Tulip Season (26 page)

Mitra touched Preet's shoulder gently. “Count yourself lucky.”

“But—you look so worried. Your mother told me the reason why you're here. Is there any way I can be of help?”

“Yes. I need a favor from you.” Surveying Preet's expectant face, she added, “I'd like to get a reservation in a private restaurant—Monopriya. Apparently, only VIPs can get in there.”

Preet laughed again. “Is that all? I'm pretty sure my husband can take care of that. He has friends in prominent places.”

From behind a pile of chilies, tomatoes, onions, and limes, a vendor pushing a mobile cart called out to them. “Ladies, nobody can make
ghughni
as well as I can.”

“Some other time.” Preet waved him away. She turned to Mitra. “Shall we go to my house and have lunch?”

“Yes, that'd be lovely. I have two other requests.” Mitra mentioned the article the
dhobi
had suggested and asked Preet to locate it for her. “One more thing. This may sound strange to you, but do you have any DVD's of Dimple Sinha?”

“Let me think. I collect old Bollywood films that have been digitally mastered. I might have a copy of the one titled, Betrayal. Lady Sinha isn't in films any more. Why are you interested in her?”

A bicycle rolled by. The air Mitra breathed was stuffed with dust. “It's just for something I'm researching.”

“Oh, those movies are campy. Lady Sinha always plays herself. She shows her boobs, changes into new saris and jewelry at every opportunity, sings naughty songs, does naughty things, and weeps to gain your sympathy.” Preet stood up, her long earrings swaying. “I laugh when she weeps—oh, poor thing.”

Mitra stumbled to her feet. Now she finally saw why Adi's family hadn't approved of Kareena and why they'd ultimately disowned their son when he married.

It was Kareena's mother—her reputation in society.

FORTY-THREE

THEY HOPPED INTO A TAXI
and, within minutes, reached Preet's neighborhood. Under the burnished sun, an orange commuter bus rolled along the road, belching clouds of oily black smoke, blue letters on one side declaring,
Auspicious Journey
. Indians loved to decorate everything, even the public vehicles, with colors, designs, and inscriptions.

“Welcome to my humble
bari,
” Preet said.

Her home was in a guava-tinted, three-story building from the colonial era. She unlocked the door to her first-floor flat, and they entered. The air carried a feeling of order. Mitra kicked the leather slides off her feet and parked them next to a toy truck.

A beautiful boy, about four years of age, rushed to greet them, his complexion a pleasant caramel-and-cream.

“You smell of rosgulla,” Preet said to him. “Have you been snacking?”

He nodded. Mother and son embraced each other. The sweetness between them jarred Mitra. Thus far, she'd chosen career over marriage and family. She couldn't be sure if that had been a right decision.

“Hi, I am Sam. Pleased to …” It seemed Sam, whose full name was Soumyendu, was trying to practice his English, but had forgotten the rest of his speech. To save him embarrassment, Mitra introduced herself.

Sam listened, his dark eyes pooled with curiosity. Tall for his age, he wore baggy shorts that flapped around his slender legs. “Mitra-masi, how long will you stay here? My cousins from Australia spend a month.”

Mitra couldn't help but smile. Deep inside her, she hungered for a child of her own, and this boy had made her desire rise to the surface. Before she could reply, Preet said, “Give Mitra-masi a chance to settle in first, then ask questions. Come this way, Mitra.”

She led Mitra to her living room motioned toward a velvet sofa whose cushions were streaked with stunning mirror embroidery. As Preet turned on the white ceiling fan, the diamond ring on her finger glinted with pinpricks of light. From a gift bag, Mitra brought out a few cosmetics for Preet and a hardcover picture book on tree houses for Sam.

Preet looked delighted and thanked Mitra. Sam took the book with both hands, flipped through the pages, settled on a picture, and beamed. “Can I build a playhouse like this one on our palm tree?”

Mitra glanced at the picture of a wood structure bolted to a tree at a dizzying height. “You'll need a huge redwood for that,” Mitra said. “I doubt you can find that here.”

From the way his lips pursed, she could see that he didn't believe her. The concept of unfeasibility hadn't yet trespassed on his young mind. His gaze darted back and forth from his mother and Mitra to the tree-house book, then to his toy truck by the door, and he walked away.

