Tulip Season

by Bharti Kirchner

  Mitra settled into her seat, her mind humming with anticipation. What was it about Jay Bahadur—the king in Kareena's life—that turned the female mind to mush, even though he reportedly had underworld connections and possibly faced criminal charges?

  The lights went off, the screen stormed with color, and the hall throbbed to the beat of high energy music, a tie-in of jazz and raga. Jay Bahadur materialized, dancing fast and fluidly, as though the ground were a silk rug under his feet. Legs loose, spine flexible, he skittered into new positions, seldom offering the viewer's senses a rest. His natural rhythms, always sensuous, occasionally suggestive, created a feeling of breathless intimacy, as though he was dancing just for the person who was watching him. Mitra found herself more engaged than she'd expected.

  In another rich-boy-meets-poor-girl story, the film took Bahadur to Mumbai, with its beaches, bustle, and business deals. He met the heroine in a call center, courted her on the weekend on a silver mountaintop, then by a preternaturally blue lake and, finally, in a garden ablaze with red flowers, with techno music always swelling in the background.

  As she watched the actor, Mitra finally grasped why Kareena had fallen for him. He danced with wild abandon, a forest fire. She had rhythm and motion and grace locked in her. He set Kareena's spirits free.

  After nearly three hours, the credits rolled. Mitra looked sideways at Mother who held an expression of satisfaction on her face.

  “That was an eyeful and earful,” Mother said. “Jay Bahadur is wild. He reacts from his guts, jumps into a new situation without thinking.”

  In other words, Mother liked him. They stepped out into the evening, a humid one. A street tabla player tapped out a tune. Still hearing the movie's musical score in her head, Mitra swayed to his rhythm. Arnold waved at them from the opposite corner and hustled them back into his taxi. Mitra noticed her mother was shivering. Her lips pursed, she had little tremors in her body. She confessed she didn't feel well and once in the back seat rested her head in Mitra's lap. Holding her hand, keeping her gaze fixed on her, Mitra worried that her visit had strained Mother's delicate constitution.

  As soon as they reached home, Mother turned the fan on, put on a thin cotton nightgown, and collapsed on the sofa. Her doctor had prescribed her medicine—that was about all she would reveal. Mitra suspected from the symptoms of chill and fever that Mother had caught malaria, and asked if she should call the doctor's office.

  “No,” Mother said. “Go to your room and get some rest.”

  This current episode of Mother's illness must be due to the excitement Mitra had caused. Why had she gotten her involved? What if Mother fell seriously ill?

  Mitra retired to her room, dark save for a pleated-silk table lamp casting a feeble light. Staring out the window into the sultry blackness, she felt alone. Young Bengali voices in the corridor outside interrupted her train of thoughts. She had to pay attention to understand the words of a language once as close to her as her breath. Once again, she woke to the reality of Kolkata: the press of humidity, the unfamiliar rhythms, the sounds of a language as close to her once as her breath and now an exotic music. She felt homesick for Seattle—her friends, her garden. How was Grandmother coming with her plants? Had Veen heard anything about Adi? Had he returned? Was he safe? If Jay was involved with the Mumbai mafia, had they taken Adi? Mitra's stomach did a flip-flop. Should she call Veen to get the latest news?

  No. That might wake Mother, who was a light sleeper.

  Snatches of a silly song from the film swirled in Mitra's head:

  Yes, you're the one for me

  Why do you go away?

  Darling, what keeps you away?

  The song was mindlessly romantic. Ulrich flashed into her head. What might he be doing now? It would be morning over there. In work clothes and boots, hair tumbling over his eyes, he might be laying the foundation for a new house. As she imagined the details of his face—high cheekbones, a troubled forehead, eyes going lighter or deeper depending on his mood—she shifted and twitched. Like a picture swinging from its wire on the wall and not quite returning to its familiar position, in danger of toppling.

  Now that she was sure Mother was sound asleep, Mitra decided to look some more for Kareena. She left the house, hailed a taxi, and went to a busy shopping area, Dakshinapan Shopping Centre, where she knew she could find a phone kiosk. Her cellphone didn't work here.

  She located a phone kiosk, but on second thought decided not to buzz Veen. It was too early in the morning over there to call.

