Just the night before, she’d waited for him to come home. He walked in silently, a scowl on his face, eyes ablaze with helpless anger. “You know,” he began, “I was standing on a traffic island on Park Avenue, waiting for the light to change, when this old hag stuck a leaflet in my face. She nearly cut my cheek. As if I gave a damn about palm reading. The police should arrest people like her.”
Two nights before that, he’d told her a similar story. A waiter had brought him pizza for lunch instead of the salad he’d ordered and hadn’t even bothered to apologize, much less take it back. And surely he would never have disembarked at the wrong subway station if the signs had not been defaced by a gang of young hooligans.
Worst of all, he’d complained, he barely received a nod from his custom ers in his new job as a telephone repairman. No longer was he at the center of his social and political universe. Though they’d befriended Dr. and Mrs. Chopra, engineer Partho Banerjee and his teacher wife Suparna, and architect Sushil Nayak and his actress wife, Manka, it greatly annoyed him that his acquaintances weren’t interested in discussing India’s defense budget, the severity of its urban pollution, the threats to its press, or the caste and communal strains. Indeed, they preferred to talk about the New York club scene, budget vacation packages to Bermuda, the stock market, or the Yankees.
The whole environment reeked of commerce and vulgarity, he criticized, and the city was sterile—nothing but steel, concrete, chrome, and glass, a greedy mouth in constant need of feeding. The maple and the pear trees on the sidewalk were withering, and was it any wonder that the people were so unfeeling and aloof? “They don’t even give me the propriety of a glance, Aloka,” he spoke of crowds in general. “I’m invisible.”
His gloomy outlook hung like a faded garland around his neck. She admitted now, as she got into a subway train, that his endless litany of injustices, real or perceived, was growing increasingly monotonous. She could confront him and tell him to come out of his funk—but then, could she? In India she’d been taught to cater to a man’s wishes, not challenge him. Modern woman that she had been, she still couldn’t quite shake herself out of traditional ways. She offered him larger servings at dinner, let him sleep on the window side of the bed, even made sure he got first chance at the front section of the New York Times in the morning. Right now she glanced up at the conch shell bracelets, conventionally worn by married Bengali women, that clung to her arms as she held on to a handrail in the subway car to keep from falling.
Difficult as it had been, she still cared about him and wanted to hold their marriage together at all cost. Once more she blamed herself. Would all this have come to pass if they’d stayed in India? Would Pranab have been a different person, happier and more successful there?
A man standing a few feet away and bouncing from the ride gave her a casual look. This reminded her: Pranab no longer gazed deep into her eyes.
And he’d taken to staying out late night after night. They were living like two birds placed in separate cages. Friends had hinted that he was having an affair with a colleague. Aloka had brushed off the suggestion, though it had gnawed at her. Now that a seat was empty, Aloka sat down.
She believed it was still possible to bring the thrill back to their marriage. Tonight at a leisurely dinner she’d suggest ways. She’d phoned him earlier and asked him to come home on time. Candlelight, soft music, linen tablecloth, flowers, grand cuisine, and her feminine wiles ought to set the right atmosphere.
The subway train had just reached her station. Aloka eased out of her seat and glided through the length of the platform, passing some funky odor on the way. As she approached the turnstile, a buzzing drew her attention to a half-extinguished fluorescent tube with an intermittent blue glare. She hastened her walk.
The apartment was dark when Aloka let herself in, and she felt her limbs stiffening. Absence of light conveyed an absence of welcome. Might Pranab he working late? But then, he’d promised to join her for dinner. Even before taking her coat off, she hurried across the living room and peeked into the bedroom. Sure enough, there he was, sitting on the bed, half hidden in the late afternoon shadows, head bowed, shoulders hunched, hands stiff on his thighs, his black T-shirt rumpled and stretched across his back. He didn’t look up as she stood in the doorway and peeled her coat off.
She was about to turn the light switch on, then, on second thought, decided against it. She approached him, murmuring soft words, one hand extended to caress his cheek.
At her touch he brushed her hand away and lurched up from the bed. In a low voice, he muttered, “I’ve been waiting for you, Aloka. Listen, I don’t want to go out to dinner, we need to talk.”
