I untuck the mosquito net and step down onto the cold concrete floor, unknown territory. The gecko could be hiding under the bed. I scuttle to the bathroom, then gasp when I catch a reflection in the mirror. Someone else slipped in here with me, a dark-skinned, bright-eyed woman with tangled hair. Omigod, that’s me.
The astrologer will think Auntie plucked a wild ape from the jungle, draped clothes on her, and brought her home to the family. A new pet.
At least the bathroom has a door, although there’s no lock. I’m nearly out of toilet paper. There’s no paper dispenser by the toilet, only a water tap, which I’ll never learn to use. People here master the art of self-washing from day one. I vaguely remember my two-year-old niece screaming as her Ma tried to teach her to wash. By the time she turned four, the practice had become second nature for her.
My relatives probably think American customs are filthy. Wiping with toilet paper? No washing? Here, the paper rolls are thin and expensive—maybe a few American dollars per roll—and the tissue as rough as sandpaper. Each roll is encased in a secret unmarked wrap, like contraband. Or an artifact. I imagine toilet paper under glass at the local museum, labeled as a perverse American curiosity.
I use the last few squares. Maybe I’ll find some crumpled Kleenex tissue in my luggage. I hope.
Then I get in the shower, the lukewarm water trickling from the showerhead in an annoying thin stream. Cold water pools on the floor, and the threadbare white towel isn’t thick enough to wipe it up. It takes me twenty minutes to get my body marginally clean, and I’m even more convinced that I’ll never belong in this country. I’m a slave to creature comforts.
After breakfast, Auntie and I squeeze into the Ambassador bound for Pandit Parsai’s flat near New Market, in the city center. We wind along narrow, bumpy roads choked with Ambassador taxis, buses, tongas, bullock carts, and jaywalkers. I hold my nose against the reek of burning cow dung and exhaust. Grime settles in every pore of my skin. Our driver, a fearless, brown-skinned Evel Knievel, hurtles through traffic, jolting to a stop, yelling at crowds congregating in the streets. A cacophony of car horns blares against the onslaught of pedestrians, mangy white dogs, and the occasional bony cow.
My heart flits like a hummingbird. The damp air plasters my shirt to my back. Just riding through the city is an exercise in fortitude. I’d rather visit the elegant Victoria Memorial—built to honor Queen Victoria—the botanical gardens, or the Birla planetarium. I’d rather do anything but see Pandit Parsai.
Kali escaped to Chowringhee Bazaar to buy saris. She knew if she came with me, the pandit would predict her future, too. Ma and Baba went to visit a second cousin named Sugar or Sweetie or Sweet’n Low—I can’t keep track of my relatives’ nicknames. My parents don’t consult astrologers, but they’ve left me at Auntie’s mercy.
She’s adorned in a woven golden silk sari. She washed her hair with the Head and Shoulders shampoo I brought from San Francisco. The clean scent mixes with Armani perfume, which I grabbed at a duty-free shop in Heathrow Airport.
Auntie tugs the collar of my blouse. “Why are you wearing these Western clothes, Lina? Pants and top? Why no salwar?”
I rarely wear a salwar kameez, the long, fashionable top over billowing pants, which makes me resemble a shapeless amoeba.
I was careful to wear the golden bracelet she gave me last night, and I pinned Ma’s golden brooch to my shirt. “Pandit should see me in my regular Western clothes.”
“This way of dressing is normal in the States, I suppose. No jewelry?”
“I don’t want to wear a neon sari and a hundred bangles.” Women here could direct traffic with their brightly colored clothes. “Oh, I’m sorry, Auntie. I’m just nervous.”
“Nothing to be nervous about.” She pats my knee. “Last night, I gave Pandit all of your beloved’s information, except his name, of course. We must have his name.”
“It’s a secret, until he returns from his travels. All I gave you was his birth date!” I made up a date that includes threes, after the three forms of twilight.
“And much more, nah? Profession, hobbies. Have you got a snap of him?”
“All my photos are at home.” A calf ambles across the road, followed by a few squawking chickens. The driver hits the horn several times in staccato succession.
“Does your beloved have a natal chart?” Auntie asks.
