“Lovely, lovely. Where did your mother-in-law-to-be get this? . . . Of course. Nothing but the very best for our Mrs. Bose.” She moves closer and speaks in conspiratorial tones. “Mrs. Bose must be so relieved. Our Rajat was getting to be quite a handful. Running around with the wrong crowd. Drinking, gambling, who knows what else! My husband was ready to speak with Mr. Bose about it. He’s an important man, after all. He has to be careful about who he associates with. Now, if I were you, I’d keep close tabs—Oh, here comes your sweetie! Hello, dear Rajat! I was just congratulating your betrothed on her good fortune.”
Rajat’s smile matches Mrs. Bhattacharya’s in affability, though his eyes, like hers, are cold. “The good fortune is entirely mine.”
Further pleasantries are exchanged; Mrs. Bhattacharya skitters away in search of more promising bait. Waiters in turbans surround us with silver trays of shish kebabs and samosas and Western delights I don’t recognize. Rajat fills a plate for me, but I can’t eat; that awful woman has stolen my appetite. More waiters come by, carrying drinks. Thin wine flutes on long stems, pale yellow, deep maroon, hoarding the light that spills down from the chandeliers. Squat crystal glasses filled with whiskey, sweating amber. I’ve never drunk alcohol—Grandfather would have had a fit at the very possibility—so Rajat waves the waiters away. But tonight, contrarily, I want something.
Rajat looks surprised, then amused.
“Bring the lady a piña colada.”
I’m enchanted by the sweet, smooth taste, the pineapple flavor so unlike what my friends led me to expect. I ask for another, and then a third, but Rajat stops me.
“Easy, Cara! It’s more potent than it seems. Try a little of this quiche instead.”
Through the pleasant buzz in my head, I appreciate his caring. I could go through all the time allotted to us like this, my sheer chiffon back pressed against his solicitous palm. Mrs. Bhattacharya is a shriveled gossip, jealous of our happiness. And as for Sonia, now that I’m engaged and have the right, I’ll ask Rajat for the full story on her as soon as we’re alone.
But that will not be for a while, because Papa is on the dais, calling us. The clapping sounds like a thousand small explosions. I climb the steps, wishing my grandparents were with me at this special moment. With the wish comes a stab of guilt.
Before leaving for the reception, I’d gone to see them to say good night. I was feeling happy and excited—in my bedroom mirror, the off-the-shoulder kurti, glittering like gossamer, made me look more sophisticated than ever before. I’d decided to wait until tomorrow to bring up the issue of pushing back the marriage date. I didn’t want an argument to mar the evening, my special, magical party. I expected a tart comment from Grandfather—he liked me to wear saris. I wasn’t too worried, though. I knew he was proud of my looks, and tonight I looked my best. But when I went up to hug him good-bye, the fury on his face floored me.
“Are you planning to go out wearing that—thing?”
Grandmother jumped in, attempting damage control. “Why do you say that? It’s what young people wear nowadays. Shona, you look like an oleander in that deep red.”
“No, she doesn’t!” His lips were a pressed white line. “She looks like a—call girl.”
Perhaps it was the accumulated stress of the day, the unanswered questions from last night. Perhaps it was because he had snatched away my simple joy in my new clothes and made me feel cheap. Suddenly, I was furious, too.
“It’s always what you want that’s important—do you ever think of what might make other people happy? Like moving the wedding day forward—did you even think to ask me before you made such a big decision? I was going to beg you to reconsider. But now I’m actually glad. This way I can get away quicker from you!”
He’d been shocked at my outburst—we’d argued before, but never like this. For a moment, his face was drained of color. Then it turned dark and he shouted back, “Go, then! Go right now. And don’t you dare come back. Why, you’re no different from—”
Grandmother, her voice unsteady, interrupted, “I hear Bahadur calling. It’s time to leave for the hotel. Go on down.” She pushed me toward the door.
