fragrance. Hope and children and white picket fences, enormous wedding parties and priests adorned with garlands—all of these images have passed through, travelers on their way to future lives. I’ve held the hands of brides, guided them through the fear and into bliss.

But have I done my best to help Sita? Will the orange sari work?

“Bibu, what are you doing hiding back here, nah?” Ma bursts in, her face flushed, eyes shining. “Hurry up and come out—Asha is here with her driver!”