“Grandfather isn’t an ogre!” I counter, laughing. “He and Grandmother brought me up so carefully that I never felt I was an orphan.”
When it was time to leave the party, Rajat asked for my phone number. I didn’t give it. Grandfather had informed me a long time back that the daughters of the Roy family did not have boyfriends. Rajat didn’t argue. I think he took my refusal as a challenge. A couple of days later, returning from college, I was shocked to find him at our home, having tea with Grandfather. I still don’t understand why Grandfather allowed Rajat to see me. Or why, three months later, when Rajat requested his permission to marry me, Grandfather said yes.
“It must have been my innate charm,” Rajat says, laughing. But at other times he says, “I think your grandfather, who’s nobody’s fool, saw that I’d do anything to make you happy.”
Pia, who has slipped down to sit beside me, kisses my cheek, bringing me back to the temple, where the ceremony has ended.
“The ring’s gorgeous, Korobi-didi! Oh, you are so lucky! Dada has the best taste. Doesn’t he, Maman?”
“Yes, of course,” Maman says. She looks at us, and the love on her face makes her even more beautiful.
Now Papa and Maman give me their present: an exquisitely designed diamond set—necklace, earrings, a pair of bracelets—to match the ring. When I saw the price tag at the jeweler’s, I was scandalized and begged for something less costly.
“Absolutely not, my dear!” Maman said. “You’re worth every rupee of it. Besides, all the guests at the reception will be waiting to see what the Bose family gave their only daughter-in-law!” She smiled to show me she was joking. “May I get you your outfit, also? I know just the right boutique—”
I wouldn’t let her do that—I was Bimal Roy’s granddaughter, after all. I would pay for my own clothes. But her words lodged somewhere within me. When I went shopping, I kept in mind that I was the only daughter-in-law of the Boses and bought an off-the-shoulder kurti in maroon chiffon with slim-fitting pants, embroidered over with crystal teardrops, more expensive and daring than anything else I’d ever purchased. Rajat loved the ensemble and gifted me stiletto heels studded with fake diamonds to wear with it. But once home, I lost my nerve and hid it in the almirah behind a stack of cotton saris. From time to time, I imagined—with a mix of horror and pride—what Grandfather’s reaction would be when he saw me in it.
We’re not done with gifts yet. Ceremoniously, Papa hands us a large parchment envelope. I know what’s in it: the deed to the flat Papa and Maman have bought us as an advance wedding present. The flat is located in a gated high-rise near Rabindra Sarobar Lake, in a neighborhood favored by models and playback singers and newly minted millionaires, only minutes from where the Boses live. This way, Maman says, Rajat and I can be close to them yet have our privacy.
Thinking of managing my own home, my own servants, fills me with a heady unreality. How wondrous to be expected to perform such adult acts! But I’m thankful that I don’t have to worry about that for at least another year, that I have one more year to spend with my dear grandparents. A year—that’s when we plan to have the wedding. It’s going to be the most wonderful year, a sweet year of courtship, of enjoying the envy in the eyes of my college-mates, of evening forays into the glittering world of clubs and parties to which Rajat has promised to introduce me. A year of play before we take up the serious business of being married. I plan to enjoy every moment.
The flat is still in its early stages, but I’ve seen the sales model. It looks like a set in a movie. In its media room, the TV screen takes up an entire wall. Bidets gleam in every bathroom. Could anything be further from this dear old house with its water-stained plaster walls, the banyan saplings growing between cracks in the terrace bricks? When Rajat drives me from the crooked alleys of North Kolkata to check on the progress of the flat, I feel disoriented, like a time traveler.
After the ceremony, at Pia’s insistence, the group gathers on the veranda overlooking the garden. Pia arranges everyone on chairs: Bimal and Sarojini in the center, Rajat and Korobi flanking them. (Boy-girl-boy-girl, Pia instructs.) Mr. and Mrs. Bose stand behind. Pia is a finicky photographer. People must angle their heads according to her dictates. They must either gaze into the distance, faces benevolent as buddhas, or look meaningfully into each other’s eyes. She tells the grandparents to hold hands; taken aback by her demand, they do as she says. Under the pretext of bringing lime sherbet and cashew nuts, the servants venture into the frame, for how can there be a family portrait without them? Pia lets them stay. An ice-cream man passes by the gate. The tinkle of his cart bell becomes part of the picture, as do the smells of the engagement lunch: cauliflower khichuri, sautéed pumpkin (Cook is given to sudden, wild improvisations), rice pudding sweetened with palm molasses, and, yes, scorched fish-fry.
