“I got an order from Brandywine Delicatessen.” Eva poured coffee from a Braun machine into two gilt-edged white mugs. “Two hundred aprons for their caterers.”
“Fantastic.” Suzy placed her hand over Eva’s wrist. “A real break for you.”
“I’ll have to hire extra stitchers,” she said excitedly, then held up a fabric sample and reviewed the design she had been visualizing. Then, as though embarrassed to be so enthusiastic, she put the fabric aside and asked brusquely, “How do you like the coffee?”
“You make a wonderful cup. What kind of a blend is this?”
“It’s Peruvian. Nothing like your ginger chai, though.”
“Oh, that! That’s my grandmother’s recipe. She called this morning, you know. After she’d hung up, I kept thinking about the stories she used to tell Aloka and me, and somehow I got lost in those years.”
“You’ll be seeing your sister soon, won’t you?”
Suzy nodded, then looked away, her eyes settling on an aggregation of invoices on the shelf.
“Why not give her a jingle? You have a good excuse now, after your grandmother’s call.”
Eva’s comment, quiet and natural, came as a complete surprise and damp ened Suzy’s falling spirits even further. Call Aloka? Whatever for? She pulled her eyes up to a lite-sized woman’s dress pattern, serving as a decoration on the wall.
“You’re trying to avoid her,” Eva said. “I know how your mind works. Don’t be foolish! I waited too long to call my aunt after our big argument. By the time I did, she was in intensive care and we never did have that talk.”
“I never told you, did I, Eva, that Aloka is perfect?”
“You’re stalling, you know.” Eva surged to her feet.
Suzy stood up, too. This was vintage Eva: Drop a hint, create an atmosphere, then leave the conversational thread dangling, only to pick it up at a later time after both parties had had an opportunity to go over what had been said. Still, Suzy had to admit to herself that Eva perfectly grasped the crux of the matter. “See you this afternoon,” Suzy said.
She departed from Eva’s shop and wandered out. With the sun warming her back, she strolled down the street, stopping at B&E Food Market for milk and paper towels, neither of which she needed badly, before finding her way back to her car. An image of Aloka circled her mind as she drove.
Looking back, Suzy realized she hadn’t been a loving sister to Aloka. She was the one to blame for a rupture in their closeness. But then, how could you be close to someone who was so perfect in her looks and manners and so talented? Suzy derived an almost perverse pleasure knowing that Pranab had turned away from perfection.
How betrayed Aloka must have felt. How that must have bled her a drop at a time.
And yet, Suzy believed that Aloka would eventually forgive her. Aloka had that quality of magnanimity, a nobility of spirit that made her believe in the ultimate goodness in people. She would extend her long, marble-smooth limbs to hug Suzy and mean it when she would say, “I’ve never stopped thinking about you.” Aloka never forgot anybody.
Perhaps it was not yet too late, perhaps they could reconstruct a caring attachment. It could even start with the fulfillment of their childhood fantasy of visiting Grandma’s birthplace, the village of Malipore, with its constant mild breeze, bowing guava trees, and simple people who went barefoot as they tended the rice paddies. Arranging such a trip would unify the sisters in a common goal. A joyous feeling of expectation tempered with anxiety waved through Suzy.
Back at her apartment, she forced herself to walk up to the phone table. The older sister should call first, that was the Bengali custom. This time, Suzy needed to initiate the contact, and she should do so before her newly born courage deserted her. She ran her fingers down her waist-length hair, an act that usually imbued her with a flutter of power but right now merely made her aware of how panicky she was.
It would be midafternoon in New York. Suzy had no idea how Aloka spent her weekends, since they called each other only on special occasions. On the last New Year’s Day, they had heaped wishes of health, prosperity, and longevity on each other, but never went beyond that. Today, however, Suzy would convey to her sister how regretful she was for not staying attuned, how much she looked forward to their getting together in Darjeeling and catching up on the events in their lives, while sharing a pot of ginger chai. Suzy wouldn’t talk about Pranab’s letter, even though the beige envelope was peeking out from a side table.
