Imaginary Men (20 page)

There's still so much to fix. A new pathway from the road to the orphanage, from the back way, needs to be constructed. The ponds need embankments. The children's rooms need renovations. Now I know why Raja wanted a woman who could care for his family. What he really wanted was a woman who could help him care for the lost and forgotten.

I say all this in my e-mail, in the hope that Raja will see another side of me, too. I sign the letter, Love, Lina and send it off into cyberspace.

In the evening, there's a message from Raja:

I close the e-mail with a sharp sense of loss. Twilight whispers pink across the horizon, and I find myself missing daylight.
I dream of you
. If only these fantasies, these imaginings fashioned from stardust and longing—if only these dreams could come true.

S
an Francisco is clear today. Along the western horizon, the waterline cuts the sky. I taste the cold, clean air on my way to work, and my mind is sharp when Mr. Sen arrives for his appointment at ten o'clock.

“Would you like some tea?” I ask.

“You've never offered.” He sits, looking flustered.

“I know, and I apologize. We have Earl Grey, Breakfast Blend, Darjeeling—”

“Darjeeling, thank you!”

After I bring him tea, we talk about his plans.

“America is a vast land of opportunity, but you drive for
miles and never meet a soul,” he says. “I have no family here, no prospects for marriage.”

I rest my elbows on the desk, my chin in my hands. “I know what it feels like to be alone. I know what it's like to be confused, to … feel the need to live up to someone else's expectations.”

Mr. Sen leans back, as if my words were a blast of wind. We're both silent for a time.

“My parents expected me to make something of myself here,” he says finally. “To pursue the American dream and send money home, and most of all, they expected me to bring home a wife.”

“You
have
made something of yourself here. I'm sure your parents are proud.” I still taste the sea air in Puri, still hear Raja's mother talking in her soft voice. Restlessness pulls at my insides.

The corners of his mouth turn down. “I'm beginning to love Starbucks, nah? And the Fisherman's Wharf. I have dinner at Gaylord's India Restaurant once a week, and I know the chef. I want to stay in America, but now my parents want me to return to India.”

“Maybe we can keep trying. Give me another chance. That's why I called you here today. I won't charge you.”

“No, I can't allow you to work for nothing.”

“I want to help—”

“You've done all you can do. Please.”

“Are you sure? I—”

“Don't fret. All will work itself out.”

We stand and shake hands. He has a firm grip, surprising for such a slight man, but then, I'm no longer so easily surprised.

My heart heavy, I walk him out to the waiting room, where Mrs. Mukerjee paces with her usual impatience, her daughter sitting on the couch, her nose in
People Magazine
. She wears an invisible bubble around her.

As Mr. Sen walks by, I see it.

“Stop!” I shout.

He rests his hand on the doorknob. He turns around, startled.

“Wait, you forgot something.” I rush to put myself between him and the door.

“What? I've got my hat, my wallet—”

“Just a minute.” I yank Sonya to her feet. The silvery filament extends from her chest to Mr. Sen's chest—well, actually, it catches on the hem of her sari and hangs there, the thread slackening as I pull her closer to him.

“Mr. Sen, I'd like you to meet Miss Sonya Mukerjee.” I join their hands, and the colors fuse in an aura of light. Sonya looks up at him, and their gazes lock, and we're tumbling through a romantic movie. Roses bloom in time-lapse photography, and clouds race across the sky as Mr. Sen and Miss Mukerjee exchange the usual pleasantries—
lovely to meet you,
How are you
. Their minds and bodies are already leaning into the future.

Mrs. Mukerjee's face puckers. I take her by the elbow and swing her into my office.

“Mr. Sen comes from a good family, much money, very smart, Brahmin, very nice and caring,” I say quickly, and I keep talking, all my skills back again, and as I talk, Mrs. Mukerjee relaxes.

“I always thought he would make a good husband,” she says. “He's always leaving when we're coming in, and I'm looking at him and thinking, Now, that man may be the right man for my daughter.”

I give her the credit. “Yes, you made a good match.”

“Of course, you may keep the money. After all, they met here.”

“You're very kind.”

After they leave, chattering, the glow still coming at me under the door, I go into Donna's office.

She looks up. “He called.”

My heart leaps. “And?”

I sit across from her, take in the curved lines of her face, the porcelain tone of her skin, the papers on her desk, the scent of floral perfume, the little Beanie Babies lined up next to her computer, the pictures of her son and Dev. She and Dev are engaged, and he plans to stay on in the States. These anchors keep her here, give her life meaning.

She reads the question in my expression. “Raja wants to talk to you. He has news. He thought it best to let you know.”

“Let me know what?”

She shrugs, sadness in her eyes. “He didn't say. He'll call you at home tonight.”

I know what Raja will say. He and the princess have set a wedding date. I go home to wait.

T
he call comes through a little after nine. The line is unnaturally clear, as if Raja's breathing into my ear. I imagine he has just woken up to a cool morning by the sea.

“I need to tell you something,” he says. “I want you to keep everything you hold dear. Your job, your friends, your family.”

He's preparing me for the inevitable news of his engagement to Princess Sayantoni. “Thank you, Raja. I wish the same for you.”

“I've made my choice.”

“What choice?” I whisper, although I already know the answer.

“I did some soul-searching in Puri, after you left, and … I'm applying for another visa.”

“You what?” Time slows again, the wall clock ticking away the hour in long seconds.

“I'm coming to America. I need to get to know you better. I need a lover, a best friend. Perhaps a wife, but we'll see.”

The room tilts, his words rushing at me. “Raja—”

“Don't speak.” I imagine him putting a finger to my lips. I watch the angle of light coming in through the window, the smells, the sounds of my city. I love San Francisco. I love my family. I love my friends. Raja loves all the same things in India, but he's willing to give up everything he holds dear to be with me. I imagine I'm right next to him, feeling his heartbeat, the warmth of his skin, the solid silver thread shimmering between us.