Pia will be particularly proud of this photograph. She will make her father mail copies to all their relatives, even those she will never meet. She will hang an enlargement in her family’s drawing room, next to their Jamini Roy original, despite her mother’s remonstrations. A copy will go on the first page of the new photo album that Rajat gave her, along with the camera. She will title it Happiness. Even after certain events come to pass and Mrs. Bose removes the enlargement from their wall, Pia will keep her copy. Late afternoons, when her mother thinks she is doing homework, she will remove the album from the back of her closet and run her fingers over the photograph, over the minuscule, innocent smiles fixed on the faces of her subjects.
After lunch, the adults rest under the fan on the veranda. Grandmother passes around a crystal dish holding silvered cardamom seeds, specially ordered from Bara Bazaar, to freshen the breath. Pia disappears into the overgrown garden to take more photos. For the moment, Rajat and I have no further duties and are free to walk up and down the oleander drive.
“Cara,” Rajat says, “there’s something I’ve been waiting to tell you. I’ve come up with an exciting idea for the business. I want you to know before I tell anyone else.”
Rajat works for his father, managing orders, doing the accounting, handling the fancy clients. He’s been doing it for the last couple of months. He had another job before that, business development in a big multinational, but then his father needed him.
“I want to start a website where customers can see the entire range of our products and buy them online. What do you think?”
I don’t know much about websites—I’m studying history—but I’m touched that Rajat trusts me with his vulnerable, newborn vision. That he’s watching me with some anxiety, waiting for my verdict. It means more to me than all the love words he’s spoken.
I reach for his hand. “It’s a wonderful idea.” We walk for a while that way, fingers clasped, too happy to need to speak.
On the veranda, the men discuss politics. At another time, I’d be more interested, but right now, walking hand in hand with Rajat, I feel too complete to care much. Grandfather says that it’s a good thing our city’s name has finally been changed back to Kolkata from that anglicized version the British saddled us with. But Papa points out the change is costing the state millions of rupees because all the documentation has to match the new name. It’s more important to deal with the unrest in the city—there’s certainly been a lot of it lately. Remember last month when militants attacked the American Center?
“Ah, yes, those Muslims. A violent lot. Did you hear about the incident on the train today in Gujarat? All those Hindu pilgrims they burned to death?”
“Tragic,” Papa replies. “I hope it doesn’t lead to more bloodshed.”
Rajat, who hasn’t been paying attention to the conversation, says, “It’s going to be a challenge. People here aren’t used to buying things over the Internet. We’ll have to make the website attractive and easy to navigate. Do you think you could help me? Maybe take a graphics course?”
“Of course!” I am flattered at being asked. I imagine the site I’m going to create, vibrant with flashing image
s of art. As soon as I can, I’ll study all the details of the Boses’ business so I can do a good job for Rajat. Maybe I’ll pay a visit to their Park Street gallery, as Maman has been inviting me to do.
Farther down the drive, Pia makes Asif pose against the Mercedes for a photo.
“Your driver—isn’t he Muslim?” I hear Grandfather say. “If I were you, I wouldn’t have him taking my family around, nights and all.”
I cringe. I can feel displeasure emanating from Papa. But he says politely, “Asif is very trustworthy.”
“You think I’m prejudiced, don’t you? You’re too young, you haven’t seen what I saw—the Partition riots, right here in Kolkata, men chopped to pieces on the streets with hansulis—”
“Please!” Grandmother entreats. “Let’s not discuss such bad-luck matters today.”
Grandfather looks thunderous at being interrupted, and Papa says quickly, “Roy moshai, do consider attending the party tonight.”
Grandfather shakes his head. “I told you, Bose-babu, all that singing-dancing-alcohol-drinking—you know I don’t approve. You’re better off without me. But there’s something I do want to tell you before you leave. I asked our family priest for an auspicious wedding date for the children—and there’s a perfect one, the stars well aligned, in three months. I’d like the marriage to take place then.”
I stare at him in shock. He wants us to get married in three months? Has he gone crazy? That’s far too soon, and besides, he hasn’t even consulted Rajat or me! Glancing at Rajat, I see that he, too, is taken aback. Beneath the surprise, is he delighted or distraught? I can’t tell. It strikes me that perhaps I don’t know my fiancé as well as I thought I did.
“Are you sure you want the wedding to take place so quickly?” Papa says. “I thought we’d decided that Korobi should finish another year of college first.”
Grandfather sounds tired. “Bose-babu, I’m an old man. Who knows how long I’ll be around? I want to see my only granddaughter settled before I go. You’ll let Korobi continue her studies after the wedding, will you not?”
I want Papa to argue, to declare that this is a terrible idea, but for some reason I can’t fathom, he merely says, in his courteous manner, “Of course we will.” When Maman starts to protest that three months won’t give her enough time to plan a proper wedding, Papa lays a gentle hand on her arm.
“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.
TWO
In 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.