S
aturday morning, Mrs. Dasgupta shows up rosy-cheeked, looking much younger than her seventy years. “The blue sari you gave me has brought me great happiness, Lakshmi.” She pats my cheek, shows me an airmail letter. “I sent my dear friend Adith a snap of me in that sari, and he wrote back immediately, told me I resembled Sridevi from
Mr. India
!”
“How risqué of him!” I give her a warm smile. It’s hard to imagine Mrs. Dasgupta as Sridevi, the voluptuous and beautiful actress who writhes in an erotic, wet sari scene in the classic Hindi movie—but the sari must’ve done wonders.
Mrs. Dasgupta lowers her voice. “The way the thing clings, you know—made me look many years younger.”
“Who is this Adith?” I ask, but I already know. The shadow-man in her mind, the man who stood in the background all these years, behind the groom who is now long dead. Adith steps into the light. He has a soft face, kind eyes, a handlebar mustache. He’s been waiting.
“He’s coming to visit me,” she says. “Perhaps to stay. He’s a widower now. And you helped me find him. All with that sari. Your saris are sacred, I tell you. How did you know? You always see what it is I am thinking.”
“I didn’t see. I only guessed. It is a mystery. Everything’s a mystery, especially love, right?”
She gives me a funny look. “Love?” She purses her lips.
Yes, love, Mrs. Dasgupta. I pat her hand. “I’m very happy for you.”
“And I am happy for you.” She pats my cheek with the sandpaper palm of her hand, her filmy eyes examining every crease of my skin. “But something troubles you, Lakshmi. Not getting cold feet, are you?”
“No cold feet.” Icicle feet. Stone feet.
And that’s when the door swings open and I don’t have to look to know. Asha is here. Nick is pushing her in the wheelchair. The saris whisper his name, the black suit moving in perfect harmony with his body. A body I could picture with my eyes closed.
Asha’s in a fashionable lemon chiffon sari today, silver threads crisscrossing the centerpiece, an elaborate silver pattern on the pallu. She has the glowing look of a woman in love.
Ma moves forward in slow motion, her pencil-thin eyebrows rising in surprise. She doesn’t know why Asha is here, doesn’t know that I called her.
I wasn’t sure she would come.
The
knowing
spirals away, but this time, I understand that it’s not truly gone. It has merely changed shape. I still have a
knowing
inside me, a deeper kind of intuition borne of being human, of simply being me, a woman of compassion. Perhaps this is all it ever was—part of me.
“What is this—Asha Rao again?” Mrs. Dasgupta whispers. “Oh, Shiva, what I’ll tell my friends!”
“Ms. Rao, what a pleasure!” Ma exclaims, and Mr. Basu is running after her, always her faithful follower.
“How can we help you?” he says. “We’ve got new shipments, many lovely new—”
“Lakshmi called, said it was urgent,” Asha says.
“Lakshmi called?” Ma says and gives me a look full of questions.
“Oh, Shiva.” Mrs. Dasgupta’s lashes flutter.
“Bibu, what’s going on?” Ma asks in a sharp voice.
Pooja rushes out of the office, her eyes wide, hair frizzy. She’s a bundle of angles in a green shalwar kameez. “Oh, my!” she exclaims. “Nick! Asha!”
I turn to Nick, who’s staring at me with a touch of sadness in his eyes.
Mrs. Dasgupta stands like a statue, gazing in utter awe at Asha Rao.
Mr. Basu coughs, and the two hairs droop, portending a storm. “We can clothe all of you, of course, if that’s the plan—”
“Sanjay!” Ma shouts. She puts her hands on her hips. “Lakshmi, explain.”
“I have an announcement to make,” I say.
“What is this?” Ma says.
“I have the perfect wedding sari for Asha.”
“I’ve already chosen a wedding sari,” Asha says quietly. “And besides, the last time you showed me a sari—”
“Forget the last time,” I say. “This one is perfect.”
“But I’ve already—”
“Please, give me a chance.”
Asha points toward the door. “Nick, turn me around. We’re leaving. This woman has ruined my looks once in a lifetime, and it won’t happen again.”
“No, it won’t,” I say. “Nick, don’t you turn around!”
