Tulip Season (27 page)

Mitra put the pages down.

Preet was watching her reactions. “Do you want to reconsider going? These people are dangerous. You don't want to get tangled up with them.”

“I have come this far to see Kareena. She might not realize what she's gotten mixed up with.”

Preet looked off to the distance, obviously plagued with concern, then turned when her maid, a young girl, appeared. Thin and straight as a bamboo pole, she'd wrapped her ponytail with a ring of jasmine blossoms. She served each of them a glass of fresh tamarind drink.

Mitra took a sip. The tart beverage was just the right refreshment in this scorching weather. Her mind went back to Kareena. What if she balked at Mitra's attempts to make her safe?

Mitra turned her attention to the courtyard. The sky breathed out a mouthful of wind. A swirl of dust followed. Straight and graceful only minutes ago, the Ashok trees bent down to the ground.

Mitra pushed the newsletter away. “I appreciate your help,” she said to Preet. “There's much more to it than I thought.”

“Your mother is showing a lot of initiative, by making calls and getting people together,” Preet said. “It's really nice to see her up and about and excited, especially given her health.”

Mother's health—the thought distracted Mitra. “Do you know what's wrong with her? She never talks about it.”

“It's malaria.”

“How do you know?”

“She told me.”

Malaria, the deathly disease. For a moment Mitra couldn't speak. “She told you, but she wouldn't tell me, her daughter?”

“She doesn't want you to worry from afar. You see, after you left, your mother and I stayed in touch off and on. She knew we were close. Then I got married and had a kid. Once I became a wife and mother, she felt more comfortable confiding in me.”

Mitra took an uneasy breath. “Malaria is not an easy disease to manage, not at her age. I should get back here more often to take care of her. I don't like the idea of her being alone.”

“In case you haven't noticed, she's not so alone any more. You've met Naresh. She's like a mother to him. He lights up her days and, like a good son, takes care of her.”

Mitra looked away to get a grip on her emotions. “I see.” She gulped more of the tamarind drink and said lightly, “Some day I'll grow a tamarind tree in Seattle.”

Preet broke out into a smile, as if happy to have the unpleasantness behind them. “In the meantime, why don't you wear one of my saris to go to Monopriya? Shall we take a look at my wardrobe?”

Watching her friend's benevolent face and gentle eyes, Mitra said, “I'm happy to give you joy.”

The maid poked her head through the door and asked Preet a question about the night's dinner. When she departed, Preet said to Mitra, “When you have your own family, you'll see how many details you have to deal with. You
are
going to get married soon, aren't you?”

Mitra nodded, somewhat unconvincingly. Preet had an arranged marriage— arranged and blessed by relatives, whereas Mitra would
have to find her own mate. And it couldn't be Ulrich. She'd have to break it off with him, knowing that would hurt. She'd have to start looking again. It wasn't always pretty out there.

“You'll make a wonderful mother,” Preet said, oblivious to the jumble of feelings Mitra harbored. “I see how you relate to Sam. He's fallen for you.”

In the bedroom, Preet opened the door of a lotus-painted armoire and laid her sari collection on the bed: light fabrics in bold colors; ice-cool neutrals, woven with stones. It took Mitra no time to choose a pale green number with a blue-gold crystalline border.

Preet insisted that Mitra do a dry run, and she obliged by draping the six-yard long fabric around her. Preet clasped an elaborate necklace of gold and ruby around Mitra's throat and pinned a pearl brooch over the sari pleats on her left shoulder.

In the mirror, Mitra found herself smiling out from yards of silk and gold, a cocoon of softness, refinement, and glitz, despite a slight bewilderment in her eyes. She couldn't completely believe all that was happening.

“Now, all I have to do,” she said to Preet, “is run into Kareena at that restaurant and make it seem like an accidental meeting.”

“Will it give her pause when she finds out how much scheming has gone into the
accident
?” Preet tested an assortment of sparkling green bangles, checking them against the background of Mitra's sari. Satisfied, she slid the stack onto Mitra's arm. “Have you practiced what you're going to say when you
accidentally
run into her and her news-making boyfriend?”

Mitra's bangles chimed. “The right words will flow, I'm sure.”

