One Amazing Thing

by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

  A collective gasp went through the room at such blasphemy.

  “Give her the Ayurvedic Herbal Pack,” Mrs. Balan said, causing Mrs. Veerappan, whose face was currently slathered with that exact mixture, to come perilously close to a seizure.

  I was the one to whom Lola assigned the task of removing Nirmala to a private room where she would not offend the sensibilities of our regulars. Some of Lola’s girls would have balked at working on a servant, but I didn’t mind. Since the day she called me Elder Sister, I’d felt strangely protective toward Nirmala. I worked to make her as beautiful as possible, silently wishing her luck. If things worked out, she would need it, with a mother-in-law like Mrs. Balan. If things didn’t, she would need it even more.

  Once she got over the wonder of being seated in a chair just like the rich madams, Nirmala chattered excitedly about going to Chennai. She had never been anywhere, apart from her village and Coimbatore. She was looking forward to the air-conditioned malls with moving staircases. And Gopalan-saar’s house, which was supposed to be twice as big as the Balans’.

  As I shaped her eyebrows and massaged her firm, unblemished skin, so different from the faces I usually worked with, she confided something else to me. Mrs. Balan had given her several old silk saris to wear during the trip. Surprise must have made me frown. She hastened to add that they were very fine, and wasn’t she lucky to have such a generous mistress?

  “She even gave me a fake ruby set she bought last year, for me to wear the first night when Gopalan-saar will throw a party at the house, for close friends. Madam wants me with her in case she needs something.”

  I was thankful that the relationship between Nirmala and her mistress seemed as good as before. Mrs. Balan wasn’t the kind to let go of a grudge easily. Perhaps, having met her match in her stubborn son, she had decided it was best to be on friendly terms with her might-be daughter-in-law.

  Nirmala examined her burnished skin in the mirror. She asked whether her face would still look as good by the weekend—which, I recalled, was when Ravi was to join them. I told her the truth, which was no. The first couple of days, with the skin still toned and shining from the massage, were the best. She bit her lower lip, deep in thought. I guessed she was trying to figure out how to meet Ravi before she left for Chennai. Then she smiled. That’s how I would remember her: glowing in the mirror, the light from the ceiling casting an asymmetrical halo around her head.

  NONE OF US SAW NIRMALA AGAIN, THOUGH BITS OF HER STORY blew back to us on the winds of rumor. Piecing them together, I felt stupid. Worse, I felt responsible. She had trusted me, called me Elder Sister. I should have seen what was coming and warned her. Though I had never been religious, I went to Goddess Parvati’s temple and prayed for forgiveness. But I knew it wasn’t enough.

  This is what I guessed: That first night, by dressing Nirmala far above her station and keeping her constantly at her side, Mrs. Balan made sure that Gopalan noticed the maid. Nirmala herself must have piqued his interest with her amazement at the extravagance of his house. Admiration is a powerful aphrodisiac. After the guests left, it would have been easy enough for Mrs. Balan to complain of a headache and send Nirmala to Gopalan’s room for some medicine. Who knows what transpired between the two of them there? Only these facts are certain: Long before Ravi and his father joined the festivities, Nirmala was moved from the servants’ quarters to a suite of her own in another wing of the house. Her fake jewels were replaced with real ones, her hand-me-down clothes with designer saris studded with sequins and deep-cut blouses that showed off her charms. And from the manner in which he patted her behind when she fetched him his gin and tonic, it was clear to his guests that Gopalan had found himself a new girl.

  MRS. BALAN CAME IN TO LOVELY LADIES A COUPLE OF WEEKS later. She informed Lola that she wanted the softest, most natural-looking curls. Ravi was getting engaged to the youngest daughter of Kumaraswami, a real-estate tycoon from Bangalore. They had met on the last day of Gopalan’s birthday celebrations. The marriage would take place in the girl’s hometown, but the engagement party would be held this weekend at the Balan residence—a small affair, really, no more than three hundred guests.

  “Do you like the girl?” Mrs. Nayar asked.