Preet watched him with a bright gaze. “We're predicting Sam will be a newspaper reporter. He's inquisitive and he listens. He's been telling his playmates his auntie is coming from the States and his baby sister is coming from heaven. Did I tell you we're expecting a daughter this time? Just what I'd wished for. If I'm going to have a legacy, that'll be my little
memshahib
.” Princess. “I'll dress her up and set her on her throne.”

Mitra succumbed to a pang of envy. She felt lighter, lesser. Guilt, too, cast its shadow on her. Here was a friend she cherished, and she couldn't share her happiness as readily as she'd have liked.

Preet interrupted her thoughts. “Did you know that your mother came to see me in the hospital after Sam was born? She held him, sang to him, put a drop of honey on his tongue. We talked and talked. She said since she didn't have a son, which she'd always wanted, she was hoping to at least have a grandson.”

Dreariness settled on Mitra's chest. “She wanted a son? That's news to me. I thought after my father's death, she didn't want the complications of children.”

“Not only that, according to her, those were the times when woman were expected to have a male child. If they didn't have one, they were considered failures.”

Mitra looked away. “Well, I must be a great disappointment to her, then.”

A shadow of apprehension passed over Preet's face. “Hey, cheer up. You still have time.”

Preet crossed to a display cabinet and plucked a DVD from her substantial collection. “Here's Dimple Sinha for you. While you're watching it, I'll go to the store across the street. Be back in a minute. My maid-servant will keep an eye on Sam.”

Mitra dropped her head back against the sofa cushion, her thinking mechanism hardly at rest. The screen before her came alive with images of Kareena's mother. Dimple, the screen siren, played the wife of an auto-industry czar, having an affair with a wild-haired artist. Draped in velvet, with pinked lips and arms decorated with silvery glass bangles, Dimple was an older Kareena: the same walk, smile, hand gestures, and style of dressing.

Dimple and Kareena had the same voice and speech mannerisms, same penchant for luxuries. Was Dimple that selfish in real life? Or was she playing the villainess with gusto and believability, in which case she was merely a fine actress?

Sam sneaked in, scooted onto Mitra's lap. “She looks
lovi
. Yes, she looks greedy.”

Dimple's on-screen husband came home, questioned her about how she occupied herself in the afternoons. She lied, fluttered her eyelashes, hummed a seductive tune, even shed a few tears.

Sam slid off Mitra's lap, saying, “Crocodile's tears,” and promised to return. If only Dimple didn't resemble Kareena so much. Mitra would have laughed at Sam's comment and at the scene before her.

After a few more minutes, Mitra turned off the DVD player and stretched her arms. She'd seen enough of her father's first wife. A low-key man, he'd somehow been attracted to fanfare and flame.

She ambled to the window. A man pulled a wheeled cart glistening with a heap of green herbs. The sight transported her to misty monochromatic Seattle, to her yard and greenhouse. Soon it'd be time to cut back the rhododendron, trellis the flowering pea, and tend to the dahlia bush.

Preet bustled in, her forehead pearled with perspiration. She escorted Mitra to the kitchen, motioned toward a stool, and began
slicing a mango. “What do you think of Lady Sinha?” she asked eagerly.

“She's not a bad actress. What is she supposed to be like in real life?”

“The real Dimple Sinha is reportedly far worse than what she portrays in her films. She's made a habit of what one film critic calls ‘unfinished unions.’ She marries, then dumps the husband before he can catch on to what a heartbreaker she is. It's like she throws her dolls away before they can break on her.”

“Does she have children?”

“If she does, she's always kept them out of the public eye. At least she's done that for them.”

Sam, riding a stuffed giraffe, jumped into the room. He gazed at his mother, then at Mitra, as if trying to assess to whom he should pose his next question. “Where is Seattle? I'd like to ride my giraffe to Seattle.”

“You could fly there in a day's time,” Mitra said. “But it's as different from here as a giraffe is from tiger.”

Sam's dark eyes saddened. He parked the giraffe in the middle of the room and leapt into Mitra's lap. “You're not going back there, are you?”

Mitra leaned her cheek on Sam's cushiony hair. He reminded her, this treasured child, of the distinctness of her two lives, Indian and American, and how difficult it was to draw the halves closer. As with a broken mirror, the parts simply didn't fit; the views were distorted, dizzying.