I
'm on the afternoon train leaving Kolkata's Howrah Station. I'm not sure where this journey will end. I try to read the
Statesman
newspaper, but it's hard to concentrate.

Finally, the steam train hisses and groans away from the station, and my heart sings with anticipation. I hold Star Galaxy in my hand for good luck. My home remains in San Francisco, but I'm widening my net, as Harry would say. When I was born, Pandit Parsai predicted I'd search for love across many seas. He was right.

I unfold the glossy India brochure. On this trip, I'll visit the Taj Mahal and sink my toes into the hot, white sands of
Goa. First, I'll meet Raja in Puri, then attend the opening ceremony of his new school for girls in Karagpur. Anchala will be there. She'll grow up and become someone, and maybe one day she'll travel to San Francisco.

I close my eyes and picture the city, Coit Tower rising into the clouds. My mind races out to Marin County, Mendocino, Point Reyes National Seashore, gray whales spouting in the distant sea.

Later, as the sky darkens, the train coasts to a stop. I step onto the platform. The crowds move in, and then a tall man strides toward me. There's a hush, as if the earth has fallen into silence as Raja embraces me.

“Are you lost, ma'am?” He takes my face in his hands.

“I came to see the stars at twilight,” I whisper, gazing into his eyes. “Did you know there are three different moments of twilight? Civil twilight, nautical twilight, and astronomical twilight?”

“Is that so? Which one is happening now?” A smile touches his lips.

“Nautical twilight. General outlines are still visible, but the horizon is indistinct—”

“You remember well.”

“I also remembered Star Galaxy.” I press the stone into his hand. “It belongs here, in its home by the sea.”

He tucks the stone into his pocket, then he kisses my forehead, my eyebrows, my cheeks. “I was afraid you wouldn't
come. I was afraid you'd find the perfect man of your dreams, and he wouldn't be me.”

“How could you think such a thing?” I whisper. “You're better than any man I can imagine.”

I glance back toward the train. A shadow-face appears in the window, my imaginary man who was once Nathu. He's barely a wisp of a shape as he raises his hand to wave goodbye.

HOW DID THE IDEA FOR THIS STORY COME TO YOU?

I learned of a cousin's wedding in India and imagined standing squished in a crowd of relatives in a hot Kolkata courtyard. I wondered how I would feel. Fascinated? Happy to be with family? Completely disoriented?

The rest of the story followed quickly. Lina's far more audacious than I am—I would never invent an imaginary man!

OH, REALLY? THEN HOW DO YOU EXPLAIN RAJA PRASAD?

You caught me! I guess I do have a fertile imagination. When the Pee-wee Herman clone practically drooled on Lina, I couldn't help rescuing her. The handsome, debonair Raja popped out of my—I mean Lina's—head.

HAVE YOU KNOWN A MAN LIKE RAJA? WHERE DID YOU FIND HIM?

He's a composite of every dashing man I've seen in the movies. He's inscrutable (Keanu Reeves), rough-edged (Tommy Lee Jones), sophisticated (George Clooney), sexy (Brad Pitt), and dangerous (Christian Bale), with a touch of the exotic. Phew! As Lina would say, he's Vin Diesel with hair.

IF WE SAT IN A RESTAURANT, COULD YOU IDENTIFY SHIMMERING THREADS BETWEEN POTENTIAL MATES?

I'd be a terrible matchmaker—I couldn't see a shimmering love thread if someone dangled one in front of my face. I grew up immersed in science and the laws of physics. My father is a chemical engineer and my mother has a doctorate in science and math education. I broke the mold by studying anthropology and psychology and then pursuing the arts.

WHICH ASPECTS OF YOUR LIFE CORRESPOND TO LINA'S?

I was born in India, but I grew up in Canada. Most of the novel takes place in the San Francisco Bay Area, where I lived for several years after graduating from U.C. Berkeley. I struggled through many boyfriends before finding my husband. We now live in the Pacific Northwest with three cats, a rabbit, and plenty of surrounding wildlife.

DO YOU FEEL THE SAME CONFLICT BETWEEN
CULTURES?

In some ways, yes. I was one of only a few Indian kids growing up in a Manitoba town. Although I made close friends there, a couple of small-minded bullies called me names. I didn't always feel comfortable in my brown skin.

I also felt out of place when we visited Indian families whose children spoke their mother tongue. My parents sometimes spoke in Bengali to each other, but they never taught me Bengali.

Yet Indian culture infused our lives. My parents were affectionate and demonstrative, as Indian families often are, while my friends rarely hugged or kissed their parents. My parents cooked Bengali food, had close Indian friends, and we returned to India a few times. On weekend mornings we lounged in our pajamas and drank chai (Indian tea with lots of milk and sugar). When I stayed overnight at friends' houses, I found it strange that everyone got dressed to have a formal breakfast together. What, no tea in bed??

Now that I've moved out and established my own life, I have a better understanding of my unusual family background, and I don't feel much conflict between cultures. I feel like a North American, and yet I'm also proud of my Indian heritage.

YOUR FAMILY DIDN'T TRY TO ARRANGE YOUR
MARRIAGE?

Heck no! My family is much more unconventional than Lina's. My parents fell in love; their marriage was not arranged. They were adventurous, the first members of their family to seek an independent life in a foreign country.

As such, they emphasized education and encouraged me to excel in my studies, piano lessons, figure skating, swimming, and ballet. Nobody bothered me about getting married until one day, when I broke up with a longtime boyfriend, my mother let slip, “Now you'll never get married!”