Oleander Girl (5 page)

“I want you to announce it at the reception tonight,” Grandfather says.

“It shall be as you wish, Bose-babu.”

I stare at them all, outraged. Do they think that they can pick up my life like a ball of dough and roll it into whatever shape they fancy? I’m
about to speak out, but just then Rajat pulls me behind the leafy cover of the oleanders and clasps me close for an audacious kiss that leaves me breathless.

“That was a bombshell, wasn’t it? But Grandfather’s right! Now that we belong to each other, why should we put off our happiness?”

My heart knocks about like a caught bird. In the face of his obvious joy, I don’t know how to explain to Rajat that although I love him, I’m upset at being pushed into something I’m not quite ready for.

“We’ll celebrate at our own private party tonight after the guests leave,” he whispers against my throat. But I suddenly feel I’m not ready for that, either.

As soon as the Mercedes backs out of our driveway, I confront Grandfather. “How could you do this without checking with me!”

“It is a very auspicious date. That’s important. I want to make sure your marriage is luckier than your mother’s.”

“But, Grandfather, surely there are other auspicious dates later. I need more time!”

He shakes his head and starts to turn away.

I put my hand on his arm, unwilling to give up, but he says tiredly, “Not now, Korobi.”

His skin has a yellow cast; his eyes are red-veined. He lists a little as he makes his way into the house. Worry pricks me, and I swallow my anger for the moment. I’ll let him rest. But I’m not going to let him rush me into the biggest event of my life.

Grandmother looks concerned. “I had better get your grandfather his heartburn medicine. You lie down, shona, and get some rest before your big party.” She picks up the crystal dish of cardamom seeds. In a moment she, too, will disappear after him.

“Grandma, wait! I’ve got to talk to you!”

“I know you must be taken aback by your grandfather’s decision. I was, too. Maybe we can discuss it with him after he wakes up—”

I blurt out the words because there’s no good way to say them. “Someone was in my room last night. I think it was—my mother.”

I wait for Grandmother to dismiss my foolish notions with a laugh and send me off to bed, but she pales and takes a step back. The crystal
dish falls from her hand and shatters; tiny silver balls go flying over the veranda.

“Why do you think that?” she whispers.

“I felt it.” Even to my ears, my answer sounds weak. But Grandmother accepts it. Her hands are trembling.

“Did it—she—say anything to you?”

I shake my head, disconcerted. I had no idea that my pragmatic grandmother believed so strongly in ghosts. But even if she did, why would the thought of her dead daughter’s spirit agitate her like this? I realize that I don’t want to know the answer.

“Maybe I imagined it.”

“Maybe you did,” Grandmother says, but without conviction.

“I’ll go lie down now.”

“You do that.”

“You rest, too.”

“Yes.”

But when I look back from the doorway, she is still standing among the broken glass, scattered cardamom seeds surrounding her like a field of frozen tears.

I
n the white marble hall of the hotel, I’m waltzing with Rajat. The music is a river and we’re dancing in it. It winds against our bodies, muscular as a serpent. Rajat holds me close, palm pressed against my chiffon back. And that is good because I might otherwise float away. On my own I am a clumsy dancer, but Rajat makes me feel elegant and unabashed. Wherever my eyes fall, guests are appraising us. Beside the piano, the diaphanous windows, the sleek, polished bar, the hand-painted urns crowded with blossoms, the overflow of gifts on tables inlaid with ivory. Guests whisper to each other as they raise their glasses and smile. I’m unused to such scrutiny, but I hold myself tall and allow Rajat to twirl me around. My long hair, which I shampooed and powdered with glitter and left loose, streams behind me. My collarbones rise like wings from the daring neckline of my kurti. My shoulders shine. Some of the smiles are serrated as knives. I feel them on the nape of my neck.

There is in particular a slender girl in silver with a beautiful, pale face, an intense mascara glare. I’ve never seen her before, but I know right away who she is. Sonia. Mimi, seething when she discovered that Rajat was seeing me, had told me about Sonia.

“He used to be crazy about her, and no wonder. She’s the most gorgeous girl I’ve seen—and she has style! Buys all her clothes abroad, belongs to the most expensive clubs. We’d see them together at parties
and think how perfect they looked together. I bet he’s sorry he broke up with her.” She looked at me and shook her head. “You were just lucky you caught him on the rebound.”

The venom in her voice had startled me. It was my first experience of being hated because of good fortune. I walked away with what dignity I could muster so Mimi—who had been the closest I’d had to a friend—wouldn’t see how hurt I was. Not just by her words—but also by Rajat’s silence. Over the next month, I waited for him to bring Sonia up, but he said nothing. When I asked about old sweethearts, he kissed me hard and said they weren’t important.

I can tell that Rajat has noticed Sonia, too. He pulls me closer. Against my forehead, his cheek is hot. I can feel the uneven jerk of a pulse. Should I say something? Is it better to pretend I don’t know what’s going on? I’m saved from making a decision: by the time we swing around again, she is gone. But I know I can’t afford to forget her.

The party has just begun, but already it is a success. Many celebrities have arrived and seem in no hurry to leave. Maman is pleased, though she is too sophisticated to exhibit this. She beckons to me as soon as the music ends. I can feel the satisfaction in her fingertips as she straightens my diamond necklace. She leads me to a prosperous-bellied man in a Nehru suit.

“Korobi, I want you to meet Mr. Bhattacharya. He has been a most generous supporter of Barua and Bose Galleries.”

From her tone I understand how important he is. I keep still as he holds my hand in his fleshy one a little too long.

“Charming girl. Almost as beautiful as her mother-in-law!”

