Oleander Girl (3 page)

“She said yes, Asif! How about that!”

Even in the car’s subdued interior light, Rajat’s eyes had a naked shine to them. It made Asif feel ancient, though he is at most five or six years older than Rajat.

“Congratulations, Saab. I am wishing you two will be very happy together.”

He meant it, too. He liked Rajat-saab, who was always kind and considerate,
even in his wild days, before meeting Korobi-madam, when he used to go clubbing every night with his crazy friends and that Sonia woman, who was the craziest of them all. But Asif didn’t blame him. If Asif had that kind of money, he would be doing a few crazy things, too, instead of spending his off-evenings playing teen patti with the other drivers in the building, watching them get drunk on cheap beer.

But Asif’s favorite person in the family is Pia-missy, whom he drives to and from school each day, and who reminds him—though it’s illogical of him to think this way, and perhaps presumptuous—of his younger sister.

Although no one will ever know, Pia is the reason he refused when, last year, Sheikh Rehman’s men tried to lure him away with the offer of a higher salary and the opportunity to drive a Rolls-Royce. For a moment, he had weakened; more than the money, it was the car; and more than the car, it was the sheikh’s reputation.

Sheikh Rehman is a legend in the Muslim community. He’s known for hiring young Mussulmans of promise and taking an active interest in their welfare. He’s generous with bonuses and overtime pay. He houses them in staff quarters that are downright luxurious. They eat for free, delicious halal meals prepared in a communal kitchen in the back of the sheikh’s own mansion. Last year, when some of them told him that they wanted to visit Mecca, he paid all their expenses and gave them extra vacation time. It is said no servant has ever quit his service, though several—because the sheikh is a stickler—have been fired.

But then Asif thought of the way Pia-missy would look if she found out he was leaving, and he said no.

Pia-missy has a secret name for him, which she only uses when no one else is within earshot: A.A. It’s a name with style. “A.A., do you want some Wrigley’s Doublemint?” “Can you go faster, A.A?” “Tell me again who you have at home in your village, A.A.” “Turn up the volume, A.A. More!” She likes American music, earsplittingly raucous; it mystifies him, but he has decided it is his favorite, too. When they are alone in the car, Pia-missy holds up an imaginary mike as though she were a rock star and shakes her shoulders as she sings. Asif hums under his breath, accompanying her.

Being invisible, Asif knows things. For instance, the argument Rajat-saab and his parents had had after their first visit to Korobi-madam and her grandparents. Memsaab wondered if Korobi wasn’t too young, only in her first year of college. Plus she’d been tucked away in that boarding school all her life. Rajat insisted she was more mature than most of his friends—a statement with which Asif silently agreed.

“Aren’t you rushing into this too soon after Sonia?”

“This has nothing to do with Sonia,” Rajat said coldly, but Asif thought he detected a slight tremor in Rajat’s voice.

Barasaab was worried that Korobi didn’t have enough in common with Rajat. She came from such a different background. Rajat insisted that he found those very differences fascinating. The culture and history that surrounded her every moment in that wonderful old house. How much he learned every time he visited her there.

“Her upbringing is quite unique,” Memsaab admitted. “But would that be enough for you? I just don’t want you to be unhappy and bored in a couple of years—”

“Mother, if you knew Korobi better, you’d know that I could never get bored with her. I haven’t ever been able to talk to any woman the way I talk to her. She understands me, sometimes even without my having to say anything. I love her more than I ever thought I’d love anyone.”

Memsaab had sighed. “In that case, Son, we’ll support you.”

They arrive at the Roys’ house right on time, though no one commends Asif for it. He pulls the car into the tamarind-shaded driveway of 26 Tarak Prasad Roy Road, steps out smartly, and opens the door with a flourish. Pia-missy is the last to get down. A deep blue georgette zip-up sari is pinned to her shoulder with a brooch. Solemn and formal, she inclines her head regally. “Thank you, A.A.,” she whispers. But then she can’t stand the excitement. She grins at him and rushes ahead of her parents, pulling the sari up to her knees, swinging her new Kodak camera by its strap. Yesterday she explained to Asif how special that camera is.