He hesitates. Yes, I can raise my voice.
“Lakshmi!” Ma says. “You don’t talk to customers that way.”
Mrs. Dasgupta presses a hand to her chest and whispers to me, “Do you think Asha would give me her autograph?”
“Just wait!” I bring out a paper bag and unfold my wedding sari in front of Asha. The silk’s inner light radiates through the shop. The fabric breathes stories of the past and future. Asha’s mouth drops open. She reaches for the sari, her fingers trembling.
“Lakshmi!” Ma’s scream rips the silence. “That is your wedding sari!”
Asha withdraws her hand and snaps her head around to glare at me. “Is this true? This is your wedding sari? What kind of joke are you playing here?”
“It’s not a joke. My mother’s right. It is my wedding sari, but I’m not keeping it.”
Ma gasps. “What do you mean, you’re not keeping it? There is no other sari like this one anywhere in the world.”
“Exactly, Ma. No other sari like this one, and it’s perfect for Asha.” I can feel Nick’s regard, but he keeps his expression carefully blank.
Asha bites her lip in a delicate gesture, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “This is most…amazing.”
“Oh, no! What is happening here?” Ma presses her hands to her cheeks. Mr. Basu rushes over and wraps his arms around her, and she collapses against him, forgetting for the moment that she’s supposed to be constantly irritated with him.
“I’m sorry, Ma,” I say. “I wanted to tell you, but you never would’ve let me do this.”
“Oh, Bibu. You have not tried the wedding sari? It’s the sari for you.” She leans against Mr. Basu, who proves to be surprisingly strong for his size.
“I’m not going to wear it, Ma. I couldn’t wear it.”
Nick’s silent, watching me.
Asha presses the sari to her cheek, sniffs the fabric, holds it up to her chest, runs her fingers along the fine gold trim. “It’s absolutely—beautiful,” she breathes. “Amazing. I’ve never seen a sari like this one.”
“And you never will again,” I say.
“I can’t let go of it.”
“Oh, Shiva,” Mrs. Dasgupta whispers.
“It’s perfect,” Asha says. “How did you know, Lakshmi?”
“I thought of you in it, and I knew it was yours.”
Mr. Basu fans Ma’s face, although the store is cool.
“Oh, Bibu, why have you done this?” Ma says. “What are we to do? How will we find you a better sari?”
“We won’t,” I say, “because I’m not getting married.”
“What!” Ma shrieks. She elbows her way out of Mr. Basu’s arms. “What is this nonsense? Lakshmi Sen—”
“Just what I said, Ma. I can’t get married to Ravi. He’s a good man, the right match, but—”
“You’ve gone crazy!” Ma says.
“Let her speak,” Pooja says, eyes wide. I expect her to pull up a chair and grab a bag of popcorn.
Nick’s gaze burns through me.
“Ravi’s a wonderful man, but I don’t love him.”
“You don’t love him,” Ma says in a flat, faraway voice.
“No, Ma, I don’t. If I loved him, I would marry him.”
Ma stands straight, finding her strong core again. “Bibu, you don’t know what you’re saying. You’re just confused—”
“I’m not confused. I know exactly what I’m saying.”
“Love comes with—”
“Time, I know.” I take a deep breath and meet Nick’s gaze. “And sometimes it’s love at first sight.”
Nick’s eyes flicker.
Ma glares at Mr. Basu, as if he’s responsible for this whole debacle, but he shrugs.
“It’s okay, Ma. Baba would approve.”
The blood drains from Ma’s face, and she leans back against Mr. Basu again. “Oh, Bibu—”
“Sometimes love comes in mysterious ways. Someone walks in front of you, smiles at you in the street.”
Nick’s watching me, as motionless as the air before a storm.
“What about Ravi?” Ma asks.
“I’ve already spoken to him,” I say.
“He’s come all the way from India!”
“He was coming here anyway, Ma. We would go through our whole lives just settling for each other, and that would not be right for either of us.”
“Oh, Bibu. I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Ma says. “What about the relatives? They will be so disappointed. And your Thakurma.”