His coldness hit her like a swift punch to the belly. Short of breath, she propped her coat on the floor, which was totally out of character, and pulled a chair over. The screeching sound provided just the distraction she needed to partially regain her poise. He sat down at the edge of the bed, not opposite her but at an angle, and a little too far away.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.” He brushed his hair back with his fingers, a habit he displayed when he was unsure of himself. She noticed the hesitant fingers curling up. “I don’t think it’s working out between us, Aloka. Much as it hurts me, I’m moving out.”
“Moving out? But why?” The words came out thin and tinged with panic. She hadn’t faced such an enormous question in years, nor a more excruciating rejection. And this situation had sneaked up without advance notice. “True, we’ve had some rough times, as every couple does, but we’re finally settled here and we’re getting along fine.” She tried gamely to end the sentence on a cheery note.
“You might think so, but that’s certainly not true for me.” The grim pause that followed underlined his remark. “I haven’t found a new niche ever since I left Darjeeling. Here I merely exist, floating from activity to activity, but I keep most of me suppressed. It’s like I’ve lost mv compass. I must find it and get my direction back. And I can only do that on my own.”
She recalled a bit of advice Uncle Umesh had given her early on about the long narrow winding streets of her hilly hometown: If the direction you’re pursuing is the wrong one, then simply turn back and attempt a different route, but never lose sight of the ultimate destination. Growing up, she’d taken that as a guiding principle in life. But did Pranab really need such a philosophical answer? Was a lack of direction really the reason?
Now the question that had been bothering her a long time popped out of her mouth unbidden. “Is there someone else?” His silence was eloquent and slapped at her already agitated cheeks. She fought the urge to jump up and run out of the room; instead she pressed on. “I’m at a loss. Where did I fail, will you tell me?”
“It’s not really your fault,” he replied at length in a dispassionate tone. “Yes, as a matter of fact, there have been others on occasion, but they’re only a symptom. Our problems are deeper than that.”
She suppressed the rage that had displaced her initial feeling of shock and panic. “Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to hear you admit that? Would you at least give me the courtesy of explaining just exactly what those deeper reasons are?”
“I’m not the man you fell in love with, Aloka. Maybe I never was that man. Oh, yes, you saw some qualities in me that you liked, formed those into an idealized image, then worshiped that image. But you never had any idea how unhappy the real me was. My life has been reduced to a monotonous ticking of the heart, nothing more.” He swallowed hard and went on. “Sorry, but marrying you hasn’t given me the blissful life I’d hoped for. I don’t sleep well at night—I carry such a full load of sadness in me. The pain is even more unbearable in the daytime. But how can I expect you to understand that? You’re such a success.”
She swallowed the insult dripping from those words. He still hadn’t gotten around to the real reason. As she watched him slip his feet into his shoes and start tying the shoelaces, she realized she had little time left. “We’ve gone th
rough worse together and this is the first time you’re being open about it. It’s a good start. Maybe we can talk more and resolve the issues between us. There’s nothing we can’t resolve if we put our heads together, I really believe that. Shall we give it a try? I care so deeply about you, amaar priya. I’ve given you my all. Please don’t throw it away like this.”
“You’ve been wasting your love.” He raised his head from his shoes. “I don’t care to live with you anymore. The worst loneliness is when you’re with the wrong person, when you don’t care to speak.”
Wrong person. The words injured her worse than the blow of a newly sharpened ax, and brought with it a new suspicion. “I’m not the right woman, but Sujata is? What is it about her that—”
“You’re beyond reasoning. Please, get on with your life, Aloka, and let me get on with mine.”
Before her disbelieving eyes, he pivoted and started to stride out of the room. “Oh, please, Pranab! Don’t do this!” she stood up and implored him.