“Mr. Bhattacharya! The things you say! But I believe congratulations are in order for you, too. I hear that you’ve been named as a candidate of the Akhil Bharat Hindu Party for the upcoming elections. We must have a celebration.”

Mr. Bhattacharya gives a deprecatory shrug. “Nothing is official yet. It would be unwise to celebrate prematurely. But tell me more about this lovely young lady. Is she really the great-granddaughter of Judge Tarak Prasad Roy, the one who had a street named after him?”

“She is, indeed.”

“Excellent match, Mrs. Bose. So important to create alliances with the right kind of people.”

I am beginning to feel a little like a prize dog, but I valiantly hold on to my smile.

“People who uphold our sanaatan Hindu traditions,” Bhattacharya continues with enthusiasm. “Exactly what my party is working to promote. Don’t the Roys have an ancient Durga temple on their property? I heard that Netaji himself is said to have visited it to get the goddess’s blessing in his battle against the British. Oh, Mr. Roy is not here? I must meet him. You will arrange it?”

“Of course, Mr. Bhattacharya. We’ll do it as soon as possible.”

They go on to discuss business matters—something about new investments. Mrs. Bhattacharya, a thin woman with darting eyes, reaches out to touch my necklace. Her fingers remind me of pincers.

“Lovely, lovely. Where did your mother-in-law-to-be get this? . . . Of course. Nothing but the very best for our Mrs. Bose.” She moves closer and speaks in conspiratorial tones. “Mrs. Bose must be so relieved. Our Rajat was getting to be quite a handful. Running around with the wrong crowd. Drinking, gambling, who knows what else! My husband was ready to speak with Mr. Bose about it. He’s an important man, after all. He has to be careful about who he associates with. Now, if I were you, I’d keep close tabs—Oh, here comes your sweetie! Hello, dear Rajat! I was just congratulating your betrothed on her good fortune.”

Rajat’s smile matches Mrs. Bhattacharya’s in affability, though his eyes, like hers, are cold. “The good fortune is entirely mine.”

Further pleasantries are exchanged; Mrs. Bhattacharya skitters away in search of more promising bait. Waiters in turbans surround us with silver trays of shish kebabs and samosas and Western delights I don’t recognize. Rajat fills a plate for me, but I can’t eat; that awful woman has stolen my appetite. More waiters come by, carrying drinks. Thin wine flutes on long stems, pale yellow, deep maroon, hoarding the light that spills down from the chandeliers. Squat crystal glasses filled with whiskey, sweating amber. I’ve never drunk alcohol—Grandfather would have had a fit at the very possibility—so Rajat waves the waiters away. But tonight, contrarily, I want something.

Rajat looks surprised, then amused.

“Bring the lady a piña colada.”

I’m enchanted by the sweet, smooth taste, the pineapple flavor so unlike what my friends led me to expect. I ask for another, and then a third, but Rajat stops me.

“Easy, Cara! It’s more potent than it seems. Try a little of this quiche instead.”

Through the pleasant buzz in my head, I appreciate his caring. I could go through all the time allotted to us like this, my sheer chiffon back pressed against his solicitous palm. Mrs. Bhattacharya is a shriveled gossip, jealous of our happiness. And as for Sonia, now that I’m engaged and have the right, I’ll ask Rajat for the full story on her as soon as we’re alone.

But that will not be for a while, because Papa is on the dais, calling us. The clapping sounds like a thousand small explosions. I climb the steps, wishing my grandparents were with me at this special moment. With the wish comes a stab of guilt.

Before leaving for the reception, I’d gone to see them to say good night. I was feeling happy and excited—in my bedroom mirror, the off-the-shoulder kurti, glittering like gossamer, made me look more sophisticated than ever before. I’d decided to wait until tomorrow to bring up the issue of pushing back the marriage date. I didn’t want an argument to mar the evening, my special, magical party. I expected a tart comment from Grandfather—he liked me to wear saris. I wasn’t too worried, though. I knew he was proud of my looks, and tonight I looked my best. But when I went up to hug him good-bye, the fury on his face floored me.

“Are you planning to go out wearing that—
thing
?”

Grandmother jumped in, attempting damage control. “Why do you say that? It’s what young people wear nowadays. Shona, you look like an oleander in that deep red.”

“No, she doesn’t!” His lips were a pressed white line. “She looks like a—call girl.”

Perhaps it was the accumulated stress of the day, the unanswered questions from last night. Perhaps it was because he had snatched away
my simple joy in my new clothes and made me feel cheap. Suddenly, I was furious, too.

“It’s always what you want that’s important—do you ever think of what might make other people happy? Like moving the wedding day forward—did you even think to ask me before you made such a big decision? I was going to beg you to reconsider. But now I’m actually glad. This way I can get away quicker from you!”

He’d been shocked at my outburst—we’d argued before, but never like this. For a moment, his face was drained of color. Then it turned dark and he shouted back, “Go, then! Go right now. And don’t you dare come back. Why, you’re no different from—”

Grandmother, her voice unsteady, interrupted, “I hear Bahadur calling. It’s time to leave for the hotel. Go on down.” She pushed me toward the door.

The memory of the fight floods my mouth with its bitter, burnt taste even as I stand on the dais beside my new family, smiling for the cameras. I wish I hadn’t lost my temper. Grandfather only wanted to protect me, to make me do what he thought was the right thing. But now it’ll take me forever to cajole him out of his bad humor because he isn’t one to forgive transgressions easily. I find it hard to concentrate on Papa’s speech, and even Rajat’s, though once in a while unexpected words leap from him like sparks.
Deeply grateful. Soul mate.
He must feel my tenseness because, as he speaks, he gives my fingers a reassuring squeeze to indicate I’m not alone. Whatever I have to face, he’ll face with me.