Tulip Season (30 page)

She took her shoes off, clutched them under her arms, and began to run. An uneven sidewalk, lots of potholes, unexpected loose stones. Her feet hurt. Her hand felt light. She'd lost her purse. But she had to keep going. Glancing behind, she saw he was staggering and lurching, just a few feet away.

He was getting closer. He stretched an arm out toward her; his eyes were on fire. She turned, drew nearer, and poked a finger at that fire.

He staggered, bent over, and moaned.

She ran down the block, shouting, “Arnold, Ma, are you there?”

A car honked. A familiar taxi pulled out of the alley and glided over to the curb.

Mother jumped out, closely followed by Preet, and shouted, “What's going on?”

Mitra, still panting, could only point to the assailant half a block away.

“That's a
goonda
,” Arnold said. Thug.

Arnold started running toward the assailant, but Preet called out to him. “Don't go near him. He could have a gun. Call the police.”

Arnold halted and punched keys on his cellphone. Mother snapped away with her new camera, shouting, “How dare you assault my daughter?”

The assailant looked up and straightened. “Fuck you, Mother,” he shouted back. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.”

Mitra cringed. To insult her gentle mother with that kind of language? She spat on him.

Mother laughed and yelled out, “You fuck your mother? What a lovable son you are.”

The assailant blazed a glance at Mother, pivoted, and limped in the opposite direction, mumbling curses as he went.

“Isn't he the jerk who played a bit part in
Cutie
?” Mother said, taking yet another shot of the offender in flight. “I bet either he's a buddy of Jay Bahadur or he was planted by him.” She put the camera down and wrapped Mitra closer with an arm. “Are you okay?”

Mitra nodded, happy to be alive and exhausted from the excitement. How close she'd come to being seriously hurt. As she slipped on her shoes and steadied herself, the trio circled her, forming a shield.

“You're so brave,” Preet said. “You fought that guy off.”

“He's at least one and a half times your body weight,” Arnold said. “He won't be able to show his face among his cronies.”

“If it weren't for the self-defense class I took,” Mitra said, “he'd have finished me.”

“I doubt he would have had,” Mother said. “We Indian women are strong. We have the tradition of great women like Sita and Savitri. Our best self-defense is our mental toughness.”

Mitra dusted her sari off, but it was now smeared with dirt and her vomit. She walked back a few steps and recovered her purse, which was lying on the sidewalk. Thank God, the voice recorder was intact, as was Preet's cellphone.

“Jump in.” Arnold opened the car door. “We need to get out of here fast. I don't like the feel of this street. Take it from me, Driver Maharaja. I smell bad things in the air.”

FIFTY

MITRA'S THROAT FELT SCRATCHY,
her eyes watered, her body burned and, with her knees buckling, she could barely walk when she reached home. After changing, she lounged on a recliner in Mother's living room. Preet and Arnold stayed with her for awhile, then said goodbye and left.

Mother pressed a cold compress on Mitra's forehead. “It's been quite an evening for you,” she said. “Your forehead feels warm. Don't try to talk. We'll catch up tomorrow. But I forbid you ever to visit that friend of yours again.”

Mitra couldn't stay silent. “It still feels unreal, seeing Kareena and hearing her side of the story. What a mess she's gotten herself into. I wonder if I could have done something more for her that I didn't.”

“No, my dear daughter,” Mother said. “You tried to save her, but she didn't want to be saved. She went astray. There's always a price to be paid for that.”

Mother's phone trilled from the other end of the room. “I'll get it.” She raced over to the phone and picked up the receiver.

Even in her distressed state, Mitra couldn't help but notice. Mother's face turned haggard as she listened, her expression one of disbelief. She hung up and stood motionless. She seemed to have lost her ability to speak.

“What's the matter, Ma? Who called?”

Mother didn't seem to hear her. She lowered her head. Silence thickened around her.

“Who was on the phone?”

“Arnold,” Mother mumbled. She came over to Mitra and grasped her hand. “Oh, Ma Durga. Kareena—she is—dead. Car accident.”

Mitra rose, then fell back against the pillow. “There must be a mistake. I want to speak with Arnold. Give me the phone.”

