Oleander Girl (24 page)

E
vening has descended upon Kolkata. Mrs. Bose turns on the recessed lights and gives the elegantly arranged dining table a considering look. But instead of the satisfaction she usually feels, she is nagged by doubt. She has walked a razor’s edge trying to create the right mix of taste and wealth: enough but not too much. Mr. and Mrs. Bhattacharya are coming to dinner, an event signaling a new intimacy between the families that Mrs. Bose desires yet shrinks from. It is a crucial night. She hopes that by the end of the evening, Bhattacharya will sign the partnership papers the Boses have drawn up based on previous discussions. This is why the right impression is so important. If Bhattacharya thinks their finances are precarious (and they are, more each day), he might shy away. If he thinks they’re too well-off to be appropriately appreciative of his contribution (because that’s what Mr. Bhattacharya likes, to be appreciated and preferably revered), then, too, he might decline. With that in mind, she has chosen her second-best Wedgwood set rather than the Spode. The goblets are glass, not crystal; the tableware merely stainless steel. She hopes she has not made a mistake. The menu is Italian, accompanied by French wine. Mr. Bhattacharya, for all his professions of Hindu purity, has a great fondness for French wines—in seclusion, of course.

The doorbell rings. Mrs. Bose calls out a warning to Mr. Bose, who is in the kitchen, putting the final touches to a platter of bruschetta. He is
the gourmet cook of this household and the architect of tonight’s dinner, but that will have to be concealed, because Mr. Bhattacharya has definite notions about a man’s role in the home. Mrs. Bose smooths the edge of her chiffon sari (should she have worn a more traditional silk?), gives her hair a quick shake, and puts on a suitable smile. But it is only Rajat, who has brought Sarojini over for the evening.

At first Sarojini had declined, saying that she did not have the energy to go out, but Rajat cajoled her until she yielded. Mrs. Bose watches how attentively he leads the older woman to a chair, and a different kind of smile takes over her face. This is the way Rajat would have been with his own grandmother, she thinks, if she had lived. Mrs. Bose is grateful to Sarojini for awakening this tenderness in her son.

She is grateful to Sarojini for another reason, too. Bhattacharya has mentioned, several times, his admiration for the Roy family’s heritage. Seeing Sarojini here tonight, integrated into the Bose household, will give him another incentive to become their partner. He has also mentioned a desire to see the Roys’ family temple. Perhaps Mrs. Bose can set up that visit tonight.

“Pia,” Rajat calls. “Come and say hello to Grandma.”

Pia comes running from her room. Always so impulsive, this girl, holding nothing back! Was Mrs. Bose ever this way? She watches Pia throw her arms around Sarojini and hopes this sweetness will not cause her daughter too much heartache as she grows into adulthood.

“How thin you’ve become,” Pia says, smoothing back Sarojini’s hair, kissing both her cheeks. “I can feel all the bones of your face. It must be hard for you, alone at home with Grandfather gone and Korobi-didi so far away. You must miss her. We do, too—Dada especially, though he won’t admit it. But I’m upset with Didi! She hasn’t called me even once.”

“Pia!” Rajat interjects. “You know Korobi didn’t have a phone.”

Sarojini hugs Pia. “I will certainly scold her for that. How pretty you look in this mauve salwar kameez, all grown-up. Did you get it recently?”

Pia makes a face. “Oh, no. I’ve had it for ages. Actually, I wanted to wear my new birthday dress. It’s sleeveless and has these neat psychedelic colors. But Mom said the Bhattacharyas won’t approve. They’re very old-fashioned.”

“Pia!” Mrs. Bose cries, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

“Don’t worry! I’ll be one hundred percent diplomatic when they come. Even better, I’ll stay in my room until dinner. Grandma, you can come, too, if you get bored with all their business talk. I’ll teach you how to play
Zelda
—it’s a video game about a princess. And, Grandma, we have to feed you well, put some weight on you, otherwise what will Korobi-didi say when she comes back!”

“Listen to the girl,” Sarojini says with a fond smile. “Taking care of me like she’s a grandmother herself!”

“When is she coming back, anyway?” Pia continues. “Doesn’t she need to get ready for the wedding?”