Heart thudding, her throat dry as a desert on midday, Suzy looked up Aloka’s number in her address book and, after a final moment of hesitation, punched the buttons. The phone kept buzzing at the other end in a forlorn, insistent monotone, while Suzy impatiently twisted the cord around her finger. After six rings she heard Aloka’s musical voice on the line and cheerily put in, “Hi, Aloka, it’s me, bontee.”
She had hoped for an enthusiastic greeting in return. Hadn’t Aloka always treated the telephone line as a friendly messenger? Instead there ensued a long, prickly pause, then Aloka began to make the usual polite inquiries about Suzy’s health and the state of her business. Was her tea company making a bigger profit this year than the last? Suzy detected the hint of a sneer, or perhaps she imagined it, and shifted the topic.
“Do you know Grandma called me this morning? She sounded as chipper as ever. Her call got me to wondering. Do you think we could go to Malipore together? Just for a couple of days. We always talked about it, but never did visit the place.”
“Go where? What are you talking about?”
Now, even more subdued, Suzy asked, “How’s Pranab?” Instantly she regretted the words.
“Why don’t you tell me? You know better than I do.”
Suzy felt the weight of a hatchet on her chest. So, Pranab was the cause of Aloka’s frostiness. Aloka, still acting possessive after her divorce, still wanting Pranab back. Oh, no, not again. It should be Suzy’s turn now. Suzy was equally entitled to love him. So, Aloka, wouldn’t you kindly step aside?
The receiver still in her hand, Suzy leaned against the wall. She had managed to ruin this opportunity. She had failed to appease Aloka. Furthermore, with Pranab between them once again, there remained little hope for reconciliation once they both reached home. After a quiet period, Suzy made some feeble excuses—“Must go food shopping, it’s Saturday”—and terminated the conversation. She didn’t sound convincing even to herself.
There was only a sharp click at the other end.
twenty-eight
On this Saturday afternoon, Aloka vacuumed underneath the bed—the first time since discovering that accursed letter—and, as her ears became attuned to the grumbling roar of the machine, she brooded about Sujata’s phone call. Bhoot, stupid ghost, she had once shouted in childhood anger when Sujata accidentally knocked over her favorite clay elephant, breaking it into pieces. That had been the worst expression in Aloka’s vocabulary then.
The same fury stirred up inside Aloka again. What really was the purpose behind bhoot’s call this morning? Had Pranab mailed that letter after all? He must have. Bhoot’s telephone call certainly had all the earmarks of a triumphant declaration.
Aloka dusted the bedroom furniture ferociously, admitting at last that Pranab had cheated her. What a hellish laugh those two must have had at her blindness. Come to think, Sujata was ready to play the same game again.
Sujata, her very own sister. But then, Aloka hadn’t been blessed with genuine sibling affection in a long time. There had always been sticky dark issues between them, not the clarity that emanates from a close bond. Aloka believed she was lovable, everyone said so—everyone, that is, except her own sister. Detached, unfathomable, and sulky, Sujata resembled a mountain range that appeared close, protective, and kindly, when in reality it was chilly, harsh, and miles away.
This morning, despite Sujata’s mysterious presence all around her, Aloka kept up with the cleaning, fluffing every pillow and giving the oven a once-over. In two hours she finished her
chores. Even the brass tray stationed on the coffee table gleamed and the plumeria spilling out of a vase gave off a fresh scent. By now her quadriceps had cramped, her fingernails were lined with soot, she perspired profusely, and she’d managed to put bhoot aside in her mind.
The mail came. The sight of a blue aerogram, a missive of news and affection from Grandma, exhilarated Aloka. Only two more weeks before leaving for home, and still Grandma had taken the trouble to drop a note, and this despite the fact that the woman didn’t see too well these days. Aloka took the stack of mail up the staircase to her living room, perched on a chair, shoved the bills aside, and opened Grandma’s letter with cheery expectation.