“He's driving a passenger to the airport and can't talk. He heard on the radio that there has been a car accident. It involved the live-in companion of Jay Bahadur. Her chauffeur is in the hospital in critical condition.”

“It's not true. Where's Preet's cellphone, Ma?”

Even as she said so, in her sinking heart, Mitra felt the news had to be true. Kareena—she was marked, being hunted. But why? There could be one reason. Jay had suspected she was going to cross him and that she'd decided to go with Mitra.

Mother handed Preet's cellphone to Mitra. Indeed, a message was waiting. It came only half an hour ago when Mitra was still fighting the assailant.

“I'm on my way, M,” Kareena's voice said. “See you soon.”

There was a rise at the end of the sentences, a spurt of hope. Her sister meant those words. She had finally figured it all out.

A deep exhaustion rolled over Mitra. “I can't handle it anymore, Ma.”

Mother sat on the edge of the bed and placed a hand on Mitra's forehead. Her warmth and caring seeped through that touch.

Oh, God. How close Mitra had come to saving her pregnant sister, how pitifully close. It had slipped out of her hand, something most precious, and she couldn't stop it.

* * *

A day later, with Mother in a chair nearby, Mitra got her suitcase out. Much as she would have liked to stay longer, she'd decided to cut her visit short for safety's sake. Jay's thugs would want her dead.

As she began packing, Mother gave her more details about Kareena's death. Her chauffeur tried to avoid a lorry coming from the opposite direction, but couldn't. One report insisted his blood alcohol level was high. Kareena was taken by an ambulance to the hospital and pronounced dead on arrival. The person at the center of it all, Jay Bahadur, was in seclusion. His office had released a statement concerning his grief and his desire for privacy.

“How I wish I could have helped you more,” Mother said.

Mitra shoved a toilet kit into her suitcase. “But you did help me, Sherlock. And I must thank you for it.”

Mother waved a hand dismissively. “
Jaa
.” Don't mention it. “I must apologize to you for being so critical of Kareena. She was criminal and cruel, but she was your best friend. Who am I to judge? I'm not perfect, either.”

Mitra laid her t-shirts and jeans over the heavier items. “You're way too hard on yourself. You have so much wisdom to offer. I hope someday I will be like you.”

Mother peered at the basket of fresh marigolds blossoms Mitra had bought for her this morning. “You're young. Don't try to undo things. Live forward, make mistakes forward—even if you've lost your dearest friend and you're grieving.”

“She was also my half-sister.”

Mother nearly jumped from her seat. She looked fully at Mitra. “What did you say?”

Mitra revived a page of her family history, as narrated by Aunt Saroja weeks ago.

“That fallen woman was part of my family?” Mother said, her voice rising to the ceiling. “I wouldn't have ever wanted her sinful feet to darken my doorstep, no matter how much that might have meant to you.” She choked up, rose, and hurried out of the room.

Mitra closed the suitcase and plopped down on a chair. Had she made a mistake revealing the family secret she'd been nursing for sometime?

A few minutes later, Mother re-emerged, her eyes brimming with regret. “Forgive me for over-reacting, especially when you're grieving. I didn't do much for you when you were little. And now that you've come for a visit after a long time, I shouldn't be yelling at you like that. Believe me, if circumstances were different—” She began weeping.

Mitra could have completed the sentence for her. She'd have welcomed Kareena into their family for Mitra's sake. Think of all the pride she'd have had to shed, the memories she'd have had to clear away, the sleepless nights she'd have had to endure. She'd have borne all that for her daughter's happiness.

Mother sobbed. Mitra rose and embraced her. She decided to keep silent about Adi losing his life savagely. Mother had had enough to cope with these past few weeks. Once back in Seattle,
she'd write her a letter. For now, she'd tuck away that loss as a secret. Even if it burned inside her, as Kareena's memories did.

* * *

Arnold knocked at the door and said he was waiting outside with his taxi. Just at that moment, mother's phone rang. It was Preet and Sam.

Sam invited Mitra to his fifth birthday next year. “Mitra-masi, you must spend a month here.” He wanted to build a tree house with her, and again play the Alien Attack game.

“I'll be back, Sam.”

Preet came on the line. “I want to thank you,” she said. “You've made me appreciate the life I have. What more can a friend do?”