An awkward silence follows, adult glances meeting above her head, but Pia has already plunged into her next thought.

“Dinner’s going to be grand! Dad made it all: bruschetta, salad with olives and tomatoes and three kinds of cheese, baked pasta with chicken, vegetarian pasta for you, and tiramisu for dessert. He is just the best cook! But we mustn’t let Mr. Bhattacharya know that, either. Come to the kitchen, come, you and I can be the first to sample the bruschetta.”

The doorbell rings again. This time it really is the Bhattacharyas, foiling Pia’s plans. Bhattacharya is expansive and dazzling in white pants, a white silk bush shirt, and a Cartier watch, which he only wears for intimate social occasions. (For public events he sports a made-in-India Titan, which doesn’t keep the best time but earns him loads of goodwill.) He shakes hands with Mr. Bose, nods to the others, and kisses Mrs. Bose on both cheeks, European fashion. Mrs. Bhattacharya hangs back a little, perhaps because she is weighed down by a sari with too much goldwork on it, or perhaps because of the kiss. She scrutinizes the decor with a small frown. “An orange wall,” she finally says. “How very—unusual!”

Drinks are served, pleasantries exchanged, platters of appetizers passed around by Pushpa. Bhattacharya walks up and down the living room, glass in hand, as though the place belongs to him.

“Ah, there’s that superb Jamini Roy mother-and-child I never tire of looking at,” he exclaims, walking over to the painting. He admires the precise two-dimensionalism the artist is famed for and waxes eloquent on Roy’s
vision, at once magical and modern, sophisticated and innocent. Mrs. Bose feels a smile—her first genuine one since the Bhattacharyas arrived—taking over her face. Whatever his shortcomings, the man understands and loves art.

“Let me know if you ever plan to sell this one.”

Mrs. Bose’s smile slips. The Roy is her most prized possession. By amazing luck, Mr. Bose had discovered it in the back of a godown when an old estate was being liquidated. He had bargained shrewdly and bought it secretly, without her knowledge. She had found it waiting in their bed, wrapped in silk. That was the night, she believes, that Pia was conceived.

Fortunately, Mr. Bose comes to her rescue—as he always does—responding with utmost politeness that should such a situation arise, Bhattacharya would be the first to be informed.

“And what’s this?” Bhattacharya is pointing to the framed engagement photograph hanging beside the Roy.

Mrs. Bose curses herself. She should have put away that photo before the Bhattacharyas came, so that there wouldn’t be questions that led to other questions: where is Korobi now, what she is up to. She must do it as soon as her guests leave, so this never happens again.

“It’s a photo of my brother’s engagement,” Pia says, eyes sparkling at having had her creation noticed, for once, instead of being upstaged by that stupid Jamini Roy.

“Lovely!” Bhattacharya says. But he’s looking at Pia instead of the photo. “I can tell the photographer has a real eye for composition, the way the subjects have been placed within the frame.”

Mrs. Bose’s heart begins a heavy, arrhythmic beat.

“I arranged them,” Pia says, delighted. “It took forever. Everyone complained.”

“You did absolutely the right thing. Why don’t you come here and explain who’s who to me.”

“Sure!”

Pia jumps up, but before she can move, Mrs. Bose cries, her voice too loud to her ears, “Here’s one of the subjects in the flesh!”

She knows she’s overreacting; Bhattacharya wouldn’t really do anything;
but even the thought of his fleshy hand on her daughter’s shoulder is unbearable. She pulls Sarojini forward with a wide, fake smile.

“This is Korobi’s grandmother. She lives in the ancestral mansion of the Roys, the one you wanted to see, with the historic Durga temple.”

For a moment, annoyance at the interruption darkens Bhattacharya’s face—he’s aware, Mrs. Bose suspects, of her ploy. But the lure of the temple wins him over. He turns to Sarojini, asking if it’s true that Netaji Subhash visited the temple for blessings.

“That’s what my father-in-law always said,” Sarojini replies. If she’s aware of the underlying tension in the room and its cause, she gives no indication of it. She launches into a dramatic description of Netaji’s visit to the temple before he left India for Japan, hoping for military aid. It gives Mrs. Bose a chance to whisper to Pia to go do her homework.

Sarojini ends by inviting Bhattacharya to the temple.