“I'm having a great time with you here but, eventually, I have to go back.” Mitra seemed to be answering his question, as well as her own. “My work's there. You go where your work is.”

Her reply must have been too burdensome for his tender ears. Or perhaps he heard a familiar sound. He slipped out of her lap and bolted to the front door with a happy shriek, announcing that his father was home.

FORTY-FOUR

A DAY LATER,
Mitra lounged in a woven chair on Preet's verandah. The temperature had climbed to ninety-six degrees. Two hand fans rested on the table. A crow cursed from a rooftop.

“You lucked out,” Preet said, joining her, a peaceful but coy smile playing on her lips. With one hand, she adjusted her blue-print sari. Even in this blistering heat, she stuck with this voluminous garment. “My husband just called. He's made the restaurant reservation for you. Tomorrow evening at seven, just as you've requested.”

Mitra nearly jumped out of her chair. “Oh, great. I can't thank you enough.”

“Here's the clinker. It's a reservation for one. You have to go alone. The restaurant was completely booked except for a small table where they can seat only one person. It's reserved for a famous sculptor, an elderly gentleman who likes to dine alone. But he's on vacation this week. Your mother and I will wait for you in a chai shop close by.”

Sam scampered in. The breeze puffed up the short sleeves of his checked shirt. “Mitra-masi,” he asked shyly, “will you play the Alien Attack game with me?”

“In just a bit.” Mitra proposed to Sam that they go for a ride in Arnold's taxi on Saturday evening. Afterwards, they could see the lights on the Esplanade and have ice cream. Jubilant, Sam ran inside, his sandals flapping on the floor.

Preet turned to Mitra. “Your taxi-
wallah
will also be available to drive you to the restaurant, I presume?”

“I hope so.” Mitra borrowed Preet's cellphone and punched Arnold's number.

Arnold was happy to be of service. “I'll bring my friend's new Hyundai,” he said, “just in case Miss Kareena needs a ride someplace. And I'll dress up like a chauffeur.”

Mitra got off the phone. In this spacious courtyard, rows of palm and Ashok trees undulated in the light breeze. She noted concern in Preet's eyes. “What are you worried about?”

“I'll be right back. I have something for you.” Preet went inside and returned with a few printed sheets which she pressed into Mitra's hand. “Here's a copy of the police newsletter you wanted. My husband and I have read it.”

The pages had been culled from a quarterly newsletter titled,
Kolkata Police News.

On top of the front page was the headline: Traffic Stats. Mitra's eyes skimmed the reports of Lane and Line Violations, Helmet Violations, and Road Accident fatalities. This was followed by a photo of a traffic constable helping a blind woman cross a busy intersection. Below that was the column titled Crime in the City. Mitra skimmed the top news items on this column. A college student had been beaten on the “N” Block of New Alipore at dusk by assailants with unclear motives. A young woman had been mugged on Hazra in broad daylight. Arson was suspected in a fire in an apartment complex in Behala.

As she flipped the page, Mitra's gaze fell on the heading, Citizen's Views. It consisted of a piece written by M. Palit, a journalist, and placed in a box.

     Did He or Didn't He?

     Although actor Jay Bahadur, the heartthrob of yesteryear, was never charged in the Ray murder incident, suspicions about him remain. Jay Bahadur supposedly has boasted to his cronies about hobnobbing with the Kolkata crime syndicate, particularly the Solsi Gang. A gang member, known by the initials A.E. allegedly masterminded the killing of the famed actor, Manu Ray.

Come to think of it, Mitra had heard of the city's gang activities from Mother. And she'd heard of actor Manu Ray from Robert. But no one had mentioned the gangster named A.E. How was Jay Bahadur linked to this?

Her stomach fluttering, Mitra continued.

     A.E. was believed to have contacted Ray several times, demanding the world rights income from his latest box-office hit, in exchange for protection from future harm. According to sources, Ray repeatedly refused him. He was found, with his throat slashed, in his home on April 5.

     Jay Bahadur, a school chum of Ray, is believed to have resented Ray for his rising fame. He is alleged to have helped the gang members gain entry to Ray's home. Bahadur's voice can be heard on a conversation with his cronies, including A.E. The conversations was related to the crime and recorded by security officials.

     New evidence from Bahadur's account in the State Bank of India shows that his account was credited with three million rupees, believed to be “black money” received as payment for his part in the crime. The case may be reopened.