I think of Sita’s mother, her harsh exterior, the way she softened and changed. “Thakurma is a strong woman, Ma, stronger than she lets on. And wiser. She will understand.”
Ma presses a hand to her chest, pretends to have palpitations again.
Nick betrays no emotion. Maybe I hurt him beyond repair. Maybe he’ll marry Liz, but I have to tell the truth, my truth, even if my heart breaks.
“Love!” Asha shouts. “So mysterious!”
I look at Nick, hope for a future, for something. But he gives no sign.
Ma sits in a chair and fans herself, Mr. Basu at her side.
I run to her and try to hug her, but she shrugs me off. “Ma, things will be better this way. I promise.”
“Well, enough of all this hullabaloo,” Asha says in a theatrical voice. “We have much work to do before my wedding!”
I
visited Ravi at his apartment. He was not surprised, but maybe a little sad. And I saw a hint of another woman on the edge of his mind, a woman not yet in his consciousness.
He took my hands in his. “I somehow knew this would happen,” he said. “I want to know you always. Our families share a past, a common culture.”
“I’d like to talk to you about my father. I’d like to remember him the way he really was.”
“We’ll have tea, supper perhaps, and I’ll tell you all I know.” Ravi smiled a sad smile. My physical beauty drew him, and he had become smitten, but perhaps he would never come to love my true, deeper self.
Tonight, Ma and I are quiet at supper. Her eyes are red-rimmed. Her dreams of my perfect marriage have swirled away, but new dreams sprout. She’s standing on the mountaintop with Mr. Basu, and now the fog clears and the image comes into sharp focus. Ma’s in Darjeeling, bundled in linen and wool, a look of sheer joy in her eyes. Now I know—Mr. Basu’s fierce love for Ma makes him handsome. He has always been loyal and good.
“I thought it was my marriage that would make you happy,” I say. “I thought it was the success of the shop, but it wasn’t, was it? I see you on the mountain with Mr. Basu. I think you should go there with him. Follow your dream.”
“Oh, Bibu, I can’t leave you.”
“I can take care of the shop. It’s what I’m meant to do—helping babies, girls, women find happiness, find their way. But you, Ma—”
“I always loved textiles,” she says, clasping her hands in her lap. She gazes out the window again, always looking away. “I threw myself into that job to forget, Bibu. When Jamila visited the shop, I was devastated.” Ma looks down at her hands.
“You don’t have to talk about this—”
“I know your Thakurma told you about her, that you took Jamila’s ring back to her. You see, we scuffled, and I yanked off the ring. It was loose on her anyway, had never been properly fitted. The ring brought such despair to my heart. I threw that ring. I didn’t aim for the sink, but that’s where the ring landed. I thought the sewer had long ago claimed it.”
The air thickens and fills my chest, and grief pulls at my ribs. “Baba visited me in a dream. He tried to tell me that love comes in unexpected ways. Don’t you see, you must pursue your happiness, Ma. It would make me happy to see you truly happy.”
Ma’s lips tremble. “I’ve dreamed of returning to Darjeeling with Sanjay—”
“And trekking the way you used to, I know, Ma.”
“I couldn’t leave you, Bibu.”
“I’ll be fine with Pooja, and I’ll hire a couple of other helpers.”
“I’ll just go for a trip, nah? I can’t leave for good when you are not yet married—”
“I’ll be fine, Ma. I don’t need to marry just now. I have to figure things out on my own.”
A
sha’s wedding is resplendent, a bright jewel on a ship on the Puget Sound. Ma beams, all her costumes perfect. The caterer has prepared a feast of Indian food and sweets—biryani, curries, samosas, pakoras, lassis, gulab jamin, and jelabis. Champagne and expensive wine. Sitar and tabla players flew up from San Francisco. Emotions and dreams rise in bright stars above the ship, and the winter air grows warm with the power of happiness.
Ma and Mr. Basu and I step onto the deck. Mr. Basu looks smooth and polished in a Nehru suit. Ma’s beautiful, bedecked in gold jewels and a golden sari, perfectly offsetting my bright blue sari with my enormous earrings. “You’ve outdone yourself, Ma,” I say, beaming. Every outfit is a perfect creation.
