Tulip Season (14 page)

“Yes, especially since I loved Nalin so much. We were a mismatch, but every time I looked at him, I melted inside. How can you not fall for someone so well-mannered, so cultured, so gentle, and handsome to boot? But he gave most of his heart to his first wife.”

“Why did you keep his first marriage a secret from me?”

“I feared you wouldn't respect him, or his memory. You see, he'd been married to none other than Dimple Sinha, the dragon lady of Bollywood films. She'd spread the rumor that he'd punched her on the face and she'd thrown him out because of that. All lies. I can't believe I'm telling you this after all these years.” She paused. “Have you heard of Dimple Sinha?”

Mitra couldn't answer for a moment, as she wrestled with slipping out of the memory of her favorite aunt. “No. Who's she?”

“She was an actress before your time,” Mother said. “She couldn't act, sing, or dance, yet was always featured in
Film Dunya
for the gossip around her. She married and divorced at the drop of a handkerchief, had affairs galore, always treated the press reporters shabbily. God bless Nalin's soul, but how did he get mixed up with that shrew? It's beyond belief. She ruined his life and mine, too.”

Mother spilled out the rest of the tale. After the actress had divorced Mitra's father, she'd married three more times. Finally, she bowed out of films. She had her hands full with the offspring of her failed marriages—one girl and four boys. The children took her maiden name, Sinha.

“I got all this from movie magazines,” Mother said. “Your father wouldn't tell me much. He held it all inside. Part of the reason he neglected us was he could never let go of his memory of his first love. That bitch. She's my
shatru
.” Enemy.

Mitra kept quiet so Mother would say more.

“You came into this world a sweet innocent child, content with what little came your way. We ruined your perfection. Your big eyes searched for love. You didn't get it. Your father couldn't afford toys, clothes, or vacation. Feeling like a failure, he turned to gambling and spent his time and money on betting on horses. He failed in that, too. Yes, my dear, your father cheated you out of a happy childhood. If you ask me, it doesn't take only ability to raise a child, it takes sacrifice, and he just wouldn't make the necessary sacrifices. And, I didn't do much better.”

“Ma, you tried.”

“You never demanded much from me. You went your own way. After your father died, I was no better than a walking skeleton. I had no life in me, no appetite for food or living. I was of no use to myself. But I stayed alive for you.”

Listening to the melody seeping through her walls from a neighbor's house, Mitra accepted what she believed was an apology from Mother. She rose from the sofa. Aunt Saroja's death had uncovered a truth: why Mother had neglected her so much. She was scarred in her marriage, scarred again as a widow. Mitra reminded her too much of a difficult past.

“No apology is necessary,” Mitra said. “I love you and appreciate having you as my mother.”

“Saroja loved you very much. She also said, ‘Celebrate the people in your life who are still alive.’ A wise woman. She'd have wanted us to enjoy this day.”

They said goodbye. Putting the phone back, Mitra felt as though she'd traveled through a turbulent weather zone and been ravaged by it. Her aunt's death coupled with Mother's grief about the past weighed on her. Worse yet, Kareena now appeared in their family album, Mitra's chief ally, half-sister, and the daughter of Mother's worst
shatru.

TWENTY-TWO

WITH AUNT SAROJA'S DEATH,
bereavement had settled into Mitra's chest. The next morning, she turned the soil in a corner of her south yard, removed weeds, rocks, and twigs, and planted an already blooming lavender bush. This sweet smelling plant, with its silvery gray leaves and purple blossoms, would be just the right memorial for Aunt Saroja. Mitra took time to mulch the bush. Branches of a neighbor's apple tree formed an irregular lattice above her head. In the months to come, the plant would grow full, dense, and tall. Aunt Saroja would have swooned over its whirl of color.

A few drops of rain fell. Mitra went back inside and booted up her computer, then sat staring at her screen. The Auto Reminder feature flashed the image of a huge green thumb and a warning that her gardening column was due tomorrow. She checked her year-at a-glance calendar on the wall. Although it wasn't quite May yet, she was reminded of a most ceremonious event—Mother's Day. Not a topic she embraced, now that she feared Mother's reaction about Kareena.