Cousin Murty called to say that my old village now has a special booth for video e-mail. Imagine having such new technology in a place where just a short time ago there wasn’t any electricity and people went barefoot. It costs only a few rupees to get an e-mail address. All the more useful, as only a small number of Indian villages have long distance phone service and a good connection is nearly impossible. The first person to attempt e-mailing in my village was a young woman who had never before seen a computer. As the woman walked inside the booth and seated herself in front of the Hindi keyboard, an operator showed her how to punch the keys. At first the woman tried holding on to her veil with one hand so she could see enough and keep her face covered at the same time. But soon she pulled the veil away from her face entirely. She punched a message to her brother in Calcutta, urging him to come home ƒor Durga Puja (this year it ƒell on October 4) and pressed the “Send” key. The moment “Your message has been sent”, ƒlashed on the screen, the people queuing outside applauded her, “Shabash, shabash.”
Usual social commentary by Grandma. Engaging, uplifting, and invariably leading up to something. Aloka went to the next section of the aerogram.
Computers intimidate me. Or else I’d have gotten one to figure out what the neighborhood children are saying when they gush about their, favorite website Rediƒƒ.com, and, what’s more important, to keep in contact with you and Pranab on a more regular basis.
You see, my dear, I am very worried. In the last six months I haven’t sensed Pranab’s presence in your letters. Beƒore you always mentioned how he had just teased you, tousled your hair, or was waiting to take you out. This time he simply didn’t exist.
Will he be coming with you to Darjeeling? It could all be my imagination, still, please have him phone me right away to let me know that he is well. At my age, I don’t believe in letters, fax, or e-mail I only believe it when I hear a human voice.
Aloka’s stomach twisted. She hadn’t spoken with him since Pranab’s brief visit to retrieve his misplaced love letter to her sister. Prior to that, at least once a week one or the other had called. This time it was her turn to stay in touch, and though she dwelled on him often, she had put it off. However, with this request from Grandma banging at her door, it was imperative that she contacted Pranab.
She rose and picked up her leather-bound address book from her desk, then, after a moment’s reflection, put it down. It would be best to have a face-to-face contact with him. That was what Parveen would do—startle a man by her unexpected appearance and her outrageous attire; win him over by her generous smile.
Aloka went to her dressing table, where she dusted powder on her face, lined her eyes with charcoal eyeliner, and drew a persimmon-shade lipstick across her lips. Then she peeked into her closet and selected a showy gold-trimmed purple wool dress with a ruffled hemline, a dress that had languished at the back of her closet for years. She complemented the attire with a purple scarf whose sensuous folds fell in waves over her chest. With luxurious strokes, she combed her black hair with its curly ends until it gave off a smooth, natural shine. She sensed the faint stirrings of anticipation inside her as she peered into the mirror: Parveen was ready.
Aloka traipsed down the stairs and emerged onto the street. Her destination—Brooklyn—was a short subway ride away, just across the Brooklyn Bridge. As she drifted toward the subway station, she became overjoyed at the prospect of exploring a new area. Come to think of it, she’d spent long weekends in the Bahamas and Puerto Rico, but had yet to venture into New York’s most populous borough right next door to Manhattan. Brooklyn had been receiving much press lately for its parks, restaurants, museums, and promenades, as well as for the joys of bird-watching. Also, Aloka admitted her great curiosity about where Pranab made his new home.
She got off the subway and strolled a few block, squinting up at street names and house numbers, then figuring out that Pranab resided just beyond the park that now stretched before her. She sailed into the park, a spread of grass with veins of pathways and sprawling trees standing like open umbrellas. An old man bent stiffly to pick up a newspaper from the ground. A Chi Gung practitioner gracefully raised his hands above his head, as though attempting to draw force from heaven. Under an immense tree a man danced alone to the accompaniment of a tape deck, his legs flying, his arm making a circle overhead with an imaginary stick. Aloka instantly recognized the leap, the vigor, and the staccato tabla beat as hailing from India’s folk tradition in commemoration of a new season. She was about to move on when he spun around in her direction. She froze midstep.
Pranab. Dancing.
