Tulip Season Page 17

  She could finish the rest of the sentences for him: I still love her. I always will. I'll be waiting.

  She stood solemnly, realizing what it must have taken for him to admit to his feelings, given the fact that Kareena had strayed.

  She heard the door slam. A yellow streetlight illuminated the block ahead. She waited a moment, got in her car, then turned the key in the ignition.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  LAST NIGHT, tossing and turning in bed, Mitra had again craved Ulrich's touch, even though it had been three days since she'd seen him. And the moment she woke this morning, her travel day, he floated to her mind.

  She'd taken a shower and scrambled into a blue skirt and a matching travel blazer when Mary phoned from the newspaper. As they exchanged greetings in a somber voice, Robert's unseen, substantial presence seemed to hover over them.

  “You can take a little more time with your next column,” Mary said. “We're doing a whole page story on Robert in this Thursday's issue.” She gave Mitra the exact date when she needed to e-mail the column.

  Mitra could hardly believe it. They still wanted her as a columnist? “Well, I'm off on a trip, but taking my laptop with me. I'll meet the deadline.”

  “You should know Robert thought highly of you. Recently, he'd put in a few good words about you to the management. They'd like to make you a permanent columnist. Keep this to yourself for a few days. You'll get an official call and a letter.”

  Mitra should have been dancing. But there was heaviness in her stomach, and grief hardening behind her eyelids. She still had a hard time believing that Robert wasn't around. He'd puzzled her, but she had a deep regard for him. He'd left her with this gift, one she cherished. And it was because of him, she was flying to India.

  Just as she finished the call, her phone rang again. “You won't believe this, Mitra.” Veen said, “Adi's missing. I'm spooked. He hasn't shown up at his office for two days, hasn't called his assistant, either. Do you have any ideas?”

  It took Mitra several moments to process the news. “No, I saw him just a couple of nights ago. We had the best talk we've ever had. He seemed sad, but other than that, he seemed okay. Could he have gone to his beach house?”

  “He never goes there during the week.”

  Mitra glanced out the window at her driveway and glimpsed Grandmother alighting from her car. She'd arrived on time to give Mitra a lift to the airport. “I'm sorry, but I can't talk any longer,” Mitra said to Veen. “I have a flight to catch. Let's stay in touch. Be sure to call me at my mother's in Kolkata if you hear any more about Adi.”

  Minutes later, Mitra and Grandmother cruised down Interstate 5. Finally this trip was becoming real to Mitra, as real as the snowy peak of Mt. Rainier etching its presence on the horizon. But she felt no joy. She reflected on Adi, a new-found sympathy in her heart for him, and a gloom settled inside her. What could possibly have happened to him? For sure, he'd looked depressed on her last visit, but she hoped he wasn't suicidal like Robert.

  With the traffic slowing, Grandmother said, “Oh, I should tell you. Nobuo Yoshihama dropped by yesterday to see my garden on your suggestion. He liked the ‘hot’ color scheme. He said he was seeing your mind at work. We had tea. You have to get to know him a little bit to see what an interesting young man he is. And steady, too. We talked for over an hour. He asked about you.”

  Nobuo Yoshihama, the cop with soft eyes. Mitra turned the name over in her mind. A plane buzzed overhead. Up the hill, she could see the airport gates. Soon she would be flying away from here, away from her troubles. She needed a break. God, she needed a break.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  MITRA'S PLANE TOUCHED DOWN at Kolkata's NSC Bose Airport. It was early morning. She found the joy of returning to the landscape of her youth tempered by fatigue and dehydration from long hours of air travel, as well as her fears for Kareena's safety. Once finished with customs, she walked outside, stepping as though into a sauna bath. Crows flitted about in the lingering fog as the sky freed itself from darkness. Feeling it was going to be a scorcher, she peeled off her single-breasted blazer.

  A friendly-looking cab driver, no more than twenty years of age, clean shaven and wearing well pressed clothes, flashed a smile at her. “Taxi, Madam?”

  She nodded and climbed into the passenger seat of a yellow-and-black taxicab and recited her mother's address. The taxi cruised along a main boulevard. She noticed the dusty roads, flowering Bengali script on the doors of businesses, a sprawling banyan tree that stood as strong as a house. This early—it was only 7 A.M.—the roads belonged to the sweepers, day laborers, delivery men, and lost souls.

