The Vine of Desire (20 page)

She can’t resist. “What?”

“Whoa! This isn’t even our first date, and already you want me to expose my soul.” He bats his eyelashes exaggeratedly. “What kind of a boy do you think I am?”

The music has changed to a slow number, and Mr. Chopra leads his wife in a gallant, if somewhat lumbering waltz. Most of the younger crowd have moved off the floor. Lalit, too, prepares to sit it out, but Sudha tugs at his sleeve.

“You know how to waltz?”

She laughs, pleased at having surprised him. “The nuns
taught us—with girl partners, of course. They felt it was an art all accomplished young women should know. Anju and I considered it rather ridiculous. In the kind of family we came from, waltzing wasn’t exactly an accepted activity!”

“Fascinating!” says Lalit, leading her with one-armed élan, Dayita balanced between their bodies. “And what kind of family did you come from?”

“Now what was that again—about this not even being our first date?”

“Touché, Goddess!” He tries to look abashed.

The music changes again—a fast, loud song—and Sudha spins away, her smile brief and electric.

On the edge of the dance floor, Anju is trying to persuade Sunil to dance.

“Come on! Doesn’t it look enjoyable?”

“Not particularly.”

“Don’t be so stodgy! Come on!”

“You go ahead,” he says.

“I will,” says Anju, lifting her chin. “Really, I don’t understand you! First you make me come to a party where I don’t know anyone, then you won’t let me have any fun….”

“Who’s stopping you?”

“Fine!”

She strides angrily toward Sudha, who sees her and waves. “Join us,” she calls, then turns to Lalit. “If it’s okay with you … ?”

“Are you kidding! Dancing with three women! Is this my lucky day or what!” He must have caught the exchange between Anju and Sunil, but he gives no indication of it. When “Saturday Night Fever” comes on, he twirls first Anju, then Sudha,
then swings Dayita up in the air.
“Staying alive, staying alive,” he
sings.

“He’s nice,” Anju says to Sudha.

“You tell her,” says Lalit. “It’s what I’ve been trying to get through to her all evening, but she won’t believe me.”

Someone is asking Sunil a question. He inclines his head to answer it. But his gaze, hot and pinpointed like the sun through a magnifying glass, is focused on the dance floor, on the women of his house being charmed by another man.

Sunil stands on the marble front steps, holding his valet parking tag. He’s not happy. For the last twenty minutes he’d been signaling to Anju, who was still on the dance floor with Lalit and Sudha, that it was time to leave. But she kept up an animated conversation with Lalit and wouldn’t meet his eyes. Finally he walked up to them and told her he had a splitting headache, they had to go. Anju looked at him accusingly, her face full of disbelief, and Lalit asked if he would like some Excedrin.

“Wouldn’t dream of imposing on you further,” Sunil said. “You’ve done more than enough for us already.”

The women have gone to change Dayita’s diaper. (“Just when I was having a good time,” sniffs Anju audibly on the way.) Sunil is trying to get someone to bring him his car. Two attendants who look as if they’re in their early twenties are standing to the side, but they’re busy ogling the red Camaro that’s being driven up and don’t see him.

A young couple—he in snazzy red suspenders, she in a spangly dress that barely makes it to her thigh—get into the Camaro and roar away.

One of the attendants gives a low whistle. “Did you see the legs on that broad? And that car! Man, I’d like to get some wheels like that.”

His companion snorts. “Fucking Indians, showing off,” he says, spitting to one side.

Sunil moves fast, grabbing the arm of the guy’s jacket and spinning him around before he’s figured out what’s happening.

“What did you say?” His voice vibrates with rage.

“Hey, man, let go my arm!”

“I asked, what did you say?”

“Didn’t say nothing to you,” says the attendant sulkily, trying to pull away. The other youth has melted into the shadows of the driveway.

“Fucking Indians, huh?” says Sunil. “I’ll show you exactly how fucking Indians can be.” He twists the attendant’s arm behind his back with one deft motion. The young man yells with pain and goes down on one knee. There are other guests on the steps now, looking on in wide-eyed horror.

“Oh my God,” shouts a woman. “Quick, call Chopra-ji!”

Someone else shouts, “Get the security guard!” People are bumping into each other, trying to get back inside the house.

“Next time you want to talk about Indians, remember this,” says Sunil.

Someone’s pulling at Sunil’s hand with both arms. It’s Anju. “Have you gone crazy, let go of him! Let
go!”
She’s sobbing. Behind her, Sudha’s tense, shocked face, knuckles pressed to her lips. Anju yanks at his hand until he shoves the attendant away. The attendant straightens his jacket and glares at Sunil. His hands are fisted, and so are Sunil’s.

But now the security guard, a plump, red-faced man in a uniform a size too small, has arrived. “Hey, hey,” he pants.
“What’s going on? You! Go report to your supervisor. Go on!” He gives the attendant a shove and turns to Sunil. “Let’s not have any trouble here, sir, okay? Let’s not ruin the nice party.” He summons another valet to bring their car, and finally, thankfully, they’re off.

