Letting that scene fade from her mind's eye, Mitra took a closer look at the lake. Trees shimmered in the early afternoon light, kokil birds stared down at passersby from their high perches, and food vendors in dingy turbans hawked their wares. The place was just as she had imagined it.
“Mitra!”
She turned to see Preet approaching from the south end. Smiling, her eyes misty, Mitra embraced her. “Preet! Such a long time.” A sense of joy welling in her, she couldn't finish the sentence.
“Look at you now.” Preet's gaze held a loving light. “Hey, you're a different person, but slender as ever. The gods didn't intend me to be stick-thin. Or else they'd have handed me instructions.”
“Shall we go find our bench?” Mitra asked.
They strolled down a trail, their eyes cast over the limpid waters, chatting about old times. Preet hadn't changed much. She had the same fair skin, the same broad forehead now brightened with a vermilion dot at its center indicating her married status, and the same shiny black hair pulled into a knot at the back. Pregnancy, however, had enlarged her already sizable frame, and she walked more slowly. Mitra could see that marriage and motherhood suited Preet. So did the blazing violet silk she had on, the luminous cluster of gold bangles, and the amethyst necklace.
A green coconut floated on the surface of the lake. They spotted their favorite bench under the flickering shadow of a banyan tree and walked over to it.
Preet settled onto the bench gracefully. “I didn't understand what life was about,” she said, “until I got married and had a child. I don't have a long list of ambitions. I call it a good day if the floor is swept, my husband isn't too grumpy, and my son has cleaned his dinner plate. I hope you don't pity me for not having a career outside home.”
“Believe me, I don't. We've made different choices. Seems to me you're where you belong in life.”
“Frankly, Mitra, I've missed you—I cried for weeks after you left—but I think it was better for you to have made that leap. You walk differently. You speak better. And you're much more poised.” Preet laughed, full-cheeked. “You used to be one clumsy girl.”
Inwardly, Mitra winced. “I didn't plan my life, either,” she said, “until I went overseas.”
“I kept asking your mother about you. She wouldn't say much. She isn't like my mother, who keeps track of every move I make. Even now, when I go visiting relatives in another neighborhood, my mother checks in to make sure I'm back safely. You know mayer pran.” A mother's affectionate heart. “She shares everything with me.”
The remark brought about a sense of soreness in Mitra. So far, Mother had been reticent about her illness. Mitra wished to hear more about it, wished to have more of her mother's “affectionate heart,” and trust.
“Now, tell me about yourself,” Preet said. “I hear you have a German boyfriend. Oh, baba. What is it like to be with someone from Deutschland?”
“You end up learning Deutsch,” Mitra said, with a smile. If only she could confide in Preet that she missed Ulrich crushingly in all she did. She ached for his presence, under dynamic daylight or during static night hours. Wherever she went, she saw impressions of his being—in a balcony, on the steps of a temple and right now just beyond the iron fence of the park. Then she recalled the lies he'd uttered, his mood changes, and his violent past and the bright scenery dissolved before her mind's eye.
Then, noticing the seriousness with which Preet tilted her head, “He's nice. We talk. We do restaurants. We dance. We share plans.”
“Now that you're away from him, you're not sure?” Preet said in a wary tone. She'd always been able to sense people's woes. “You go back and forth? One minute, you're dying to see him, and the next minute—”
“You seem to be speaking from experience,” Mitra said in a light voice.
Preet narrowed her eyes; there was tightness around her mouth “My cousin's been in that miserable state for a month. She's hopelessly hooked on a guy.” She went silent for a moment. “Have you done a background check on your German? I hear it's common practice in the West. My cousin's detective agency handles that kind of work on the side and it's one of the few agencies to do that.”
Background check? Eyes lowered, Mitra shook her head.
It dawned on her that she was trying to show her relationship with Ulrich in a softer light, as though trying to justify it to herself. Hopelessly hooked. On what? A dreamy view of a possibly dangerous man? Yes, that was her.