  A cacophony of cars honked one after another, then in unison, and the noise jolted her off the seat. Turning her head, she saw a mini-temple on the sidewalk. A young girl with clasped hands offered her silent prayer to a statue of God Shiva. Many a parent here followed the time-honored custom of instilling a wish in their daughters' heads: deliver me a husband like God Shiva. Without realizing it, Mitra had brought her hands together.

  They passed by a crane-less construction site, with two women swaying beneath baskets of bricks on their heads. That reminded her of Ulrich, he of the strong hands and muscular physique, a construction worker. She remembered his eyes, which were pale or intense green depending on his state of mind, his high cheekbones, and a disturbed forehead. A flutter of uncertainty and pain rose inside her. At the same time, she couldn't help but dwell on the fact that the sight of women doing such demanding physical labor would have brought a chuckle to Ulrich's lips.

  New buildings dazzled Mitra at every turn. Where had that boxy computer university come from? And the jungle-like park with the floral arch entrance? What had happened to the makeshift sidewalk stalls? On a second look, she discovered that they'd been replaced by a multi-storied shopping complex. A billboard on the front promised prosperity: Buy more. You'll go to heaven. There you'll meet five friends.

  Mitra sighed deeply. She'd be at a loss how best to proceed in a town no longer her own. The mythical sanctuary she called home, one she'd believed would withstand time, had disappeared.

  The taxi driver veered off the main artery and negotiated a maze of twisty, unfamiliar streets. Startled, she asked, “Where are you going?”

  “Please, barodidi, leave the driving to me.” The driver addressed her as an older sister, as was customary. His hair was rich ebony; so were his eyebrows. He wore a flimsy white short-sleeved shirt, an indication of how high the day's temperature would rise. His arms, exceptionally long and thin, were sturdy on the wheel.

  “I'm the best cabbie in town,” he announced. “I can sense from kilometers away where the traffic is piling up. I know the city, as well as you know your mother's face. Truly, they call me ‘Driver Maharaja.’” The driver king.

  Should she believe him? This trip was taking longer than expected. Mother must be pacing between her drawing room window and the front door, listening to every footstep, her anxiety level gone to condition “yellow.” Then Mitra caught sight of a prominent sign on the back of a lorry, “Drive and let drive,” and chuckled.

  “We call this ‘Lorry Literature,’” the cabbie said.

  They emerged onto a lightly traveled section of the main thoroughfare, bypassing what must have been a congested area. So far, he'd made the right navigational decisions.

  “To where do you belong?” the cabbie asked.

  “Seattle, but I grew up here. I'm here to join a friend.” She spied an opportunity to pursue the age-old system of getting a fix on anybody in any town: enlist a cab driver's help. And so she decided to be open with him. Besides, this level of sharing was common here. “Actually, she's missing. But I expect to run into her.”

  “She must be eager to see you, too. Always hang on to your friends, bandhu, because they're God Krishna's best gifts. My grandmother say that.”

  “How true,” she said, enjoying his cute grammar. “Have you ever taken fares to the mansion of Jay Prasun Bahadur, the actor?�
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  “I haven't, but one of my co-cabbies might have.” He turned and gave her an odd look. “You obsess with him?”

  “Oh, no, nothing of that sort. My missing friend and Bahadur's girlfriend might be the same person. Her name is Kareena. She's attractive, medium height, and wears sunglasses even in the rain.”

  “Sunglasses?” the driver said. “Who she hide from? Herself?” He laughed, turned to catch a glimpse of her and, as he noted the gravity on Mitra's face, his voice became serious. “Sorry, didn't mean to offend. I try my best. I know how this city work and I have a mobile phone. Give me a day or so and I find out JPB's current girlfriend's name.”

  The taxi glided through an intersection and entered a residential district. It teased her, the colorful houses, a tangerine one with a blue door, and a salmon-tinted one with curlicue grill decoration. Driver Maharaja pulled over to the curb in front of a five-story, pink-washed, Indian-style apartment complex, Mitra's old home.

  Standing on a second-floor balcony strewn with flowerpots, a woman in a sari shrieked down at a man on the sidewalk. “Mixing water with the milk again? Cancel my delivery.”