Their eager voices stayed with Mitra as she cradled the receiver. At the door, she turned to face Mother. “I'll never be able to tell you, Ma, how much I love and admire you.”

Mother pushed away a curl dangling over Mitra's eyebrow. They were even closer now. Ironically, it was Mitra's search for Kareena, not to mention her untimely death that had played a role in it.

“You've given me the incentive,” Mother said, “to finally get out of this flat. This afternoon, Arnold will take me to Maniktola for a visit with your aunt Ranjana, whom I haven't seen in years. Of course, I'll take my camera with me. And I'll have Naresh put the pictures on his website, so you can browse them, too.”

Mitra now knew what was going on with Mother's health. That secret would no longer separate them. And although her health wasn't in the best shape, Mother seemed content. She'd found what she always hungered for in life, a son, a Naresh. And as for their relationship, there would be letters and phone calls, reminding Mitra that she and Mother were still a big part of each other's life.

Mitra's longing for India would not go away either when she left its soil. India was another mother, at times nurturing, at other times indifferent. Mitra would love both from a distance, like an uninvited guest outside the door, forever wondering what it'd be like to step in.

She glimpsed Arnold down the hallway and slung her flight bag over her shoulder. In the moments it took Arnold to stow the luggage in the car, her whole visit shimmered before her. She said one last goodbye to Mother.

Mother gazed at her through watery eyes, touched her hair, and murmured a blessing.

“Come again next year,” she said. “And bring another mystery to crack, will you?”

FIFTY-ONE

THE EARLY MORNING ATMOSPHERE
was charcoal gray when Mitra landed at SeaTac International Airport. She caught a taxi home. It gladdened her that the ride took only twenty minutes. She unlocked the front door to her house and was happy to be back, anxious to get settled.

The message light on her answering machine winked. She pushed the play button, eager to infuse the air with friendly chatter. Adi had left two brief messages, each checking to see if she was back. She shook her head and replayed them, a voice she'd never again hear. She felt eerie.

The next four were from Veen and other friends, vibrant and newsy. The last one was from Grandmother, saying she was thinking of Mitra. One person simply hung up.

No message from Ulrich. He hadn't tried to contact her at all.

She strolled to the greenhouse, her first order of commitment. Although she trusted that Grandmother had taken care of her plants, she needed to verify that for herself. She hovered over the seed flats, breathing in the smell of rich moist earth and listening to the chirping of the birds outside. Petunias had sprouted, although as yet, the tender seedlings gave no indication they'd one day explode into a battlefield of burgundy. The stock starts had gained three inches in height. The verbenas appeared healthy, too, though a trifle less green than normal. She'd have hours of thinning, feeding, misting, and transplanting ahead of her.

As she stepped out of the greenhouse and entered the kitchen, it all rushed back to her, her dinners with Ulrich, the time they spent in her garden, and the flow of lust and friendship between them. Although it was over between them, she found questions popping up in her mind. Why did he have to lie to her about his brief fling with Kareena? Had he been in trouble with the police again? His
mood swings—she must have a clear idea about that, too. She sought closure, but wanted to hear his answers. What if she dropped by to see him?

The very idea of resolving these issues charged her with new energy. She showered and changed into fresh clothes.

She knew he woke early. With traffic so light, it took her no time to drive to Ballard. She located his three-story apartment building, pushed the buzzer to his apartment, and waited eagerly.

He opened the door, his eyes red and dull. Dressed in a fleece jacket and heavy jeans, he appeared to be getting ready to go to work.

“Mitra, when did you get back?” The voice was different—less intimate.

“Just this morning,” she said, noticing his stiffness.

“Come in.” He didn't smile or kiss her.

She searched for words to justify her visit, but found none. The tiny studio apartment had a futon at one end and a couch at the other. A half-empty beer bottle sat on the floor by the couch; several empty ones cluttered a waste basket. A pile of hundred dollar bills rested on the coffee table. An empty pill bottle rested next to it. There was cobweb on one wall. A musty smell pervaded the chill air. The windows clearly hadn't been opened in awhile. An open suitcase, partially packed with clothes and a toilet kit, rested on the floor.

“Going somewhere?” she asked.