“We’ll handle the trouble when it comes to us,” I reply. But despite my bravado, I’m worried. Is there a city ordinance against musicians in cafés? I must check up on it.
“I have to go get some things done,” I say. “Belle will bring you your tea.”
“Tell her not to bother,” she says. “I have more than I wanted.”
I’m trying to think of a clever rejoinder when the phone rings. It’s Ping.
“I forgot to tell you,” she says. “There’s a package. I think it’s for you. I put it in the back room, on one of the shelves.”
“Who brought it? And what do you mean you think it’s for me?”
“I’m not sure who brought it. I found it on one of the chairs when I was cleaning up. There wasn’t any name—but someone had written ‘For You’ on it. I opened it—there were art prints inside. I figured you must be the one they’re for. Though I don’t know why someone would just leave it on a chair—”
I want to rush to the back, but first I ask, “Who was sitting at that table?”
“Let me see, two or three people came in at different times. It’s the table near the window, you know, one of our popular ones. There was a woman, and two men, I’m pretty sure.”
“Can you remember what they looked like?”
“The woman was quite pretty. She wore a loose cotton dress. The men were just regular, nothing special. They all ordered coffee—”
“Did the woman have long, curly hair?”
“It fell over her shoulders—I didn’t see how long it was.”
“And the men—” I swallow and continue. “Were either of them wearing white?”
“I think the one who came in last had on white pants. But any of them could have slipped that package onto the chair. It’s only because I pull out the chairs to dust them that I even saw it—”
It doesn’t mean anything. Berkeley is full of women with long hair and loose clothing and men wearing white.
As I’m thanking her, I hear a loud clang from the back room—something metallic falling—and a shout from my father.
“Rakhi,” he yells, “quick, bring the other fire extinguisher!” I drop the phone. In my panic I can’t remember where we keep the spare extinguisher; then I locate it standing in a corner, covered with cobwebs. Belle has already run to the back room. I follow.
It’s a scene of chaos. The wok is on the floor, oil spilled around it in a dark circle. Some of it must have fallen on the gas burner and ignited. Flames are leaping everywhere, some as high as the ceiling. My father’s vainly trying to douse them with the extinguisher we keep next to the stove. I struggle with my extinguisher, trying to figure out how to make it function. It’s industrial size, big and bulky and hard to manage, but finally, thankfully, it starts to work. I join my father in spraying, though it doesn’t seem to make a difference. The flames lick my face hungrily, hotter than I imagined they would be. Is this what Jona dreamed about, us being trapped in here, burning to death? The flames are hotter now, sheets of them flaring out to grab us. Was the dream sent to her to warn me? Belle has filled a pan with water. She throws it on us, but it evaporates from my skin almost immediately. She fills another, throws it again. I’m coughing from the smoke. Is my daughter a dream teller, then? I yell to my father,
Give up! Run!
But he refuses to hear. He continues to spray though his aim is erratic with fatigue.
When I’ve almost given up hope, the fire begins to die down. We spray with renewed vigor, Belle throws more water and after a few minutes we’re left with charred shelves, a blackened ceiling and walls, and a messy goo of oil and spray and water on the floor.
We walk shakily to the front of the store, which is empty now. When did the manager leave? My face stings as though slapped, smoke burns my throat and my legs are ready to collapse. But before I have a chance to sit, there are sirens outside. A group of firemen burst in, dragging a hose. We direct them to the back. They spray some more to make sure the fire is completely out, but there isn’t much for them to do. An ambulance has arrived, and the paramedics treat my father and me for minor burns and cuts. The lead fireman fills out a report and tells us to contact our insurance company. He chastises us for not leaving the building right away. It was foolish and risky. You’re lucky that room was mostly cement and brick and not wood, he says. Otherwise you’d be burnt to a crisp by now. Until the back is fixed up and a safety inspection done, he says, we can’t cook in there. Before he leaves, he reminds us again, sternly, of how lucky we were.
We collapse at a table, Belle and my father and I, a bedraggled trio. I don’t feel lucky, and judging from the looks on their faces, neither do they. I’m in shock at the speed with which disaster can strike—though I should know that already, shouldn’t I? I consider telling them about Jona’s dream, the fires she’s been painting. But I don’t think I can handle their responses right now.
“Thanks for calling the fire department,” I tell Belle. “That was quick thinking.”
Belle wrinkles her brow. “But I didn’t call them! I should have, but I guess I panicked. Remember, I was with you all the time, throwing water on you guys, trying to keep you from catching on fire? Not that I did such a great job.” She runs a light finger over my cheek, which feels blistered. “Your eyebrows are singed,” she says.
“Who could have called them, then? The back room doesn’t have windows. None of the neighbors could have seen—” I break off as a sudden thought comes to me. Could it have been the manager of Java? Surely not. She’d be delirious with delight if the Kurma House burnt to the ground with us inside. But I can’t think of any other possibility.
A customer comes in to ask for coffee, and Belle has to tell him we’re not open. We watch as he crosses the road and goes inside Java.
“You’d better put up the Closed sign,” Belle says. I do as she says, feeling defeated.
We spend the rest of the day cleaning the back room. With a pang, I throw the tray of ruined singaras into the trash. By the time it turns dark, we’ve cleared away the worst of the debris. But we’ll need professional help to fix the rest. I cringe to think how much it’ll cost.
I searched among the shards for my mother’s picture, but I didn’t see it anywhere. It makes me uneasy, that missing photograph. But I don’t ask about it. To ask would be to make its loss— and the bad luck attached to this loss—real.