“What on earth got into you?” Anju bursts out even before they’ve turned the corner of the driveway.

Sunil fiddles with the radio until he finds a talk show where someone’s just called in to ask the host if it’s true that Nicole’s blood—and Ron’s—was found on O. J.’s glove.

“Turn that thing off, for God’s sake!”

“I’m listening to it.”

“I need you to listen to
me.
Besides, what’s there to listen? He’s obviously guilty.”

“How can you jump to a conclusion like that?” Sunil snaps. “Here you are, always talking about people’s rights, ever since you made those feminist friends at school. Isn’t a person supposed to be innocent until he’s found guilty? Or does that only apply to women?”

In the backseat, Sudha stares out the window at the passing dark. Does she guess the real cause for Sunil’s anger? Anju presses her lips together. “Leave my friends out of this.”

“Leave
me alone
, then.”

“Why are you so obsessed with this stupid trial? It isn’t like you—”

“What makes you think you know what I’m like?”

Anju draws in an outraged breath, ready for an all-out fight.

“Please,” Sudha says in a small voice. “Dayita’s sleeping.”

Anju makes herself breathe out slowly. She rubs her fingertips across her eyes, smearing makeup she isn’t used to wearing.

“You should tell me what’s bothering you, Sunil,” she says more softly. “Tell me what that man did. Whatever it is, I’m with you, you know that.” She puts her hand on his knee, though such conciliatory gestures are difficult for her. “No matter how crazy you make me.” She smiles. “Sorry, couldn’t resist that!”

Sunil squeezes her hand briefly. “Maybe later, after I’ve calmed down a bit.”

“You can’t let people get to you like this,” Anju says. She puts her hand on the back of his neck. “God! Look how tense you are.” She kneads the rigid tendons. Light from a streetlamp falls on the small movements of her fingers, on the brief shine of Sudha’s eyes in the backseat.

Sunil sighs. “I’m so tired of fighting, Anju.”

“Oh, Sunil,” Anju says. “You can’t lose heart over one little incident, however bad it was.”

“You’re right,” says Sunil unconvincingly. He turns up the radio, but the talk show is done. In its place is someone singing “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” Sunil listens in spite of himself. When he does speak, it is very softly, as though to himself: “It was a mistake to have come here.”

Anju shakes her head. She believes he’s talking about America, his precarious position in it. But is he referring to the Chopras’ dance floor, Sudha’s quicksilver feet dancing away from him? Is it himself he’s tired of fighting?

Twelve

L
etters

Calcutta

May 1994

My dear Anju:

Pishi and Nalini and I are making plans to go on a pilgrimage yatra, and wondered when Sudha will be returning to India. We want to make sure we are here to greet her and our little granddaughter, who must be so grown up by now.

Your loving mother

Dearest Sudha
,

Please let me know if you would like me to send you a copy of
Thakumar Jhuli,
or
The Children’s Ramayana Picture Book
to read to Dayita. I remember how they used to be your favorites.

Pishi

Dear daughter Sudha
,

Since last week, my legs have been swollen and now certain people who shall remain nameless have heartlessly put me on a no-salt diet because they have got it in their heads that we must go on a pilgrimage trip. Personally, I would be more than happy to remain right here in the comfort of my own home.

Your mother (Nalini)

My dear Sudha:

How are you enjoying your visit to America? I know your presence there has given my daughter a new vigor and interest in life, and for that I can never thank you enough. I hope that being with her has given you support also, and clarified what you want in your life.

Your loving aunt Gouri

My dear Anju:

You hardly mentioned Sunil in your letter, nothing except how hard he is working. Is he spending any time at home at all?

Dear daughter Sudha
,

Maybe you can come back to Calcutta soon, and then I could stay with you and wouldn’t have to go on that pilgrimage and stay in vermin-infested cottages and use bedding that has been urinated on by rats or worse.

Dearest Anju
,

Your mother mentions that Sunil is under a lot of stress at work. I am sending some Dashmul tea for him which is very good for stress. It needs to be boiled for twenty minutes. Put in a spoon of honey.

My dear Sudha:

You still haven’t mentioned anything about when you are returning. Isn’t your ticket due to expire in a month or so?

Dear daughter Sudha
,

It is at times like this a mother needs her daughter. But of course you’re gaily gallivanting around in America instead of being responsibly married while here I have to hobble around half-starved. What can I say! Some people are born with ill fortune!

Dearest Anju
,

We were delighted by the recent photos of Dayita you sent. To think that she now has three teeth and can stand up holding on to things! And so much curly hair, just like when Sudha was a baby! We laughed and laughed, reading of her exploits. Sudha looks lovely as usual. Please send a recent picture of you and Sunil.

Dearest Sudha
,

In your last letter, why did you suddenly ask about Mangala and what happened to her? It was a long time ago, and it is best to forget such terrible, bad-luck things. Thinking of them calls them up into your life. Focus on the future instead.