The memory of the fight floods my mouth with its bitter, burnt taste even as I stand on the dais beside my new family, smiling for the cameras. I wish I hadn’t lost my temper. Grandfather only wanted to protect me, to make me do what he thought was the right thing. But now it’ll take me forever to cajole him out of his bad humor because he isn’t one to forgive transgressions easily. I find it hard to concentrate on Papa’s speech, and even Rajat’s, though once in a while unexpected words leap from him like sparks. Deeply grateful. Soul mate. He must feel my tenseness because, as he speaks, he gives my fingers a reassuring squeeze to indicate I’m not alone. Whatever I have to face, he’ll face with me.
When Rajat holds my hand like this, all my problems recede. I think, Mimi was right about one thing: I really am lucky.
Rajat ends by announcing that we’re to be married in three months. As the room erupts in applause, he turns to me and bows. Most men would not be able to pull off that bow, but Rajat does it regally.
At least one good thing has come out of my fight with Grandfather. I’m no longer upset at the thought of getting married so fast. My place is with Rajat, and I’m ready to take it.
Mrs. Bose sweeps down the hall resplendent in her brocade designer sari, greeting her guests. She inclines her head gracefully and speaks in an attractive, raspy voice that makes each person feel essential to the evening’s success. They have no idea that inside her head the elegant Jayashree Bose is far away.
Mrs. Bose is remembering her own engagement party—the one she never had. Mrs. Bose’s father, who owned a failing handicrafts store, could not afford one, and Mr. Bose’s father, who was one of Kolkata’s leading surgeons and could have afforded a score of parties, was furious that his son had chosen—no, had been entrapped by—a girl so far beneath their station. A shopkeeper’s scheming daughter. If she shuts her eyes, Mrs. Bose can still see the distaste that had twisted her father-in-law’s handsome mouth as he spoke the words.
They’d been waiting outside his chambers because her fiancé wanted her to meet him, insisting that once his father saw her, he would come around. It had been an ill-advised move, to face him in his stronghold. He walked past them even as Mr. Bose was talking to him. Shaking off his son’s grasp, he spat on the sidewalk, close enough to Mrs. Bose’s feet that she jumped back in shock. None of the words of love and apology that Mr. Bose offered her afterward could keep her from feeling besmirched.
So many years, and Mrs. Bose hasn’t been able to wash away the memory of that spit. Every designer outfit she has bought since then, every grand party she has thrown, every expensive flat she’s moved to, every risky maneuver she has undertaken to push their business up another rung on the slippery ladder of success—it’s all been to show that man, though he’s been dead for years, what a shopkeeper’s daughter can achieve.
“Lovely decor, Mrs. Bose!” Plump Mrs. Ahuja, wife of a textile tycoon, breaks into her thoughts, waving emerald-studded fingers. “But then, you always have such good taste. Is it true that you’ve designed the young couple’s flat, too? I’d love to take a look!”
“Of course you must, as soon as it’s completed. But I can’t take any credit for tonight. My decorator did it all.”
Here Mrs. Bose is being disingenuous. This last month, she has spent several evenings closeted with the decorator, reducing the woman on more than one occasion to the verge of tears.
“You wouldn’t . . .?” Mrs. Ahuja pauses. In their milieu, the names of decorators are almost as secret as those of plastic surgeons.
Mrs. Bose smiles magnanimously. “I’d be happy to give you her number. Your niece’s marriage is coming up, no? She’ll be perfect for that.”
Mrs. Ahuja gushes with gratitude until Mrs. Bose adroitly steers her toward a group of chattering women and takes her leave.
Mrs. Bose is ashamed
of her obsession with proving herself. She wishes she could get past it, let it go, but she also recognizes that without it she couldn’t have turned their business around. It fueled her through those exhausting early years when she toiled at her father’s store. It helped her develop a sixth sense as to which artists were up-and-coming, and the charisma to sweet-talk them into signing exclusive agreements with her. Slowly, the Boses began to sell Bengal art—first across India, then to Europe and America. They developed a reputation for dependability and quality. Look at the properties they own now: the Park Street gallery, the warehouse near Sealdah, the New York operation. Their penthouse occupies the entire top floor of a building bordering Rabindra Sarobar. From her bedroom window, Mrs. Bose can see the lotuses on the morning lake, the long, low boats filled with rowers.
When Mr. Bose’s father was dying, he sent word. Could he see his son one last time? He didn’t mention his daughter-in-law.