“It just came out, A.A.! Dada asked one of his friends who went to America to get it for me. See, it’s digital. You can view the photo as soon as you take it. If you don’t like it, you can erase it and take it again.
After the engagement, I’m going to take a photo of you. Maybe standing against the car, what do you think?”

“That would be very nice, Missy,” he said, touched. No one had ever thought to take a photograph of him.

Asif’s sister had been the same age as Pia the year he left the village. She had cried when she learned he was going away. In spite of the difference in their ages, they’d been close. Asif would listen tolerantly as she prattled on about things girls were interested in, and if none of her friends were around, he would allow her to cajole him into playing five stones or ekka-duka. A few years later, she was married off to a man in Ghaziabad. Asif had been upset when he was informed of it. He thought she wasn’t old enough to take on a wife’s duties, but it was too late to do anything. The marriage had already been arranged. Afterward, he had gotten her address from his mother and written to her several times, even sending her some money, but she had never written back. Probably her in-laws kept the rupees he’d enclosed and didn’t give her the letters. He wanted to call her, but the in-laws didn’t have a phone. He thought of asking Barasaab for some time off so he could visit her, but the days passed, as days tend to do. Then last year his mother wrote that his sister had died of pneumonia. Reading the letter with its crooked lines and misspellings, Asif had felt sorrow and guilt tear through his heart. He remembered how his sister had looked at the wedding, bowed unhappily under a heavy bridal veil. She had died of neglect, he was sure of it, and he had done nothing to help her.

Now he tenses as he watches Pia wobble on her high heels. Allah, he finds himself praying, don’t let her fall.

I am trying not to fidget against the itchy, heavy silk that Grandmother is draping me in, or the even heavier jewelry she’s attaching to various parts of my body. I don’t like the scented oil she rubbed into my hair before she imprisoned it in a braid, or the large bindi she’s painted on my forehead, like an astonished third eye. But I can tell it makes her happy. Maybe it brings back memories of my mother’s wedding day—my
mother, whose visit I need to ask Grandmother about as soon as I can find an opportune moment. So I summon as much patience as possible. Anyway, I’ll get to shampoo out my hair before the engagement reception this evening. And tonight I’ll get to wear my perfect outfit, the one hidden in the back of my almirah, which only Rajat has so far seen.

The reception will be held at the Oberoi Grand, fanciest of the Kolkata hotels. Rajat’s mother, who likes me to call her Maman, told me that 350 guests are coming. The chief minister himself might stop by.

“Remember, dear, you’re going to be the center of everyone’s attention!”

Nothing like this has ever before happened to me. Because I grew up at boarding school, my birthday parties were muted affairs executed in the refectory: balloons, a lumpy cake made by the cook, a few minutes of birthday song and scattered applause. The thought of tonight’s festivities is a bit alarming, but mostly it’s exhilarating. I draw in a deep breath and square my shoulders, ready to take my place in the world as Rajat Bose’s fiancée.

“Why are you all puffed up like a bullfrog?” Grandmother says. “How do you expect me to hook the komarbandh around your waist if you do that?”

Since the party is expected to continue late into the night, Papa Bose has booked three suites at the hotel—one for him and Maman, one for Rajat, and the third for me and Pia, Rajat’s eleven-year-old sister, whom he calls Sweet P. Grandfather didn’t care for the idea one bit. He scrunched up his face and started on how girls of the Roy family don’t spend nights away from home. But Papa, bless his heart, said in his soft-spoken way, “Bimal-babu, isn’t Korobi also my daughter now?” Papa’s words sent a surge of joy through me. I wanted to tell him,
Yes, I am. And you and Maman are parents to me
.

