Tulip Season (24 page)

“You trust gossip?”

“Of course. Gossip is the newspaper of small communities. Any tidbit of gossip about that young devil is gold. He's your friend's destiny. We need to know about his daily routines and his vices. Does he walk his dogs every morning? Does he have a weakness for a particular brand of wine? How does he treat his staff? Better yet, how does he treat your friend?”

“The more I hear about Bahadur, the more worried I get about Kareena.”

“Our infamous actor probably has multiple faces.” Mother's eyes shined. “He shows whichever one is appropriate for the situation. Last week, I delved into a book on Cubism and got a feel for what being multi-faceted means. We'll deconstruct Bahadur and your friend, like a Cubist painter does with his subject.”

Mitra wished she could rejoice in her mother's new zeal, but inside she was rattled. “I just want to see Kareena, not pick her or her man apart.” She became silent, feeling hopeful one moment and doubtful the next.

“Don't look so unhappy, my dear,” Mother said. “In all my years, life's storms have come and washed away what little amusement I had. I always told myself the weather would clear up. Even if it didn't, the sky would at least be different. Hoping for the
different
is what keeps you going.” She looked toward the bedroom, to the digital clock visible from here. “You haven't worn a sari in awhile, have you? Did you pack any? We still dress up to go to the cinema.”

Mitra peered down at her jeans. She didn't have a sari collection anymore—she'd sold them in the auction to pay for the reward for Kareena's safe return—but she'd be embarrassed to admit that to Mother.

She shook her head. Mother gestured with a hand. “Let's go see what I have. I'm so glad saris are one-size-fits-all. How convenient.”

In the bedroom, Mother opened an ancient steel trunk. They sorted through layers of silk, cotton, crêpe, georgette, and chiffon, saris and matching blouses, pulsating with colors, patterns, textures, and artistry. It was partly Mother's trousseau and partly an heirloom collection. Mitra chose a hand-painted Chanderi silk in
mehendi
green, drawn by the fabric's lullaby quality. She wrapped it around her.

Once dressed, Mother radiated dignity in her white cotton sari woven with tiny silver stars. She draped the sari train modestly over her chest.

In the mirror, Mitra looked a trifle burdened by the layers. “Do I look fat, Ma?”

Mother stole up behind her. Wisps of curly hair fanned her forehead. “No, dear. As you get older, you don't see the younger you so clearly. You create a forest of sorts inside you of different identities, the way you act, what you think about. Then, as the years pass, the forest gets denser and foggier. Wait till you're my age. You'll search for the young soul you once were, happy to just catch a glimpse of her. You won't think you're fat. That's my long winded way of saying you look beautiful.”

Mitra heard a bang at the door and checked her watch. This must be Arnold, with his taxi. They reached the door. Mother veiled her hair and smoothed the front pleats of her sari. Her scrubbed face had a healthy sheen. She appeared confident, a woman on a mission. Mitra was pumped up, too. Who knew if she'd succeed or not, but at least this remarkable person would accompany her on her journey. This glowing woman was the mother she had always wanted.

THIRTY-NINE

WHEN THE TAXI ARRIVED
at a busy intersection, Arnold managed to squeeze through a tight spot. The driver of a Maruti stuck his head out the window and yelled: “
Shala, dusman,
idiot.”

Arnold, unfazed by the insults, turned round to face Mitra, his eyes and hair glistening in the sunlight peeking through the window.

“Got news for you,
borodidi
. I asked my cabbie friends about Jay Bahadur. Most of the time, he has his own Mercedes and a chauffeur. He also rides a scooter. But occasionally, he hires public taxis. His latest girl friend's name is Kareena Sinha—that much I've gathered.”

A blast of afternoon wind whipped through Mitra's plaited hair. Her voice rose in excitement. “I'll hire you for the week at double your rate, if you can take me to her.”

“Oh, no. Your humble “sherpa” is not allowed to pull into Bahadur's driveway. His armed guards shoot at me. This is Kolkata. We don't always have the means to do what we want to do, you see. Did I disappoint you? Our streets are not paved with gold, like they are in Mumbai.”

“The gold,” Mother said, “it's in your heart.”

“Are you a poet?” Arnold asked.

“Not in this life,” Mother replied, “but the next.”

