Tulip Season

by Bharti Kirchner

  Staring at the picture, Mitra could now see the resemblance between her father and Kareena, as though a fog had just lifted from the landscape. Look at that fluff of hair above the short forehead and the dome-shaped eyelids. Gazing into the gilded mirror, Mitra saw her thick hair rising from the same forehead, but didn't find similarly shaped eyelids. Scrutinizing the entire photo collection from many angles, she concluded that Kareena resembled their father more than she did. In the last picture, Father, then in his thirties, beamed from beneath a bushy moustache and a broad genial smile. If her head ever whispered any doubts about Kareena's lineage, they'd been vanquished by these photos.

  Mitra moved away from the dresser. She couldn't help but go over the first and only conversation with Mother about Dimple Sinha, Father's first wife. Mother would like nothing better than to forget the second-rate actress of yesteryear. Blessedly, Mother didn't know Kareena's last name: Sinha.

  Even if Mother stood face-to-face with Kareena and experienced her sunlit personality, she might not be willing to embrace her into their family. That'd take time.

  Mitra heard footsteps. Mother might push the door open, peer at the untouched bed, barge in, and catch her not taking a nap.

  She crept into the cool low bed, stretched out, and covered herself with the soft, elephant-print spread. The whisper-quiet ceiling fan whirled at full speed. Her stiff back welcomed the horizontal comfort. She lay awake.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  AN HOUR LATER, Mitra strolled down Gariahat market where a feeling of festivity prevailed. Stalls lining the sidewalk offered a dizzying assortment of goods. She spotted scarves, contraceptives, leather sandals, candles, and regional newspapers in all thirteen languages. The air brimmed with a brew of gasoline and diesel exhaust, mitigated by the fragrance of jasmine from flower stands. Kareena loved to amble around shops. She'd be amazed by the finds here.

  Although dressed in a cap-sleeved gauzy shirt, jeans, and sandals, with her hair pinned back, Mitra found the afternoon heat biting her skin and high humidity sapping her strength. A blond tourist just ahead of her glanced about in bewilderment. He might have been wondering if a gigantic clearance sale was going on. But Mitra knew from experience this was just another afternoon in Gariahat.

  The throng moved along the sidewalk at a leisurely pace, too leisurely for Mitra's Westernized temperament. A glimpse of a denim boutique, and she was dazzled by the shades borrowed from the sky in all its many moods. Seated on a stool at the store entrance, a sleepy clerk saw her eying the merchandize and flagged her down.

  “Why don't you come inside and have a look, madam?”

  “I'm from the States. We have plenty of jeans back there.”

  “But we make your jeans. Our factory mass-produces them on a twenty-four-seven schedule.” He flashed a self-satisfied grin and pointed inside. “Why not buy direct and save? I'll offer you a most reasonable price. Would you care to join me for a cup of tea?”

  Standing on the sidewalk, Mitra was crafting appropriate words of refusal in her head when a buzzing blue-and-white motor scooter on the road brushed her back from the curb. She stood for one trembling moment, watching the slowing scooter, unnerved by the near miss, and shaken by a vortex of wind. The leather-jacketed man on the driver's seat had a jhola on his left shoulder. Behind him was a helmet-less woman, her arms around his waist. Could it be? Seen from behind, it was the same head, shoulders, and back. Could it be? The purple salwar-suit would be Kareena's style.

  Mitra had found her. Her heart palpitated; her body was electrified. She stood on her toes, raised an arm, and called out, “Kareena!”

  The scooter thundered away. Mitra rushed after it in a near-daze, even as it dipped out of sight, only to collide with an elderly man.

  “Didn't God give you eyes?” he said in a voice seething with anger. “Are you drunk?”

  She offered apologies, then pushed on through the crowd. She looked to the distance to the wave of purple. It vanished, it mocked.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  LATER IN THE SAME AFTERNOON, standing by the kitchen counter, Mitra watched Mother as she tossed chanachur on the stove, her spoon sliding across the wok-like karai with a rhythmic scraping sound. The air in the kitchen throbbed with the perfume of red chilies. The nut-and-legume mix would complement their afternoon tea perfectly.