  “Of course! After all, she comes from an excellent family. A bit short, and a trifle plump, but smart as a whip. Already she’s talked Ravi into handing over Vani Vidyalayam to a manager and going to work for her papa. I’m a little disappointed that he’ll be moving to Bangalore—but I’m not one to hold a son back from his happiness. Now, Lola, can you make sure I’m the chicest, youngest-looking mother-in-law ever?”

  Lola assured Mrs. Balan that she could. I watched amazed, because when Lola first heard the news about Nirmala, she had kicked a table and used several colorful expletives to refer to Mrs. Balan and her ancestors. Yet now, with the utmost politeness, Lola pointed Mrs. Balan to the best salon chair. I realized that the secret of Lola’s success was a perfect separation between business and personal emotion.

  “No, not here,” Mrs. Balan said. “I don’t want everyone seeing what you do and then asking for the same look. You must keep this a secret. I don’t mind paying extra. And I want only Malathi to assist you.”

  Lola called my name.

  “Where is that girl hiding, anyway?” Mrs. Balan said.

  For a moment, I considered disobedience, but when Lola called again, I followed them to one of the private rooms in the back. My heart lurched as we entered. It was the room to which I had brought Nirmala. I felt as though the goddess was sending me a message. An idea pushed through the muck of confusion in my brain.

  Mrs. Balan was in high spirits. “If you do a good job,” she told me, “I’ll give you the biggest tip you’ll ever earn.” Lola entrusted Mrs. Balan’s tresses to my care while she went hunting for youth-inducing unguents. I combed out Mrs. Balan’s hair with trembling fingers. But by the time I started mixing the chemicals for the perm, they were rock-steady.

  “Smells funny,” Mrs. Balan said. “Are you using something different?”

  “Yes, madam,” I said, applying carefully. “This is a special occasion, no?”

  “It stings.”

  “As you know, madam, beauty has its price.”

  “Be careful,” she warned. “I don’t want to end up looking kinky-headed, like some Andaman aborigine.”

  “Such an outcome is most unlikely, madam,” I said.

  AS SOON AS LOLA WALKED INTO THE ROOM, SHE SENSED THAT something was wrong. I could see it in the way she scrunched up her nose. Would she order me to unwind Mrs. Balan’s hair and wash it out at once?

  “Give madam a pedicure while you wait for the perm to set,” she said. She busied herself with scrubbing Mrs. Balan’s face with an imported and extremely expensive exfoliant.

  Mrs. Balan’s hair started falling out as soon as I ran water over it. By the time I finished rinsing, clumps of it lined the sink like dead seagrass. The shriek she emitted when she opened her eyes brought the girls—and any clients who were not attached to machines—rushing to the back room. Several shrieked in sympathy. About half of her scalp was as bald as a baby’s bottom and covered with a rash. The other half sported wilting sprouts. I swayed between terror and exhilaration. Mrs. Balan spewed invectives as she attempted to simultaneously strangle me and gouge out my eyes. Lola, who had been vainly trying to calm her, instructed two girls to remove me from the premises. As I left, I could hear her declaring that I would never set foot in Lovely Ladies or any other beauty shop in Coimbatore again.

  I lay awake all night. I would sorely miss the salon and the company of the girls. What would I do now? I was barred from the only profession I was good at or cared about. Probably, I would have to find a husband—and that, too, without the benefit of a Diamond facial. Worse, I feared I had landed Lola, who had understood my dreams better than anyone in the world, in deepest trouble.

  All morning, I stayed in my room, pretending to be sick, not confessing to my pa
rents that I had been fired. But after a while I felt like I was suffocating. I had to go to the salon, no matter how angry Lola was with me. She would probably throw me out without hearing my apology. But I had to try. I wanted to tell her how I had felt responsible for Nirmala’s fate, and how, therefore, I had to even the score no matter how much bad karma I accrued in the process.

  I went around to the dingy back entrance of Lola’s, which was used only by the sweepers. I had never been there before. It took me a while to find the unmarked door. The stinking garbage piled along the open drains was symbolic of the turn my life had taken. The girl who answered my knocks looked anxious when she saw me. I said I would wait outside. Would she ask Lola to see me for just a minute?

