Still thrown a bit off balance by this unusual man, Suzy returned to her puli-pithas. She let her hunger rule her for the next few minutes. She felt lonely. She hadn’t expected to feel lonely at home.
“Oh, my, Mreenal-babu barely touched the naroos,” Reenu exclaimed as she picked up the plates. “And I made them just for him.” She stalked back toward the house in a huff.
The setting sun limned the mountain ridges with molten gold, even as the air took on an edge of chill. Soon the clouds would turn heavy and leaden. Suzy rose from her chair and returned to her room, where she kicked off her slippers and unpacked her laptop, then took a seat by the window. Time to dash off an e-mail to Eva, so far away in Victoria, yet at the moment just about the only person Suzy could relate to. Soon her fingers were tapping a staccato beat on the keyboard:
Dear Eva,
I’m watching an incredible golden sunset from my room, but my spirit is a sodden gray. After an absence of eight years, India seems slow and heavy, and a place to emote. I feel something or other every second I’m here. I am not as hard or callous to my family or my homeland as I thought I would be.
She went on to give Eva the news about the family and Mreenal, and signed off with:
The mountains steady me.
Lovingly, Suzy
thirty-three
At dawn, even as the last vestige of sleep enveloped her in a cozy cocoon, Nina sensed that Sujata was in the room. The girl didn’t make much noise, never had; yet Nina could feel her presence far more strongly than in the past.
She evoked the tempestuous afternoon when she’d broken up Sujata’s budding love affair with Pranab and sent her far away. In all the letters she and Sujata had exchanged since, neither Pranab nor the incident had ever been alluded to, but the skeletal remains of the issue were lying between them. Now, in response to the hushed, faint padding of bare feet audible from across the room, Nina opened her eyes wide.
Sujata was plunking some wildflowers and spiky leaves, a melee of grays, yellows, and evergreen, in a vase on the occasional table by the window. In the dim light filtering through the window shades, the usual topaz ring flashed on her finger. A dot of kumkum gleamed between her brows, drawing attention to eyes that were shaped like a pair of bamboo leaves. The sari that draped her lithe body was green with flashes of blue, her two most commonly worn childhood colors. One assertive braid was suspended stylishly over her right shoulder. How handsome Sujata had turned out to be.
“Thakurma! You’re awake.”
The girlish voice had been replaced by the pleasantly throaty feminine tone of a mature woman. Nina pushed aside the blanket, propped herself up, and stuffed a pillow behind her back. To think they would have a little time alone before the servants came in and friends and relatives bustled about. They had important matters to thrash out. She reached for Sujata’s yielding hand. “My golden girl. You’re up so early.”
With lightness and grace, Sujata switched on a table lamp and remained standing. “Thought I’d surprise you with some flowers, but I should have known you’d be up early, too.”
Sujata’s tone was upbeat and musical, her attentive face radiated goodwill, and their exchanges, so far, had been cordial. Still Nina wondered if she’d been forgiven.
“For someone my age, just waking up is a miracle,” Nina began. “A new day pops out of the sky and I’m grateful to be able to dip into its treasury of hours, minutes, and seconds. Don’t worry about me; I’ll be just fine. Dr. Malaviya sends a junior doctor here to check my progress every morning. Toru and Reenu have been making sure I take my medicine, and now you’re here. What more could an old girl ask? So, my dear, how does it feel to be back home?”
Sujata pulled a chair up to the bed and for the next hour poured out the details of her life in Victoria. Impressive story, Nina mused, as she listened and watched. Sujata’s allure was that of a rare bloom in the desert, sprouting despite harsh conditions and many times more striking because of it. Classic beauty was an ornament Sujata didn’t need. Her dynamism gave her a sort of beauty. But she hadn’t mentioned Pranab at all. Nina wanted to wait, but her ill health carried with it a flag of urgency and she must speak her heart.
“You know, Sujata, 1 do have a regret concerning you, perhaps the biggest in my entire life; certainly it’s been the one that has hurt me the most.”