  Mitra experienced a residue of sorrow on her palate from spotting Kareena earlier today and not being able to get hold of her. But then she remembered another option.

  “Ma, is your neighbor Naresh coming over?”

  “Tomorrow.” Mother looked amused. “Not soon enough? Have you forgotten? You can't be in a hurry in Kolkata. This is now a tech hub, but we still have an eighteen-month year.”

  Frustrated, Mitra switched the topic. “Did you finish the novel you read last night? How did you like it?”

  Mother set bone-china teacups with an orange-flower motif on the table. She opened the refrigerator and got out a platter of fresh pineapple slices. “The first twenty pages were beautifully written. It got boring after that. I know how to spice it up a smidgeon.”

  “I know you do. All the books you've read, if you lined them up, they'd fill this flat, this entire building, and overflow into the street all the way to Hazra.”

  Mother tossed the brownish mixture on the stove faster and faster. She inspected her fingertips, examining if spices had discolored her nails. She did this when she needed extra time to ponder.

  “I don't just read them,” Mother said. “I rewrite them in my mind, play with the plotline. For instance, this situation with your friend—it needs a fresh look, an alternative plotline.”

  “Are you saying you're going to help me, Ma, with fresh ideas?”

  “Yes, I am. I haven't done much for you. I sent you away at a young age. Now I want to be there for you.” She took the cast-iron karai off the stove, her hands quaking and veins protruding with the weight. “So, do we have a case together?”

  Mitra leaned forward and extended a hand toward her. “Yes, Sherlock, we're partners.”

  Mother cracked a smile, a rare big one, and grasped Mitra's hand. “I already have so many ideas. But I might not tell you everything ahead of time.”

  She slid a gold-rimmed porcelain teapot to the center of the table. They grabbed two chairs. Mother poured with care, a full cup for Mitra and a half cup for herself. “As a starter, we could catch a Jay Bahadur film this evening.”

  “You mean something of his is playing?”

  “Yes, a film that opened a short while ago. He produced, directed, acted, and wrote it, not all of it well. The film, She's a Cutie, has bombed. Even though the title is in English, it's been shot entirely in Hindi. It's showing in one theater only. Would you like to see it?”

  Mitra nodded. She clued Mother in about Arnold, her “sherpa” taxi driver. Never mind his high-pressure sales pitch, maybe she should hire him for their evening out.

  “The subway would be better. You breathe less polluted air. But I'll let you hire that character.” Mother rose. “Oh, I just remembered, I have to call my dhobi. Excuse me a moment.” She disappeared to the living room, leaving Mitra wondering why she had to call her laundryman.

  Mitra picked at the snack mix. Mother returned and slid back into her seat. “The dhobi will be here shortly,” she said. “He's delivering clothes next door. They all have cellphones now.”

  “Why did you need to speak with him?”

  “He lives near Sonargaon. I saw in a magazine interview that Jay Bahadur was born in that village.”

  “Where is it located? Is it one of the more prosperous villages?”

  “It is north of here, about an hour's train ride. Prosperous? No. They don't have enough plumbing, only a few television sets, no street light, and you can't find pure water. Kids quit school by Class Eight and go to work in the fields.”

  “How can the dhobi help us?”

  “Believe it or not, he doesn't just wash clothes,” Mother added. “He has othe
r talents. He used to be a gossip reporter for a film magazine. You'll hear the details directly from him. Speak with him and establish a rapport. He'll open up with you, since you're from America. He loves Americans.”

  Mother excused herself and went to the bedroom. Mitra gathered her sweat-stained travel clothes. Hearing a pounding at the door, Mitra went and asked who it was.

  A man hollered, “The dhobi, madam.”

  Mitra pulled the door open and assessed the man standing there, balancing a bundle of wrapped clothing on his head. Neat and restrained in appearance, with shining olive-black eyes and weathered brown face, he was dressed in a short sleeve shirt. He looked to be pushing the half-century mark, yet his eyes were full of mischief. She waved him in.

  “Namaskar.” He folded his hand at chest level in traditional greeting and smiled through his paan-stained ruby teeth. Tattooed on his right arm was the word “Om.” His frosty-white shirt contrasted with his walnut complexion and scratched hands. “I understand you want some detective work done.”