FORTY-FIVE

AT THE ENTRANCE
to a narrow lane, Mitra stepped out of Arnold's taxi and smoothed the front pleats of her sari. Mother and Preet wished her luck though the window. Arnold assured her he'd drive them to Time for Tea a block away, park the car, and wait for everyone to regroup there.

Mitra gave them a wave and walked down the lane, reading house numbers. On this clear evening, the stars shone like silver burst on a sari.

From inside the front window of a well-maintained single-story building, a doorman of indeterminate age, dressed in a muslin turban and beaded
chappals
, watched her.

A small tasteful sign on the door identified the place as Monopriya, “mind pleasing.” Had she not been looking, she would not have found this private restaurant dwarfed by multi-story family dwellings.

If only she weren't so nervous. If only she didn't have to enter this fancy establishment alone. If only she had a guarantee that her friend would turn up.

As she mounted the stoop to the anteroom, Mitra nearly tripped on the front pleats of her slithery silk. She recovered and clutched her purse tighter. She could feel the digital voice recorder shifting position inside the purse.

Stepping forward, the maitre d' turned an appraising gaze at her. “Do you have a reservation, madam?”

“Mitra Basu.”

He checked her name against a register, bowed deeply, and said, “This way, please,” in a voice deep, rich, and calculated to intimidate.

Swishing her sari, Mitra trailed after him. A waiter, resplendent in a saffron uniform, appeared. He asked her to wait at the edge of the room, apologizing and saying that he was getting her table ready.

The long room had textured walls, gold tablecloths, and gleaming mahogany chairs, as ostentatious as a garden of gaudy silk roses. Tall red candles on each table threw mysterious shadows on walls decorated with paintings of pirates and ships. There were at least twenty tables, spaced far apart from each other, mostly occupied. Elegant hands gestured, diamonds refracted light, beverages glistened, and brilliant smiles acknowledged witty repartee, as though the room only permitted that which glowed and charmed.

At a table on Mitra's right, a man wearing a tweedy charcoal suit leaned intimately toward his lady companion, their conversation muted, measured. The woman wasn't Kareena. From a table on the left, just beyond a potted palm, there wafted fragrances of mace, clove, fine rice, and rose water.

Mitra took a few steps to the left, her ankle-strap heels digging into the cushiony carpet. She peered into a private room and studied those in attendance. A large family was holding a celebration of sorts. A man stood up, raised his glass, and offered a toast.

No luck.

Back to the main dining room, Mitra walked past a woman, swathed in a brocade sari in purple and sitting alone in a corner. Mitra was half-way across the room when the angle of a chin, as well as the pose of the rested hand alerted her. She turned and looked again.

Why hadn't she noticed her before? This woman
was
Kareena, not a look-alike, not a mirage. Her face was puffier, perhaps due to pregnancy. She was nursing a glass of water. She set the glass down and consulted her watch.

Yes, Mitra had found her dearest friend. After a month, and far away in India, in an exclusive restaurant. Even though her pulse raced, Mitra felt herself smiling. She'd finally succeeded in her quest.

Kareena picked up the napkin from her lap, pearl eardrops gleaming in the candlelight. Clearly, Mitra's presence hadn't yet registered.

It's me, Mitra
wanted to cry out.
Remember? Mitra: Your chief ally and sister. Your bestie.

She wove her way toward Kareena's table, her legs slowed by the sari.

A brushed shove against her shoulder made her stagger. She turned to face the culprit, the person in a hurry, one who had just sailed into the room. She could smell alcohol, cologne, and hair pomade.

She recognized Jay Bahadur. He pushed past her, peering over his shoulder and tossing a terse, “Excuse me.” Clad in a striking white-and-silver
kurta
, he carried himself like a prince. Even without makeup and flattering lights and despite bloodshot eyes, he looked rakishly charming.

Mitra gripped the back of an empty chair to keep from stumbling over. Once steady, she watched this unworthy man pick his way to Kareena's table.

Kareena looked up at him, with her idol-worshipping eyes. As he leaned over to peck her on the cheek, he seemed to instantly re-mold himself from a discourteous drunk into a perfect lover. He eased into his seat, his princely aura and perfect posture remaining intact. He smoothed his
kurta
and took her hand.

Mitra lost her breath. She wanted to yell out to Kareena:
Your husband is waiting for you to come home. The police are looking for you. Your friends want to know why you don't call. And you've gotten mixed up with this crook?

