Oleander Girl (4 page)

I’d peered through the smoky dimness and seen Rajat. Backlit by the door, he appeared to be shining. A glass was already in his hand, a leather jacket slung over his shoulder. He leaned against a wall, holding court, nodding at acquaintances who rushed up to offer homage. He allowed Mimi to pull him to the dance floor, where he performed with loose-hipped, dismissive grace, smiling a little when more girls mobbed him. Weeks later I’d be astonished when he confessed that upon walking in and seeing all those people milling about, he, too, had wanted to escape.

“Thank God I didn’t, Cara,” he added—he’d given me my special name by then—touching the bones of my face as though he needed to memorize them. “Are you glad I stayed?”

I nodded; I wanted to tell him that he had transformed my life, bringing Technicolor to my sepia world. But I was afraid I’d sound stupid.

“You were standing in a corner, remember? There was something about the way you held yourself that set you apart from all those gyrating girls. Like you belonged to an earlier era. It made me curious. When I asked you to dance, you told me, quite unapologetically, that you didn’t know how. I admired that.”

He had offered to teach me. While the entire female contingent stared with envy, he asked the DJ for a slow song. Then he took me in his arms. I was nervous and awkward. To help me relax, he asked me questions. He had a way because I found myself telling him things about myself I didn’t share with anyone else. My answers seemed to interest him. We spent the rest of the evening on the balcony, talking.

What could have caught his fancy? Wasn’t my life most unadventurous, deeply ordinary?

“Are you kidding!” Rajat says later when I ask him this. “The way you’ve grown up, orphaned at birth, hidden away in some mountain valley, and now guarded in that ancient, beautiful mansion by your ogre of a grandfather—why, just listening to you was like entering a fairy tale!”

“Grandfather isn’t an ogre!” I counter, laughing. “He and Grandmother brought me up so carefully that I never felt I was an orphan.”

When it was time to leave the party, Rajat asked for my phone number. I didn’t give it. Grandfather had informed me a long time back that
the daughters of the Roy family did not have boyfriends. Rajat didn’t argue. I think he took my refusal as a challenge. A couple of days later, returning from college, I was shocked to find him at our home, having tea with Grandfather. I still don’t understand why Grandfather allowed Rajat to see me. Or why, three months later, when Rajat requested his permission to marry me, Grandfather said yes.

“It must have been my innate charm,” Rajat says, laughing. But at other times he says, “I think your grandfather, who’s nobody’s fool, saw that I’d do anything to make you happy.”

Pia, who has slipped down to sit beside me, kisses my cheek, bringing me back to the temple, where the ceremony has ended.

“The ring’s gorgeous, Korobi-didi! Oh, you are so lucky! Dada has the best taste. Doesn’t he, Maman?”

“Yes, of course,” Maman says. She looks at us, and the love on her face makes her even more beautiful.

Now Papa and Maman give me their present: an exquisitely designed diamond set—necklace, earrings, a pair of bracelets—to match the ring. When I saw the price tag at the jeweler’s, I was scandalized and begged for something less costly.

“Absolutely not, my dear!” Maman said. “You’re worth every rupee of it. Besides, all the guests at the reception will be waiting to see what the Bose family gave their only daughter-in-law!” She smiled to show me she was joking. “May I get you your outfit, also? I know just the right boutique—”

I wouldn’t let her do that—I was Bimal Roy’s granddaughter, after all. I would pay for my own clothes. But her words lodged somewhere within me. When I went shopping, I kept in mind that I was the only daughter-in-law of the Boses and bought an off-the-shoulder kurti in maroon chiffon with slim-fitting pants, embroidered over with crystal teardrops, more expensive and daring than anything else I’d ever purchased. Rajat loved the ensemble and gifted me stiletto heels studded with fake diamonds to wear with it. But once home, I lost my nerve and hid it in the almirah behind a stack of cotton saris. From time to time, I imagined—with a mix of horror and pride—what Grandfather’s reaction would be when he saw me in it.

We’re not done with gifts yet. Ceremoniously, Papa hands us a large parchment envelope. I know what’s in it: the deed to the flat Papa and Maman have bought us as an advance wedding present. The flat is located in a gated high-rise near Rabindra Sarobar Lake, in a neighborhood favored by models and playback singers and newly minted millionaires, only minutes from where the Boses live. This way, Maman says, Rajat and I can be close to them yet have our privacy.

Thinking of managing my own home, my own servants, fills me with a heady unreality. How wondrous to be expected to perform such adult acts! But I’m thankful that I don’t have to worry about that for at least another year, that I have one more year to spend with my dear grandparents. A year—that’s when we plan to have the wedding. It’s going to be the most wonderful year, a sweet year of courtship, of enjoying the envy in the eyes of my college-mates, of evening forays into the glittering world of clubs and parties to which Rajat has promised to introduce me. A year of play before we take up the serious business of being married. I plan to enjoy every moment.

The flat is still in its early stages, but I’ve seen the sales model. It looks like a set in a movie. In its media room, the TV screen takes up an entire wall. Bidets gleam in every bathroom. Could anything be further from this dear old house with its water-stained plaster walls, the banyan saplings growing between cracks in the terrace bricks? When Rajat drives me from the crooked alleys of North Kolkata to check on the progress of the flat, I feel disoriented, like a time traveler.