“I'd consider it an extreme adventure to date a man so different.” Preet patted her sari folds. “I should take the dust off your feet in respect. My husband comes from a similar background to mine. We grew up five miles from each other. Still, we squabble. The other day we fought over which brand of toaster to buy. Can you believe it?”
Mitra touched Preet's shoulder gently. “Count yourself lucky.”
“But—you look so worried. Your mother told me the reason why you're here. Is there any way I can be of help?”
“Yes. I need a favor from you.” Surveying Preet's expectant face, she added, “I'd like to get a reservation in a private restaurant—Monopriya. Apparently, only VIPs can get in there.”
Preet laughed again. “Is that all? I'm pretty sure my husband can take care of that. He has friends in prominent places.”
From behind a pile of chilies, tomatoes, onions, and limes, a vendor pushing a mobile cart called out to them. “Ladies, nobody can make ghughni as well as I can.”
“Some other time.” Preet waved him away. She turned to Mitra. “Shall we go to my house and have lunch?”
“Yes, that'd be lovely. I have two other requests.” Mitra mentioned the article the dhobi had suggested and asked Preet to locate it for her. “One more thing. This may sound strange to you, but do you have any DVD's of Dimple Sinha?”
“Let me think. I collect old Bollywood films that have been digitally mastered. I might have a copy of the one titled, Betrayal. Lady Sinha isn't in films any more. Why are you interested in her?”
A bicycle rolled by. The air Mitra breathed was stuffed with dust. “It's just for something I'm researching.”
“Oh, those movies are campy. Lady Sinha always plays herself. She shows her boobs, changes into new saris and jewelry at every opportunity, sings naughty songs, does naughty things, and weeps to gain your sympathy.” Preet stood up, her long earrings swaying. “I laugh when she weeps—oh, poor thing.”
Mitra stumbled to her feet. Now she finally saw why Adi's family hadn't approved of Kareena and why they'd ultimately disowned their son when he married.
It was Kareena's mother—her reputation in society.
FORTY-THREE
THEY HOPPED INTO A TAXI and, within minutes, reached Preet's neighborhood. Under the burnished sun, an orange commuter bus rolled along the road, belching clouds of oily black smoke, blue letters on one side declaring, Auspicious Journey. Indians loved to decorate everything, even the public vehicles, with colors, designs, and inscriptions.
“Welcome to my humble bari,” Preet said.
Her home was in a guava-tinted, three-story building from the colonial era. She unlocked the door to her first-floor flat, and they entered. The air carried a feeling of order. Mitra kicked the leather slides off her feet and parked them next to a toy truck.
A beautiful boy, about four years of age, rushed to greet them, his complexion a pleasant caramel-and-cream.
“You smell of rosgulla,” Preet said to him. “Have you been snacking?”
He nodded. Mother and son embraced each other. The sweetness between them jarred Mitra. Thus far, she'd chosen career over marriage and family. She couldn't be sure if that had been a right decision.
“Hi, I am Sam. Pleased to …” It seemed Sam, whose full name was Soumyendu, was trying to practice his English, but had forgotten the rest of his speech. To save him embarrassment, Mitra introduced herself.
Sam listened, his dark eyes pooled with curiosity. Tall for his age, he wore baggy shorts that flapped aro
und his slender legs. “Mitra-masi, how long will you stay here? My cousins from Australia spend a month.”
Mitra couldn't help but smile. Deep inside her, she hungered for a child of her own, and this boy had made her desire rise to the surface. Before she could reply, Preet said, “Give Mitra-masi a chance to settle in first, then ask questions. Come this way, Mitra.”
She led Mitra to her living room motioned toward a velvet sofa whose cushions were streaked with stunning mirror embroidery. As Preet turned on the white ceiling fan, the diamond ring on her finger glinted with pinpricks of light. From a gift bag, Mitra brought out a few cosmetics for Preet and a hardcover picture book on tree houses for Sam.
Preet looked delighted and thanked Mitra. Sam took the book with both hands, flipped through the pages, settled on a picture, and beamed. “Can I build a playhouse like this one on our palm tree?”
