The Faces of Strangers (30 page)

His entire family. All together. On one beach.

Karom listened to the message once again before he wrote the number down shakily. Then he opened the covers on his tightly made bed and got in. It was three days before he got out again. On the third day, he reached for his cell phone and dialed Kishan's number.

“Uncle? It's Karom.”

“Thank God, child. You're okay. Where have you been?”

“College. My flight was canceled. Any news?”

“It's not looking good. They're reporting that phone and power lines have been restored at this point, as well as cell networks. If we—if we haven't heard from them by now...”

“Look, you never know. What can I do? Should I come?”

“There's nothing anyone can do at this point.” Karom heard Kishan slowly breaking down. A tear traveled down the bridge of Karom's nose and plopped onto the worn wooden floorboard. The room was freezing—the heat had been turned off for the break, though Karom didn't notice it at all. “And your parents were there,” Kishan wailed.

“They
are
there,” Karom said, wiping his face on the back of his hand. “Listen, I've got to go. Call me if you hear anything. On my cell. My mobile.”

Karom sat up in bed, staring at the wall as if in a trance. Suddenly, he broke off and opened his roommate's closet. In here Lloyd kept a small pantry alongside his perfectly pressed cardigans and corduroy jackets. Karom wasn't sure why Lloyd hid the snacks, as Karom had never deigned to take anything of Lloyd's without asking—until now. There were saltines, granola bars, a large package of chocolate-covered mints and a fresh jar of peanut butter. Karom twisted the top off the peanut butter and pulled a gob of it onto his finger. He closed his lips over it, the sweetness making his mouth water and jerking tears to his eyes. He blinked the tears back and stuck his finger in again and again. His mouth was sticky and he ran his tongue over his teeth. What was that word? The word that when he heard it pulled gently on his stomach, in his throat, at the tips of his fingernails, making him think that it would never be him. It couldn't be him.

It would be six hours before Karom logged on to his computer, searching for answers, looking up death tolls on the Indian Red Cross website, manning live streams for four different news sites at once, cross-referencing emails and then seeing his parents' names in ghostly letters upon a list of those found fatally wounded or dead. And then his grandparents. All four of them. And then a whole column, a page of his surname over and over:

Rana Seth.

Mohan Seth.

Akansha Seth.

Preeti Seth.

Madhu Seth.

Shankar Seth.

Seth.

Seth.

Seth.

Seth.

It was another two hours before he remembered the word:
orphan.
Thereafter, until Lloyd and the other students returned to campus, everything was broken up into increments of time: sixteen hours before Kishan called to confirm that everyone at the reunion was reported officially missing. Dead. Twenty-two hours before Karom dry-heaved repeatedly from hunger. Thirty-six hours before his contact lenses automatically peeled themselves away from his pupils—raw from the dry, airless room—and curled up on the desk where he sat staring at his laptop, his only beacon and companion, which rang in the New Year in front of him. Ninety-six hours before he methodically and carefully deleted all the emails from friends inquiring if his family was okay and saying that they were praying for them and was there anything anyone could do and please don't hesitate to ask. Three months before a courier rapped on his door with a delivery from Kishan wrapped in brown paper and padded with cotton wads.

A gold Rolex with a black alligator band sat nestled within the padding. The face was weathered and scratched just to the right of the crown and there were a few bits of sand wedged between the glass face and the golden hinges. A small note accompanied it.

Karom—

This was among the belongings in the safe in Naana and Naani's room. There wasn't much else—their passports and some bundles of rupees. Your parents' room held their passports and some money, as well. The passports and money are being held for administrative and tracking purposes. I'll make sure to have them sent to you as soon as possible. I wanted you to have something of meaning, and as you know, this was the watch that your naani gave your naana on their wedding night. I hope it serves as something—a memory, a wish, a light.

All my best,

Kishan Uncle

Together we learn there's nothing like time.
Karom was sure that it was the first of Naani's many gestures to her new husband that everything would be okay, that even if nothing made sense in their early days as strangers to one another, the years would prove themselves stronger than unfamiliarity, that they would take this journey together, learning about one another and stumbling and catching one another and learning every step of the way. Naani was always the reassuring one; her husband would flurry about worrying if the plane would lose their luggage, or whether they would run out of vegetarian meals, or if they hadn't packed enough warm clothing for the beach.

