Oleander Girl

by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

  To add to my problems, matters have escalated at Mitra’s apartment. Since I’ve been back from Boston, each night I hear them arguing in their bedroom. Once Seema shouted, “Send me home! Send me home so I can have my baby in peace away from you!” When I’m there, she follows me around, mournful as an abandoned kitten. I sense that she wants to tell me something, but I force myself not to ask. I can’t afford to enmesh myself in Seema’s difficulties while my own life is in such disarray. As it is, Mitra, who hasn’t spoken to me since our telephone altercation, glares at me when we run into each other as though their marital discord is my fault.

  In this dark time, Vic is my only brightness. Something shifted between us that night at the motel. Driving back from Boston, as I slumped dejected in a corner of the car, he told me about his life. He was planning to leave New York—that was what he and Desai had been arguing about the day I met them. His restaurant, which had been doing so well even a year ago, was on the verge of bankruptcy because people no longer wanted to eat at a place named Lazeez. The unfairness of it had hit him hard, particularly because he’d always loved this city and felt proud of its cosmopolitanness. His failure made him belligerent and difficult to be around, and his girlfriend had broken up with him. The only thing keeping him in New York now was his reluctance to abandon his uncle, who had been swamped with work since 9/11, as people looked for loved ones who were lost.

  “I’m glad I waited, though. Otherwise I wouldn’t have met you.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. I looked out of the window, embarrassed and pleased. Perhaps Vic didn’t mean anything special because he went on, casually, to other topics. His college roommate had opened a nightclub in the San Francisco area and was doing well. He’d asked if Vic would like to come to work with him. What did I think of the idea?

  I felt strangely betrayed at the thought of Vic’s leaving New York, but I couldn’t say that. It was illogical. Wouldn’t I be going back to India myself in about two weeks? Still, a sigh escaped me.

  “Cheer up! It’s not the end of the world if you don’t find your father. You made it all these years without him, didn’t you?”

  I wanted Vic to understand my longing. I considered telling him about my mother’s intimate note, interrupted by death. The dream vision in which she yearned for me to meet the man she loved. But he had moved on to a more disconcerting issue.

  “As for your troubles with Rajat, maybe this separation is a good thing. It’s giving you both a chance to put things in perspective. It’s better than rushing into marriage and regretting it later.”

  Vic’s life trajectory seemed so simple, so American, fueled only by his own desires. How could I explain to him all the obligations that fettered me because I was the granddaughter of Bimal Roy, barrister, of 26 Tarak Prasad Roy Road? Because—like my mother—I had made certain promises?

  “Remember last night on the road? We could have been in a really bad accident. But we came out okay, didn’t we? Things have a way of working out. So stop worrying and give me one of those fabulous smiles.”

  I let him cajole me into laughter, to persuade me that I was lucky. The “fabulous” bit helped. But underneath I was thinking of his kiss. It had been a human gesture of comfort, no more. Immediately afterward, he had escorted me to my new room and left. Why couldn’t I forget it, then? What ironic coincidence had made Vic kiss me on the same spot on my forehead that Rajat’s lips had touched? Everything was confusing me. Had I made a mistake by agreeing to marry Rajat, as Vic implied? Or was I on the verge of making a bigger mistake?

  Today when I enter the office, Desai slides a thick file across his desk at me with a grin. He has located two Robs who live in Northern California who might be contenders. One is an estate lawyer in San Francisco, the other a writer in the Santa Cruz hills. Both had gone to Berkeley at the same time as my mother and might have taken some of the same courses, in political science or communication. They were both members of an international-student club that she, too, may have joined. He hadn’t found any specific information about girlfriends.

  “It’s a long shot. Want to give it a try?”

  How can I not? It feels like my last opportunity.

  We formulate plans. I would call the lawyer and set up an initial appointment, pretending that I needed legal advice about some money I was about to inherit. To the writer, who was known to be reclusive, I would send an e-mail stating I needed to hire an editor for help with a family memoir I was writing. Once we met and finished the business discussion, I would go for honesty—partial honesty, at least. I’d explain that I was searching for people who had known my dead mother.