Mitra glanced at the picture of a wood structure bolted to a tree at a dizzying height. “You'll need a huge redwood for that,” Mitra said. “I doubt you can find that here.”
From the way his lips pursed, she could see that he didn't believe her. The concept of unfeasibility hadn't yet trespassed on his young mind. His gaze darted back and forth from his mother and Mitra to the tree-house book, then to his toy truck by the door, and he walked away.
Preet watched him with a bright gaze. “We're predicting Sam will be a newspaper reporter. He's inquisitive and he listens. He's been telling his playmates his auntie is coming from the States and his baby sister is coming from heaven. Did I tell you we're expecting a daughter this time? Just what I'd wished for. If I'm going to have a legacy, that'll be my little memshahib.” Princess. “I'll dress her up and set her on her throne.”
Mitra succumbed to a pang of envy. She felt lighter, lesser. Guilt, too, cast its shadow on her. Here was a friend she cherished, and she couldn't share her happiness as readily as she'd have liked.
Preet interrupted her thoughts. “Did you know that your mother came to see me in the hospital after Sam was born? She held him, sang to him, put a drop of honey on his tongue. We talked and talked. She said since she didn't have a son, which she'd always wanted, she was hoping to at least have a grandson.”
Dreariness settled on Mitra's chest. “She wanted a son? That's news to me. I thought after my father's death, she didn't want the complications of children.”
“Not only that, according to her, those were the times when woman were expected to have a male child. If they didn't have one, they were considered failures.”
Mitra looked away. “Well, I must be a great disappointment to her, then.”
A shadow of apprehension passed over Preet's face. “Hey, cheer up. You still have time.”
Preet crossed to a display cabinet and plucked a DVD from her substantial collection. “Here's Dimple Sinha for you. While you're watching it, I'll go to the store across the street. Be back in a minute. My maid-servant will keep an eye on Sam.”
Mitra dropped her head back against the sofa cushion, her thinking mechanism hardly at rest. The screen before her came alive with images of Kareena's mother. Dimple, the screen siren, played the wife of an auto-industry czar, having an affair with a wild-haired artist. Draped in velvet, with pinked lips and arms decorated with silvery glass bangles, Dimple was an older Kareena: the same walk, smile, hand gestures, and style of dressing.
Dimple and Kareena had the same voice and speech mannerisms, same penchant for luxuries. Was Dimple that selfish in real life? Or was she playing the villainess with gusto and believability, in which case she was merely a fine actress?
Sam sneaked in, scooted onto Mitra's lap. “She looks lovi. Yes, she looks greedy.”
Dimple's on-screen husband came home, questioned her about how she occupied herself in the afternoons. She lied, fluttered her eyelashes, hummed a seductive tune, even shed a few tears.
Sam slid off Mitra's lap, saying, “Crocodile's tears,” and promised to return. If only Dimple didn't resemble Kareena so much. Mitra would have laughed at Sam's comment and at the scene before her.
After a few more minutes, Mitra turned off the DVD player and stretched her arms. She'd seen enough of her father's first wife. A low-key man, he'd somehow been attracted to fanfare and flame.
She ambled to the window. A man pulled a wheeled cart glistening with a heap of green herbs. The sight transported her to misty monochromatic Seattle, to her yard and greenhouse. Soon it'd be time to cut back the rhododendron, trellis the flowering pea, and tend to the dahlia bush.
Preet bustled in, her forehead pearled with perspiration. She escorted Mitra to the kitchen, motioned toward a stool, and began slicing a mango. “What do you think of Lady Sinha?” she asked eagerly.
“She's not a bad actress. What is she supposed to be like in real life?”
“The real Dimple Sinha is reportedly far worse than what she portrays in her films. She's made a habit of what one film critic calls ‘unfinished unions.’ She marries, then dumps the husband before he can catch on to what a heartbreaker she is. It's like she throws her dolls away before they can break on her.”
“Does she have children?”
“If she does, she's always kept them out of the public eye. At least she's done that for them.”
Sam, riding a stuffed giraffe, jumped into the room. He gazed at his mother, then at Mitra, as if trying to assess to whom he should pose his next question. “Where is Seattle? I'd like to ride my giraffe to Seattle.”