“What is it, Thakurma?” A little frown creased Sujata’s smooth forehead.
“It was a mistake on my part to ask you to break up with Pranab.”
“Mistake?”
“In retrospect, you were a better match for Pranab than Aloka. Why did I have to get in between you two? Pranab saw so much in you that he risked it all—his engagement to Aloka, his position at the tea estate, his family’s reputation, not to mention our approval. When a man risks his all, it’s true love. Why didn’t I recognize it at the time?”
Sujata’s body went rigid. She stared off into the distance, visibly struggling to maintain her composure. “Don’t you think it’s a bit cruel to speak about it now, Thakurma? I paid for your mistake dearly.”
Nina could tell that there had been many a tear, many solitary evenings and sleepless nights over that weighty decision, and though Sujata had wisely walked away from her remembrance, she had had a difficult time letting go of her resentment toward her grandmother.
“I have paid for it, too, Sujata. Much of my enjoyment of my life has been leached away as a result. I haven’t forgiven myself. I blamed you for breaking up the family, but it was I who did it.”
Nina paused as a welter of emotion raged behind her eyes. In the silence she heard a faint voice chanting “Hare Gouranga.” It was the cook singing exaltation to a deity in the kitchen, as was his practice every morning before starting work, so his dishes would turn out pure and nourishing. He never failed in his duties, but she had failed in hers.
A strained silence descended. Nina watched as Sujata turned her attention back to the room and shrugged. So typical of Gupta women, who were trained to consider others.
“Please don’t cry, Thakurma. It’s not good for your health. You did what you believed was the best at the time. You had to get me out of the way so Aloka could marry Pranab, and to protect our family name.”Once I got settled in Canada,” Sujata launched forth, “it was like I had a rebirth. And my life has been full ever since. Actually, in some ways, I’m grateful to you for giving me a chance to start over. It’s because of you my life is what it is today.”
Nina looked at the glaring light that was now flooding through the window, banishing the gloom to the far corners of the wall. “Have you heard from Pranab?”
“Yes, he has written to me.”
“I got word from his mother that he arrived last night. She said he’d call this morning. But remember, Sujata, time can’t he reversed.”
“I’m the one to decide that, Thakurma.”
Though Sujata asserted this, douht flickered across her face, and in that moment Nina grasped the situation: A lost love, now in tattered clothing, had found its way back. Sujata, who still idealized the memory, was having difficulty recognizing it.
“I’m sure,” Nina said, “Aloka wants to get hack together with Pranab again.”
“So that’s what you’re after.” Sujata’s words came ont sharp and loud. She stood up. “Would you stop messing around with our lives?”
Without warning, a sharp pain shot through Nina’s chest, lasted a second, and disappeared. She blanched, then recovered and rubbed her chest discreetly underneath the covers; then, feeling her heart palpitating, she slid down gingerly beneath the covers. “Time for my nap.”
Sujata tucked the comforter around Nina and gazed at her. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have kept you up so long. And I shouldn’t he yelling. We’ll pick this up later, okay?”
Reenu tiptoed in, looked around, and, after ascertaining that she wasn’t interrupting, announced in a cheery voice, “Mreenal-babu just called.” Then, addressing Sujata, “He asked me to tell you that he’ll
be here tomorrow at nine.”
At the sound of Mreenal’s name, Sujata uplifted her chin slightly. She indicated her assent to Reenu with the barest nod and the maidservant backed out of the room quickly.
Even in her plight, Nina couldn’t help but react. She nestled her cheek on the pillow and observed coyly, “So, Mreenal’s coming tomorrow.”
Sujata fussed with the tassel of her sari. If she appeared a bit irritated at this comment, Nina ignored that and went on. “I do like that boy. I’m sorry again, Sujata. Can’t I do anything right? I wanted to introduce you informally to a nice man. Then I find out that a marriage proposal is waiting for him in Calcutta. Who knows what’ll come of that? My guess is he’s caught between his duty toward his parents and his own wishes.”
