Invisible Lives

T
he Hindu goddess Lakshmi visited me in my mother’s womb. Ma had taken to prowling Kolkata bazaars in a pregnant frenzy, devouring brinjals from street vendors and buying whole inventories of brocade saris. I was constantly jostled about, suffering from motion sickness.

Then Lakshmi floated down on a lotus leaf, her round, kind face a beacon of steadiness. Gold coins cascaded from her four hands, and a red silk sari swirled around her in a current of sandalwood perfume.

“Your parents will name you Lakshmi, my child.” Her voice flowed like a Himalayan mountain stream. “People boldly name their offspring after the gods and goddesses, never caring whether the child actually
resembles
the deity.”

Since I usually heard only the rush of amniotic fluid, I had no knowledge of my parents’ plans.

“In your case, the resemblance will be striking.” Her body swelled, fecund and otherworldly.

“Yikes, I’m going to look like that?” I thought.

“But don’t go flaunting your beauty. No fashion shows or Bollywood-ing about.”

I had no intention of Bollywood-ing anywhere. I just wanted to get out and start living.

“You’ll have my gorgeous black hair.” She ran her fingers through her shiny tresses, endless and glistening like the Indian Ocean. “Keep it clean. Well washed and brushed. Use only cruelty-free, organic shampoo.”

I didn’t yet have any hair.

“You’re good-hearted, my child.” The sari shimmered around her. “You already have the
knowing,
the empathy, the sixth sense. You will discern the longings of others, and you will help them with the textures of silk and vibrant cotton. You will clothe them in hope, Lakshmi, but you will be tested.”

“Tested. How?”

“By love, my child. For you, true love will be a long and difficult journey.”

“Where will I go?”

“I can’t tell you that, can I? I’d be giving away the story of your life.” Lakshmi shimmered, burst into a million tiny sparkles, and disappeared.

M
a wants me to marry a young Indian Paul Newman, have five male babies, and make a million dollars for our sari shop, all before I turn twenty-eight, which gives me exactly three months.

She doesn’t tell me in words, but I sense her old-fashioned longings, as I discern the yearnings of our customers, who pretend to peruse saris while they secretly dream of winning the lottery or the Miss Universe pageant.

I can’t say if these dreams will come true. I don’t have a crystal ball in my brain. I don’t see dead people. The
knowing
is an occasional window into the hidden lives of nervous brides and proud parents, grandmothers, and rebellious teens. They all squeeze into Ma’s boutique, Mystic Elegance, which is sandwiched between Northwest Karate and Cedarlake Outdoor Gear. Across from the shimmering lake, the shop is a mini-India just north of Seattle—a soft world of silk and satin. We attract a range of clients, from Americans of all ethnic backgrounds to Indian immigrants who settled here for a variety of reasons—to open businesses or work in the high-tech industry or academia.

Today, while Ma flits around in a turquoise organza sari, I charm a slim, young woman who keeps eyeing the expensive silks. I’m comfortable here, nearly invisible in my glasses, jeans, and baggy kurti blouse, but Ma keeps glancing at me with an anxious look in her eye. She’s been on a desperate quest through the Indian matrimonial ads, not for herself but for me. Her yearnings are in overdrive, as if she’s holding a delicious secret.

I focus on the slim woman, who is wrapped in a traditional cotton sari, the embroidered endpiece, or pallu
,
drawn over her head. She holds a paper cup of Seattle’s Best coffee, and her woolen coat is damp from the autumn rain.

“I’ve heard of you, Ms. Lakshmi,” she says softly, her voice touched with a lilting accent. “I’m Rina. You must help—I need a long sari that won’t slip. It must stay on and cover everything.” Her voice teeters along the edge of a cliff. A tiny diamond stud glitters like a lonely star on her nose.

“Why do you want to cover up?” I ask. “You’re beautiful.”

Pinpoints of color come to Rina’s cheeks, and her long eyelashes flutter. “My mother-in-law’s rules,” she whispers.

“I see. She lives with you?” Her mother-in-law must come from a traditional community in India. Perhaps Rina is the wife of the second-born son, in which case exposing her head might be considered immodest.

“She arrived from India two weeks back. I’ve only just come here a year ago to join my husband. I hoped that his mother would not visit. I’m not accustomed to her rules, but what can I say to her? She shouts all the time, insists that I dress formally, even when I’m home. So I put on a sari. But when I go out…” She glances down at her clothes, then at my casual getup. A thread of purple longing drifts from her mind. She wants to tear off the sari and pull on jeans like mine and a comfortable kurti over her bra.

I take her hand, and her anxiety hums through me. “Don’t be troubled,” I say in my best soothing voice. “A sari is simply a length of fabric, pure and unstitched. You can do what you want with it. Remember that.”

