Nights Like This (31 page)

“Because I'm not broken,” I said. “And I'm not pagal either.”

The stale silence that followed carried with it the fragrance of defeat both for her and for me. I wanted her heart to spill anger across the maroon carpet. Anger I could handle. But the grief she emanated, that I couldn't bear. Anger is a war of egos. Grief is a surrender, a silent devastation. And once, again, I had delivered to a woman I loved nothing but pain.

We didn't speak after that but when I took her hand in mine, she did not pull away.

I didn't know what I could say. I stared at the carpet, the swirls of maroon floating before my eyes. I don't know when my mother fell asleep but I suddenly heard the faint flutter of a snore. It reminded me of Anjali and her snoring. I missed her at that moment more than I ever thought I could miss her.

My mother slept most of the evening. I sat with her, quietly, patiently, waiting for the love I knew she had for me somewhere within her.

I did not let go of her hand.

 

 

 

After that night with my mother, I thought everything would change. Nothing really did except my mother had these moments when she wouldn't speak to me. Sometimes she treated me as she always had, with complete adoration and affection, dialogues filled with “Betas” and “Bachchays” and sometimes, although rarely, a “Rani” here and there. But other times she was cold and aloof and her dialogue was devoid of all those words and she only referred to me as “Jasbir.” At those times, I wondered if we would ever find each other again in a place that was soft and comfortable.

If she had told my father, he didn't show it. He still slept until noon, went golfing and then returned home to Johnny Walker Black. If I passed him by, he took my hand and kissed it or patted the couch for me to sit down. If I sat, he sat with me in silence. If I told him I couldn't sit just then, he nodded and smiled. Our conversations were sparse but they had always been sparse and I thought nothing of it. Not once did he confront me. Looking back, I wish he had.

So it came to pass that one bright morning while I was drying my hair, my mother came to me and said, “I am going to the temple. Kali Mandir. You'll come, naa?”

“You'll come, naa?”really translated to, “Get ready and come now.” I knew that, so I nodded and smiled. She didn't smile back but walked past me to the door.

“I'll be waiting in the car.”

I turned and went to my room. I put on a blue salwar kameez that Anjali had once given me for my birthday. As I put it on I thought back to how I had seen it in at a boutique somewhere in Jackson Heights, and had fallen in love with it only to not be able to afford it. Months later, when my birthday came, Anjali had presented it to me. We had gone for dinner that night and the entire night I had looked passingly at any mirror I found. When we returned home, I stood transfixed in front of the mirror in our room until Anjali came behind me, put her arms around my waist and said, “I'm glad you like it.”

As I stood there in my parents' bungalow fixing myself in front of the mirror, I almost felt Anjali's hands around my waist. I closed my eyes and perceived her mouth by my ear whispering to me, saying, “You look amazing.”

When I opened my eyes, I was alone in the bedroom, the car horn sounding with periodic bursts, my mother screaming my name.

I rushed to the car and got into the backseat next to my mother.

“What took you so long?”

“I'm sorry,” I offered.

“You're sitting on my sari,” she said.

I moved.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“Stop being sorry, naa,” she said. “It's irritating.”

She looked at me like she was studying me.

“It's nice, your salwar kameez,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said almost offering her an explanation of where I got it but then stopping when I realized it involved the name “Anjali.”

My mother then started telling the driver which way to take, which would be fastest, which would put us at the entrance of the temple. I for my part sat back and said nothing.

When we reached the temple, we found a small shop that served as a sweet shop and also a place we could keep our shoes. We removed our shoes, washed our hands and bought some sweets.

“You ready?” my mother asked. “Ab Chalein?”

“Haan-ji.”

We walked carefully on the marble floor, fallen flowers and leaves making the floor slippery. We stood in line like everyone else although I was sure my mother could have paid off someone to let us in at the front. Why she hadn't I didn't know but I didn't think it a good idea to ask. There was an uncomfortable silence between us as we stood there. My mother held the sweets with both hands.

“Jess,” she said.

“Yes?”

“When it's our turn, you take the sweets and offer them as anjali.”

My heart skipped a beat. I took the sweets from her and stared at her.

“Kya hua?” she asked. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Then why are you so stupidly looking at me?”

“Sorry,” I said and turned away.

“
I'm a gift to the gods
,” she had said once when we were playful and walking through the snow. I thought of her with sadness and I knew that I missed her. But how I missed her. I missed the obvious things, her voice, her laughter, her body. But I missed watching her watch Bollywood films, so engrossed that she was lost to the world. I missed her singing Hindi songs under her breath. I missed her sitting at the breakfast table with her organic bran muffin, a journal and her black coffee. I missed every detail of who she was and who I had known her to be. And here I was, giving her to the gods, telling them to bless my offering and then return it to me as quickly as possible.

We finally walked to the front of the line, made our way down the slippery stairs, entered the temple and offered anjali. As I stood there staring at Kali, I wanted nothing more than Anjali to be beside me. When I closed my eyes to pray, I saw darkness. I had thought I would utter prayers but nothing came. I opened my eyes again and found my mother staring at me. I touched my head and then my heart and moved along.

My mother stopped me and anointed my head with sandalwood paste and vermillion.

“Ab kya hua?” she asked.