  “You’ll have to play it by ear,” Desai advises, “depending on what they say. Even if neither of them is your father, maybe they can give you other leads.”

  Neither of us mentions my return ticket, hanging over my head, just two weeks away now.

  More plans: Vic will fly to California with me, rent a car, and drive me around. Desai has a relative who owns a modest motel. He’s arranged with her to give us a discounted weekly rate. He adds up the costs: airfare, motel room, the car rental, inconvenient incidentals such as food and gas. Vic’s room and fee. But even though Desai has budgeted strictly, the total is significantly higher than the amount I have left.

  “You don’t have to pay me,” Vic says. “I’ve been meaning to go out to California anyway. This’ll give me a chance to meet up with Sid.”

  Mr. Desai purses his lips at his nephew’s feckless ways but doesn’t contradict him. I suspect he isn’t totally displeased to discover Vic’s altruistic side. He glances shrewdly from Vic to me and back again, then busies himself with recalculating costs.

  But even with Vic’s generosity, I don’t have enough money for a week in California, and it’ll take us at least that long. Desai wants to leave enough time for follow-up visits with the two Robs, if necessary. And he wants me to go to the university and talk to people in person. Face-to-face, people are less likely to turn you away. Face-to-face, you think of different questions that might lead to crucial answers.

  “Call your young man,” Desai says. “Ask him to wire you some more funds.”

  “I’ll get the money,” I say with jaunty rashness, though I have no idea how. I know this much, though: I’m not going to ask Rajat.

  Once outside, I turn to Vic. Does he know a way of making some money quickly?

  “How about selling your ring? It looks pretty expensive.”

  “No!” The word is out of my mouth before I realize it.

  “Attached to our jewelry, aren’t we?”

  I want to laugh bitterly. I think of my grandmother’s jewels, ancient, irreplaceable, that I sold without compunction. But this ring—I remember the touch of Rajat’s hand as he slid it onto my finger. He’d kissed my hand afterward, his lips lingering on the stone. Giving it up would mean I’d given up on him.

  “There’s always one other possibility for a good-looking woman like you!” Vic says, grinning.

  Later I’ll wonder why his outrageous remarks didn’t offend me. Was it that I had different standards for judging Vic because he was brought up here? Was it because he never meant harm? Was it because, in a world that seemed increasingly volatile, I knew he was one of the few people I could count on?

  In the bloodred evening, Rajat paces the riverbank, where he has driven against his mother’s wishes. Maman didn’t want him to go out because matters have escalated at the warehouse, but staying at home was making him stir-crazy.

  Rajat has always loved this part of the city. The old river, slow, brown, carrying its detritus with dignity, has something for everyone. When Pia was a toddler, Papa and Maman used to bring them to the less expensive side of the promenade to eat ice cream from the street vendors. The children shared a single cone, while the parents did without. Rajat always chose vanilla because he knew it was Pia’s favorite, although he preferred pistachio himself. How simple things were then, the littlest objects imbued with hap
piness. Now he can’t remember the last occasion when they were all out here together. All week Pia has been begging him to bring her to the riverside for dinner, to a new Moroccan restaurant her friends have been raving about, as her birthday treat. He promises himself he’ll make time for it.

  Today the river fails to soothe him. Like a scab that he can’t stop picking at, he keeps returning to the warehouse. His visit had started well. The picketers had shouted and shaken their fists, but he had been calm. I am an ambassador for the Bose family, he had repeated silently as he was escorted inside. The president of the union, a Hindu who had been with the company for many years, had been civil. He had presented Rajat with a written list. Rajat thought the demands exorbitant—hire a Muslim foreman, hire back the man he had fired and pay him a compensation, return the workstations to their original state—but he didn’t let himself react. Then came the final item: the Bose family must meet with the workers and offer a public apology for mishandling the incident.