  The evening air was smoky with cigarette smell. The crowd seemed exuberant, everyone except her. A large family, chatting loudly, passed by. A street dentist shouted a “Hello, Miss,” his tool kit on display next to his chair. She waved his offer away.

  For a long time she checked every store, every alleyway, every passing face, looking for someone who wasn't there.

  FORTY

  “I'LL LET YOU AND NARESH get better acquainted.” Mother said and bustled off toward the kitchen, the keys tied to the train of her sari jingling merrily with each step. Earlier she'd said that she was feeling better and her cheeks had, indeed, regained color, but the doubter in Mitra remained concerned.

  Sitting on the sofa, Mitra evaluated Mother's friend from an angle. Older than her by at least seven years, he had even features and smelled of cheap cologne. His hair was flattened with pomade, as though he didn't want to offend anyone with a misplaced curl. He struck her as the kind of nice controllable bachelor that elderly ladies fawned over and young women considered dull.

  She wanted to jump right to the Kareena issue, but that wouldn't be proper. She should get to know him first. “Ma talks a lot about you.”

  “I've heard a lot about you, too. When you form an impression about another person before actually meeting them, you're never sure how that'll turn out.”

  What did he mean? That she wasn't as pretty as her mother? That her ribbed cotton tank and velour drawstring trousers were inferior to a queenly sari? That she didn't wear a kilogram of gold to trumpet her socio-economic status?

  “You're a supplier for restaurants?” she asked.

  “Yes. My business is doing well. Restaurants are the new ‘temples,’ you see. Young people open their pocketbooks in restaurants like the older generation used to do in temples to make offerings to gods. We're a young nation. Half our population is under the age of twenty-five. Our GDP is growing at the rate of eight—no, make that nine percent—a year. Even our beggars are smiling.”

  Mitra listened to the boring talk, knowing how much Indians loved to discuss current state of things. For Mother's sake—she might be paying attention to them from the kitchen—Mitra must at least appear to be making friendly contact. “Of course, I see signs of progress. But I think things can move a little faster here.”

  “You have complaints?” He lifted a brow. “Most foreign-returned Indians do.”

  He didn't understand her, a frustration. “I didn't come here to complain. I'm here to find my friend.”

  She heard the sigh of a sari, as Mother rejoined them, balancing a tray on her hand. The tray held chai, eggplant bhaja, and sandesh, a combination that smelled oily, spicy, and delicious.

  “Nobody can make these bhajas like you, Mashima.” Naresh, suddenly cheerful, addressed Mother as aunt-mother, an appropriate term, given the neighborliness of this city.

  Mother leaned forward eagerly and pleasantly, her attention on Naresh so complete that she had forgotten her habit of checking everyone's plate. They bantered for a few minutes, making it transparent they'd formed a loving mother-son duo. Like an odd third party, Mitra fiddled with the teacup in her hand and sank into the sofa to listen and observe. She took a bite of an eggplant bhaja, and concluded she still hadn't acquired a fondness for it.

  Mother threw a glance at Mitra, then turned to Naresh. “Did you have a chance to check out that private restaurant?”

  “Monopriya? Yes, I talked to one of the cooks. Jay Bahadur has been t
here with his new girlfriend, Kareena.” Naresh lowered his tone. “She's pregnant.”

  The news jarred Mitra. She set her cup down.

  “He made a starlet pregnant some years back. That was a scandal.” Naresh waited a beat and smirked. “Charming as he is, Jay Bahadur is a has-been, a badmaish.” Rogue character. “He dances his way out of things.”

  Her mind in uproar, Mitra stood up and slipped into the kitchen. They hardly noticed her departure. She drank down a large glass of water, all the more determined to have a rendezvous with Kareena. Meanwhile, the flow of words between Mother and Naresh continued.

  “What days and times,” Mother asked, “do they show up at that restaurant?”

  “The cook isn't allowed to give out that information. Manopriya is very private. The owner, Keshav Khaitan, wasn't there when I stopped by.”

  “I'd heard gossip that Khaitan has a ‘heavy weight on his head.’”

  Mitra strolled back, plopped down on the sofa, and asked, “What's this ‘heavy weight on his head?’”