“I won’t go unless you agree, Joyu,” Mr. Bose said.
Mrs. Bose, who does not believe in self-deception, knows she has many flaws. She drives a hard bargain. She cares too much for social acclaim. She is quick to take offense though smart enough to hide it. She seldom forgets or forgives and rarely trusts. But on that day, looking at the painful pucker between Mr. Bose’s brows, she was surprised to discover something new about herself: for her family’s happiness, she was willing to sacrifice her pride.
She had taken him by the hand and led him to the door. “Go, Shanto. I don’t want you to have any regrets.”
For her family’s happiness. Isn’t that why she has thrown this lavish party today, in spite of certain recent financial problems, to welcome the girl Rajat has chosen to be his wife?
Deep down, Mrs. Bose has her reservations about Korobi. Not that she dislikes her—she’s a sweet girl, charmingly unspoiled. But it’s as though she’s been living in a different century. Mrs. Bose will have to invest significant energy in molding her to fit into their milieu. Sonia, now, she thinks with a pang of regret—she was stubborn and spoiled, so that sometimes Mrs. Bose wanted to shake her, but she comported herself perfectly. And she knew everybody worth knowing. In the few months that she had been with Rajat, she had brought several of her parents’ friends over to the gallery, which had led to a number of big sales. Moreover, she had spirit. When she and Rajat quarreled, she held her own. Korobi, Mrs. Bose fears, will crumple like tinfoil.
But it’s no use moping over what might have been, Mrs. Bose thinks as she continues greeting guests with her best smile. Something had occurred between Sonia and Rajat, something he wouldn’t talk about. It had pushed him into a period of black moods and huge risks that had terrified Mrs. Bose. She’d been at her wit’s end when he met Korobi. What spell did the girl cast on him? Within weeks, he stopped spending his evenings with his drunken, club-going friends. He quit a job that looked fancy but was going nowhere and started working for the family business. Most of all, he was happy again. Just for that, Mrs. Bose is grateful to Korobi.
The waltz has ended; in a few minutes, the guests will be seated and the toasts will begin. Mr. Ghosh, the hotel manager, is waiting for her at the entrance to the dining hall. Mrs. Bose is distracted by a twinge of disapproval—she has just glimpsed Rajat pulling a laughing Korobi to the dark privacy of the terrace. But she collects herself and compliments Mr. Ghosh on the tables, which are just as she wanted, sophisticated without being showy: rich, white tablecloths, gold-edged plates, white-orchid centerpieces sending a faint sweetness through the room.
Then she sees Shikha, her personal assistant, hovering behind him, and feels a frisson of worry. Shikha, who has been with her for over a decade, does not hover without cause.
“Phone call, madam.”
She takes the cordless hotel phone from Shikha, who is biting her lip. Mrs. Bose wonders if it could be Sonia. She had noticed her earlier this evening in the dance hall—she must have slipped the checkers at the entrance a hefty bribe. Mrs. Bose, angered by the girl’s audacity (but a little impressed, too) had been about to instruct Mr. Ghosh to alert the security guards, but then Sonia had disappeared.
“Hello? Hello? Calling from Pantheon Hospital. Trying to reach Miss Korobi Roy.”
The connection is bad. The words rise out of a roar of static and plunge back into it. Grandfather. Heart attack. Unconscious. Must come soon.
Mrs. Bose disconnects the phone and hands it to Shikha. She looks longingly at the stage in the front of the room, a gorgeous construction of silks and crystal beads, from which the family is to offer toasts. Pia has been practicing her speech for days, raising a champagne flute filled with apple juice with a jaunty flourish. The apex of the evening—and now it’s ruined. Oh, why couldn’t the old man have given them one more hour!
Shikha holds the phone, waiting; her eyes glisten intently as she watches Mrs. Bose. Mrs. Bose suspects Shikha knows what is going on inside her head—the girl understands her even better than her husband does. Ever since Mrs. Bose discreetly helped out with a certain situation that Shikha’s unmarried younger sister had found herself in, Shikha has been bulldog loyal to Mrs. Bose. She pauses a moment, wondering if she could ask Shikha to bring back the phone after the toasts are done so that Mrs. Bose can pretend she just received the call from the hospital. Shikha would certainly comply. No one would ever learn the truth. Imagining the look of disappointment that will crumple Pia’s face if her toast is canceled, Mrs. Bose is tempted. After all, the old man is already unconscious. What difference would it make to Korobi?