“My saris have minds of their own, always slipping! I’m constantly worrying that the pallu will fall off my head—”

“I understand. I can help.”

Rina’s eyes grow bright with tears. “She comes in with tea in the mornings, doesn’t even knock! And I must cover up or what a scolding I get—”

“How long is your mother-in-law staying?”

“Only God knows. Perhaps forever.”

“Can you talk to her? Explain how you feel? Maybe she’ll relax her rules in America.”

“I can only hope.”

“You’ll be fine. I’ll show you the perfect sari.” I want to rescue Rina. What if her mother-in-law never gives in?

“Thank you, Ms. Lakshmi.” Her shoulders relax. “I must confess, I dislike saris. I never wore them much until she arrived. I mean no disrespect, but saris are so difficult to put on—”

“I understand—no need to explain.” Rina’s worries climb into me. When she ties her sari, how much skin will show? Will the petticoat be too tight? What if the sari falls off altogether?

I know just what to give her.

I search through a sea of saris until I find the perfect raspberry-colored georgette with a floral border. I unfold the sari on the counter. “Very modern,” I say. “And this particular sari has a magical quality. It will not slip.”

Her eyes light with hope as she runs the semitransparent fabric through her fingers. “It’s so thin,” she whispers in awe. “So delicate. How—”

“Trust me, Rina. Try it on.”

She glances around, as if her mother-in-law might be watching, then scurries into the dressing room. When she emerges, a vision in dark pink, the pallu covers her head as if glued there. “I can’t imagine how you found this!” A tear slips down her cheek. “Thank you, Ms. Lakshmi. I’ll be back again.”

“Take care of yourself.” I ring up her purchase at the cash register, and as I watch her leave, warmth settles in my heart. I’m helping women one sari at a time. Soon our shop will expand, maybe even become a franchise, and I’ll fulfill Ma’s dream and marry the perfect, supportive husband.

And yet I’m restless, as if a jumping bean is leaping around inside me. What if I end up like Rina, a nervous insomniac worrying about exposing too much skin? I’ll make sure I marry a man whose traditions match those of my family. But what if I never find him?
Love will be a long journey,
the goddess said.

I have little time to obsess upon such problems, for Mrs. Dasgupta, elderly matriarch extraordinaire, strides in, shaking water from a black umbrella. She flings her silver pallu over her shoulder. She always wears a formal sari to our store. I’ve never seen her in western clothes.

Surrounded by customers, Ma motions to me to help. I press the palms of my hands together in a gesture of greeting. “Mrs. Dasgupta! I’ve put aside some lovely silks for you.”

“I don’t want silk today. Have you cotton?” she shrieks. Her thoughts blow past me like newspaper tumbling along a sidewalk.
Blue cotton sari, sandalwood scented, pale as an anemic sky. A shadow-man smiling in the background.

I give her my best patient smile. “Our Bengali cottons are mainly white, but let me see what I can find.”

“You always give me just the right sari. My friends say, ‘Pia Dasgupta drives all this way for a bit of cloth?’ But I tell them, Lakshmi Sen knows.” She presses a gnarled finger to her forehead. “You always know what it is I am thinking.”

“I’m a good guesser.” I pull more saris from the shelf. “We have fine handloom cotton. One of a kind, each of them.”

Mrs. Dasgupta snorts, fingering the fabric. “Gold border is also handwoven? What is this design?”

“Auspicious—peacocks.” I trace the handwoven threads. “These are long saris, won’t show your ankles.” Mrs. Dasgupta would consider a short sari lower class, hiked up to the knees so women can work in the fields.

“What is it I’m looking for? My nieces arrive from Mumbai tomorrow. We’re having a family reunion—”

“You still want cotton? What about festive Madrasi silk?”

“Far too bright. I’ll not wear the silly garlands in my hair.”

Despite the autumn chill, my armpits break out in a sweat. I pull out sari after sari in different colors and patterns.

Mrs. Dasgupta frowns. “What are you thinking with this red one, that I am just getting married? And this yellow—I’m not rolling around at temple, and I’m not pregnant. Three boys are quite enough, and lucky I am not to have given birth to girls.”

“I brought you red and yellow because you look so young and beautiful.” I hold her hands, as brittle and parched as fallen leaves. It’s a wonder her fingers can support all those ruby-studded rings. An image of forgotten youth breathes through her skin, races up my arm into my brain. She’s maybe sixteen again, her hair blue-black, down to her knees. She’s wrapped in a crimson wedding sari embedded with jewels and gold. She holds the translucent pallu coyly over her face, giggles at a slick young Indian groom with a bulbous nose. Then the shadow-man appears, her sari changes color to pale blue, and her longing for him hits me like a bowling ball.