“He comes from a family of astronomers. They’re interested in science, not astrology. Black holes and galaxies and forms of twilight.”
Auntie frowns. “Vedic astrology is a science, Lina. He had no horoscope reading? He must’ve received one at birth. No diagrams of the Rasi Chakra, the Shodasavarga charts, the planetary periods—”
“Nothing like that. I doubt his parents even have an astrologer.”
“Such a shame. Well, Pandit will do what he can. And your natal chart? Have you brought it with you?”
“I don’t carry it around. Ma may still have it somewhere.”
The car stops in an upscale bazaar teeming with people and stray dogs. Near the street corner, a rotting refuse pile emits a terrifying stink.
Auntie pays the driver, and we’re out, heading toward a storefront reading “Pandit Parsai” in English, followed by several words in Bengali.
Inside, two men sit cross-legged facing each other on the floor. The younger, chubby man jabbers in Hindi, his face animated, arms gesticulating. The other man—tall, gray-haired, and long-nosed—wears a dhoti punjabi. His stately demeanor recalls the late prime minister Nehru. He nods and whispers “ha, ha,” at regular intervals. Ha means “yes” in Hindi. Neither man looks at us.
The air hangs thick with the heady scent of patchouli incense, and a brass statue of the Hindu elephant god, Ganesh, sits just inside the doorway. His great belly protrudes. One of his brass tusks is broken. As the story goes, Ganesh used his broken tusk to write the ancient Vedas, the four ancient texts of Hinduism. Ganesh is known as the Remover of Obstacles, bringer of good luck. Every Vedic astrologer’s office has a Ganesh.
Auntie kneels to kiss his feet. I want to turn and run. Instead I follow Auntie’s example, then straighten and clasp my hands in front of me. On the bookshelves: the Mahabharata, the Bhagavad-Gita, the Ramayana, and numerous volumes about astrology, healing rituals, and childhood development. In one corner is a devotional altar. I don’t recognize the many-armed goddess surrounded by dried lotus flowers, sweets, and snacks. My mouth waters. My fingers itch to grab a roshogolla , candy made from milk and sugar, but I don’t want to annoy the goddess.
Crammed in next to the altar is a Hewlett-Packard computer on a wooden desk piled with books and paper. A golden elephant screensaver dances across the monitor.
There’s no reception area or chairs, so Auntie and I wait awkwardly near the door until the men stand, bow, and press the palms of their hands together in front of their chests, in a gesture of prayer called namaste, which means, “The divine light in me salutes the divine light in you.”
The chubby man stares at me on his way out, his critical gaze skewering my clothes.
“Come, come, my dear girls.” Pandit Parsai gestures toward the carpet. We sit cross-legged in a triangle on the concrete floor. My tailbone will be bruised for days.
Pandit takes Auntie’s hands and smiles. “My dearest Kiki, how are your son and daughters? How have you been maintaining your health?” His words flow clear and cool like water.
“My son ran away to his tea gardens, my girls neglect me, and my corns are paining, Pandit.” Auntie makes the namaste sign and bows her head. I follow suit. I have a kink in my neck.
Pandit does the sideways head nod and clicks his tongue. “You’re always in the wrong footwear, Kiki. Have I not told you?”
“Hah, you have.” Auntie gazes at her feet, clad in Indian sandals, kolhapuri chappals. The corns bulge at the joints of both her big toes.
Pandit turns to gaze at me. I have the uncomfortable feeling he’s reaching inside my head and twisting my
neurons.
“My dear Lina Ray. Last time I saw you, you were just a baby.”
“I’m sorry I don’t remember you, Pandit. It’s an honor to meet you.”
“Quite a fat baby you were. Now you’re too thin.”
My ears heat up.
Auntie elbows me. “You see, the pandit has a perfect memory.”
“Have you brought the natal charts?” He gazes at me with mild expectation.
“I, um, haven’t got them. I didn’t know I would be seeing you.”
He doesn’t blink. I wonder if he ever blinks. I wonder if his eyelids even close. Maybe they’re perpetually open, on the alert, like gecko eyes. “No matter. Your auntie has given some information, and I’ve done what I can.” He speaks to her in rapid Bengali.
I clear my throat. “Excuse me. What are you saying? I don’t understand.”