Karom had put the watch on immediately, and unless he was bathing or sleeping or going through the security line at the airport, he never took it off. He would wear it as a constant reminder of all that he had lost, his whole family all at once, wham bam, in an instant, like the second hand that ticked on his wrist.

* * *

On the morning of their departure from Delhi, Ammama tiptoes into the sitting room, where Karom is holding his watch between his fingers, studying its slightly scarred face. Ammama stops and smiles shyly, looking down at the tray as if to show Karom what she has brought him. He motions to her to sit down next to him.

“Come,” he whispers. She sits awkwardly on the bed next to him, pulling her tiny feet underneath her and adjusting her sari. The tray of bananas and cold coffee sits between them, but on this morning, there is also a thick book. Karom peels a banana and hands it to her. She shakes her head shyly. Karom urges, “Please.” She nibbles at the tiny fruit and Karom peels another for himself.
So much sweeter than the huge bland ones we get back home,
Karom thinks.

“What do you say to me?” he asks. “Are you praying?” Ammama colors and looks down at the floor.

“I thought you were asleep,” she says.

“I'm an early riser,” Karom says. “Please tell me.”

“It's nothing, really. Just an old lady's superstitions.”

“Please.” He takes her banana peel and places it with his alongside the book on the tray. He turns to face her. Ammama looks at him and purses her mouth.

“You mustn't be cross with Gita for telling me. She tells me that you like to tempt fate. That you call it your game. Is that right?” Karom looks down, embarrassed. “Fate isn't an easy thing to play with. Once it decides to shift in one direction, the gusts keep on blowing, and it's out of your hands. You have to take care of one another, don't you?” He nods. “But I know there is something over you. An omen.”

“An omen?”

Ammama nods solemnly.

“What kind of omen? Because I've been pretty lucky.” He tells her about Acadia and the tidal wave that he and Gita narrowly missed. He tells her about 9/11, how he'd feigned illness on the morning that his class was to visit a news studio in Tower 1 because he hadn't finished a paper on
Howards End,
how instead he'd stayed home watching the news, stricken, while the first tower came crumbling down like a stale cracker.

“Do you think so? Then what is this game nonsense?”

It's Karom's turn to color. “It's just my way of feeling alive. I can't— I don't have an explanation. It's how I've conditioned myself, I suppose. To understand why I'm still...why I don't...why I can't...what's keeping me from...” He trails off and looks down at his hands sitting uselessly in his lap. “But what do you see? How can you tell?”

“I suppose the same way, I can't explain the feeling I had about you from the moment you walked through the door. But I knew it was there the moment I heard you whimpering and tossing about at night.”

“I'm still doing that, huh?” Karom bites his lip. “Is this something that will hurt me? Omens don't have to be bad, you know. Are you praying to get rid of the omen?”

“I suppose I am. I am praying for you to win the game. I want you to win. Just like Gita, I want the game to end.”

Karom looks down sheepishly.

She reaches for the tray and picks up the book, weighing it carefully between her two hands.

“This is mine. I want you to have it.” Karom looks at the cover, his eyes wide with surprise.

“You—you wrote this?”

“It's being released this Friday. Read it, and let me know what you think. I suppose it's my form of sealing fate away in a place it can't hurt me.”

Karom's eyebrows knit together.

Ammama smiles. “You'll see. I have only two copies, and I will give the other one to Gita before you leave.”

“Thank you,” he whispers. “I didn't even know you were a writer. Gita didn't mention...” He looks at the book again before slipping it into his backpack. “I'm honored.”

Gita appears now around the corner of the living room, wearing rumpled boxer shorts and a tank top. Even in the cloistered morning air, her nipples stand at attention and Karom looks down, embarrassed. She is wearing the neckpiece Ammama has given her and she pulls her hair out from where it is tucked under her camisole strap and braids it to the side.

“What are you guys doing?” She yawns, leaning against the doorway.