Aloka gasped in shock. To be sure, Pranab had always had well-muscled legs—she still remembered their weighty touch vividly—and an innate sense of rhythm; still, it was hard to imagine the cerebral man expressing his heart’s lyrics through his limbs. The Pranab she had been married to lived through his vocal cords and his intellect.
She stood behind a waist-high bush and watched his movements flow out of him; she felt the vibrations in her own body. His eyes met hers at one point, but they displayed no sign of recognition. Then, as the drumbeats tapered off, he stopped abruptly and grabbed a tree branch for support. His glasses fell off as he lurched to a halt.
“Aloka!” Chest heaving from the exertion, he called out, “What are you doing here?”
She approached him, the ruffled golden hem of her skirt rippling. She stooped and picked up his glasses, then pressed them into his hand, masking her surprise with a tone of compliment. “I came to see you perform.”
He put the glasses on, smoothed his shirt, turned off the music, and examined her face closely, as if searching for any hint of mockery. There was a new openness in him as he leaned toward her. The dance must have drawn long-buried emotions from his interior. His voice seemed to drop an octave and thicken when he finally spoke. “You look so new, so alive. I see a special brightness in your eyes.”
She felt quite triumphant as she recalled that a long time ago, on the trails of Darjeeling, a discussion about light had gotten them started. Perhaps those carefree days could be re-created. “Glad I ran into you—I finally got to see you dance.” Leavening her voice with seriousness, she added, “I just got a letter from Thakurma. She’s worried because I haven’t written much about you lately. As you know, she’s very perceptive. She wants to hear from you.”
“So, you haven’t told your family yet?”
“I want to tell them face-to-face, it’ll be too much of a shock otherwise. Do your parents know already?”
He nodded solemnly. “The news travels fast in India. They’ve already called me; they’re very sorry, you know.” Beneath the gigantic tree, in the twilight that was creeping in, Pranab cut a lonely figure, lessened by his uncertainties. A gust of wind batted a stray lock of graying hair across his forehead. “It seems they’ve been sorry ever since I got here,” he observed.
Aloka was aware that Pranab’s family had been concerned about his lackluster performance in America, not to mention his cynicism about his adopted country. When children go abroad, especially to America, family expectations run high. Parents wait for the sons and daughters to return with degrees, honors, dollars, and loads of presents. And yet, Pranab shouldn’t be made to feel ashamed.
She mumbled, “It’s never too late.”
&n
bsp; “I remember you saying that we came here to get a fresh start. And you did get yours. You have a loving and courageous heart. You’ll do well anywhere.”
Only moments ago he was dancing beneath a transparent sky and the luxurious expanse of trees, leaping into the air and trusting the earth. “I enjoyed your dance, Pranab. It’s the last thing I thought you’d do.”
“This park has saved me. Actually it’s the dance that has saved me.”
She began to get a glimpse of why he danced—it wasn’t just entertainment. He was seeking a source of inspiration, a source that would reawaken his potential. The joyous energy expressed through dancing reflected his considerable inner power. Here in Brooklyn, it was his dance, and only his dance, that involved him completely. Too late she was discovering that there was more to the man than she’d believed.
At the same time she grew more hopeful. Yes, she could help heal his attitude. He could succeed in life. They could return to their earlier days of bliss.
He picked up the tape deck. “This music is old, from when I first started dancing.”
“But,” she said hesitantly, “you never told me.”
“There would have been no point. I stopped even before I left Darjeeling.”
Why had he given up a hobby he held so dear and at which he was obviously talented? Did it have to do with Sujata? An impenetrable, secretive look on Pranab’s face confirmed Aloka’s suspicion. When Sujata left Darjeeling, she took his dancing with her. At that instant Aloka had a revelation. Late at night, in deep sleep, when one is immersed in one’s truth, she would curl up against Pranab and hear the uneven thump of his chest, as though a deep longing from within him wanted to manifest itself. That longing, Aloka could see plainly now, was for Sujata. The longing that had caused so much suffering for so many and ultimately destroyed a marriage.
Darjeeling Page 19