When we’re done, I ask my father the question I’d been holding off because I didn’t trust my temper. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure. I was taking the wok off the fire—I know, I know, I should have called you to help, but you were talking to a customer—and it’s not like I haven’t done it before. But this time suddenly it turned over. It was the strangest thing! My wrist must have given out.” He sighs. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
I must be too tired to get angry, because all I feel is depression. What bad luck that this had to happen just as we were finally getting ahead. Apart from the repair costs, our insurance is bound to go up. We lost a lot of supplies in there, too. And if we close, even for a few days, it’ll destroy the momentum of the evening gatherings. People will find other things to do, and we’ll never get them back.
Belle calls to me from the corner where the manager was sitting.
“Look at this,” she says.
It’s the singara I gave the woman, now squished shapeless. With the red chutney poured over it, it looks like a tiny, run-over animal. It’s clear she didn’t eat any of it. Compared to the destruction in the back, this is minor, but it makes me shiver. There’s such malice behind this small act of wastefulness.
Could she have had something to do with our fire? Could she have wished it into being?
I shake my head to clear it. I’m looking to blame someone else because I don’t want to lose the precarious closeness my father and I have achieved for the first time in our lives.
“Throw it away,” I tell Belle, “even the plate.” But she’s already doing that. My head throbs. I think longingly of my bed, which I’m going to hit as soon as I take a double dose of aspirin.
As I’m about to lock up, my father says, “We’d better all go to your apartment, Rakhi. It’s the closest.”
I stare at him blankly. “What for?”
“To take our showers, of course.” Under the soot that splotches his face, he looks resolute. “You do have a washer and dryer in the building? Belle can borrow an outfit from you, but this is the only set of clothes I have with me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We’ve got to get back and reopen before the musicians get here.”
“Are you crazy?”
My father blinks at me. His expression indicates that he considers himself quite sane.
“Didn’t you hear the fireman?” I shout. “We’ve got to close down until the safety inspection is done.”
“I didn’t hear him say that.” My father squares his shoulders.
“He said we can’t cook in the back. And we won’t. You’ve got machines out here to fix tea and coffee, and I put enough snacks in the refrigerator this morning to last us for tonight.”
“Dad, don’t you know when to quit?”
“We’ll leave the exhaust on—that should clear the air. Tomorrow I’ll fix a couple of easy items at home and bring them with me. We’ll take it from there, beti.”
“You
are
crazy,” I say. I turn to Belle. “Tell him he’s crazy. We can’t open tonight, in the middle of this mess. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever. As far as I’m concerned, we’re done.”
Belle looks uncertainly from my face to his. “Maybe Mr. Gupta has a point,” she says. “We could try his plan, just for this evening—”
“I refuse to be a part of this farce. What will we tell the customers? Assuming that they’ll hang around long enough to hear anything we have to say.”
“We’ll tell them the truth—that there was an accident,” my father says. “They’ve had accidents. They’ll understand.”
“I don’t want them to understand,” I say. Bright streaks of pain slash across my eyes. “I want a handful of aspirin and some peace and quiet. You two can do what you like. Just don’t involve me in it. As of now, I’m out of this partnership.”
I toss the keys at Belle and walk away, leaving them staring after me.
30
FROM THE
DREAM JOURNALS
From the time she was little, Rakhi was fascinated with me. She put up with her father’s attempts at amusing her, but it was for me her face would light up, and after a while he stopped trying. Do all girls go through such a phase of mother worship? Having had no mother myself, I didn’t know. Only, for her it wasn’t a phase.
From her playpen, Rakhi would watch me for hours at a time. Unlike other children, she didn’t ask to be picked up or played with. She was happy just to watch. She observed me as I cooked or cleaned, as I sat with my eyes closed, sifting through the dreams that jostled demandingly in my head. When I spoke to clients on the phone, she listened, head tilted, black eyes unblinking, as though she understood everything I said. It made me uncomfortable. I began to go into the master bedroom to make my calls, even though being faced by the bed I no longer slept in made me uncomfortable in a different way.
She grew. Soon, I knew, she would start asking questions. I prepared my words. When I told her what I did, I tried to make it sound ordinary. But she’d already decided it was the most glamorous work in the world. By association, I was the most glamorous person.
It worried me to see my daughter idolizing me this way. There was so much she didn’t know about me, that I couldn’t tell her. My mistakes, my betrayals, my cowardices. Sooner or later, she was going to find them out, and then she’d feel betrayed, too. I wanted to stop that from happening, but how? I who advised so many people on their problems had no idea how to solve my own.
Rakhi was so upset she wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t speak to me. She thought I wasn’t teaching her to interpret dreams because I wanted to keep my gift selfishly to myself. (She was more accurate than she guessed. I
was
selfish, only in a different way.) Even her father, who seldom commented on household matters, asked what was going on. I should have told her right then what I’d surmised from the beginners’ exercises: she had no talent. But it felt too cruel. Blinkered by love, I reasoned that I might be mistaken. To try once more couldn’t hurt. And so that night, against my better judgment, I asked her to sleep with me in the sowing room.
I made Rakhi lie on my pillow so that our heads touched. I told her to close her eyes. This much I remembered from what my aunt had done when she had appeared like lightning in the dreariness of my life. Next, she had reached into me and touched something that lay sleeping. But I didn’t know how to do that. It was something dream tellers learned in the last month of their studies, and I had left before then.
In the slums where I grew up, people had been afraid of me because I seemed to know secrets about them, their hidden thoughts. It afforded me some protection in that place where orphans were used in cruel ways. I was thankful for my ability, but I didn’t give it much attention. Now I realize I must have been reading the dreams of those who lived around me.
When Rakhi was little, I’d play a game with her. Can you guess what I’m thinking of, I’d ask her the morning after I’d had an important dream. I’d place her in my lap, look into her eyes, hold the dream in my mind and will her to tap into it. She’d touch my face, play with my hair. Finally, she’d grow fidgety and slide off my lap, and I’d be left with a mix of disappointment and relief.