Her gaze wandered to the window. She craned her neck to peer at the newly planted lavender and flashed on Aunt Saroja's face. Next her eyes traveled to a delphinium patch that hugged the side of the house. And now Glow glided through her mind. Grandmother appreciated it when Mitra opened the car door for her or poured her tangerine juice, but she smiled the brightest when Mitra walked in with a spray of flowers on her arms.

The delphiniums, already blooming, oscillated in the wind, raising a question for Mitra: shouldn't there be a day to celebrate grandmothers?

This must be the right topic, for suddenly she could type again.

My Grandmother's Garden

“The flower is an example of the eternal seductiveness of life.”

Jean Giradoux

Mitra kept herself occupied for the next few hours, each tap on the keyboard a sweet affirmation of her regard for both Aunt Saroja and Grandmother. Once finished, she squinted out the window. The patter of rain had abated. The sun had cracked the sky open.

The last time she'd watered her plants, Ulrich was there with her. She hadn't seen him in the last two days. It was quite unusual for him not to call or come by. Mitra felt that familiar ache for him. She grabbed the cellphone and left him a message.

Less than a minute later, a call came in from Detective Yoshihama. He must be responding to a message she'd left earlier asking how the investigation was proceeding.

“We're working as many avenues as we can,” Yoshihama said, “checking phone transcripts and the contacts and the like.”

“And the ransom note?”

“Did Mr. Guha tell you he's received a second ransom letter? He's negotiating with them.”

“Couldn't you override Adi's opposition, given that it's a matter of life-or-death for Kareena? Do they have a release strategy worked out for her?”

“Release strategy? I don't believe so.” Silence for a moment. “Actually, I called you about another matter. It's a bit personal and I hope you don't mind my asking. Do you have a boyfriend?”

Mitra startled. Did the detective want to ask her out? He cheered up when he spoke with her. Then again, she couldn't be sure. He was rather formal and still called her Ms. Basu. “I'm seeing someone, although we're not serious.”

“I'm concerned about you.” He paused. Mitra held her breath. The pause seemed too long. “Do you know Ulrich Schultheiss?” he asked. “Are you seeing him?”

The mention of the name hit Mitra like a closed door in the dark. “Yes, why?”

“This is only for your safety. And please keep this information to yourself. Recently, Ulrich Schultheiss was picked up on charges of assaulting a colleague, released from jail after 72 hours. You might want to consider staying away from him.”

Mitra's pulse raced. “Might it be a case of mistaken identity? I can't imagine him being involved in a crime. And how did you know we were connected?”

“An officer found your card in his wallet.”

“I gave it to him when we first met. He's not in any trouble, is he?”

“No. I'd still watch my back, Ms. Basu, if I were you.”

For several moments after disconnecting the call, Mitra couldn't shake the icy grip at her throat.

TWENTY-THREE

ON THURSDAY
, Mitra removed the
Seattle Chronicle
from its plastic casing. The day's paper should contain her column “Come Smell the Daisies.” She opened the newspaper to Page D3, looking past the results of the U.S. Lawn Mower Association's race toward the top right. There, under her byline, was her tribute to all grandmothers. Glow didn't wake up till nine, so Mitra folded the daily away and planned to make a call later. It was childish to seek approval of your elders, but Mitra couldn't help it. Especially now. Her own investigations with Kareena had stalled due to the lack of any new leads. And Ulrich—she hadn't seen him in the last few days. The reason for his absence, as revealed by Detective Yoshiihama, scoured her internally.

The phone sang. She ran for it. It was Robert on the line.

“I've already got some enthusiastic e-mail responses to your column. I'll forward them so you could add them to your fan-mail collection.” Then he said that he was cleaning out his “cube.” He wanted to get rid of review copies of gardening books littering his office floor. “Want to come over and have a look?”

How could Mitra let this opportunity slip through her fingers? Robert's office also happened to be on the way to a client's home in West Seattle. “That's the best offer I've had in a week,” she said. “I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

On the way to the newspaper office, Mitra took side streets due to a traffic jam on Interstate 5, and that afforded her time to ruminate about her side career as a columnist.