His eyebrows furrow. “Bangla bolo na?”
Auntie shakes her head, her cheeks jiggling. “I’ve tried to teach her—”
“I don’t have much opportunity to speak Bengali in San Francisco,” I say. “Ma and Baba sometimes spoke in Bengali when we were growing up, but our friends spoke English. Besides, our parents wanted us to assimilate into American culture.”
“Such a shame.” Pandit Parsai clicks his tongue again. “I’m telling your auntie that your fiancé is problematic.”
“Problematic? He’s perfect!”
“You must look east.”
“I did. I live in the States. India is east from there.”
“Your true home is here.” He touches my forehead as if checking for a fever. His fingers are cold. “And I see many more problems.”
“Oh, Vishnu! What problems?” Auntie groans.
“There’s no problem, Mr. Pandit. With all respect, how could you know? You haven’t met my fiancé.” My fingers curl into fists.
Pandit rubs his nose with his forefinger. “Your fiancé is a cipher, ephemeral. It is as if … as if …”
“As if what?” I snap.
“As if he does not exist.” He takes Auntie’s hand. “I’m concerned for this dear girl.”
“Oh, Vishnu, oh, Vishnu,” Auntie says. “What to do?”
“Nothing!” I shout. “Everything’s fine.”
Pandit shakes his head. “Kiki, you must go.”
“Go where?” Auntie and I reply in unison.
“To America, of course. You must meet the fiancé.”
Auntie’s mouth drops open. “Me? Go to America?”
“Hah, hah. You must approve the match.”
“How will I know, Pandit? Will there be a sign?”
“You’ll know.” Pandit touches her chest with his forefinger. “In your heart.”
Auntie sucks in a long breath. “I’ll know .”
I hold up my hands. “Wait, wait. I know him best. Let me decide, okay? He’s my fiancé.”
Auntie and Pandit give me horrified looks. Auntie straightens her back. “I shall come to America.”
“Auntie, you needn’t—”
“It’s time for a trip abroad, and in any case, your Baba’s birthday bash falls in two months. Quite soon after yours.”
My birthday is next week. “Look, Auntie, give this some thought—”
She lumbers to her feet. “Say nothing more. It is decided.”
Six
San Francisco in late August.
City of cable cars, Beat poets, flower children, Alcatraz. My city of dreams stretches out, vast and uncomplicated. I’m at ease as the plane descends over rolling hillsides dotted with rows of identical rooftops. I take comfort in the familiar curve of the shoreline, the Golden Gate Bridge rising red through the mist. Skyscrapers and highways run straight and symmetrical. The streets are scoured, the sky polished to a shine. Here, I can drink water free of parasites and walk around naked in my apartment. No relatives breathe down my neck, and the doors are made of solid wood with real brass knobs and locks. It’s hard to believe the chaotic city of Kolkata even exists.
I take the shuttle to my North Beach apartment, blissfully bright and adorned with hanging plants, books, and hardwood floors. My anchors calm me—reminders that I belong here: messages from friends on my answering machine, a slew of unread e-mails, envelopes stuffed into my mailbox.
I’m home, and here for only two months before Auntie will descend like Godzilla. She’ll destroy the city and eat all my friends if I don’t find a real fiancé in time. I should spend every minute of every day perusing the personal ads and combing the streets for the elusive Man of My Dreams. Not just for my family, but for myself.
I fall into a jetlag-induced coma, and in the morning, I hop the bus to my office on California Street. Lakshmi, the owner of the agency, works at home, and I rarely see her, but she calls in frequently. I look forward to seeing Donna, office associate and friend.
An hour after I’ve cleared all the e-mail that has accumulated while I was away, I daydream while listening to a client, Mr. Sen, extol his masculine virtues.
“I am active runner. I enjoy sports, meditation, golf, travel, and gardening. I like the outdoors in general.” He resembles a tanned version of Prince Charles in a tight blue suit. I wish he would stop tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair.
“All that? Wow! Impressive. I need you to fill out this personal preferences questionnaire.” I glance out the window at cotton clouds dabbing the Bay Bridge.
Mr. Sen leans forward. “I want to settle down with attractive and motivated woman, a professional girl, beautiful inside and out, with similar family background who can complement and enhance my family.”