“It doesn’t matter, Thakurma. Pranab’s back.”
“Sujata! I’m warning you!”
“This time I’m not going to listen.”
Nina watched as Sujata slipped out the door with angry, purposeful steps.
thirty-four
Sitting at her office desk, Aloka sorted through the mail. Only one week remained before her departure for Darjeeling. Her last two columns were due by the end of the day. She flipped rapidly through the cards first, encountering the usual assortment of announcements and notifications. It pleased her to receive these invitations each week from her readers, but however generous they were, as Seva she couldn’t attend any function. She tried to imagine who sent her the birth announcement, and came up with an overextended young mother who skipped breakfast but somehow stole a few minutes from her eventful day to scan the “Ask Seva” column.
She opened a gift box from a fan, discovering a gilded bookmark and some chocolate nuggets. Remembering the extra pounds she was still working to shed, she pushed the box to the farthest corner of her desk. Then she picked up a letter. The well-formed, even stylish script in blue ink became progressively more cramped and downward slanting as it neared the end of the page. She could sense the frustration lurking in the writer.
I went home after ten years and no one could recognize me. At first I assumed it had to do with my putting on twenty pounds and losing my hair.
To hide my embarrassment 1 switched from Hindi to English, thinking my family would praise me for getting rid of my accent. Also, since I had been taking acting lessons, my gestures were smoother, more controlled, and I thought they would surely notice that, too.
Instead my aunt asked, “Is this really our Biju?”
Everyone around was too polite to comment that I had changed physically, but my aunt added, ‘You used to pronounce the word ‘nothing’ the way we do, kind of tongue-heavy. Now you seem to speak from the top of your head and don’t gesture with your hands.”
“Did you have a ‘rebirth’?” my sister whispered. She’d read about such things in an American magazine.
I sat there, cringing. They were reacting to my new self, even as they searched for the young adult they remembered.
Yes, this is a new me: Actor Biju. The changes are, however, external. I am the same person, and I want to be accepted by my family just like before. I wonder if that’s even possible:
Disappointed in Delhi
Aloka put the letter down, pushed her chair back from the computer monitor, rolled her shoulders, and considered the roles she herself played, flipping back and forth between being Seva to her readers, Parveen to Jahar, and Aloka to others. The realization came to her that with each assumed identity, she had welcomed strangers into her boundaries and possibly made strangers out of some she was already acquainted with.
Resolving to address this issue of multiple role-playing in one of her two last columns, she began to peck at the keyboard. In the lead paragraph she gave a highlight of this week’s happenings: a chess competition, the screening of a new Telegu box-office hit in Queens, the launching of a new E-zine for Indian music lovers. She followed that with a personal note:
A letter from one of you has got me thinking: how, when living away from home, we take on new identities. This we do to fulfill a job requirement, to be accepted at a workplace, or simply to stretch our selves. As immigrants we have tremendous freedom to do so. When we land here, few people know us or notice us, and the family doesn’t hover in the background. We can be who we want to be, not only during the daytime, but also during our spare hours.
There you are, Ayesha, dropping your salwar suit and dupatta and putting on a skirt because you’ve always wanted to. You, Kumar, crooning a country-western song at the top of your lungs rather than kirtan. You, Vineet, Kripal, Ajay, and Resham, setting your briefcases aside in the evening and dashing out the door. You want to be a storyteller, do origami, go climb a mountain, or volunteer for the Sierra Club.
This new you is your creation. You must care for it. Be aware (as the reuder’s letter points out) that the family you left behind safekeeps only the old you in their memory bank. Your new self may seem fraudulent to them.
This is a risk we take when we leave home. You may never again be fully recognizable to those you love the most. For an immigrant, renewal is the constant state of being.
Aloka got up from the desk, stretched up her arms, downed a large glass of water, then proceeded to wade into the rest of the mail. Most didn’t, require an answer; her readers simply wanted to express what was on their minds. She paused over the one that began:
I am a street musician by trade.