A diner at a nearby table gave Mitra a curious look. And yet she decided she must think this through. She stood frozen and watched the lovers from a few feet away.

Kareena smiled into Jay Bahadur's eyes. He whispered a few words. She laughed, a tinkling crystal peal. Mitra had never heard Kareena laugh so freely, so happily. She stroked the pleats of her sari on her left shoulder, causing a jangling of her bracelets.

Should she leave, Mitra wondered. Give her sister the gift of privacy?

Think again, Mitra. This is real life. You can't rewind it. If you walk away, that'll be the end of it. You won't be able to save your sister from any harm that might await her.

Kareena looked in Mitra's direction, casually, as though brushing her eyes over a stranger. Her fingers ran over her ring. How could she not recognize Mitra?

All right. Now was the time. Mitra strode to their table, heart leaping with both fear and joy. “Hi, Kareena.”

Kareena raised her eyes, shocked and confused. Then her expression changed to one of recognition and happiness. She laughed, as though she couldn't believe what she saw. Eyes rounding in pleasure, she stood up in one swift move and grasped Mitra's hand.

“Mitra!” Her voice crackling with wonder, she engulfed Mitra in a tight hug. “What're you doing here?”

“I came here to see you.”

It didn't matter how casual the words of their greetings were. Mitra felt in an instant as though she had regained that closeness she'd missed. A wave of relief coursed through her. Kareena was alive and in good spirits and happy to see her. That was all Mitra could hope for.

Jay Bahadur cleared his throat, a small ominous sound. Mitra took a step back. Her moment of elation evaporated. He looked at Mitra piercingly, raised an eyebrow, and signaled to a man on a nearby table. Mitra noticed the big, burly man, with eyes like a razor blade, a bodyguard possibly. He sized Mitra up at a glance.

Kareena swept out an arm. “Jay, darling, meet my best friend Mitra from Seattle.”

Jay nodded at Mitra. His expression remained skeptical, but he said in a charming tone, “What brings you all the way from Seattle?”

Mitra fumbled for an answer. She mustn't rouse suspicion in Jay's mind, if she hadn't done so already.
Okay. There might be a way out here. Mention mother.
Indians generally respected their mothers. Any excuse about Mother would do. “I came to visit my mother. She's ill.”

It must have temporarily satisfied Jay, for he mumbled a few words of good wishes toward Mother's health. The bodyguard, his eyes narrowing, listened to their conversation.

“May I have a word with you in private?” Mitra whispered to Kareena.

Kareena wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and said in a loud enough voice for Jay to hear. “Why, Mitra?”

“I must speak with you about my mother.”

“I'll be back in a minute,” Kareena whispered to Jay.

“Don't be too long, darling.” Jay turned to Mitra. “We'll be waiting here for you,” he said in a calculating tone that chilled her bones.

Mitra crossed the room, with Kareena behind her, and slipped into the Ladies Powder Room.

The pink wallpapered room was mirrored on three sides. Kareena and Mitra faced each other and their many reflections, a whiff of Kareena's perfume settling between them.

Kareena's pregnancy showed—a slight bulge under her sari. She put her arms around Mitra. They clung to each other for a long moment. As they disengaged, Kareena said, “What a wonderful surprise to see you here.”

Mitra could feel tears accumulating in her eyes. “Thank God, I've found you.”

“Is your mother really ill?”

“She has malaria, but mostly doing well. Listen, I came to see her, but I also came to look for you.”

“You don't know how much I've missed you. I think about you all the time.” Kareena choked, as tears streamed down her cheeks. “You left your job, your newspaper column, and your friends. You flew for twenty-two hours. All for your mother and me?”

Mitra rummaged her purse for tissue; so did Kareena. They wiped each other's eyes and laughed together. But Mitra couldn't suppress the upheaval of emotions in her. Nor could she disregard the fear and worry in Kareena's eyes. Something was not right. Despite being with Jay in this fancy restaurant, she looked shrunken and lost.

“What's wrong?” Mitra asked.

“Nothing's wrong. You, silly.” The smile Kareena flashed seemed tentative. “I'm excellent. I can't tell you how much it means to see you again. How did you find me? It mustn't have been easy. And why?”