I imagine his dream woman as a curved glass vase in his hallway, complementing and enhancing his family. I think of Raja Prasad, looking for the perfect, docile wife. Like the robot nanny in Ray Bradbury’s science fiction story. She always smiles, always loves the children, never grows old. Never has a need of her own, except to be spritzed with WD-40 now and then.
“Of course I’ll help, Mr. Sen, but I need to know more about you.” I push the forms across the desk.
“My father is a well-reputed family physician. Retired, of course. My grandmother is an intelligent and pious lady.”
“Your wife will be lucky to marry into such a family.”
“My family prefers a girl of Brahmin roots.”
“Of course.” I jot down notes. Stuffy upper crust.
“I prefer woman nineteen to twenty-fourish, no older.” In other words, his own personal flight attendant.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Mr. Sen is thirty-three, so why can’t he choose a woman his own age? Long ago, I stopped asking this question aloud. Most men who come in here, no matter how old, want young, nubile virgins. Dream on, I want to say. This is the twenty-first century. I grit my teeth and keep silent.
“And fair, very fair complexion preferred.” He stares at my dark face, which in Indian personal ads would be classified as “wheatish.” “Slim, athletic build. No children. I prefer that she has never been married.”
“Of course. I’ll find just the right woman for you. What do you do for a living?”
“I am a hardworking professional, building my career in the finance industry.”
“Mmm-hmmm.” So he’s a banker, investment consultant, financial analyst? Why can’t he be specific?
He taps the chair, and suddenly I’m aware of the wall clock ticking away the hour. Another client waits in the foyer. I hear Donna chatting on the phone in her office next door.
“pursuing CFP course,” Mr. Sen is saying. “I have master’s degree”
“Your annual income?”
His face reddens. “Fifty thousand to seventy-five thousand.”
I think of Ma asking how much money my fiancé makes. If I have to say we split up, I’ll say he won the lottery and moved to a Caribbean island. “I don’t mean to get too personal, Mr. Sen, but if I’m to find you a good wife, I must know everything.”
“I’ve tried the online dating services.
Internet, you know? No luck.” He shakes his head. “When will you find?”
“I’ll need a little time.” I ponder the possibilities. Miss Chatterjee! She was in here last week. Just his type. I stand and extend my hand.
Mr. Sen shakes it. “When shall I have my first date?”
“This week, I promise.” I escort him to the reception area, where Mrs. Mukerjee and her demure daughter Sonya are waiting. Sonya’s wearing a candy-cotton-pink churidar kurta .
Mr. Sen strides past everyone and out the door.
“Ah, lovely Lina!” Mrs. Mukerjee slaps my cheeks and embraces me in a rib-breaking hug. “I must shower you with congratulations!” She steps back and regards me with a teary gaze. “We were all hoping and praying that the gods would send you the right husband, one who would not mind that you are so old, and look, our prayers have been answered. Who is the man? Why the big secret? I’m telling everyone he’s a rich Marwari businessman, royalty straight from Rajasthan, but nobody believes me.”
“He’s not rich Marwari. He’s rich … Bengali.”
“Acha. What’s his name?”
“Raja,” I blurt out. I must have Raja on my mind.
“Ah, Raja. A true king!” Mrs. Mukerjee shrieks.
Just then Kali bursts in, clenching and unclenching her hands. “Lina, I have to talk to you now!”
“If you’ll excuse me.” I give Mrs. Mukerjee an apologetic look.
In my office, Kali slumps into an armchair, her cleavage nearly spilling from her too-tight paisley dress. “Oh, my knickers are in a twist!”
“About what? Make it quick. I’m working.”
“Remember the man I met in India? The one with mojo? Dev? I’m falling for him.”
I press the back of my hand to my forehead. “How many times have you seen him?”
“Only once, at Durga’s wedding—”
“Oh, Kali! How can you be falling for him?”
“We spoke on the phone. Long distance.”
“How many times?”
“Only once, but—”
“Did he say he was falling for you?”
“Well, no, but he was polite. He’s also rich. He’s studying here, so he’ll be back from India soon. He wants to meet.”
Imaginary Men Page 4