  Rajat felt a buzz of anger electrify his body. It was an insult—not just to him, which he could handle, but to his parents. Still, he remembered his promise. In order to leave before his control crumbled, he pulled the sheets from the president’s hand and stood up while the man was still speaking. The vice president, a young man, took exception to this and raised his voice at Rajat, asking him to show some respect. The officeholders of the union weren’t his household servants. Did he realize that they had the power to shut down the warehouse for a long time?

  The threat was too much. Rajat forgot what his parents had said about the union’s trying to incite him. Furious, he stalked out. A member caught him by his shirt. You’ll leave when we’re done with you. Rajat shouted at him to take his hands off him. Others yelled back in response, banging on the tables. Noise reverberated off the walls, deafening. A group of men rushed at him. Someone’s hand grabbed his collar. He must have flailed out in response, though he can’t remember it. He remembers the sickening-soft thwack of flesh against his fist.

  Finally, the president intervened, restoring order, telling his men to let the babu go. But he’d taken back the list. In light of what had just happened, that list was no longer valid. Further compensation would now be due. The union would meet again and inform the Boses of their decision. A humiliated Rajat—his collar torn, a scratch burning his cheek, his heart feeling as if it might explode—was escorted to the car by a couple of musclemen while the picketeers jeered. The shock in Asif’s eyes only angered Rajat further.

  He should have waited until he was calm, but they were barely outside the factory compound when he shouted at the driver, asking why he hadn’t delivered Sonia’s letter. How dare he hold on to something like that, something private that belonged to Rajat! Asif had answered with more dignity than guilt. He’d kept it because he believed Sonia intended no good. She was trying to break up Rajat-saab’s engagement. Rajat-saab should forget about Sonia. She was only trouble. Rajat had yelled that it wasn’t Asif’s job to make those decisions. That wasn’t what the Boses were paying him for. Who did Asif think he was, to give advice to Rajat? A bloody relationship counselor? Asif hadn’t said anything more. Upon reaching the building, he had gone to his quarters right away and brought Rajat the letter, securely sealed in an expensive, unmarked envelope.

  Rajat knew he had been too harsh. He tried to speak normally with Asif the next day. Asif responded politely, but with a chill formality. Rajat knew Asif wouldn’t forgive him so fast.

  Now he takes Sonia’s letter out of his pocket for the hundredth time. He should have burned it without reading it, but he couldn’t do it. This weakness irks him. The sun has disappeared into the river, and the light is too weak for reading, but Rajat has memorized the letter already. He recalls perfectly those days Sonia is reminding him of, the heady secrecy of having her waiting in the hotel room, the way he rushed back there between meetings for delicious, mindless sex. But she was right, it wasn’t just that. In between, he had talked to her about his fears and fantasies. Confessed his shortcomings. He can’t remember if she had shared hers, but she had listened, holding his hand. No matter how wrong things went later, those days remained among his happiest memories.

  Could it be true, what she says, that the real Rajat is the man in that bedroom? That with Korobi he is merely a wishful persona, bound to crumble over time? The need to call Sonia just once rises in him like the craving for a drug. He reaches for his phone, then curls his hands into fists. What happened between them afterward ruined everything that came before, like a fire that scorches a beautiful house and makes it uninhabitable.

  He remembers the day he found out as a dark, headachy haze. He’d received a phone call from one of his ex-girlfriends. She asked if he knew where Sonia was.

  “She’s gone to a resort in Digha for a weekend with a couple of her girlfriends,” he said, thinking it to be a genuine question.

  “She’s in Digha, all right.” The girl laughed, a tinkly sound laced with venom. “But who’s she with?” She hung up before he could ask her what she meant.

  Sick with suspicion, he had driven the entire way at breakneck speed. He found them lounging by the hotel’s swimming pool, Sonia in a bikini with a guy he’d seen at parties, a Punjabi executive she had gone out with before she and Rajat became serious about each other. When Rajat accused her, she pointed out that she was, indeed, here with her girlfriends. He could check with the hotel desk if he didn’t believe her. Could she help it if Gurcharan had showed up, too? She claimed that she wasn’t doing anything wrong and accused Rajat, in turn, of spying on her. She reminded him that he didn’t own her. Rajat lost his head and made a terrible scene. Sonia called the hotel security, who escorted him from the premises.

