Oleander Girl (30 page)

I angle his rearview mirror to examine myself. Once I get over the shock, I decide that I, too, like the new me. A mass of curls, barely reaching my shoulders, have transformed me into a stranger, glamorous and a little dangerous.

My high spirits take a tumble, though, when Seema opens the door to the flat.

“Oh my God! What have you done! All your beautiful hair, gone! Does your grandmother know? Did your in-laws give you permission?”

All my doubts come rushing back. I remember the pride with which Grandmother had pinned the sunburst hairpiece to my braid. And Maman—would she consider me damaged goods now?

“It’s my hair,” I say defiantly. But my statement is only half-true. That hair belonged to Bimal and Sarojini’s granddaughter, to Rajat’s fiancée, to Papa and Maman Bose’s daughter-in-law to-be.

“Why, you won’t even look like a proper bride!”

Visions of my shorn self, incongruous in red silk under the wedding canopy, invade me. Then I shrug. The way things are proceeding, who knows if the wedding will even take place?

“Why would you do such a thing?” Seema must have had a bad day; she’s on the verge of tears.

“If I hadn’t sold my hair, I wouldn’t have the money to go to California. I would have had to go back to India without—without doing what I had come all the way to do.”

Seema’s eyes widen. “They paid you? How much?”

I tell her.

“That much!” I can see she’s thinking hard. “Do you think they’d give me as much for mine? It’s about as long as yours.”

“You want to cut your hair?” I ask, shocked.

Seema nods resolutely. “I’ll sell it, too. Then I’ll sell my jewelry and whatever valuables I have left to the pawnshop guy. I’ll go to India with the money, to my mother’s house, to have my baby.”

I can see she means it. This worries me. “Discuss it with Mitra before you rush into things.”

“No! If I ask, he’ll never allow it. He doesn’t have to know until after I’ve done it. I waited all this while because I didn’t want to leave him by himself, but he’s changed. I don’t think he cares much whether I’m here or not. He’s involved in something—he won’t tell me what—but it’s become an addiction. I can’t even count on him to be with me when the baby comes.”

I don’t have a good feeling about this. Seema is wrong in thinking that Mitra wouldn’t care if she left. Like many controlling men, he would be furious. With her—and with me, because he’ll surely blame me for giving her ideas.

“How will you arrange the getaway? As soon as he sees your haircut, Mitra will grow suspicious. Especially if it’s right after I’ve cut my hair.”

“I have an idea.” But before Seema can explain, I hear Mitra’s key in the door.

“Be very careful,” I whisper as I slip into my room.

S
eema lays the Prada suit, cleaned and lovingly folded, in my suitcase.

“I want you to have this. Yes, I’m sure. I hope it’ll bring you good fortune.”

In an hour, I’ll be on my way to the airport, to San Francisco. With any luck, I’ll miss Mitra, who is out. With any luck, I’ll never see him again. If it weren’t for my anxieties about Seema, I’d be ecstatic.

Seema has told me her plans. Tonight she’ll give Mitra one more chance. She wipes her eyes as she says this, and I can see it is hard for her, the way it is to cut off a part of the body even when it might be diseased. She’ll ask him where he went each day, what he did. She’ll ask him when she can go to India. If his answers don’t satisfy her, she’ll proceed with her plan. When Mitra leaves the apartment tomorrow, she’ll call the downstairs neighbor, Janki, who doesn’t like Mitra because he’s rude. Janki has agreed to drive Seema to the hair buyers, where Seema has an appointment. After the haircut, they’ll go to a pawnshop. Once she has the money, she’ll pick up her ticket to Kolkata—Janki’s cousin, a travel agent, is holding it for her. Janki will take her straight to the airport. She’ll be in the air before Mitra knows she’s out of the house.

I gaze at her flushed cheeks and resolute eyes, amazed at this transformation. I can’t believe this is the same woman who spent her days curled in
a cloud of depression on the couch. What if Mitra notices it and grows suspicious?

Seema smiles a bitter smile. “Don’t worry. If he can hide things, so can I.”

Still, I’m filled with misgivings. Seema’s plan has so many contingencies, each segment precariously balanced on the previous one. If one slips, all of it will come crashing down. What will Mitra do to her, then?

“I’ll be careful.” She gives me a hug. “You be careful, too—”

“What’s going on?”

I jump at Mitra’s voice, pulling away guiltily. He’s leaning on the doorjamb, watching us with narrowed eyes. When had he entered the apartment? He must have been intentionally quiet. How much of Seema’s plans has he heard?

But Seema is calm. She says, in her usual docile voice, “Korobi was worried about my health. She wants me to be careful, to keep in good spirits. One of her cousins who was given to worrying had a miscarriage, so—”

“You’re not that stupid,” Mitra interrupts. “Besides, I’m here to look after you.”

“That’s what I told Korobi!”

He fixes his suspicious eyes on me but lets it go. Perhaps he’s as glad to be rid of me as I am of him. Seema offers to make him tea, and he follows her to the kitchen. I should go for my shower, but instead I take out the folder Desai has given me and take a quick look, once again, at the two photographs in there. Both men are handsome: one rugged-looking, the other more suave. In their youth they must have been dangerously attractive. I try to gauge their characters from their faces, but I’m handicapped by longing.
Please,
I beg.
One of you, please be my father.