No turning, not even a mumble of a good-bye. The emptiness swirling around her offered the curtest reply. Now, even more inflamed, she wanted to shriek equally damaging words at his disappearing back: He wouldn’t be alive without her; he’d lived off her for years; how dare he call her the “wrong person” when in reality he hadn’t fulfilled his responsibilities as a husband at all. But the sounds remained trapped in her vocal cords, a swarm of frustrated bees buzzing in a confined area. She pressed her lips tight. She’d never stood up to him; that was not the way of a Hindu woman, and this one last time would be no different. However difficult, she would give him respect and honor his wish. The loss had so paralyzed her that suddenly it all seemed meaningless anyway. Standing there, hands clenching and unclenching, she watched the darkening sky weave a charcoal web on the window.
sixteen
Autumn 2000
As usual, this morning Suzy (these days she thought of herself as Sujata only in relation to her family in Darjeeling) looked out through her living room window at the jagged blue-gray pinnacles that rose above a bank of fog across the Juan de Fuca Strait. How small the Olympic Mountains seemed compared to the soaring drama of Kanchenjunga, the third highest peak in the world, the “roof that grazed heaven.” She hadn’t experienced a sunrise over that heavenly roof, the uplifting sight of red-orange grandeur spread over the eternity of blue, in far too many years now.
She went over to the desk of her home office. Sorting through yesterday’s mail, she came across a flimsy blue envelope with a Darjeeling address. Feeling a knot in her throat, she set it down. All of Grandma’s kind correspondence in these eight years couldn’t erase the fact that she’d sent Suzy to an exile in Victoria, British Columbia. Yet as she stared at the shaky script, she gradually began to feel the way she did as a five-year-old. In those days she had clutched the aanchal of Grandma’s sari and trailed along behind her, the demigoddess in whose exalted presence she felt safe and pampered.
Lifting the letter now, Suzy sensed this wasn’t one of Grandma’s little periodical notes, but rather that it was an announcement of some sort. What could it be? With a flick of a letter opener, she slit the envelope. She skimmed the pleasantries, then chuckled at Grandma’s comment on how Indian nursery rhymes were finally being changed: Mary and her little lamb had become Meera and her little cat. She scanned quickly until she found the pulse of the letter.
Whatever else I might forget, and I have forgotten plenty during the long days we’ve been apart, I will never misplace your sweet face in my heart. With your little hands in mine, I taught you how to walk.
Suzy smiled in relief. At least it wasn’t a funeral.
Throughout these past eight forlorn years, your touch has been with me. Might I now ask you to put your hand in mine one more time? Would you come home to celebrate my birthday on November 16? Come at least a week early so we can spend some time together before other guests arrive.
Suzy fell back in her chair limply. How could she return to Darjeeling?
She’d have to face Aloka, kneel before her father’s ashes, revisit a turbulent period of her life, and be cast back into the agony of her tragic affair with Pranab. He came dancing to her consciousness now, taller and larger than anyone she’d ever known, and never lacking in surprises. Her breasts still ached for the touch of his fingers. It made her ecstatic even now to remember how he had needed her with the desperation of a madman, a drunk, a drowning swimmer.
Her ecstasy was cut short by the realization that he was living with Aloka, apparently happily, while she was still single at thirty-six.
How shameful that must be for the Guptas. Grandma had been married at nineteen, Mother at twenty-two, and Aloka at thirty-three. How would Suzy return to the family-centered town without a mate? Aloka and Pranab, an amorous married couple, all starlight and sitar, would receive cordial glances of approval. Suzy, on the other hand, would get narrow, speculative looks from her kinsmen for being lone, separate, and unworthy.
Her mind raced through the excuses she would have to use to avoid the discomfort that awaited her there: illness, professional obligations, her apartment being broken into, even fear of earthquake in India.
None would appease Grandma.
The air in the room felt tyrannical. Suzy went over to the window, opened it wide, and savored the tangy breeze coming from the ocean across the avenue. The beagle from the next house barked. Fond memories of Darjeeling flashed before her: hillsides splashed with rhododendrons in brilliant purple and crimson; the three-note calls of the blue-throated barbets; mingled snippets of Hindi, Tibetan, Nepalese, and a dozen tribal dialects in the bazaar; fragrant wood smoke; the delicate tinkle of evening bells in the temple; tiny tea shops with their offer of scented mementos. She recalled one of the commonly uttered blessings in that hilly region: “May you climb from peak to peak.” Yet the very notion of seeing those peaks filled her with apprehension.