“You didn't sleep with that on, did you?” Karom asks.

“Of course not. I just felt like wearing it now,” Gita says, twirling one of the fat golden ropes around her finger.

“It's rather special to be wearing around the house,” Karom says. “Put it away. It's delicate.”

“I'll get breakfast started. You'll have to leave for the airport shortly after your baths,” Ammama says, getting up.

“How much do you think this is worth?” Gita asks when Karom is alone with her in the living room.

“I have no idea. But aside from the price of the stones and the gold itself, I'm sure the antique design and the craftsmanship are worth a lot.”

“I was thinking about selling it,” Gita whispers, her eyes shining in the morning light. “It's gotta be worth hundreds, maybe even a thousand. And then we can go to Argentina over Christmas.”

“Are you insane?” Karom nearly shouts. His anger seems to reflect off the walls of the small apartment. He feels his temple pulsing, though in the rest of his body, it feels as if his blood has actually run cold and stopped midcourse in his veins. “Gita, that's your grandmother's wedding necklace. She would never have gifted it to you if she knew you were going to sell it. It has to remain in the family.”

“Well, too bad you're not in mine. 'Cause then you could save it.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means.” Gita sticks her chin out in a manner that would normally have made Karom tackle her onto the bed and initiate hours of intimacy, had they been in his bedroom back in New York, but now it just provokes him. “Besides, Karom, we can't all hold on to the past like a narcotic. There are things that link us to our dark memories and don't let us move on. This necklace is a prime example. It's tainted.”

“Tainted,” Karom repeats.

Gita grits her teeth as she leans in, whispering toward him. “Yes, tainted. It's my grandmother's wedding jewelry. The groom fled this ship thirty years ago and treated her like dirt while he
was
here. Yes, let's hold on to this blissful symbol of their awful marriage forever.”

Ammama sticks her head in the doorway. “Would you like Indian breakfast today or something light, like toast? Either is perfectly convenient.”

“Toast,” Karom says, just as Gita says,
“Dosas.”

“One of each,” Ammama says, turning back toward the kitchen.

“I don't want to talk about this anymore,” Gita says. “I have to finish packing.” She takes the necklace off and returns to the room she has been sharing with her grandmother. Karom has already finished packing. He is a meticulous planner and has learned to pack from a flight-attendant friend who showed him how to roll T-shirts and tuck underwear into his shoes. His toiletries are stowed in the plastic compartment at the top of his bag, the tube of toothpaste curled up evenly like a scorpion's tail, ensuring that every inch of space is being utilized. His socks are balled into spheres, and his belts snaked around the perimeter, encasing all his clothes in a tight bundle. The hard shell of his maroon suitcase is streaked with dust, the way it always happens only in India. Dust gets in everywhere, no matter that Karom unzips his bag for only a few hurried minutes each day: in the morning before his bath and in the evening before bed. Dust is caked between the grooved wheels, and he wipes the plastic with a wet towel, where it spreads and nestles into the suitcase's zippered teeth. He can hear Gita's version of packing in the next room: unfolded clothes tossed into her gaping Tumi—unwashed ones stuffed into a plastic Fabindia bag—and her huffs and squats as she clambers on top to zip it. Karom sits down on what has been his bed for the past four nights. He turns his wrist upside down and examines the fine hairs that grow where the white of the underside of his arm meets the tan line that has grown deeper during their vacation. His watch ticks reassuringly away. If they leave within the hour, they will make their flight with no problems.

Karom takes the watch off now, weighing it in the center of his palm. The skin underneath his watch is white and moist and gives off a peppery odor. The spicy scents of coconut and lentils waft down the corridor. He can hear Gita as she pads into the kitchen and muffled conversation as she sets the table. The watchstrap is fraying, but in a charming antique way. He rotates the dial, watching the hands spin freely. He picks up the flat pillow and the three sheets that are folded on his pallet bed, and for an instant, he considers leaving the watch on top of the pile. Instead he slaps it back onto his wrist and pulls it tight through the loopholes before pulling his sleeve to cover the face. Karom fluffs the pillow and places it on top of the pile before picking up his suitcase and rolling it into the hallway.