Immediately a street singer came to Aloka’s mind. She had heard about an Indian-American man who sang equally well in Hindi, Bengali and Marathi on street corners in Manhattan. Just two weeks ago on a Saturday, on the way to run an errand, she had been stopped by snatches of a well-known Bengali beat, “Dakbo Na, Dakbo Na.” I Will Not Call You Anymore.
A Bengali love song in the center of Manhattan? Her curiosity heightened, she turned to see a sizable assembly of mostly Indian-Americans standing three-deep around a musician. She wiggled her way through the tightly packed bodies to get a closer view. The singer, who appeared to be in his forties, seemed content as he crooned the conventional lyric of unrequited love. Halfway through the final refrain, Aloka spotted a familiar face, equally enraptured.
It was Pranab, nearly unrecognizable in a ski cap pulled down low on his forehead. He was moving his lips silently, in sync with the singer’s, his face smooth and handsome, a change from the past few years. Aloka stared at him, expecting to cut through his trance and perhaps to receive an acknowledging glance in return—after all, they used to sing the very same song as a duet—but he seemed oblivious to her presence. As the music ended and the crowd thinned, Aloka purposefully looked up at Pranab again. He dropped a few dollars in the musician’s hat and walked away.
Why didn’t he recognize her? Had she changed so much? Does an altered destiny make one over?
Aloka puzzled over that issue once again as she picked up the street musician’s letter:
You’re probably wondering how this humble man makes a living and why any respectable Indian would work as a mere street artist. Or, perhaps, like my sister, you feel pity for me. “If not a doctor, a scientist, or a Silicon Valley mogul,” she advises her children, “at least be a Wall Street broker.” I am achirgly aware of how our community boasts of producing the most professionals of any immigrant group.
But mine is not a bad life. As I play my flute, sing a Hindi film hit, and draw a group of passersby close around me, I feel as though I’m back in Calcutta, Delhi, or Jaipur. The streets are the same everywhere. True, you’ll find no paan juice splattered on Manhattan sidewalks, but you’ll notice people rushing about, making contacts, and searching for meaning. Some are jerks, others civil, most simply surviving, just like folks in India. Even here the streets belong to the common people.
As I finish my song, I watch pedestrians drop a few coins in my hat, then stoop to pick up a copy of Manhattan, India from the corner newspaper box. I’ll bet they can’t wait to get home and dig into your column. You see, dear Seva, like yo
u I understand the habits of humanity.
Do stop by when you have a chance,
From the corner of Fifty-sixth and Third
Aloka made a decision: She would devote an entire article in the future to the wide variety of occupations taken up by her readers.
Now it was time to compose her last column. Unbidden, a subject came to mind and her fingers flew over the keyboard. She announced to her readers her forthcoming trip to India and gave the exact dates of her absence. She concluded with:
We immigrants live to return home. Our savings of a dollar here and a dollar there go toward that sweetest of goals. We think of our families in India when we pick up the newspaper, when we bump into a desi in the subway, even as we engage in the mundane task of whirling lentil batter in the blender. We live in a “here and there” mode, instinctively comparing all our experiences in the States with the previous ones at home. “Milk tastes better in India,” a man once told me, although, I found out later, he had never taken dairy there.
If we’re putting in extra hours at work, it is often as much to prove ourselves to those we have left behind as to impress our bosses here. There exists no happier phrase in our vocabulary than “I’m going back to India.” You’re never more envied in the community. “Eat some rosmadhuri for me,” your best friend whispers in your ear; “Bring me back a jar of Ganga water,” an elderly neighbor implores; “I wish I could leave this mess behind and go with you,” a colleague mutters.
We don’t care so much about what will be new there but what is still as we remember it. Auntie with her toothless smile, the shoeshine boy who bugged us every time we passed him on the sidewalk, the three-deep jostling mob at the bus stop, and the triumph of securing a seat in the 2B bus All will be there, we hope.
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