Should she call Aloka? Ties between them had the fragility of spun Sugar and none of its sweetness. And what if Pranab answered? Suzy sighed. Perhaps later.
The telephone rang. Suzy deliberated a moment, then picked up the receiver and was relieved when it turned out to be her assistant at her wholesale tea business. The young Janaki, who was also her niece, went by the name Jane.
“Good morning, Auntie,” Jane said. “It’s not been very busy. Only one new order has come.” She proceeded to give Suzy a roster of calls to return, then asked for instructions on how to set up the display room.
“It’s going to be an important demonstration,” Suzy told her. “We need to perk up sales. Use our best china and silverware. Make sure they’re spotlessly clean, but don’t match everything.”
“My sentiments exactly. It looks so institutional when everything matches,” Jane replied archly before hanging up.
Even though it was comforting to know that Jane was learning the business well, Suzy felt a whiff of guilt. How could she take time off for an extended period and thereby burden her young niece with extra responsibilities?
The wall clock read eleven-thirty. With a two P.M. tea demonstration looming, Suzy decided to wait until later to sort through the implications of Grandma’s summons. She returned the phone calls, lunched on freshly cooked rice and leftover labra. The spicy seven-vegetable stew redolent with anise seeds had sustained her since childhood. It was one of the few dishes she had mastered—she wasn’t much of a cook otherwise. Following lunch, she wrapped herself in a subtle lilac-blue silk sari. In this flowing garment she slowed down, floated through space, exhibited a softer side of herself.
On the way out, Suzy checked her reflection in the hall mirror. Rich black waves of long hair tied in the back framed the confident outline of her face. At thirty-six, Suzy could finally discern a presentable woman in the image she projected.
The beagle from the next house barked again and possibly danced around in jolly anticipation, as it always did when Suzy pulled out of the garage. On the weekend she would take the
dog out for a romp on the beach. Now she drove toward downtown Victoria. Her preferred route included James Bay Inn, several mom-and-pop grocery stores, and the National Museum. A Royal Blue Line motor coach approached from the opposite direction, taking sightseers on an excursion through the greenery and scenery of the greater Victoria area. Eight years ago, she had been such a tourist herself when, at Grandma’s behest, she had emigrated here and begun a new life. Uncle Kumud and his wife, who lived in the Fraser Valley, had provided financial and emotional assistance and treated her as their own daughter, thereby alleviating much of the initial loneliness. She had never felt more accepted and welcomed, or more determined to succeed. And living in this quaint island capital had helped. Neat and compact as a rosebud, Victoria exuded grace and gentility that suited her taste. Like Darjeeling, another popular resort, Victoria had learned to survive the annual hordes of summer tourists. The similarities made the exile bearable, even satisfying.
Suzy cruised by a branch of Scotia Bank. Soon after her arrival, her college degrees and previous banking experience had landed her a position here. For five years she kept her head down at her desk and accrued several pay increases and a promotion, all the while tolerating the stiff suits, pointless paperwork, measured conversations, and cubicles that confined her vision.
She arrived at 200 Bastion Square, a vintage brick building smothered by ivy. She parked in a parking space reserved for her and glanced up at the “Anytime Is Teatime” signboard above the entrance. Under the name was etched her trademark of a pair of tea leaves and a single bud. As soon as she’d become financially able, she’d struck out on her own. Over the last three years, she’d established a small wholesale business selling imported tea. Anyone searching under “Tea” in the Victoria Yellow Pages would have no trouble locating her; with her typical Gupta flair, she had taken out an eye-catching half-page advertisement for Anytime Is Teatime. In this city, fine tea expressed nuances of silk gloves, elaborate necklaces, ornate parlors, and discreet whispers. Suzy hoped to overcome that reputation and insinuate the beverage into the consciousness of the young and the hip as well as the staid segment of the society to whom coarser tea had long been a practice. Everyone should indulge in the pleasures of a light, lively, and health-giving cup of quality tea, Suzy often argued. Still, it hadn’t been easy. Most consumers didn’t want to pay an exorbitant amount for fine tea, as they would for fine food.
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