“You could fly there in a day's time,” Mitra said. “But it's as different from here as a giraffe is from tiger.”
Sam's dark eyes saddened. He parked the giraffe in the middle of the room and leapt into Mitra's lap. “You're not going back there, are you?”
Mitra leaned her cheek on Sam's cushiony hair. He reminded her, this treasured child, of the distinctness of her two lives, Indian and American, and how difficult it was to draw the halves closer. As with a broken mirror, the parts simply didn't fit; the views were distorted, dizzying.
“I'm having a great time with you here but, eventually, I have to go back.” Mitra seemed to be answering his question, as well as her own. “My work's there. You go where your work is.”
Her reply must have been too burdensome for his tender ears. Or perhaps he heard a familiar sound. He slipped out of her lap and bolted to the front door with a happy shriek, announcing that his father was home.
FORTY-FOUR
A DAY LATER, Mitra lounged in a woven chair on Preet's verandah. The temperature had climbed to ninety-six degrees. Two hand fans rested on the table. A crow cursed from a rooftop.
“You lucked out,” Preet said, joining her, a peaceful but coy smile playing on her lips. With one hand, she adjusted her blue-print sari. Even in this blistering heat, she stuck with this voluminous garment. “My husband just called. He's made the restaurant reservation for you. Tomorrow evening at seven, just as you've requested.”
Mitra nearly jumped out of her chair. “Oh, great. I can't thank you enough.”
“Here's the clinker. It's a reservation for one. You have to go alone. The restaurant was completely booked except for a small table where they can seat only one person. It's reserved for a famous sculptor, an elderly gentleman who likes to dine alone. But he's on vacation this week. Your mother and I will wait for you in a chai shop close by.”
Sam scampered in. The breeze puffed up the short sleeves of his checked shirt. “Mitra-masi,” he asked shyly, “will you play the Alien Attack game with me?”
“In just a bit.” Mitra proposed to Sam that they go for a ride in Arnold's taxi on Saturday evening. Afterwards, they could see the lights on the Esplanade and have ice cream. Jubilant, Sam ran inside, his sandals flapping on the floor.
Preet turned to Mitra. “Your taxi-wallah will also be available to drive you to the restaurant, I presume?”
“I hope so.” Mitra borrowed Preet's cellphone and punched Arnold's number.
Arnold was happy to be of service. “I'l
l bring my friend's new Hyundai,” he said, “just in case Miss Kareena needs a ride someplace. And I'll dress up like a chauffeur.”
Mitra got off the phone. In this spacious courtyard, rows of palm and Ashok trees undulated in the light breeze. She noted concern in Preet's eyes. “What are you worried about?”
“I'll be right back. I have something for you.” Preet went inside and returned with a few printed sheets which she pressed into Mitra's hand. “Here's a copy of the police newsletter you wanted. My husband and I have read it.”
The pages had been culled from a quarterly newsletter titled, Kolkata Police News.
On top of the front page was the headline: Traffic Stats. Mitra's eyes skimmed the reports of Lane and Line Violations, Helmet Violations, and Road Accident fatalities. This was followed by a photo of a traffic constable helping a blind woman cross a busy intersection. Below that was the column titled Crime in the City. Mitra skimmed the top news items on this column. A college student had been beaten on the “N” Block of New Alipore at dusk by assailants with unclear motives. A young woman had been mugged on Hazra in broad daylight. Arson was suspected in a fire in an apartment complex in Behala.
As she flipped the page, Mitra's gaze fell on the heading, Citizen's Views. It consisted of a piece written by M. Palit, a journalist, and placed in a box.
Did He or Didn't He?
Although actor Jay Bahadur, the heartthrob of yesteryear, was never charged in the Ray murder incident, suspicions about him remain. Jay Bahadur supposedly has boasted to his cronies about hobnobbing with the Kolkata crime syndicate, particularly the Solsi Gang. A gang member, known by the initials A.E. allegedly masterminded the killing of the famed actor, Manu Ray.
Tulip Season Page 20