  “‘Heavy weight’ means pompousness,” Naresh said. “Pompous, he is. Even if I were to talk to him, though, I doubt he'll divulge any gossip—he's particular about protecting the privacy of his exclusive clientele. He has all sorts of measures in place. His doorman was once a champion boxer. And he'll let someone in only if he recognizes the face and only after checking against a register. They don't want photographers sneaking in.”

  “Mitra just wants to meet with her friend,” Mother said. “Couldn't she be let in through the back entrance?”

  “I suppose,” Naresh said mischievously, “a dishwasher could be bribed—”

  “Bribed?” Mitra interrupted. “In new young India, you still do business the old corrupt way?”

  Naresh laughed through his milky white teeth, half-embarrassed. “Just joking, ma'am.” His expression turned serious.

  “A long weekend is coming,” Mother said. “We could offer the dishwasher a little something to buy chamcham sweets for his kids.”

  Naresh wiped his hand in the napkin in one quick jerk. “You should be the one negotiating with the restaurant, Mashima.” Naresh fixed his attention on Mitra. “There is another alternative. Do you know a VIP who might be able to make a reservation for you?”

  “I just got here,” Mitra mumbled, feeling somewhat defensive. “I don't know anyone.”

  “Oh yes, you do.” Mother said. “Your high school friend, Preet. She's married to a big shot in the local government. Today, I phoned her to let her know you've arrived. I'm in frequent touch with her. She's not back yet from her vacation, but I caught her aunt on the phone. I told her why you're here.”

  Mitra's heart skipped a beat or two. They had an ancient saying here: Whatever is heard by six ears doesn't remain secret for long.

  “Ma, what are you thinking? First the dhobi, then Preet's aunt. Rumors could fly. Jay Bahadur and Kareena could go into seclusion.” Belatedly, she recognized the shrillness in her voice, and that mortified her.

  Mother, a hurt look on her face, got up and scrambled toward the bedroom. The black border of her white sari slashed the air.

  Naresh watched her until she was out of sight. Then his gaze slid back to Mitra. His disbelieving expression seemed to say: you speak to your mother in such a disrespectful tone? But all he actually said was, “You want to meet up with your friend that badly?”

  Somewhere in this apartment building, a practiced hand plucked a sitar, gentle tones that resembled a deeply emotional human voice. Mitra closed her eyes for a second. She was trying her best to adapt, although not terribly successfully. She was searching for a friend who might not even want to be found, who might have intentionally abandoned her earlier life, including her friendship with Mitra.

  A neighbor clattered up the stairs. Something came to Mitra. She would stick to her plan.

  “I'm sorry to get everybody upset,” she said to Naresh. “But my friend might be in danger.”

  “If she were a friend of mine, I'd try to keep her away from Jay Bahadur. It's like jumping into fire. You follow? It's madness. More than one starlet has regretted it.” Naresh paused and checked Mitra's face, then continued with: “I'm sorry. I don't mean to scare you. You're a guest of India. It's our duty to see that you have a pleasant and worthwhile stay here.”

  “Guest? This is my home—I grew up in this building.”

  Naresh got up, without meeting her eyes. “I must go now.”

  Mitra shot to her feet as well. Naresh opened the door, then faced her. “I'm happy to finally meet Mashima's daughter.”

  “I hope I didn't disappoint you too much.”

  “Not at all. I'm happy to be of help.”

  “Could I request you to bribe that dishwasher, if that's what it takes?”

  “Yes, sure, but it has to wait a couple of days. I fly to Chennai this evening to attend the opening ceremony of a new hotel run by a friend. I'll be back in a day or two. I'll contact the dishwasher and report back to you. I know you're wondering why it couldn't be any sooner. It's our Indian time, you see. Achha, ashi.” I'll visit you again.

  He pressed his palms together in a gesture of farewell, conveying peace and blessing, and Mitra did likewise. She left the door open a little longer to listen to the plaintive melody coming from a neighbor's flat, someone singing, speaking of loneliness and grief.

  She wondered what her sister was hearing just now. As she imagined her, Kareena appeared tense, disoriented, her cheeks marble hard. She was associating with criminals. She was in trouble.

  Back to her room, Mitra picked up an issue of Film Dunya from a basket. Big headlines screamed about a marriage breakup in Bollywood's First Family.