I hide the folder in my carry-on, under my nightclothes, and rush into the bathroom. By the time I’m dressed, I hear the honking of the cab that signals Vic’s arrival. I thank the Mitras for their hospitality and politely refuse Mitra’s halfhearted offer to carry my luggage down. I dare not look at Seema; I send her a prayer. And a thank-you. Seema’s courage has bolstered my own.

Dashing in aviator glasses and a leather jacket, Vic hurries to take the bags from me. “The bastard didn’t even help you with your luggage?”

“To be fair, he offered. But I don’t want to take anything from him that I don’t have to.”

Vic nods appreciatively. “When Uncle first told me about you, I expected a spoilt heiress. But you’ve got spirit!”

I smile up at him, ridiculously pleased. It is a beautiful afternoon, warm, with plump clouds floating overhead. One is shaped like a heart. A breeze sets my curls dancing as though it were a holiday. I know I’ll find my father in California. I just know it! Vic tells me a joke as he helps me off with my overcoat, and though it isn’t that funny, we both laugh and laugh.

“Hey, look! Mitra’s on the balcony, watching us.”

I peer through the rear window as the cab pulls away. He certainly is, standing stiff and dark like a blemish against the afternoon. Why would he do that? I would have thought he’d seen more of me than he wanted.

My phone rings as we’re approaching the airport. When I see Rajat’s number, my heart expands, though part of me is apprehensive. But Rajat apologizes right away. He wants me to know that he’d trust me with his life. Indeed, I am his life. Every word he says is as intimate as a kiss. I listen hungrily. I didn’t realize how starved I’d been for his endearments. But I’m embarrassed, too. Although Vic has politely turned toward the window, I’m sure he can hear Rajat. So I have to interrupt Rajat to tell him that Vic and I are on our way to the airport.

Tense silence. Then Rajat says, “I’m glad you won’t be alone in a strange city. Just be careful, okay?”

That word,
careful,
holds a subterranean significance, but I’m determined to be positive. “You be careful, too! Now that I’m away, your old girlfriends are probably trying to get their hooks into you!”

Rajat is quiet. I’m afraid I’ve offended him with my clichéd joke. The cab pulls up to the terminal. I realize in sudden guilt that I’ve forgotten to tell him about the abandoned gallery. I rush to describe it—the dust, the disuse, the empty wall.

Once he gets over his incredulity, Rajat’s furious. “I’m going to call
Mitra right away and get to the bottom of this! What kind of game does he think he’s playing?”

“No, don’t call him!” I say urgently as I juggle the phone, count out bills for the cabdriver and try to think like Mitra, all at the same time. “That’ll give him the chance to cover things up. Papa or you should personally come to New York. Surprise him.”

Rajat sighs. “I’d love to. That way I could be with you as well. But there are too many troubles brewing here. The warehouse is on the verge of being closed down by the union. I don’t think either of us can leave.”

I’m shocked and chastened. I had no idea that matters at the warehouse had escalated that far. I want to ask for details, but a policeman tells me to get moving. I bid Rajat a hasty good-bye, promising to call before boarding.

The security line is extremely long and slow. There is, apparently, an alert of some kind. Both Vic and I are pulled out of line and made to wait over to one side, even though we walked through the detector without any problems. Almost everyone waiting with us is brown-skinned. I point this out to Vic, but he motions to me to be quiet. By the time we are checked all over with an electronic device ironically called a wand, our flight is about to leave. We run through the airport, breathless, and get to the plane just as the gate is closing. The other passengers glare at us accusingly. In all this confusion, there’s no opportunity to call Rajat.

“It isn’t fair,” I hiss in Vic’s ear once we’re seated. “We were in line before many of these people. And did you notice how many Indians were pulled out for security check?”

“Welcome to flying while brown in post 9/11 America!”

“Doesn’t it bother you, being treated like this? You’re a US citizen. You shouldn’t have to—”

Vic shrugs. “I choose my battles. Things could be worse.”

I’m dismayed by his offhand dismissal of an injustice that clearly needs to be addressed. The easygoing attitude that I’d found so attractive in him has its drawbacks. Rajat would never have let things go like this.

Stop right there! I tell my mind. I open my carry-on to pull out the father folder. That’s what I should be doing: getting a better sense of the
two men I’m going to meet, figuring out what matters most to each, instead of comparing my fiancé to someone I’ll never see again after two weeks. The thought depresses me. I focus on the folder, which is, luckily, right on top so I don’t have to rummage around. I spread out the sheets on my tray table.

Suddenly, though, I remember something. The folder should have been at the bottom of the bag, under my nightie. Someone took it out while I was in the shower. Mitra. I’m furious—with him but also with myself for not having been more careful. All these days of secrecy, gone to waste.

I tell Vic, who is troubled, too, but he attempts to reassure me. “What Mitra really wants is to blackmail the Boses. Unless you actually find your father, there isn’t enough proof for him to blackmail them with.”

I hope he’s right. It’s scant comfort, though, to think of Mitra waiting, vulturelike, to swoop down on me when the moment’s ripe.