  The milk-man grimaced, mounted his bicycle, and pedaled out into the road. This much was familiar. Then, gazing across the street, Mitra looked in vain for the elderly biscuit-wallah's stall. She still could visualize his khadi cotton vest, muslin dhoti, out-of-fashion Nehru cap, and his aloof demeanor. His motto would be mirrored on a banner: “Right Belief, Right Knowledge, Right Conduct, and Right Refreshments.” He had been a proud veteran of India's freedom movement. His stall had been taken over by a clothing store. Mitra missed his white cap and prattling on about the glories of the past, and even his stale biscuits.

  Her attention shifted when Arnold deposited her luggage at the entrance, with a thump. “My name is Ashish,” he said, “but friends call me Arnold. Guess why? I'm ambitious like, you know, the other Arnold. Someday I emigrate to California. But, if not, I at least like to be elected the chief minister of this state. But no scandals though.” He pressed a business card in her hand. “Welcome to Arnold's Private Investigation Bureau. Me, your sherpa, can escort you wherever you wish to go, safely and in record time. I dress up in a fancy uniform if you like. Privacy assured. Confidentiality maintained. Satisfaction guaranteed. And smiles plenty.”

  Any old dented taxicab could transport Mitra from one Kolkata neighborhood to another. Kareena, however, would have enjoyed the company of this flamboyant driver.

  Mitra tipped him amply. He smiled big, the kid, as he waved goodbye.

  Entering the foyer, she headed for the hallway on the left, which was every bit as dark and humid and as pungent with cooking smells as she remembered it. She knocked at a familiar door. A baby howled inside. Was it the wrong flat? But no, #12 was where her mother resided.

  A door opened from the next apartment. “Esho, esho,” Welcome, welcome. Mother ushered Mitra in #14. Mitra could only smile, overwhelmed as she was by emotions, in seeing her mother after twelve long years. Thin and crushingly tiny, Mother wore a gleaming white sari. Her face still resembled that of an artist's clay figurine, with polished eyebrows stretching out in wide curves, the eyes underneath them at once deep, large, and wide. Her nose was tiny, like an afterthought, and her full lips existed in perfect harmony with the rest of her features. If there were any wrinkles on her forehead, she wore them well, as recognition of her struggles.

  Mother gave her a quick tour around the flat. Mitra saw that it had a similar layout to the one in which she'd grown up: bedroom, kitchen, and combined living room and dining area. But this one was newly remodeled and decorated more luxuriously. If anyone were to ask her, she missed the humble old place, one scented with childhood antics.

  “You didn't tell me you were moving,” Mitra said

  Mother examined her fitted black top and denim skirt. “It's been three days. Only yesterday, I invited the priest from the temple to come and do a grihapravesh. You remember the worship ceremony for Lord Ganesh to bless the first entry into a new home, don't you? The priest recited slokas for an hour to keep the evil spirits away.”

  “You didn't move for my sake, did you?”

  Mother wiped her eyes with the back of a hand. “You're coming home after such a long time. I wanted to make your stay comfortable.”

  Mitra dropped her luggage in a corner, bent at the waist, and touched Mother's bare feet in the time-old gesture of respect for one's elders. Mother waved her hand over Mitra's head in a blessing, known as ashirvaad.

  She wouldn't spoil this beautiful moment by speaking about her mission to find her half-sister.

  THIRTY-SIX

  MID-DAY, Mitra sat at the table. Mother served her yellow dahl, silky rice, and a glistening heap of greens. Just the first few bites of her mother's cooking nourished Mitra emotionally. Mother brought up the topic of Aunt Saroja's death.

  “I couldn't attend her funeral,” Mother said. “I don't like to fly. But her cousin who lives here arranged a special sradhya ceremony so her soul will attain tranquility and I went to that.”

  Mitra put her fork down. “I still can't believe she's not there.”

  “Don't stop eating.” Mother pushed a side dish of eggplant toward Mitra, confiding that the purple rounds had been painstakingly fried according to a well-guarded formula.

  Mitra lifted a slithery blackened sliver and bit into it. Greasy, charred, and oh, so slimy, the repulsive taste took her back to bad days in childhood.

  “You're still a finicky eater,” Mother said.

  The submissiveness of Mitra's youth had vanished. “I no longer take a big lunch, Ma.”