  She tossed the magazine back into the basket and covered her eyes with her palm. What if Bahadur abandoned Kareena, as he'd done with a former pregnant girlfriend? What would Kareena do then, with a child on the way?

  FORTY-ONE

  THE NEXT MORNING, Mitra woke late, showered and dressed, popped into the living room, and found Mother intent on the Hindustan Standard. Mother's fresh white cotton sari glowed around her. The air bristled with the scent of the hibiscus oil she'd massaged on her head. The ceiling fan whirred, sending forth gusts of air and teasing her curls.

  Mother greeted Mitra, folded the newspaper, pointed to a stack of cleaned pressed clothes on a side table.

  “The dhobi came by with your laundry and some news. Jay Bahadur is going back to his village for location shooting in less than a week. The villagers are planning a big reception for him. It is expected that your friend will accompany him.”

  Mitra pulled up a chair. “I must catch Kareena before she leaves.”

  “Here's another bit of news from the dhobi. He gets all sorts of inside information due to his job. This one's a bombshell and he's gotten it from Jay Bahadur's great aunt. Apparently, he had a vasectomy a few years back. It's not public knowledge. His aunt laughed at the idea that Kareena's child is his.”

  Mitra couldn't speak. How twisty it all seemed. “Either way,” she said a moment later, “I'd like to speak with Kareena. Is Naresh coming back today?”

  “Not until tomorrow, but he's been working for us. He called about an hour ago. Jay Bahadur's assistant made a reservation for two for this Friday evening at Monopriya. It's expected he'll have dinner with his girlfriend. Now the question is how to get you a reservation on the same date and time. Unfortunately, the dishwasher has refused the bribe.”

  “There has to be another way.”

  “Sit down, dear. There is another way. Preet returned my call. She's back and she wants you to give her a buzz.”

  “I can't wait to see her. Where's her number?”

  “Here it is.” Mother handed her a piece of paper. “I had a nice chat with Preet. She's missed you. The woman is seven months pregnant, but stuck at home all day pretty much by herself. When I clued her in about what you're here for, she said she'd be delighted to join in our mission.”

&n
bsp; “If she's that far pregnant, then—”

  “She's bored, bored, bored and eager for our company.” Mother's eyes sparkled. “What a sleuthing team we make—a gardener, a pregnant housewife, a dhobi, a “sherpa” cab driver, and a retired schoolteacher. We'll defeat that actor guy, get your friend out of his clutches, and put sense into her head.” She paused. “Kareena is a fancy name, too fancy for my taste. I just can't get it out of my mouth.”

  FORTY-TWO

  PULLING ON A PAIR of slim denim pants and a white blouse, Mitra recalled her high school years. She and Preet had been inseparable then. Preet was a good three inches taller and fuller of figure and her shrewd-eyed aunt always proclaimed she had health, shashthya. The older generation appreciated plumpness in women—a sign of a robust constitution and the ability to survive the ordeal of bearing children. The same elders had cast dubious glances at Mitra's matchstick body. But equally dissatisfied with their respective appearances, Mitra and Preet had commiserated.

  A tinge of rivalry existed between them. Mitra was an exceptional student, at the top of her class, for which Preet envied her. She nicknamed Mitra “Bright Eyes,” whereas Mitra called her “Rosgulla Face” because of her round face and sweet expression. Mitra would often announce her wish to go to college, get a job, make good money, and only then consider getting married. Preet had wanted to marry right after she graduated from college. Despite endless discussions, they'd never agreed on the merits of career vs. homemaking.

  What would Preet be like now?

  Within half-an-hour, carrying a gift, Mitra arrived at the shore of a popular lake in South Kolkata called Rabindra Sarovar.

  On weekends, during their high school years, Mitra would slip away from her tiny flat and join Preet here. They'd sit on their favorite bench and chatter up a tempest. A bandana tied around his forehead, a vendor would cry in a nasal voice, “Garam, garam,” or “hot, searing hot,” urging passersby to indulge in jalebis, crunchy, sweet-scented pretzel-like pastries haloed by sugar syrup. All too soon it would be dusk, sandhya, the time to slow down and meditate, as the sages had long proclaimed. Mitra would trudge back home.