I let go of her hand. Such specific images visit me rarely—I’ve never sensed longing so acute, so raw.

“Well, you think I look young?” Her lined face softens, and she pats the white bun on the back of her head.

“Not a day over twenty-nine,” I say.

“And my skin is looking so
fair,
nah? Must be the Light & Lovely cream. Have you got any more?”

I give her a tube from the glass case. In India, fair skin is highly prized. Our customers swear by Light & Lovely. You won’t see an Indian in the Mango Bay Tanning Salon on the corner.

Mrs. Dasgupta pops the tube into her massive handbag. “Now I shall look even younger.”

“And yet you hold the wisdom of the world.” I’m busy searching for a sari in a crimson print, like her wedding sari.

“You’re buttering me up. What about you? Twenty-seven and no sign of marriage. Your ma is quite concerned.” The lines deepen around her mouth.

“She needn’t worry.” I glance at my mother, gliding around in translucent organza. She hides her secrets behind a wide, toothy smile. Golden bubbles of elation bounce around her—bubbles that only I can see. What is she up to?

“Could you not find a good Indian husband when you lived in New York?” Mrs. Dasgupta says. “Your ma says you were there for three years, gallivanting around on Wall Street. There must be rich Bengali bachelors there, nah?”

“I wasn’t on Wall Street. I worked at a small investment firm, and I was always busy.” I can’t tell her about my many disastrous dates with colleagues and high-powered executives, about my fruitless search for the perfect relationship.

Mrs. Dasgupta smacks her lips. “Young women these days, so independent. Career girls, nah? And now you’re all the time working for your mother.”

“The shop is a full-time job, I must admit.” Maybe Mrs. Dasgupta forgot that I own half the store now, that I’m the one keeping the business afloat. Ma might be a whiz at buying fabrics, but she doesn’t know a plus sign from a minus, payables from receivables.

“You must look for a groom full-time instead. Your ma has been saving your dowry money since you were
choto.
This small.” Mrs. Dasgupta pats the air two feet above the ground. “Such is the case with girls. Their parents must pay for everything while the husband’s family sits back and holds forth. They will want a huge feast, expensive jewels, a thousand wedding guests.”

A guest list of a thousand is common for Bengali weddings. But what about a husband? I picture Ma’s delighted face at my wedding, a grand Bengali affair to cement the relationship between the two extended families.

Maybe I’ll have to go to India to find my match.

“Lakshmi?” Mrs. Dasgupta is tapping my arm. “Are you all right?”

“Sorry, I was just thinking about weddings.” The goddess said love would test me, but how will I recognize love? Did I love Rijoy, the eccentric but handsome entomologist I met as an undergrad? He loved the University of Washington and still works there as a research fellow. We had fun, but he was most interested in studying insects. So I escaped to New York after graduating, where I finally met Sean, the suave American financier, fluent in five European languages. Despite my education and upbringing, my skin was still too brown for his blue-blooded family.

He wouldn’t introduce me to his parents.

“You’re considering only appropriate men from your community, I should hope,” Mrs. Dasgupta is saying.

She means my family’s community in Kolkata.

“Of course,” I lie. She is hopelessly old world. The truth is I have to cast a wider net here. I’ve dated Americans, Italians, a German exchange student. But I suppose I’ve always known, deep in my Bengali subconscious, that I would eventually come full circle, home to family and tradition.

“Then you can be certain of the way the boy was brought up,” she says. “That he is a good boy of good breeding.”

“Of course. But it’s difficult here—”

“That’s why you must go back to India.”

“I go occasionally with Ma on her buying trips—we’ve been looking everywhere, believe me. She’s introduced me to family friends—”

“Then you must look harder or your ma will become old and wrinkled and still her daughter will remain unmarried. And what would your father have thought?”

Don’t bring Baba into this, I want to say. But I smile politely and pat Mrs. Dasgupta’s arm. “Always watching out for us. How kind you are.”

“And why you wear those ugly glasses and tie your hair back, I don’t know. Men want a beautiful wife these days, nah? Never mind if she can’t cook, clean, take care of the household.”

“But I can cook and clean, Mrs. Dasgupta. I don’t enjoy Bollywood-ing about.”

“Your Ma taught you well, but men these days want a wife they can parade around.”

“A good man will see past these glasses.” I glance at Ma, who gives me a look pregnant with unspoken secrets, a new idea popping from her sleeves in those bright golden bubbles. Maybe she’s found me the Bengali prince of her dreams, like Pooja’s fiancé. Dipak is kind, handsome, and smart, and Pooja loves him. She is our slim part-time intern, all frizzy hair and elbows, off helping two teenage girls in the shawl section. In Dipak, she’s found herself a perfect match.