  Standing in that alley for what seemed like a lifetime, I wondered if Lola would even come. Finally, she opened the door, hands on her hips, her face stern. I whispered my explanation and apologies, my eyes on the ground. Halfway through, I was distracted by strange gasping noises. Was she apoplectic with anger? Or could she—the Amazonian Lola I had hero-worshipped—have been reduced to tears? Perhaps Mrs. Balan had threatened to sue her. Perhaps Lola would lose her beautiful salon. When I dared to look up, I saw her hand over her mouth. She was trying to keep her laughter in check.

  “Did you see her head?” Lola managed to choke out finally. “And her face? It was priceless!” Both of us burst into hysterical peals.

  When I confided my fears for the salon, Lola waved a dismissive hand. “Mrs. Balan won’t dare do anything to me. I have too many influential clients, and I know too many indiscreet things that she’s said in here. If I decided to open my mouth, she wouldn’t be invited to another party as long as she lived. Besides, she needs me. Without me, within a month, she’d look fifteen years older.

  “I had to fire you, of course. I had no choice. Though I hate to lose you—you have the instincts of a true beautician. But you must leave Coimbatore right away. It isn’t safe here for you anymore. Mrs. Balan can’t harm me, but you’re a different matter. She could easily hire a goonda and have him throw acid in your face—”

  I panicked. “Where will I go?”

  Lola dug into the pocket of her smock and took out an envelope and a pouch. It struck me that she had known, before I knew it myself, that I would come to see her. “Here’s a letter of introduction to my nephew who works in Hyderabad. I spoke to him about you, and he said that he would help. He told me some of the Indian consulates abroad are looking for employees. One of the hiring officers is an old classmate of his. But the employees have to know English.” She handed me the pouch. “Take this money. My nephew and his wife have agreed to rent out a room in their house to you. He’ll find you an English teacher. And when your English is good enough, he’ll take you for an interview.”

  I didn’t have the words to thank her, so I hugged her instead. She patted me awkwardly on the back. She was uncomfortable with displays. “Just keep your temper, the next place you go,” she said. “And when you’ve saved enough dollars, come back and open a salon in a better city.” She looked as though she might say something more, but then she didn’t.

  At the end of the alleyway, I turned to wave, but she had gone inside. She was a practical woman, with a roomful of clients waiting.

  10

  After Malathi finished her story, Uma didn’t want to return to the present. It was so pleasant in Lola’s pink salon, moist and cool, with its herbal shampoos, sandalwood paste, and the calm, ministering hands of Lola’s girls. Even the heat that ambushed you when you emerged from air-conditioning onto the noisy street was a gift. She wanted to know what it was that Lola had almost said to Malathi at the end.

  The others were discussing Malathi’s characters with vigor. Mrs. Pritchett puzzled over Mrs. Balan’s Machiavellian tactics. How could one woman be so cruel to another? Jiang said Mrs. Balan really couldn’t feel for Nirmala because she had been brought up to dismiss a servant as a lesser being. Lily thought Lola was cool, and she, too, would have liked to work at Lovely Ladies and listen in on high-society scandals. The beauty shop that Lily’s mother frequented on Van Ness was run by a mousy Taiwanese woman with braces. The one time her mother had forced Lily to get her eyebrows done there before a school musical performance, Lily had almost died from boredom. All the aunties talked about was how well their children were doing in school, and who had won which award. Did Malathi remember any of the tricks she had learned at the salon? Malathi’s teeth glimmered in the beam from Cameron’s flashlight. (Had he changed the batteries? Uma wondered. She tried to recall how many batteries had been in the bag, but she couldn’t remember that far back, and trying made her head hurt.) Malathi promised Lily that if they ever got out of here, she would give her a hibiscus oil head massage that would make her feel like a princess.

  No one spoke of the two people who were most on their minds until Tariq, in his blunt way, said, “Why would Nirmala do something so stupid, give up Ravi for a creep like Gopalan?”

  “Maybe he offered luxury that a girl like her, brought up in a shack, just couldn’t turn down,” Mrs. Pritchett said. “You can’t blame her.”