Arnold pulled to the curb by a busy sidewalk. “Light House Cinema is just ahead of you.”

On the marquee stood a life-sized, hand-painted portrait of a by-now familiar man in a dancing pose. Mitra and her mother entered the huge cinema hall five minutes before the start of
She's a Cutie
, and found it nearly empty.

Mitra settled into her seat, her mind humming with anticipation. What was it about Jay Bahadur—the king in Kareena's life—that turned the female mind to mush, even though he reportedly had underworld connections and possibly faced criminal charges?

The lights went off, the screen stormed with color, and the hall throbbed to the beat of high energy music, a tie-in of jazz and raga. Jay Bahadur materialized, dancing fast and fluidly, as though the ground were a silk rug under his feet. Legs loose, spine flexible, he skittered into new positions, seldom offering the viewer's senses a rest. His natural rhythms, always sensuous, occasionally suggestive, created a feeling of breathless intimacy, as though he was dancing just for the person who was watching him. Mitra found herself more engaged than she'd expected.

In another rich-boy-meets-poor-girl story, the film took Bahadur to Mumbai, with its beaches, bustle, and business deals. He met the heroine in a call center, courted her on the weekend on a silver mountaintop, then by a preternaturally blue lake and, finally, in a garden ablaze with red flowers, with techno music always swelling in the background.

As she watched the actor, Mitra finally grasped why Kareena had fallen for him. He danced with wild abandon, a forest fire. She had rhythm and motion and grace locked in her. He set Kareena's spirits free.

After nearly three hours, the credits rolled. Mitra looked sideways at Mother who held an expression of satisfaction on her face.

“That was an eyeful and earful,” Mother said. “Jay Bahadur is wild. He reacts from his guts, jumps into a new situation without thinking.”

In other words, Mother liked him. They stepped out into the evening, a humid one. A street tabla player tapped out a tune. Still hearing the movie's musical score in her head, Mitra swayed to his rhythm. Arnold waved at them from the opposite corner and hustled them back into his taxi. Mitra noticed her mother was shivering. Her lips pursed, she had little tremors in her body. She confessed she didn't feel well and once in the back seat rested her head in Mitra's lap. Holding her hand, keeping her gaze fixed on her, Mitra worried that her visit had strained Mother's delicate constitution.

As soon as they reached home, Mother turned the fan on, put on a thin cotton nightgown, and collapsed on the sofa. Her doctor had prescribed her medicine—that was about all she would reveal. Mitra suspected from the symptoms of chill and fever that Mother had caught malaria, and asked if she should call the doctor's office.

“No,” Mother said. “Go to your room and get some rest.”

This current episode of Mother's illness must be due to the excitement Mitra had caused. Why had she gotten her involved? What if Mother fell seriously ill?

Mitra retired to her room, dark save for a pleated-silk table lamp casting a feeble light. Staring out the window into the sultry blackness, she felt alone. Young Bengali voices in the corridor outside interrupted her train of thoughts. She had to pay attention to understand the words of a language once as close to her as her breath. Once again, she woke to the reality of Kolkata: the press of humidity, the unfamiliar rhythms, the sounds of a language as close to her once as her breath and now an exotic music. She felt homesick for Seattle—her friends, her garden. How was Grandmother coming with her plants? Had Veen heard anything about Adi? Had he returned? Was he safe? If Jay was involved with the Mumbai mafia, had they taken Adi? Mitra's stomach did a flip-flop. Should she call Veen to get the latest news?

No. That might wake Mother, who was a light sleeper.

Snatches of a silly song from the film swirled in Mitra's head:

Yes, you're the one for me

Why do you go away?

Darling, what keeps you away?

The song was mindlessly romantic. Ulrich flashed into her head. What might he be doing now? It would be morning over there. In work clothes and boots, hair tumbling over his eyes, he might be laying the foundation for a new house. As she imagined the details of his face—high cheekbones, a troubled forehead, eyes going lighter or deeper depending on his mood—she shifted and twitched. Like a picture swinging from its wire on the wall and not quite returning to its familiar position, in danger of toppling.

Now that she was sure Mother was sound asleep, Mitra decided to look some more for Kareena. She left the house, hailed a taxi, and went to a busy shopping area, Dakshinapan Shopping Centre, where she knew she could find a phone kiosk. Her cellphone didn't work here.