Grandfather had finally barked his acquiescence at Papa, but he would never have given in if he knew what Rajat has planned for tonight, which is to smuggle me into his suite once his parents are asleep. He has sworn Sweet P to secrecy. That wasn’t hard; she adores her brother. Thinking of Rajat and me, just the two of us together, privacy like we’ve rarely been allowed, intertwined on a blue velvet couch—that’s as far as I let
my guilty imagination go—makes my stomach feel wobbly. Yes, I’m scared, but in a delicious kind of way. My breasts tingle, and I breathe carefully so that Grandmother will not ask me,
What’s the matter now? Are you feeling light-headed from fasting?

But even my fantasies of Rajat can’t keep me from worrying over my mother’s visitation. I’ve got to bring it up soon. We’re almost done.

Grandmother adjusts the armband one last time and tilts her head to give me an appraising look.

“Beautiful!” she proclaims. She rises on tiptoe to give me a kiss, and then, after a small hesitation, another one, as though on behalf of someone else.

I guess this is as good a time as any.

“Grandma, can I ask you something?”

Right then Cook calls from below to inform us that Bimal-babu is dressed and waiting in the foyer, pacing up and down and none too happy that we’re still dawdling upstairs.

“Let’s go,” Grandmother says.

I grab hold of her arm. “I need to talk to you.”

“Not now, my dear. You know your grandfather, how he can get if people are late.”

“It’s really important!”

There must be something in my voice, because Grandmother peers into my face, her eyes clouding with apprehension.

But Cook’s raspy yells assail us from downstairs. “O Ma, O Korobi-baby, babu has already walked off toward the mandir in a huff. You’d better hurry, else you know what’s going to happen.”

Grandmother sends me ahead to pacify Grandfather. She will join us as fast as her bad knee will allow. She promises to talk to me right after the ceremony. For now, I have to be satisfied with that.

I run down the gravel path and catch up with Grandfather. I slip my hand into his as I’ve done ever since I was old enough to walk. I don’t expect a response; he’s never been demonstrative. But he surprises me today by squeezing my fingers. The frown on his face dissolves into a smile, and I feel a moment’s pride knowing only I am capable of working this magic on him. He looks me up and down and gives a small, approving
nod, and that means more to me than the most fulsome of compliments from someone else.

In the temple, I sit on the cool floor next to Grandfather, beneath the stern benevolence of the goddess’s glance. Grandfather is clad in only a traditional silk dhoti—no fancy modern clothes for him, not even for a special occasion such as this. That’s one of the things I admire about him: how he is always unapologetically, uncompromisingly himself. His spine is erect and impatient; white hairs blaze across his chest. From time to time, he intimidates the priest by correcting his Sanskrit, but in between mantras, when he places his palm on my head in blessing, his touch couldn’t be gentler. How I love him, with all his bluster, his exasperating prehistoric notions, his tenderness that he tries so hard to hide.

Across from us, Papa and Maman, unaware of the battles waged over the seating arrangements, are poised splendidly on the wicker chairs. Rajat, however, has chosen the floor. From the other side of Grandfather, he sends me a quick, wicked glance; the private, scandalous things his eyes say bring a rush of heat to my face. A truant lock has fallen over his forehead. It’s all I can do to stop myself from leaning over and smoothing it back. When at last he clasps my hand to slip on the diamond ring we chose together, joy balloons in my chest until it’s hard to breathe. Rajat has made me a believer in miracles. How else could we have fallen in love?

Three months ago, I had gone to my college friend Mimi’s birthday party—a minor miracle in itself. Usually Grandfather refused to let me go out so late, but that night I’d pushed back. Grandmother had taken my side, too. “She needs to meet other young people,” she’d said. Finally, he’d nodded in grumpy agreement. When I walked into the flat, the party was in full swing: the lights low, the music deafening, the adults inexplicably absent. Crowds of people I didn’t know were downing suspicious-looking drinks and smoking what clearly weren’t cigarettes. I looked at the girls in their glittery tank tops and stretch jeans and felt antediluvian in my gold-worked kurta. I was about to make an excuse and leave when Mimi said, “Oh my God, is that Rajat Bose at the door? You don’t know about him? His parents own that swanky art gallery on Park Street. He just broke up with Sonia Gupta, whose dad owns a Hyundai factory. Wow, I never thought he’d come to my party!”