  Mitra stared. In her childhood, the laundrymen, mostly illiterate villagers, quietly hustled from door to door, picking up and delivering bundles of clothing, and that was all they were expected to do. This man spoke perfect English. She could see his keen, laughing eyes peeking out from under his turban.

  Motioning toward a couch, Mitra said, “Would you like to have a seat?”

  “Dhobis don't sit.” He smiled again. “That's our job description. But I'll answer your questions.”

  “What can you tell me about Jay Prasun Bahadur? He comes from your village, doesn't he? I need news.”

  “Nischoi, nischoi.” Sure, sure. “I don't generally ask why someone wants to know about someone else. I'm an equal opportunity provider of news, you might say.” He paused. “Bahadur's cousin used to play carom board with my wife's niece. I'll give you more news, but only if you entertain me with an Indian accent.”

  “Indian accent?” Mitra was taken aback. “What do you expect to hear? Pali? Sanskrit? Urdu?”

  “Just joking, ma'am.” He looked embarrassed, realizing he had crossed a line. “Give me two days. I'll bring you the lowdown on Mr. Bahadur straight from the lady constable in my village and my relatives.”

  “You continue to do that type of work on the side?”

  “Oh, yes. I might appear dumb, like a tree, but I still have important connections. Those mother-fucking criminals have run me out of my job as a reporter, but I'm still the go-to guy for the cops if they want any intelligence about any celebrity who has relatives in nearby villages.”

  “I wonder if Jay Bahadur has ever gone against the law.”

  “Since you ask … just the other day, I saw a police newsletter which reported that Bahadur was caught boasting on tape he had connections with the Kolkata crime syndicate. The tape was made by security officials four years ago. I don't have the article, but ask your friends. The name of the newsletter is The Criminal Mind.”

  “Are there likely to be charges against Bahadur?”

  “That's possible. We call it a ‘cognizable offense.’ That means a policeman can arrest a suspect without a warrant in the case of a serious crime.” He paused. “Do you have t-shirts that need washing, ma'am? Americans always bring t-shirts with jokes and slogans on them. My two young helpers like to read them. It improves their English.”

  With quick steps, Mother came to greet him. The dhobi passed her the laundry packed in a tidy bundle and gathered Mitra's clothes. At the end of the transaction, Mother slipped a wad of rupees onto his palm. She added, “I've included a good bakhshish.” Gratuity.

  He stared at the colorful bills. “Anything for you, Mata-ji, and your lovely daughter.” He addressed her as his respected mother. “This'll pay toward my daughter's dowry.” He bowed, said “Om,” slipped out the door, and disappeared.

  “Can we really trust this ‘Om’ guy?” Mitra asked Mother.

  “Oh, yes. I trust him. He's been washing my clothes for ten years. You can't keep a secret from your dhobi. Your clothes give it all away.”

  In the next half-hour, sitting by the window, Mitra flipped through the glossy colorful pages of the Film Dunya magazine, occasionally raising her eyes and musing about the information received from the dhobi. Mother dusted and rearranged items on an S-shaped shelf, often glancing in Mitra's direction. A smell of old books overcame Mitra, like memories intruding.

  She put the magazine aside, unable to concentrate any longer. “Your dhobi seems pretty clever,” she said. “What if he makes up stuff and wants more bakhshish from you?”

  Mother shook her head. “I don't just look with my eyes, I look with my experience. I can tell by the flicker of someone's eyes what they're up to. The dhobi will be more than happy to tease gossip out of his peers. Everyone is interested in stories about people of status higher than their own. The village folks fill half their plate with chanachur, the other half with gossip.”

  “You trust gossip?”

  “Of course. Gossip is the newspaper of small communities. Any tidbit of gossip about that young devil is gold. He's your friend's destiny. We need to know about his daily routines and his vices. Does he walk his dogs every morning? Does he have a weakness for a particular brand of wine? How does he treat his staff? Better yet, how does he treat your friend?”

  “The more I hear about Bahadur, the more worried I get about Kareena.”

