The Vine of Desire (19 page)

“Ah, I see you’re looking at our Tanjore painting,” says a voice at her elbow. It is a plump, diminutive woman with very pink lips and frosted eye shadow, and arms heaped with gold
bangles that match the glittery furnishings. “Chopra bought a dozen of those on our last trip to India. He’s crazy about art, as you can tell.” She gestures around the room with a diamond-laden hand, adjusts the folds of her gold-inlaid pink chiffon sari, then looks suddenly suspicious. “We haven’t met before, have we? I’m Mrs. Pinky Chopra. And who might you be?”

Sudha should be faltering at the rudeness of the question, to look around for Anju and Sunil to validate her presence. But no. “I’m Sudha Chatterjee,” she says calmly. “Visiting from Calcutta. Your husband is my brother-in-law’s client.” Her words are as cold and distinct as silver coins falling. Her poised smile indicates that Mrs. Chopra might have all the money in the world, but she possesses something more important. She brings her hands together in the briefest of namaskars, a gesture which discourages familiarity, while Mrs. Chopra, backpedaling, gushes about how wonderful it is to meet her.

Have we underestimated Sudha? All this while our vision has been colored by Anju’s, who can’t help seeing her still as the girl she grew up with, always longing for the impossible, always needing to be protected from reality. But this lifted, burnished face, this steely curve of throat that says,
I won’t let you put me down—
this must be how she survived her youth in a society that dismissed her as the poor cousin. She walks across the room, her back erect. Here is the woman who cut through her mother-in-law’s plots to control her womb. Who stepped from the security of wifehood onto the stony path of being a mother, alone, in a country where such things meant shame. Who braved the new rules of a new continent because she wanted more in life than a man to take care of her.

Which is the real truth of Sudha? Might as well ask which is the truth of the turtle, the soft flesh its predators crave, or the shell that protects it from them?

She makes her way past crowds of guests; she accepts a glass of wine from a proffered tray; she sees Anju and Sunil and Dayita and waves to them but does not stop. They look so complete without her, the man and woman nestled close against the press of strangers, the child in his arms who sees but doesn’t hold out her hands for her. Does this hurt Sudha? There is a heightened color in her cheeks, but there may be many reasons for that.

In her peacock silk, Sudha’s body flickers like a blue flame. Whatever it is that burns inside her, it makes men turn to her like sleepwalkers as she passes. Women find themselves laying a vigilant hand on their partners’ arms. She seems unaware of this—or is it merely that she doesn’t care? She steps out through the double doors into the backyard. Beyond the lapis lazuli aureole of the swimming pool, the lights of the valley glint like a dare. She narrows her eyes; she is ready to take it on. She walks all the way to the edge of the property, to the hillside falling away from her feet. She presses the cold wineglass to her hot cheek, then shivers. When did the evening turn so cold? But she doesn’t want to go back in. She takes a sip of wine, makes a slight face at the unfamiliar taste as she swallows, and stares up at the constellations, comparing them to those of her childhood—the water carrier, the crocodile, Kalpurush with his sword. She stares until, as though in response, a star detaches itself from the rest and falls. She moves her head to follow it—there it is, coming closer, its small fire only an arm’s length away now, No, it’s the lighted end of a cigarette.

That is how she meets Lalit.

“Hi, there!”

His voice is so effortlessly Californian that Sudha is taken aback. But only for a moment.

“Hi, yourself,” she says. It’s what she’s heard women on TV shows say when they don’t want to appear too friendly. She gives his tall silhouette a cool glance, notes the dark, well-cut suit, the short, gelled haircut, very au courant. Is that flash an ear stud? She turns elaborately away to focus on the landscape.

“Lovely but cold,” he says. His tone makes her turn suspiciously. “The night, I meant.” He grins. “You must be freezing. Don’t you have a shawl? But maybe your husband’s already gone inside to get it for you … ?”

She grits her teeth to stop them from chattering. “I’m not cold.”

“No shawl and no husband,” he says, shaking his head. “Well, at least one of those problems I can help you with.” He gives a short bow and disappears into the house before Sudha can say she doesn’t need his help, thank you very much.

He returns with a thick black shawl, which he holds out for her to take.

She doesn’t. “How did you get it so quickly? Or do you always have one ready, just in case?”

“Cruel, cruel barb. It’s one of Pinky’s—I know the closet where she keeps them.” He pauses expectantly. “Would you like to cross-examine me on how I came upon that piece of classified information?”

“I’ll save it for another time,” she says and wraps the shawl around herself. She turns back to the lights, a bit bemused. She’s never spoken to a man this way. She likes it, though, this thrust-and-parry,
this doubling back. When she faces him again, she says, “Here’s some classified information for you. Not having a husband isn’t always a problem.”

“You’re absolutely right! In your case, particularly, it’s a wonderful asset. And now that I’ve conceded to you on this very important matter, my beautiful, unhusbanded stranger, may I take you in to dinner? I promise to bring you back for more view-watching and cross-examining later.” He crooks his arm exactly like Rhett Butler in
Gone With the Wind
, which he watched on late-night TV last week. Sudha lays two fingers on Lalit’s elegantly tailored sleeve, exactly like Vivien Leigh (she watched the movie, too) and they go in.