  “But you should.” She reminded Mitra that one's digestive power was at its peak in the middle of the day, an ancient belief she'd grown up with and which had served her well. “Naresh, my upstairs neighbor, works as a supplier to fancy restaurants. He loves my eggplant bhaja at any time of the day. He can finish a whole platter by himself.”

  Mitra would have been more than happy to share with Naresh her portion of the eggplant. Then her mother's words snagged on her brain. If Naresh worked as a supplier, he might have connections to fancy eateries patronized by local celebrities. “Any chance of meeting Naresh?”

  “I'll ask him to come over.” Mother paused. “How's your German boyfriend? Will he be calling you?”

  Obviously, Mother has misinterpreted Mitra's reason for wanting to meet Naresh. She took a bite of the eggplant skin and tasted its bitterness. “He might. Or we might e-mail each other.”

  Mother excused herself to take her medicine. When she returned, Mitra asked, “You've never talked much about your illness, Ma. What did the doctor diagnose?”

  Mother began to clear the dishes with steady hands. “Don't make so much fuss over me,” she said in a low voice.

  “I worry, Ma. I worry about you all the time.”

  “I'm just fine.” Mother's voice crackled with curiosity, as she added, “You said on the phone your missing friend Kareena is supposed to be here. So what prompted your stylish friend to set her golden feet down in our humble city?”

  “Her new love interest.” Mitra dribbled out a few details about Kareena's supposed entanglements with actor Jay Bahadur, her voice sounding paper-thin to her ears. She could tell from Mother's occasional, contemplative “hmmph” that she was affected by this new development.

  “Well, it's going to be a bit of a challenge to search for her among our fourteen million residents.” Mother's spectacles slid down her nose. “And her film-star boyfriend will complicate the search. Do you know he lives in a high-fenced mansion guarded by a darwan and a Doberman? I doubt you would be able to go within a hundred meters of it. Your friend could have saved you from misery if she had just picked up the phone.”

  This reality check with Mother, after a twenty-two hour flight, was like descending through a mine, the atmosphere in each level thicker and more suffocating than the one above, discovering precious objects, but with an apprehension
of being buried.

  Mitra's grim silence didn't inhibit Mother. “And why do you have to carry the whole load of tracing her?”

  Outside the window, sunlight radiated through the feathery foliage of a neem tree casting a latticed pattern on the sidewalk. Kareena's betrayal—how that ate away at Mitra. And yet there was a part of her that insisted on reuniting with her sister.

  Mother was staring at her. Mitra wished she could reply with an open heart. But then Mother would be outraged. Her tone indignant, she'd rail: this friend of yours is my beloved husband's child with that whorish actress? You want to welcome her to our family? Have you no consideration for my feelings? And even when you feel betrayed by her?

  Mother gazed into Mitra's eyes, her expression softening as though she sensed her daughter's anguish. “Now it's time for you to take a nap. Use my bedroom. I have the bed specially made up for you.”

  “A nap? No. I'd like to be out and about.”

  Mother raised a school-teacher finger. “My silly girl! Don't go out in this heat. Chill! Listen to your mother, will you?”

  “Okay, Ma.”

  Mother's gaze glistened with the satisfaction that her little girl was about to be safely tucked away.

  “We'll talk about your friend later,” she said. “Meantime, I'll sit with a novel I borrowed from the library.”

  Stepping into the bedroom, Mitra shut the door and turned on the ceiling fan. A pigeon fluttered outside the window, as if not sure whether to return to its nest on the roof or soar up into the open sky.

  A side table held the silver Fuji camera that Mitra had given her mother. On the far side of the bed, there stood a dresser strewn with a comb, a jar of Pond's Cream, and a photo gallery. Mitra drew closer. She hadn't seen these framed pictures of her father exhibited like this before. She'd have to make copies for her album in Seattle.

  In a black-and-white shot from his college days, her father appeared as a cultured young man clothed in a light shirt and dark pants, his face luminous. How old had he been then? She did the arithmetic in her head. He was about eighteen. In the next image, accentuated by a wide mahogany-stained frame, and older by more than a decade, he faced the camera as an office clerk in a traditional white dhoti. Character had etched itself on his sad lips, hollow cheeks, and deep-thinking eyes.