“You are responsible for this, Lakshmi,” Ma says. “It has always been your divine light that has helped our customers.”
“Don’t say that—you’ve worked so hard, Ma!”
“Look—they’re filming!” Mr. Basu says.
The cameramen with their handheld cameras keep to the background, shooting from the sidelines.
Through the crowd, we spot Asha and her groom, Vijay. Her leg has healed, and although she still wears a bandage, she can stand on her own. Vijay’s big hair puffs out on all sides, and his nose is more prominent than usual, but he’s a smooth actor, charming everyone in his path.
The couple glides toward us and envelop us in hugs. Vijay looks handsome in his formal, off-white, gold-threaded kurta pajama, Asha a vision in the brilliant red sari. She’s daring in gold jewels and a short choli revealing her belly button—but she’s on the edge of fashion.
“You’ve done such a marvelous job, Mrs. Sen!” Asha beams with pride. “And Lakshmi—you look incredibly beautiful—” Her voice breaks off as Nick appears. He’s to die for in a manila kurta pajama threaded with silver. My stomach turns somersaults. He’s transformed, a blond Adonis in the fabric of the gods. The tailored cotton works magic, outlining his muscles, his bulk, accentuating his height. Rainbow colors fill my bubbles, bouncing along the deck, sticking to kurtas and hanging from scarves. I’m mute, submerged in the ocean.
“You’re beautiful,” Nick says. “Mrs. Sen, you’re gorgeous. You did a great job with the saris.”
I hardly hear Ma’s reply. Nick and I are looking at each other, so much unspoken between us.
“Dance?” he asks.
It’s a slow song, and he’s pulling me onto the dance floor. He puts an arm around my waist, and instant fire races up through me, and I’m lost, the sensation undiminished over time. Our feet move in perfect synchronicity, the other wedding guests falling away—
He looks down into my eyes. “It was brave of you to say all that in front of everyone at the shop.”
“I feel free, and a bit—scared.”
“Did you mean what you said?” he asks. “About love at first sight?”
I nod, hardly daring to breathe. “Nick, I wonder. Could we start over again?”
“I thought you were happy with your life.”
“I will be. How is Liz?”
“I’m not seeing her anymore.”
“You don’t love her?”
“I don’t lie, Lakshmi. I loved you the moment I saw you.”
Warmth spreads through me. “I think I love you too, Nick. I think the bubbles were love.”
“Bubbles?”
“My feelings show up in weird ways.”
He laughs. “I like weird.”
“Do you still want to see me again?” I ask. “Or have I damaged our relationship beyond repair?”
“Everything can be fixed,” Nick says.
“Like pipes under sinks?”
He grins, sweeping me across the dance floor. I feel all eyes on us, as if we are the only couple on Earth. “So Lakshmi, what about your Bengali traditions? Families bonding with families?”
“I want to know more about your family, Nick. They’re very warm people. I like them.”
“And they liked you. But what about your mother?”
“She and Mr. Basu are leaving on a trip. I think she wants to be free of the shop, Nick. I’ll run the store for a while. What about you?”
“I’m leaving the limousine business,” he says, gazing into my eyes. “I’ve been looking for another business venture.”
My throat goes dry. “What kind of venture?”
“Whatever falls into my path. Serendipity.”
“Nick—”
“I’ve been learning Bengali. Did I tell you?”
“You? Bengali?”
“Maybe someday, I’ll be able to talk to your mother in her native language.”
Then he kisses me, so fast that I don’t have time to think. This time he’s not romantic and soft, but demanding, his lips firm, opening my mouth and taking. I’m lost, drowning in a vast sea of brilliant bubbles. He pulls me to him with a slight groan. “Oh, Lakshmi. Don’t leave me again. Don’t go off meeting other men—”
“I won’t, Nick. I promise.”
“I have to show you something.” He pulls a small shiny object from his pocket and slips it on my finger. “Jamila sent this to me. She said she had no use for it now—I had the engraving changed.”
“Oh, Nick.” It’s the ring! Inside are my initials and the Bengali words,
I love you.
“Thanda lege jabey,”
Nick says, holding me close. “Let me keep you warm.”