Her mother is walking toward her, holding on to the sleeve of a young man she doesn’t know. The child considers the man, considers, out of the corner of her attention, the other man (the one she sometimes calls Baba when they’re alone), who is watching them as well. She feels impatience rise from him, striations of heat. The new man whispers something to make her mother smile. The child would like to know what it is that makes a smile like that ripple across the geography of her mother’s face, turning it into a new, joyous country. It takes them a while to make it across the room. The new man stops a number of times to respond to greetings. When he introduces her mother to his friends, he clasps her elbow lightly and draws her forward. The child watches the other man’s jaw grow tight, territorial.

“Ah, Mr. Reddy,” he says, when her mother introduces them, giving the younger man’s hand the barest of shakes. “And what is it you do?”

“I cut up people when they’re unconscious. They even pay me for it. How about you?”

The child senses the man’s dislike escalating. He does not trust people who joke so much. But Aunt Anju bursts out laughing. “That’s the best description of surgery I’ve ever heard.”

“Smart woman,” says the new man. “Appreciates state-of-the-art wit, just like her sister.”

“Since we’re doing introductions,” says the other man, pointing to the child, “this is Dayita.”

“Lalit, at your service,” says the new man, bowing elegantly to the child. He takes her hand. “Baby fingers,
mmmm.
My favorite food.” He pretends to gobble them up. The child decides she’s going to like him. She rewards him with a squirmy giggle. “Even more charming than her mother, I see,” he says, smiling at Aunt Anju.

Aunt looks awkward. Satisfaction gleams like sweat on the other man’s face.

“Actually, she’s mine,” her mother says.

Lalit’s smile doesn’t falter. “In that case, a slight revision—almost as charming as her mother. May I have the pleasure?” He holds out his arms and the child leans from Sunil’s arms into them. She’s being fickle, she knows it, and doesn’t care. There’s something on Lalit’s earlobe, glistening. She’s never seen anything like it on a man before. She tugs at his ear.

“Story of my life,” sighs Lalit as he guides her mother toward the elaborately catered dinner buffet, complete with tuxedoed servers. “All they want is my body.”

The regular lights in the hall have been replaced with a couple of pulsing, disco-style spotlights. The DJ hired by the Chopras
starts the music. “Celebration!” booms the first song, blasted from the Chopras’ oversized music system. The floor is crowded with two kinds of dancers—those of the Chopras’ generation, who are characterized more by enthusiasm than skill, and those of their children’s, who know the fancy moves and look upon the efforts of the uncles and aunties with some amusement. A few, like Sunil and Anju, fidget at the edges of the party, watchers who know they don’t quite belong. Lalit, though, seems to fit everywhere. He chats about a recent hip-hop concert with a couple of young women in black leather minis and gigantic fluttering eyelashes. He pauses to discuss hot stocks with a group of older doctors, who listen with grave attention to what he has to say. To a plump matron in a too-snug lehnga who insists on knowing who Dayita is, he stage-whispers, “Modesty prevents me from spelling it out—but I’m sure you see how closely she resembles me.”

“Oh, you!” she says, shaking her head. “Never serious about anything!”

“Let’s all celebrate and have a good time!”
he now sings along with the CD as he rocks his way onto the dance floor, still holding Dayita. He moves with an easy, second-generation grace, beckoning to Sudha to join him. His grin is infectious, disarming. He’s not a good singer, but he doesn’t seem to care what people think. Perhaps it’s this ability, so foreign to Sudha’s upbringing, where every moment was weighted with the possibility of social censure, that makes her respond. Or is it because she feels Sunil’s reproving eyes on her? For a woman who has never been to a dance before, she moves fluidly, comfortable with her body’s rhythm. More songs, Hindi movie hits now,
Choli Ke Peeche
and
Jhumma Chumma De De.
She closes her eyes and sways to the beat. Sometimes she clicks her fingers and mouths the
words. When in her sequestered life in Ramesh’s house did she pick them up?

Time for toasts. Chopra, a plump, balding man who looks more avuncular than villainous, tells the guests how, early in his marriage when they were living in a roach-infested one-room apartment, Mrs. Chopra pawned her jewelry to help him start his first business. “She’s always been my best friend,” he ends simply, putting an arm around her, and she blushes.

“You look surprised,” Lalit says to Sudha.

“I’m ashamed, actually. I should have remembered how people can be other than what they seem.”

Lalit raises an eyebrow—he senses a story here. But all he says is, “Bet you thought Pinky was an empty-headed social butterfly. Just like you thought I was a handsome but heartless rake. But now that you’ve discovered how caring and unselfish she is—did I mention that she volunteers each week at the homeless shelter in San Jose?—and how charming and intelligent I am—”

“Let’s not get carried away.”

“That’s okay, I forgive you. After all, I thought you were one of those frosty, snobbish Indian princesses, only to find—”