  “That night at Gopalan’s house, she must have realized that Mrs. Balan would not let her son marry a servant,” Jiang said. “Perhaps she thought, if I do not take this offer, next thing, my body will be in a ditch somewhere.”

  “Maybe she couldn’t imagine refusing a man as powerful as Gopalan,” Uma said. She wondered if Gopalan had raped Nirmala. Coming from a background where virginity was the paramount virtue for women, Nirmala would have had no option after that.

  “But what about Ravi?” Mrs. Pritchett said, with some force.

  “I don’t think Ravi was in love with Nirmala,” Lily said. “It was probably infatuation because she was so different from the girls he knew. Maybe he was secretly relieved because she went with Gopalan—like when you have a boyfriend you don’t really like anymore, but you can’t tell them, and then they start going out with someone else.”

  Malathi said, “I suspect Ravi saw Nirmala with Gopalan and felt she was spoiled for him. He didn’t want her anymore. But his ego was hurt that she was with someone else. So he picked the first girl his mother sent near him.”

  “Could be Ravi’s heart was broken,” Mangalam said. Uma heard a snort from Malathi, but Mangalam continued. “Could be he felt betrayed by Nirmala after he had taken such a risk for her, going against his parents. That must have been hard for him, being the only child and knowing they had all their hopes pinned on him. I think he chose that other woman because he was hurting.”

  Malathi drew herself up, ready to debate the issue. But just then Cameron said, “Hush. Listen.” In the silence carved out by his imperative, they heard a creaking, yawing sound—like an abandoned ship rolling back and forth on a misty sea, Uma thought. The sound filled her with an eerie melancholy.

  “What is it?” Mr. Pritchett asked, his voice sharp with distrust.

  “The ceiling on the other side of the room; you can’t see it because of the partition,” Cameron said. “A part of it—hopefully not a very big one—is getting ready to come down. Don’t panic—the portion above our heads”—here he swung the flashlight up—“seems stable enough. But we must have a plan ready in case that ceiling, too, starts breaking apart. Under normal circumstances, I would tell you to get under the tables—not that we’d all fit. But the water’s risen too high. It’ll soak your clothes. It’s too cold in here to remain in wet clothes.”

  He pointed down with the flashlight and Uma saw that the water had reached halfway up the first drawer. It was very dark. Looking at it made her shiver. And Cameron was right—it had grown very cold in the room.

  Cameron said, “Keep your pants rolled up and your skirts tucked high, so you can jump down at a moment’s notice. Our best bet is to stand in the doorways. We can’t use the door leading into the passage—it’s too close to the damaged ceiling. That leaves us the two doorways into Mangalam’s office and the bathroom e
ntrance. We should be able to squeeze everyone into them. But there’s no point sitting here waiting for that to happen. Let’s listen to our next story.”

  Mr. Pritchett had not taken part in the discussion about Ravi and Nirmala. When he had finished telling his tale, a great lightness had taken over his being. But that high had faded. Now he felt more depressed than ever. He had been hoping for a comment from his wife, a validation for the suffering of the boy he had been. She had said nothing. Disappointment increased his craving for a cigarette. Within his body, things were beginning to shake. Soon they might start coming apart. He was almost certain there weren’t any broken gas lines nearby. A few puffs, with the bathroom door tightly shut, couldn’t harm anyone. He would spray the bathroom with the deodorizer afterward. No one would even know. As soon as this tiresome discussion ended, he was going to head for the bathroom.

  “Tell us why you picked this story,” Uma said.

  “It was the only time in my life I did something brave,” Malathi said, “even though it was a big cost for me. I don’t think I can do that again. I am too selfish. So it is special to me.”

  At the mention of selfishness, Mangalam’s head jerked up as though he had not expected her to confess to such a vice.

  “Does anyone need a bathroom break?” Cameron asked. People looked down at the water, weighing their need against its darkness. Mr. Pritchett waited, trying not to fidget. He didn’t want to go if there were other trekkers to the bathroom. There was only one flashlight allowed for such errands, and they would have to wait around to walk back together. They might smell the smoke.