  Thinking about it mortifies him all over again. That he’d been naive enough to care so deeply while she had just been interested in flitting from flower to flower. How can he believe anything such a woman writes? How dare she claim that their relationship meant anything to her. How dare she assume that he’ll run back to her just because she wants him now. How dare she compare herself to Cara. There’s no similarity at all between them. He sees, suddenly and clearly, how unjustified his suspicions were the night Cara called from Boston—and why he’d had them. His knee-jerk reaction was a spillover from his history with Sonia. Cara had told him the truth about the snowstorm—he’d checked it out on the Internet. He should have put aside his pride and called her back the same day to apologize. He’ll do it now. He crushes Sonia’s letter into a ball, throws it into the river, and takes out his phone.

  That’s when he sees the three men walking toward him. They’re working-class, he can tell by their clothes. Are they from the warehouse? He doesn’t recognize their faces. But then, the Boses employ a lot of men. Hindu or Muslim? There are no visible signs. He’s annoyed that the thought even entered his mind. But something about them is unusual. They move tautly, purposefully, not like people out to enjoy a river evening. He remembers his mother’s uneasiness.

  “Best to stay home for the next few days until we settle the matter at the warehouse,” she’d told him.

  “Maman, you worry too much about Pia and me. I’ll be careful.”

  He hurries toward his car, keeping an eye on the men. Slides in and locks the doors. Starts the engine so that he can swing away fast if necessary. But the men continue at the same pace. They pass him without sparing him a glance.

  He was wrong about them—another miscalculation to feel foolish about.

  He considers getting out of the car again. A beautiful breeze has come up, and the moon hangs above the girders of Howrah Bridge like a thick gold coin. The men have receded into the dark, and the bank is quiet. The decision not to contact Sonia has calmed his mind. Finally, now, he can enjoy the river. But he thinks of Maman and starts for home. He’ll call Cara tomorrow.

  If someone had told me when I stepped out of Desai’s office yesterday where I’d find myself this morning, I would have laughed. But here I am
, fidgeting in a white plastic chair, guilty, overwrought. A few minutes ago, a woman emerged from the back room, all business in her lab coat and pursed mouth, snipped a few strands from my head, and disappeared into the depths of the facility to evaluate their quality. Depending on what she termed the “purity” of my hair, she’ll decide how much to pay me.

  Vic had called me last night. “There’s a place. They buy human hair for scientific instruments. Are you sure you want to do this?’

  When the woman asked me to unbraid my hair, it fell past my waist in glossy curls. The glint of admiration in her eyes went through me like a knife. Grandmother loved my hair. She would massage coconut oil into it, wash it out with ritha pulp, and braid it into different designs. One of my happiest memories is the feel of her fingers on my scalp. I try not to think of what she’d say if she knew what I was doing.

  Stay focused on the moment, I order myself. On the necessity of now.

  The woman calls me into the back room. The cold of her scissors burns the nape of my neck. I keep my eyes turned away from the mirror. I feel light-headed, untethered. But once the money is in my hand, I am somewhat consoled. I now have enough for California, and I’ve done it without having to beg anyone.

  Vic narrows his eyes and stares when he picks me up. “I like it. Makes you look modern and confident.” His voice grows admiring. “It was a big step to take. I must say, I didn’t expect you to go through with it.”

  I angle his rearview mirror to examine myself. Once I get over the shock, I decide that I, too, like the new me. A mass of curls, barely reaching my shoulders, have transformed me into a stranger, glamorous and a little dangerous.

  My high spirits take a tumble, though, when Seema opens the door to the flat.

  “Oh my God! What have you done! All your beautiful hair, gone! Does your grandmother know? Did your in-laws give you permission?”

  All my doubts come rushing back. I remember the pride with which Grandmother had pinned the sunburst hairpiece to my braid. And Maman—would she consider me damaged goods now?