aside—”
“Oh, stop it! How can you possibly know that, Lakshmi? You’re not there. He doesn’t want to talk to me ever again. To him, I don’t exist.”
I give her a squeeze, then open the door. “I’m sorry, Mitra. Remember, family is the most important thing. I’m sure he knows that. Why don’t you invite him to your next performance? The one at the Studio Theater? I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to come.”
“No, he won’t.”
“Think about it. Please.”
She sighs but says nothing.
When I get out of the car, she screeches away, leaving a trail of white exhaust in her wake. But the image of the yellow costume remains, and I know what I have to do. I go inside to find a similar fabric, and then I pull Mitra’s measurements from our files and put a call in to the seamstress.
The rest of the afternoon, I can’t concentrate. My mind whirls with images from the minds of my friends and customers, and at home that evening, Ma chatters about our upcoming trip to India, and I nod and murmur at all the right moments.
At supper, she presses a hand to my forehead. “You’re flushed. Do you have a fever?” I deny it, say I had a long day.
“You mustn’t be sick in India, Bibu, makes your face look blotchy and pasty.”
“I’m fine, Ma.” Just heavy with the weight of my friends’ problems.
“You must eat only good foods before we go, and not all the time the coffee in the mornings.”
“I love coffee, Ma.”
“We must take only the best saris for you—”
“We have plenty of saris.”
“And not all the time doing the Jane Fonda–type aerobics and walking everywhere. You’ll become too thin.”
“Jane Fonda is so eighties, Ma. I love walking to work.”
“Then eat more sweets and pastries and such to balance it out.” She goes on about my teeth, about my speech patterns. “Try to have a bit of Bengali accent, nah? Then he’ll know you have not completely lost the language.”
I rub Ma’s arm. “You know I haven’t. You know I love you more than anything.”
She touches my cheek. “I know, Bibu. Your father is gazing upon us from the heavens and smiling. Finally, smiling. I can feel his happiness.”
“Yes, Ma.”
After supper, I find a new email message from Ravi Ganguli:
Dear Lakshmi,
I look forward to returning to Seattle. I studied as an exchange student at the University of Washington for one year, and I grew to love the Pacific Northwest. It will be an honor to see the city sights again, but this time with you. Although we haven’t met, I feel as though I know you. I enclose a snap taken at Discovery Park.
Yours with affection,
Ravi
He includes a photograph of himself in a Seattle Mariners T-shirt and jeans, his hair tousled, arms around two other men, one blond, the other red-haired. They’re young, maybe twenty, laughing, their faces flushed, a field of grass and pine trees stretching behind them. A strip of ocean glints in the background. Ravi’s lean face is open and accessible. Handsome. A man I want to know. His Indianness remains an unchanging, timeless glow emanating from him. And yet, he fits in smoothly in the American scene. I want to be there in that picture, in the past with him.
I send a wistful reply asking if he’s ever ridden the elevator up the Space Needle to Seattle’s highest lookout, whether he likes the ferry, the fish-throwers in Pike Place Market. I sign the note, With anticipation, Lakshmi Sen.
There’s a note from Pooja, giving the time and place of her wedding rehearsal next weekend. I nearly forgot! Maybe I should marry Asha Rao’s driver instead, she jokes, adding a smiley face to her message. She signs, Your cold-footed friend, Pooja.
I send her a pep talk and take the golden ring and Nick Dunbar’s business card from my purse. I have a crazy idea. I flip open my cell phone and punch in his number. My heartbeat picks up. At nine o’clock, I’ll probably get his answering service, but I’m surprised when his deep, male
“Oh, stop it! How can you possibly know that, Lakshmi? You’re not there. He doesn’t want to talk to me ever again. To him, I don’t exist.”
I give her a squeeze, then open the door. “I’m sorry, Mitra. Remember, family is the most important thing. I’m sure he knows that. Why don’t you invite him to your next performance? The one at the Studio Theater? I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to come.”
“No, he won’t.”
“Think about it. Please.”
She sighs but says nothing.
When I get out of the car, she screeches away, leaving a trail of white exhaust in her wake. But the image of the yellow costume remains, and I know what I have to do. I go inside to find a similar fabric, and then I pull Mitra’s measurements from our files and put a call in to the seamstress.
The rest of the afternoon, I can’t concentrate. My mind whirls with images from the minds of my friends and customers, and at home that evening, Ma chatters about our upcoming trip to India, and I nod and murmur at all the right moments.
At supper, she presses a hand to my forehead. “You’re flushed. Do you have a fever?” I deny it, say I had a long day.
“You mustn’t be sick in India, Bibu, makes your face look blotchy and pasty.”
“I’m fine, Ma.” Just heavy with the weight of my friends’ problems.
“You must eat only good foods before we go, and not all the time the coffee in the mornings.”
“I love coffee, Ma.”
“We must take only the best saris for you—”
“We have plenty of saris.”
“And not all the time doing the Jane Fonda–type aerobics and walking everywhere. You’ll become too thin.”
“Jane Fonda is so eighties, Ma. I love walking to work.”
“Then eat more sweets and pastries and such to balance it out.” She goes on about my teeth, about my speech patterns. “Try to have a bit of Bengali accent, nah? Then he’ll know you have not completely lost the language.”
I rub Ma’s arm. “You know I haven’t. You know I love you more than anything.”
She touches my cheek. “I know, Bibu. Your father is gazing upon us from the heavens and smiling. Finally, smiling. I can feel his happiness.”
“Yes, Ma.”
After supper, I find a new email message from Ravi Ganguli:
Dear Lakshmi,
I look forward to returning to Seattle. I studied as an exchange student at the University of Washington for one year, and I grew to love the Pacific Northwest. It will be an honor to see the city sights again, but this time with you. Although we haven’t met, I feel as though I know you. I enclose a snap taken at Discovery Park.
Yours with affection,
Ravi
He includes a photograph of himself in a Seattle Mariners T-shirt and jeans, his hair tousled, arms around two other men, one blond, the other red-haired. They’re young, maybe twenty, laughing, their faces flushed, a field of grass and pine trees stretching behind them. A strip of ocean glints in the background. Ravi’s lean face is open and accessible. Handsome. A man I want to know. His Indianness remains an unchanging, timeless glow emanating from him. And yet, he fits in smoothly in the American scene. I want to be there in that picture, in the past with him.
I send a wistful reply asking if he’s ever ridden the elevator up the Space Needle to Seattle’s highest lookout, whether he likes the ferry, the fish-throwers in Pike Place Market. I sign the note, With anticipation, Lakshmi Sen.
There’s a note from Pooja, giving the time and place of her wedding rehearsal next weekend. I nearly forgot! Maybe I should marry Asha Rao’s driver instead, she jokes, adding a smiley face to her message. She signs, Your cold-footed friend, Pooja.
I send her a pep talk and take the golden ring and Nick Dunbar’s business card from my purse. I have a crazy idea. I flip open my cell phone and punch in his number. My heartbeat picks up. At nine o’clock, I’ll probably get his answering service, but I’m surprised when his deep, male
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