But Mrs. Bose can’t do that to her. The child is devoted to that difficult old man. She draws in a deep breath, pulls herself up tall, makes her decision with some regret.
“Inform Mr. Bose of what has happened. Tell him he should ask the guests to begin dinner. Then have Asif bring the car to the side entrance. I’ll go and find Korobi.”
I protest as Rajat pulls me into the seductive darkness of the terrace. “Stop! We have to go back to the guests. What will your parents think?”
“It was pure self-defense. Didn’t you see all those aunties, closing in on us like barracuda?”
I can’t help laughing. That’s one of the things I love about him—he makes me laugh more than anyone else ever has. As though it were a signal, Rajat begins kissing me. I give myself over to the pleasure of those kisses—I’m not sure for how long. Those rash piña coladas have skewed my sense of time. But slowly I begin to feel that something’s different. Rajat is more aggressive; his tongue parts my lips expertly and explores my mouth. His hand caresses my breast, and it’s as if I were driving fast along a road that has suddenly, sharply dropped out of sight. Even as my body responds, I’m disconcerted. Something has changed between us.
I remember the kiss that had begun our courtship. It was a couple of weeks after we’d met at Mimi’s. Rajat had been in a pensive mood that evening, perhaps because of the rain falling around us, misty, silken. We were walking in the Victoria Memorial gardens among the white roses, almost alone because of the weather.
“I shouldn’t have brought you here,” he said. “Look at your clothes, your hair—soaked.”
I told him I didn’t mind.
“That’s what I love about you. You’re so easygoing.” Then he kissed me.
Later, Mimi said that he must have been thinking of Sonia, who never liked the outdoors, not even in good weather, and could you blame her? The outdoors was infested with spiders and wasps and snakes, everyone knew that. But Mimi was wrong. Rajat couldn’t have been thinking of another woman, not when he kissed me like that.
He had pressed his lips to my forehead, just below the hairline, the gentlest gesture, as far from passion as a sunset is from fire. He kept them there for a long time. I held my breath. I could see him kissing me like that when we were old. That was the first time I was able to imagine a future for us beyond what the girls in college whispered about, gorgeous trousseaux and movie-style honeymoons. That vision had made me fall in love.
&
nbsp; This change tonight—is it because we’re so close to getting married? Or did seeing Sonia trigger something in Rajat?
I take a deep breath and plunge in. “Was that Sonia in the silver outfit?”
In the dark, I can’t see his expression. He’s silent for so long that I expect him to say he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
At last he exhales heavily. “I’ve done some stupid things in the past, Cara. One of these days I’ll tell you about them. But I don’t want to ruin this evening. I still can’t believe that we finally belong to each other. That we’ll be married in just a few weeks. This means we need to decide where to go for our honeymoon. What would you like? Mountains? Foreign cities with lots of shopping? Casinos and nightclubs?”
He’s changing the topic, I see that. I let him. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime evening. I don’t want to ruin it any more than he does.
“How about the ocean? I’ve never been to the ocean.” Am I thinking of my dream? I don’t know.
“Okay. We could fly to Goa. Lovely beaches there, and lots of nightlife, too. Or there’s Lakshadweep, quite spectacular. And very private.” He kisses my hand, lips lingering on my palm, then takes my fingers into his mouth, sending a shiver through me.
“I don’t want anything expensive. Your family has already spent so much on this reception, and now the wedding’s coming up sooner than we expected. Just a couple of days someplace close would be fine.” I search for a name I heard Mimi and her friends mention once, when they were talking about fun weekends. “How about Digha? Isn’t that just a few hours’ drive from Kolkata?”
“I hate that place! It’s low class.”
I’m startled by his vehemence and mortified as well. Mimi had said she’d found Digha charming. Apparently I’ll have to learn to evaluate things more stringently, now that I’m about to become a Bose.
“I’ll let you choose,” I say, and am rewarded with a hug.
Oleander Girl Page 4