After the ceremony, at Pia’s insistence, the group gathers on the veranda overlooking the garden. Pia arranges everyone on chairs: Bimal and Sarojini in the center, Rajat and Korobi flanking them. (Boy-girl-boy-girl, Pia instructs.) Mr. and Mrs. Bose stand behind. Pia is a finicky photographer. People must angle their heads according to her dictates. They must either gaze into the distance, faces benevolent as buddhas, or look meaningfully into each other’s eyes. She tells the grandparents to hold hands; taken aback by her demand, they do as she says. Under the pretext
of bringing lime sherbet and cashew nuts, the servants venture into the frame, for how can there be a family portrait without them? Pia lets them stay. An ice-cream man passes by the gate. The tinkle of his cart bell becomes part of the picture, as do the smells of the engagement lunch: cauliflower khichuri, sautéed pumpkin (Cook is given to sudden, wild improvisations), rice pudding sweetened with palm molasses, and, yes, scorched fish-fry.

Pia will be particularly proud of this photograph. She will make her father mail copies to all their relatives, even those she will never meet. She will hang an enlargement in her family’s drawing room, next to their Jamini Roy original, despite her mother’s remonstrations. A copy will go on the first page of the new photo album that Rajat gave her, along with the camera. She will title it
Happiness
. Even after certain events come to pass and Mrs. Bose removes the enlargement from their wall, Pia will keep her copy. Late afternoons, when her mother thinks she is doing homework, she will remove the album from the back of her closet and run her fingers over the photograph, over the minuscule, innocent smiles fixed on the faces of her subjects.

After lunch, the adults rest under the fan on the veranda. Grandmother passes around a crystal dish holding silvered cardamom seeds, specially ordered from Bara Bazaar, to freshen the breath. Pia disappears into the overgrown garden to take more photos. For the moment, Rajat and I have no further duties and are free to walk up and down the oleander drive.

“Cara,” Rajat says, “there’s something I’ve been waiting to tell you. I’ve come up with an exciting idea for the business. I want you to know before I tell anyone else.”

Rajat works for his father, managing orders, doing the accounting, handling the fancy clients. He’s been doing it for the last couple of months. He had another job before that, business development in a big multinational, but then his father needed him.

“I want to start a website where customers can see the entire range of our products and buy them online. What do you think?”

I don’t know much about websites—I’m studying history—but I’m touched that Rajat trusts me with his vulnerable, newborn vision. That he’s watching me with some anxiety, waiting for my verdict. It means more to me than all the love words he’s spoken.

I reach for his hand. “It’s a wonderful idea.” We walk for a while that way, fingers clasped, too happy to need to speak.

On the veranda, the men discuss politics. At another time, I’d be more interested, but right now, walking hand in hand with Rajat, I feel too complete to care much. Grandfather says that it’s a good thing our city’s name has finally been changed back to Kolkata from that anglicized version the British saddled us with. But Papa points out the change is costing the state millions of rupees because all the documentation has to match the new name. It’s more important to deal with the unrest in the city—there’s certainly been a lot of it lately. Remember last month when militants attacked the American Center?

“Ah, yes, those Muslims. A violent lot. Did you hear about the incident on the train today in Gujarat? All those Hindu pilgrims they burned to death?”

“Tragic,” Papa replies. “I hope it doesn’t lead to more bloodshed.”

Rajat, who hasn’t been paying attention to the conversation, says, “It’s going to be a challenge. People here aren’t used to buying things over the Internet. We’ll have to make the website attractive and easy to navigate. Do you think you could help me? Maybe take a graphics course?”

“Of course!” I am flattered at being asked. I imagine the site I’m going to create, vibrant with flashing images of art. As soon as I can, I’ll study all the details of the Boses’ business so I can do a good job for Rajat. Maybe I’ll pay a visit to their Park Street gallery, as Maman has been inviting me to do.

Farther down the drive, Pia makes Asif pose against the Mercedes for a photo.

“Your driver—isn’t he Muslim?” I hear Grandfather say. “If I were you, I wouldn’t have him taking my family around, nights and all.”

I cringe. I can feel displeasure emanating from Papa. But he says politely, “Asif is very trustworthy.”

“You think I’m prejudiced, don’t you? You’re too young, you haven’t seen what I saw—the Partition riots, right here in Kolkata, men chopped to pieces on the streets with hansulis—”

“Please!” Grandmother entreats. “Let’s not discuss such bad-luck matters today.”

Grandfather looks thunderous at being interrupted, and Papa says quickly, “Roy moshai, do consider attending the party tonight.”

Grandfather shakes his head. “I told you, Bose-babu, all that singing-dancing-alcohol-drinking—you know I don’t approve. You’re better off without me. But there’s something I do want to tell you before you leave. I asked our family priest for an auspicious wedding date for the children—and there’s a perfect one, the stars well aligned, in three months. I’d like the marriage to take place then.”

I stare at him in shock. He wants us to get married in three months? Has he gone crazy? That’s far too soon, and besides, he hasn’t even consulted Rajat or me! Glancing at Rajat, I see that he, too, is taken aback. Beneath the surprise, is he delighted or distraught? I can’t tell. It strikes me that perhaps I don’t know my fiancé as well as I thought I did.

“Are you sure you want the wedding to take place so quickly?” Papa says. “I thought we’d decided that Korobi should finish another year of college first.”

Grandfather sounds tired. “Bose-babu, I’m an old man. Who knows how long I’ll be around? I want to see my only granddaughter settled before I go. You’ll let Korobi continue her studies after the wedding, will you not?”

I want Papa to argue, to declare that this is a terrible idea, but for some reason I can’t fathom, he merely says, in his courteous manner, “Of course we will.” When Maman starts to protest that three months won’t give her enough time to plan a proper wedding, Papa lays a gentle hand on her arm.