Oleander Girl (37 page)

“I tried to warn her, to get her to break it off before it was too late. But from the moment she kissed your dad, it was already too late. Worst thing was, she knew what she was doing would bring pain to a lot of people she loved. I could see it tearing her apart. That’s when she told your grandpa, hoping he’d understand. But that didn’t turn out so well, did it?

“Right after, she lost a lot of weight. Couldn’t sleep. Her grades went down. She told your dad she couldn’t see him again. I think they tried that for a while. Then one day she was gone from the co-op without a word. That upset me because I thought we were friends. I was sure she’d gone back to India, but later I heard she’d moved in with your dad. . . . No, I don’t know when they got married, or where. I don’t think they invited anyone. I didn’t see much of her after that. It’s a big campus, and she may have been avoiding people.

“I ran into her one last time on Sproul Plaza. She was walking with your dad. She was pregnant with you by then and looked pretty happy. She told me she was going to India as soon as the semester ended, that she’d talked to her father. This was her chance to make up with her family, and she was determined to succeed. Rob stood there with his arm around her, smiling in his ignorance. He had no idea about Indian families. I said good luck, though I didn’t have much hope. There’s no one as stubborn as a traditional Hindu father—I should know. He doesn’t forgive easily,
not when you choose the kind of man she’d chosen. Your dad was a nice person—I’m not saying otherwise—and educated, too. But still . . .”

“What do you mean by ‘that kind of man’?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

The first day that Shikha rode with Pia-missy to her school, Asif thought nothing of it. He even enjoyed hearing the two of them chatting in the back, Pia telling Shikha about a new music DVD, and Shikha describing the young painter Mrs. Bose would be exhibiting next month. To tell the truth, Asif felt sorry for Shikha. She was so pinched and plain, not like Pushpa with her come-hither eyes. She’d probably never get herself a husband. Let the poor woman laugh at Pia-missy’s jokes, he thought magnanimously. I doubt she gets many opportunities. He was a little surprised when she returned to the house with Pia in the afternoon. Perhaps she needed to pick up something for Memsaab? But Shikha only walked Pia to the elevator and then asked Asif to take her back to the gallery.

Asif is no one’s fool. When Shikha shows up again the next morning, he catches on at once. So this is what Memsaab thinks of him. He drives to the school through a red haze, and during his lunch break he contacts Mahmoud. He’ll take the job with Sheikh Rehman if it’s still open.

It is. He can start as soon as he wishes.

“I’ll begin tomorrow, then.”

On the way back from school, Asif’s eyes keep straying to Pia, who is bobbing her head to the beat of a song. He longs to explain why he’s quitting this job, to tell her how insulted he feels, that he would have stayed for her, if he could have. He’s furious, too, that this is coming so soon after he put himself in danger to protect Memsaab from the goondas at the gallery. That man called him a traitor to his own kind. Maybe he
had
been.

But Pia—how he’ll miss her smile, her small, sweet demands, her confidences, her innocent faith in his intelligence. He clears his throat as he pulls up to the apartment. He must say something before she goes in. Who knows when he’ll see her again, if ever? He remembers the last time
he saw his sister, as she climbed into the train that was to take her to her husband’s village. He had wanted to tell her he would miss her, that he was there for her if she ever ran into trouble. But the platform had been full of the bridegroom’s relatives, bustling around self-importantly, and he didn’t get a chance. He’s not going to make the same mistake again. At the very least, he must tell Pia-missy that he’s leaving. He wishes Shikha would get down so he can have a moment alone with Pia. But Shikha is watching him, brows jammed together, mobile clutched like a weapon in her hand. She pushes at Pia.
You go first.
His chest tightens with rage. He imagines driving very fast, taking Shikha not to the gallery but to the deserted river road. Scare the life out of her. That would serve her right.

From outside the car, Pia-missy gives him a wave, just like every day. “See you later, Asif,” she says, using his formal name because Shikha is listening.

It’s his cue to respond,
See you later, Missy
. But today he cannot. A scorpion is squeezing his heart with its pincers.

“God bless you, Pia-missy, and keep you safe always.”

Her eyes widen. He has never said anything like this to her. “God bless you, too, Asif.”

Then she’s gone. He stares after her until Shikha, still clutching the mobile, asks in a testy voice if he might possibly get her to the gallery sometime before it closes.

Night has long ago settled over 26 Tarak Prasad Roy Road. The birds in the tamarind trees have tucked their heads under motionless wings. The street dogs are curled into balls of silence. Bahadur rides the train of slumber back to the Kathmandu of his childhood. Cook is transported to the Roys’ village home, where she sits on the porch frying fish, each as large as her forearm. Lying in Korobi’s bed, where she has moved because she misses the girl so much, Sarojini is mired in her own dream. In the dream, the roof of the house has been transformed into glass and she can see through it to a bright blue expanse, where a blimp hangs. The banner suspended from it reads
KOROBI ROY’S FATHER IS A LEPER
.

As she watches in horror, the blimp swings around. On its other side is another banner:
bimal roy’s pride killed his daughter
.