“Come on the next no-moon night, when we have a special puja for the goddess. It is supposed to bring the attendees great good luck.”

Bhattacharya’s eyes light up and his face takes on a boyish anticipation that surprises Mrs. Bose. “A wonderful idea,” he says. “I’ll do it even if I have to cancel a couple of appointments.”

Mrs. Bhattacharya, who has been scrutinizing the photo with a sour expression, asks Sarojini, “And where’s the bride-to-be tonight? Why isn’t she with you? Have the lovebirds”—here she throws a sly glance at Rajat—“had a tiff?”

Mrs. Bose stiffens again. But Sarojini, bless her, has learned from her lawyer husband how to deal with malicious queries.

“Nothing like that, my dear! The children get along beautifully. But poor Korobi has taken her grandfather’s death very hard, so I’ve sent her for a month to America, to spend some time with family friends.”

Mrs. Bhattacharya seems deflated by this firm, no-nonsense explanation, but Mr. Bhattacharya wrinkles his brow. “With all due respect,” he tells Sarojini, “it’s a bad idea to send an unmarried girl abroad by herself. In fact it’s downright dangerous. Who knows what temptations might come her way?”

Sarojini murmurs politely about her being in good hands, but Mrs. Bose notices Rajat’s flushed face, his pained expression. Has Bhattacharya
hit upon something? Is there a problem with Korobi that she doesn’t know of? She feels a constriction in her chest. Oh, it’s hard to accept that children come with their own fates. That a parent can do only so much to make them happy.

“Dinner is ready,” she announces brightly. Thank God, the distraction works.

The meal proceeds excellently. Mr. Bhattacharya takes seconds of everything and praises Mrs. Bose. Beauty, business acumen, and now this—the ability to produce a gourmet dinner while looking as though she hasn’t even stepped into the kitchen! Mrs. Bose inclines her head in modest acceptance, sending Mr. Bose a tiny, private smile. Bhattacharya drinks several glasses of chardonnay. His wife puts a restraining hand on his arm, but he shakes it off with a quelling frown and she doesn’t do it again.

The tiramisu is served and complimented. Pia takes Sarojini off to her room. Pushpa brings coffee. It is time.

“Mr. Bhattacharya, shall we look at the partnership documents I’ve drawn up, based on our earlier discussion?” Mr. Bose asks.

Mrs. Bose holds her breath. They have decided that Mr. Bose will lead this conversation while Mrs. Bose gives him the necessary input through minute gestures they have perfected over years.

“We can look,” Bhattacharya says, “but we’ll have to change some of the clauses. I made some recent inquiries and found that your business isn’t doing as well as I had thought. You’re okay in India, thanks mostly to the Park Street gallery and your orders from the hotel chains, but you’re losing a lot of money in America. And now I hear you have troubles at your warehouse.”

Mrs. Bose curses inwardly. Bhattacharya must have a formidable network of informers. Thinking about the warehouse makes her feel ill. Last night, Mr. Bose and she had discussed the situation in the privacy of their bedroom. They agreed that Rajat had been too harsh. Alauddin, who had used the box cutter, shouldn’t have been fired. Now he was stirring up the Muslim union members. The Hindu members were currently undecided, but in Bengal the ties of class were often stronger than religion. Unless the Boses took care of the problem rapidly, there might well be a labor strike.
Shipments would get delayed, orders canceled, one mishap setting off another like a chain of firecrackers. Mrs. Bose’s head spun just to think of them.

But what should they do? Mr. Bose wanted to compensate the injured Hindu worker and hire Alauddin back, thus appeasing the union. The workstations would be put back where they had been. When Mrs. Bose said that would undercut Rajat’s authority, Mr. Bose suggested that they could move him away from the warehouse. He could help in the Park Street gallery and focus on putting together that website he was so excited about. They could make it seem like a promotion. Mrs. Bose wasn’t convinced that would work. Hadn’t they been delighted when Rajat had decided to finally settle down, after years of wildness, and help with the family business? Could they deny that he was working hard and doing well, except for this one error? If they moved him away, everyone would recognize it as a slap in the face, no matter what the Boses said. The workers wouldn’t respect Rajat after that, and he would never forgive his parents.