  “Our infamous actor probably has multiple faces.” Mother's eyes shined. “He shows whichever one is appropriate for the situation. Last week, I delved into a book on Cubism and got a feel for what being multi-faceted means. We'll deconstruct Bahadur and your friend, like a Cubist painter does with his subject.”

  Mitra wished she could rejoice in her mother's new zeal, but inside she was rattled. “I just want to see Kareena, not pick her or her man apart.” She became silent, feeling hopeful one moment and doubtful the next.

  “Don't look so unhappy, my dear,” Mother said. “In all my years, life's storms have come and washed away what little amusement I had. I always told myself the weather would clear up. Even if it didn't, the sky would at least be different. Hoping for the different is what keeps you going.” She looked toward the bedroom, to the digital clock visible from here. “You haven't worn a sari in awhile, have you? Did you pack any? We still dress up to go to the cinema.”

  Mitra peered down at her jeans. She didn't have a sari collection anymore—she'd sold them in the auction to pay for the reward for Kareena's safe return—but she'd be embarrassed to admit that to Mother.

  She shook her head. Mother gestured with a hand. “Let's go see what I have. I'm so glad saris are one-size-fits-all. How convenient.”

  In the bedroom, Mother opened an ancient steel trunk. They sorted through layers of silk, cotton, crêpe, georgette, and chiffon, saris and matching blouses, pulsating with colors, patterns, textures, and artistry. It was partly Mother's trousseau and partly an heirloom collection. Mitra chose a hand-painted Chanderi silk in mehendi green, drawn by the fabric's lullaby quality. She wrapped it around her.

  Once dressed, Mother radiated dignity in her white cotton sari woven with tiny silver stars. She draped the sari train modestly over her chest.

  In the mirror, Mitra looked a trifle burdened by the layers. “Do I look fat, Ma?”

  Mother stole up behind her. Wisps of curly hair fanned her forehead. “No, dear. As you get older, you don't see the younger you so clearly. You create a forest of sorts inside you of different identities, the way you act, what you think about. Then, as the years pass, the forest gets denser and foggier. Wait till you're my age. You'll search for the young soul you once were, happy to just catch a glimpse of her. You won't think you're fat. That's my long winded way of saying you look beautiful.”

  Mitra heard a bang at the door and checked her watch. This must be Arnold, with his taxi. They reached the door. Mother veiled her hair and smoothed the front pleats of her sari. Her scrubbed face had a healthy sheen. She appe
ared confident, a woman on a mission. Mitra was pumped up, too. Who knew if she'd succeed or not, but at least this remarkable person would accompany her on her journey. This glowing woman was the mother she had always wanted.

  THIRTY-NINE

  WHEN THE TAXI ARRIVED at a busy intersection, Arnold managed to squeeze through a tight spot. The driver of a Maruti stuck his head out the window and yelled: “Shala, dusman, idiot.”

  Arnold, unfazed by the insults, turned round to face Mitra, his eyes and hair glistening in the sunlight peeking through the window.

  “Got news for you, borodidi. I asked my cabbie friends about Jay Bahadur. Most of the time, he has his own Mercedes and a chauffeur. He also rides a scooter. But occasionally, he hires public taxis. His latest girl friend's name is Kareena Sinha—that much I've gathered.”

  A blast of afternoon wind whipped through Mitra's plaited hair. Her voice rose in excitement. “I'll hire you for the week at double your rate, if you can take me to her.”

  “Oh, no. Your humble “sherpa” is not allowed to pull into Bahadur's driveway. His armed guards shoot at me. This is Kolkata. We don't always have the means to do what we want to do, you see. Did I disappoint you? Our streets are not paved with gold, like they are in Mumbai.”

  “The gold,” Mother said, “it's in your heart.”

  “Are you a poet?” Arnold asked.

  “Not in this life,” Mother replied, “but the next.”

  Arnold pulled to the curb by a busy sidewalk. “Light House Cinema is just ahead of you.”

  On the marquee stood a life-sized, hand-painted portrait of a by-now familiar man in a dancing pose. Mitra and her mother entered the huge cinema hall five minutes before the start of She's a Cutie, and found it nearly empty.