don't you? How I wish you'd seen me in my college days. All I had to do was breeze through the door wearing a pretty sari, my mother's locket, and a smile, and doors would swing open for me. I'd leave with treasures—satisfactory results—in my handbag. In those days, happy endings didn't seem corny, delusional, or fictionalized, just a natural outcome of events. Maybe I could have a taste of those days again.”
In Mother's mind, in her memory, she must have always been a dashing heroine who could take on any task she wanted and finish it with aplomb.
Mitra was about to blurt out a yes when Mother said, “Wait just a second. I have to take my medicine.”
When she returned to the line, Mitra asked, “Are you sick?” Mother cleared her throat, which took a few tries, then mumbled what could be either a yes or a no. “Ma, don't you feel well?”
Mother said she was fine, which Mitra didn't buy. It was the quiver in her voice, the thinness of her protest, the brevity of her remark.
“Why don't you hire help to do your chores?” Mitra asked. “I'll send a money draft right away.”
“I need a head bath,” Mother said. Hair-washing time, a stalling technique. She simply didn't wish to speak about her illness. She said goodbye.
Click, her last command, indicating that Mitra should get back to her work.
Though she'd put the receiver back, Mitra knew the conversation wasn't finished in Mother's mind. Her arm curved on the table, she'd rehash the exchange for half the night, refilling the brass tumbler with water many times. She had a tendency to discard the present moment as valueless and dwell on what had happened in the past.
Mitra rose from the sofa. She loved her mother to a degree that went beyond the rational. How desperately she wanted to close the distance between them and establish a deeper intimacy that allowed no secrets to lurk.
SEVENTEEN
A DAY LATER, on a balmy afternoon, the doorbell shrilled and Mitra saw Veen standing there. She flung one arm around Mitra in an embrace. On the other arm, she toted a plastic bag containing several cartons of food. In a camel-colored pantsuit, Veen appeared professional, as well as approachable, but Mitra couldn't ignore the look of concern on her face.
“I decided to bring you dinner,” Veen said. “You probably won't even eat otherwise.”
They settled on a bench in Mitra's backyard and served themselves pullao rice, vegetable kebob, samosa, mint chutney, and lustrous chai, all carried out from Bombay Grill on Roosevelt Street.
A stray black curl straggled down Veen's forehead. “I wanted to see you before I left,” she said. “I'm taking off for Bangalore tomorrow to attend my niece's wedding. It happened quite suddenly. She's younger than me and getting married. That's not fair. You know how in India they think you're an old maid if a younger sister or cousin gets hitched before you do. Anyway, I'll be gone for a week.”
Oh, no. Veen, her biggest supporter, would be gone.
Veen then shifted the conversation over to Kareena. “Something peculiar about Adi's routine. He's been telecommuting a lot these days. My neighbor sees him coming in and out of his home in the daytime a lot. Last night, I knocked at his door just to check up on him. He pissed me off. He's found out about our task force and fucking demanded that we disband it to ‘reduce redundancies.’ He's also extremely irritated that you've been talking to Detective Yoshihama.”
“Adi's extremely irritated with me? What else is new?”
“Goddamn it, he's hired a private eye.”
“Well, isn't that a bit late? After he's gotten a ransom demand? By the way, I'm the one who'd suggested that he hire a P.I.”
Veen caught a breath. “Listen, we've gone through so much together. I must warn you. For my sake, be extra careful. The P.I. is not to find Kareena. Adi didn't mention her in that part of our conversation, but he sure mentioned you. How you've rushed into ‘uncharted
In Mother's mind, in her memory, she must have always been a dashing heroine who could take on any task she wanted and finish it with aplomb.
Mitra was about to blurt out a yes when Mother said, “Wait just a second. I have to take my medicine.”
When she returned to the line, Mitra asked, “Are you sick?” Mother cleared her throat, which took a few tries, then mumbled what could be either a yes or a no. “Ma, don't you feel well?”
Mother said she was fine, which Mitra didn't buy. It was the quiver in her voice, the thinness of her protest, the brevity of her remark.
“Why don't you hire help to do your chores?” Mitra asked. “I'll send a money draft right away.”
“I need a head bath,” Mother said. Hair-washing time, a stalling technique. She simply didn't wish to speak about her illness. She said goodbye.
Click, her last command, indicating that Mitra should get back to her work.
Though she'd put the receiver back, Mitra knew the conversation wasn't finished in Mother's mind. Her arm curved on the table, she'd rehash the exchange for half the night, refilling the brass tumbler with water many times. She had a tendency to discard the present moment as valueless and dwell on what had happened in the past.
Mitra rose from the sofa. She loved her mother to a degree that went beyond the rational. How desperately she wanted to close the distance between them and establish a deeper intimacy that allowed no secrets to lurk.
SEVENTEEN
A DAY LATER, on a balmy afternoon, the doorbell shrilled and Mitra saw Veen standing there. She flung one arm around Mitra in an embrace. On the other arm, she toted a plastic bag containing several cartons of food. In a camel-colored pantsuit, Veen appeared professional, as well as approachable, but Mitra couldn't ignore the look of concern on her face.
“I decided to bring you dinner,” Veen said. “You probably won't even eat otherwise.”
They settled on a bench in Mitra's backyard and served themselves pullao rice, vegetable kebob, samosa, mint chutney, and lustrous chai, all carried out from Bombay Grill on Roosevelt Street.
A stray black curl straggled down Veen's forehead. “I wanted to see you before I left,” she said. “I'm taking off for Bangalore tomorrow to attend my niece's wedding. It happened quite suddenly. She's younger than me and getting married. That's not fair. You know how in India they think you're an old maid if a younger sister or cousin gets hitched before you do. Anyway, I'll be gone for a week.”
Oh, no. Veen, her biggest supporter, would be gone.
Veen then shifted the conversation over to Kareena. “Something peculiar about Adi's routine. He's been telecommuting a lot these days. My neighbor sees him coming in and out of his home in the daytime a lot. Last night, I knocked at his door just to check up on him. He pissed me off. He's found out about our task force and fucking demanded that we disband it to ‘reduce redundancies.’ He's also extremely irritated that you've been talking to Detective Yoshihama.”
“Adi's extremely irritated with me? What else is new?”
“Goddamn it, he's hired a private eye.”
“Well, isn't that a bit late? After he's gotten a ransom demand? By the way, I'm the one who'd suggested that he hire a P.I.”
Veen caught a breath. “Listen, we've gone through so much together. I must warn you. For my sake, be extra careful. The P.I. is not to find Kareena. Adi didn't mention her in that part of our conversation, but he sure mentioned you. How you've rushed into ‘uncharted
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