She located a phone kiosk, but on second thought decided not to buzz Veen. It was too early in the morning over there to call.

The evening air was smoky with cigarette smell. The crowd seemed exuberant, everyone except her. A large family, chatting loudly, passed by. A street dentist shouted a “Hello, Miss,” his tool kit on display next to his chair. She waved his offer away.

For a long time she checked every store, every alleyway, every passing face, looking for someone who wasn't there.

FORTY

“I'LL LET YOU AND NARESH
get better acquainted.” Mother said and bustled off toward the kitchen, the keys tied to the train of her sari jingling merrily with each step. Earlier she'd said that she was feeling better and her cheeks had, indeed, regained color, but the doubter in Mitra remained concerned.

Sitting on the sofa, Mitra evaluated Mother's friend from an angle. Older than her by at least seven years, he had even features and smelled of cheap cologne. His hair was flattened with pomade, as though he didn't want to offend anyone with a misplaced curl. He struck her as the kind of nice controllable bachelor that elderly ladies fawned over and young women considered dull.

She wanted to jump right to the Kareena issue, but that wouldn't be proper. She should get to know him first. “Ma talks a lot about you.”

“I've heard a lot about you, too. When you form an impression about another person before actually meeting them, you're never sure how that'll turn out.”

What did he mean? That she wasn't as pretty as her mother? That her ribbed cotton tank and velour drawstring trousers were inferior to a queenly sari? That she didn't wear a kilogram of gold to trumpet her socio-economic status?

“You're a supplier for restaurants?” she asked.

“Yes. My business is doing well. Restaurants are the new ‘temples,’ you see. Young people open their pocketbooks in restaurants like the older generation used to do in temples to make offerings to gods. We're a young nation. Half our population is under the age of twenty-five. Our GDP is growing at the rate of eight—no, make that nine percent—a year. Even our beggars are smiling.”

Mitra listened to the boring talk, knowing how much Indians loved to discuss current state of things. For Mother's sake—she might be paying attention to them from the kitchen—Mitra must at least appear to be making friendly contact. “Of course, I see signs of progress. But I think things can move a little faster here.”

“You have complaints?” He lifted a brow. “Most foreign-returned Indians do.”

He didn't understand her, a frustration. “I didn't come here to complain. I'm here to find my friend.”

She heard the sigh of a sari, as Mother rejoined them, balancing a tray on her hand. The tray held
chai
, eggplant
bhaja
, and
sandesh
, a combination that smelled oily, spicy, and delicious.

“Nobody can make these
bhajas
like you, Mashima.” Naresh, suddenly cheerful, addressed Mother as aunt-mother, an appropriate term, given the neighborliness of this city.

Mother leaned forward eagerly and pleasantly, her attention on Naresh so complete that she had forgotten her habit of checking everyone's plate. They bantered for a few minutes, making it transparent they'd formed a loving mother-son duo. Like an odd third party, Mitra fiddled with the teacup in her hand and sank into the sofa to listen and observe. She took a bite of an eggplant
bhaja
, and concluded she still hadn't acquired a fondness for it.

Mother threw a glance at Mitra, then turned to Naresh. “Did you have a chance to check out that private restaurant?”

“Monopriya? Yes, I talked to one of the cooks. Jay Bahadur has been there with his new girlfriend, Kareena.” Naresh lowered his tone. “She's pregnant.”

The news jarred Mitra. She set her cup down.

“He made a starlet pregnant some years back. That was a scandal.” Naresh waited a beat and smirked. “Charming as he is, Jay Bahadur is a has-been, a
badmaish
.” Rogue character. “He dances his way out of things.”

Her mind in uproar, Mitra stood up and slipped into the kitchen. They hardly noticed her departure. She drank down a large glass of water, all the more determined to have a rendezvous with Kareena. Meanwhile, the flow of words between Mother and Naresh continued.

“What days and times,” Mother asked, “do they show up at that restaurant?”

“The cook isn't allowed to give out that information. Manopriya is very private. The owner, Keshav Khaitan, wasn't there when I stopped by.”

“I'd heard gossip that Khaitan has a ‘heavy weight on his head.’”

Mitra strolled back, plopped down on the sofa, and asked, “What's this ‘heavy weight on his head?’”