For the better part of a year, it had frustrated Mitra that the
Seattle Chronicle,
the town's daily with the second-highest circulation, should have such a mediocre gardening page. “The Garden Path” was cold, impersonal, and dull, filled with articles on arcane subjects such as bee keeping and bonsai pruning, nothing that typical subscribers—sixty-hour-a-week urban dwellers—could apply in their modest plots.

“Why don't you do something about it?” Kareena suggested one day, no doubt fed up with Mitra's constant griping. She'd heard from someone that
Chronicle
was looking for a gardening columnist. “You should apply.”

And so, six months ago, Mitra had made an appointment with Robert Anderson-Haas,
Chronicle's
Gardening Editor. Getting a face-to-face interview with an editor was no easy task and she took it as a good omen. Dressed in a lightweight wool gabardine suit, and carrying a leather-frame purse, the sort of outfit she imagined columnists wore, she made her way through the newspaper office. She reached a dead-end cubicle which faced tall steel shelves, expecting to meet someone who, if not young, at least was genial. Gardeners, Mitra believed, were a happy gregarious bunch; they loved to compare notes.

Robert hauled himself from his chair, nary a single muscle twitch disturbing his bland facade. He seemed as huge and imposing as Queen Anne Hill, located not too far away. The banks of harsh fluorescent light accentuated his sallow skin and the white specks of dandruff on his scalp. His desk held not a speck of green, nothing alive. Only a color photo of a pit bull was affixed on the cubicle's otherwise-virgin wall. Mitra thrust a firm hand forward, smiling and projecting enthusiasm.

He addressed Mitra coolly and looked sufficiently peeved, as though she'd spilled coffee on his desk and spoiled his morning. Even though Mitra hadn't knocked anything over or done much of anything except display a too-cheerful smile, he didn't appear to be in a mood to entertain her proposal. She pulled up a chair, took out a folder containing three sample columns and photos of gardens she'd designed, and handed it to Robert. He flipped through the pages with fleshy fingers, a man who seemed depressed, not much interested in anything.

Piped-in music bristled. Mitra kept her feet from jiggling by conjuring up a shining future in which she'd churn out a column every other week. So it crushed her when Robert set the folder down on the desk and looked up with a frown, as though her essays and the photographs were giving him indigestion.

“Do you have any questions about my qualifications?” Mitra asked.

He shook his head, a tiny shake that didn't reveal what he might be thinking.

“What's your garden like?” Mitra asked, expecting him to open up.

He mentioned living in an apartment with no gardening facilities. He had resorted to renting a P-Patch in a community garden. “I'm coasting this year.”

“I know what you mean,” Mitra replied. “I give my beds a rest every so often, too.”

“I'm just being lazy. My ‘complicata’ rose needs to be controlled. It's gotten up to eight feet. Arugula and parsley are all over the patch—they're worse than weeds.” He heaved himself up from his chair, glancing toward the entranceway. “Come see me Monday, ten o'clock.”

On Monday at the appointed hour, after some preliminary throat-clearing, Robert announced he'd try her on an “experimental basis” for a few months, the same dark shadow clouding his face. See how “they” responded to her column. “We're sensitive to our subscribers, you know,” he added, as though she'd implied he had been ignoring them.

“Thank you, Robert.” Mentally, she thrust her fist toward the ceiling in a gesture of victory. She would have given Robert a hug, but that probably would have offended him. “I'm sure we'll work together well.”

And she meant that. True to her old country roots, she always tried to turn every acquaintance into a friend or relative. Robert proceeded to go over the rules for freelancers—the word count, the salary, and to whom she should e-mail the invoice. He emphasized how strict the deadlines were. Without explaining the reason, he suggested she took a pseudonym.

Thus Mitra began her career as a columnist for a major metropolitan daily under the assumed name of Ms. Em Bloom.

That was five months ago. Every other Thursday, her column appeared on the garden page of the Arts & Living Section. The assignment had turned out harder than she expected, much like digging into the area's glaciated soil and having to cart away wheel-barrows
of stones and boulders. She had to rack her brain to squeeze the material into the paltry few inches allocated to her. The pay was crummy. Robert had reacted to her piece on wild flowers with the phrase “soporifically mundane.” He'd deemed the column before that, a cheery essay on the delights of browsing through seed catalogs on a gloomy winter evening, as bordering on “fantasy.”