No!
cries Sarojini.
Lies!
But at least one of the statements is true—she knows this. She weeps so hard, she cannot breathe. Maybe she’s dying. That’s good. It’s the best thing that could happen to her. But with that thought, she wakes up. The phone is ringing. Let it ring until the caller gives up! But the ringing continues until finally she gropes through the unaccustomed dark to the corridor and picks it up. It’s her granddaughter.

“I’m sorry about your failure but glad you’re coming home soon, shona,” she says sleepily. “Rajat gave me the news. It did my heart good to see how happy he was. You’re lucky to have a man who loves you so much. . . . What was that? Slow down! I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“Grandma, I think I’ve found my father!”

Sarojini’s hands begin to shake. Just when she had hoped it was all safely over. Folly to think that. Nothing was ever safely over. By this stage of her life, she should have known it.

“Mother’s friend, the one in the photo, saw our ad and contacted us. She told me so many things about my mother in America! I’ll tell you later. Some of it was sad. But most importantly, she knew my father. His name is Robin Lacey. He was a history major at another university in the area. She heard he took a job teaching somewhere in the South. Desai is searching for him right now.”

This Lacey, he doesn’t sound too disreputable. But Sarojini’s heart is still beating hard, her fear metamorphosing into irritation.

“He’s not too good at his job, your Desai. Why couldn’t he locate him all this time?”

“Because we all made a huge wrong assumption. Grandma, I want you to sit down on the little stool by the telephone before I tell you. My father’s not white. He’s black.”

“Speak up. The line’s garbled. It sounded like you said
my father’s black.
”

“That is what I said. My father’s African-American.”

Is Sarojini still dreaming? Or has Korobi gone crazy, over there in
America? “That can’t be,” she explains in her most reasonable voice. “Then you would have looked African, too.”

“Mrs. Ahuja explained that my dad was very light skinned. But his features and especially his hair—they were African-American.”

“Hair,” Sarojini repeats. She tries to visualize the kind of hair Korobi’s father might have. It takes a moment because she has only seen black people in movies. But things that mystified her for years begin suddenly to make sense. Why Korobi has such curly hair. Why Bimal was livid when he met Korobi’s father. She remembers how carefully Bimal would examine Korobi all through her first year in the village. So it wasn’t purely out of concern for the baby’s health, or for love of his only grandchild.

“Grandma, are you there? Are you upset?”

She appraises the question, turning it around in her mind. “No, shona. But I’m afraid a lot of people will be shocked if they find out.” She swallows. It is hard for her to say the next part, but she must. “Mrs. Bose. Maybe even Rajat.”

“Rajat? You think
Rajat
—”

Sarojini wants to explain the complicated gradations of race prejudice in India, how deep its roots reach back. Why, for so many people, having Korobi’s father turn out to be black would be far worse than if he were merely a foreigner. But it’s beyond the present capacities of her muddled brain. “Don’t open that can of worms,” she begs her granddaughter. “Just come home.”

“Please don’t ask that of me.” Korobi’s voice is tortured. “I can’t! Not after getting this far!”

Sarojini sighs. What other answer could she have expected from Anu’s daughter?

“I’ll call my father as soon as Mr. Desai finds his number,” Korobi says. “I don’t have the money to fly to him. Is it too much to hope that he’ll come out to California to meet me?”

Sarojini doesn’t answer that question, which is more of a prayer than a query. Or that other unspoken query:
What if he doesn’t want anything at all to do with me?

“Who else knows?” Sarojini asks briskly, hiding her trepidation.

“Only Vic. But he’s very discreet, a true friend.”

“Mr. Bose?”

“No. Mr. Desai says, I’m his client, and whatever he discovers is confidential until I inform him otherwise.”

Sarojini can feel her shoulder muscles loosen a little. Maybe the situation can still be salvaged.

“Do a kindness to an old woman—don’t tell anyone about this father of yours until you’ve talked to him. Not even Rajat. If Lacey isn’t keen on meeting you, you should just forget about the whole thing.”

“How can I forget?” Korobi’s voice is bitter. “I’ll never forget! My whole world has been turned upside down all over again. Today I was looking at myself in the mirror, my skin, my hair—I’m seeing everything differently now. Every detail has taken on a new meaning. But since you ask, I won’t say anything, not even to Rajat. For the moment.”

Sarojini must satisfy herself with that. “Thank you,” she says formally.

“You’re welcome,” Korobi says just as formally. “I’m sorry I woke you. But I
had
to tell you.”

“I understand.”

Korobi lets out her breath in a ragged sigh. “I love you, Grandma! It matters so much to me that you aren’t upset because my father is black. That I am half-black myself.”

Sarojini weighs the statement. Amazingly, it’s true. She’s astounded, worried—but not upset.

“I’ve kept you up too long. Go back to sleep now!”

Sarojini hadn’t thought she would ever again find anything funny, or at least not for a long time. But her granddaughter’s blithe supposition that she can sleep after this conversation—it makes her laugh out loud.