“Nothing, why?”

“You act like you are in a far away place. It's irritating.”

I remembered that Vanessa had said that to me once in Philly. I “zoned out” a lot she had said. I missed talking to her. I missed being in Philly with her. I missed her sarcasm, her wit, her honesty. I remembered the roughness of her palms, the beauty of her photographs. I smiled thinking of a drawing of flags, of sharing “Indo-Rican fantasies.” I wondered what she was doing.

We returned to the car slowly, quietly. We didn't speak to each other until we entered the car and settled in.

“Achchay darshan huay,” my mother said. “That was nice.”

“Haan.”

“Jasbir, do you want to tell me where your thoughts are?”

“No. You wouldn't understand.”

“Oh God,” my mother said, “Just tell me, naa, and get it out so you can stop having that stupid look on look on your face.”

I stared at her, her eyes identical to mine, black and deep.

“All right,” I said indignantly, “I'm in love with two women and I think I've lost them both and I don't know what to do.”

My mother averted her eyes.

“It's a nice day,” she said. “It's sunny but not hot. We don't even need the AC in the car. Hai na?”

Had I really expected anything different? Had I thought she would talk to me, ask me questions, and solve equations? I remained quiet and looked out of my window. A naked boy of about five was kicking a soccer ball in front of him, oblivious to the world. I remembered that night at Starbucks where I had watched a soccer ball go back and forth between two young boys. I missed my Venti coffees.

“Tell me about them,” my mother said.

“About the women?”

“Haan, yes, about the women. What else? Are they Indian?”

“One is. One isn't.”

My mother shifted in her seat, pressed the button for her window to go down although it was already fully down. She cleared her throat.

“Why are you confused?”

“I love them both.”

She coughed slightly, cleared her throat again.

“I can't do this,” she said as she turned to me.

She and I sat quietly after that, not trying. In silence the car lurched forward as my thoughts went back to Anjali and Vanessa.

“I wish you could,” I said.

“I can't,” she almost whispered, “I can't.”

When we returned home, I stole one of my father's cigarettes and went to the terrace. Just as I was about to finish, my mother pushed open the door and stepped onto the terrace.

“Fuck,” I thought.

I extinguished the cigarette but the smoke lingered, thick and strong.

“Jesse?”

“Haan, Ma?” I tried to hide the butt behind my back.

“For God's sake I can smell it naa,” she said as she walked to me. She sat next to me on the bare terrace saying nothing.

“I don't usually smoke,” I said.

She didn't say anything. She looked so sad I didn't know what to do.

“I'm worried about you, Beta,” she finally said.

“Don't be.”

“You think life will turn out one way and ignore all the other possibilities. Until life becomes so different you can't recognize it anymore. I can't recognize you anymore, Jasbir. I don't know where I went wrong. Main ki paap kitha? What sins is God repaying me for, Jesse?”

I felt the tears come, my throat constrict.

“I don't usually smoke,” I said.

“Two women, three women, are there more? Do you just go about sleeping with these women?”

“No,” I said. No.”

“And what will your life be like? What do you people do?”

“Us people,” I said. “Us people do what you people do. Share a life.”

“You've lost weight being here,” she said.

“I always do.”

“You look sick.”

“I look fine,” I said.

We sat there as dusk descended. I heard the sound of conch shells and temple bells when it was evening and time for prayers.

“Aren't you going to pray?” I asked.

“None of the gods hear me,” she said. “I think I will stop praying altogether.”

“You don't mean that.”

“How long can you love God if God doesn't show that He loves you?”

“Why do you think God doesn't love you?” I asked.

“My only daughter's a damn lesbian. Do you see the love in that?”

I watched as she wiped tears with the corner of her sari and turned away from me.

“Jesse, mein ki kara?” she said. “What do I do?”

I wanted to hide. I wanted to be held. I wanted to hold her. I wanted to return to the place where we talked without restraint and laughed without reason. Where I had some right to bury my head her lap, in the folds of her sari. But we were in a different place now and we would not return. I wondered if I could ever redeem myself in my mother's eyes. And with that thought I started to cry.

My mother turned to me and quietly wiped my eyes with her sari.

“No need for both of us to cry,” she said. “What is done is done. What is, is, hai na? Isn't it?”

I wanted more from her. But besides a soggy sari corner and her clipped words she offered nothing. But then what had I offered her but broken dreams and un-suit-a-ble realities?

As the darkness thickened and we sat cross-legged on the cool floor of the terrace, I wanted to offer my mother some comfort but I didn't know what to say. When the sky was completely black and the stars had come out, she went downstairs. I stayed on the terrace, feeling inadequate.

When she returned, she held two cigarettes and offered me one. I took it. She sat next to me and she lit the match, her cigarette and then mine. We sat there without words in a heavy silence, the glow of the cigarettes a bright orange against the black sky. Neither of us spoke. Neither of us moved.

 

 

I stayed in Kolkata until a sunny day in May when I started to miss everybody. I missed Anjali and Vanessa and even Kat and somehow Ish. I missed my Starbucks barista at Astor place and I missed Central Park and Washington Square and I wanted to go home.

I had finished the manuscript by then, a shaggy piece of work full of Vanessa's words and Anjali's thoughts. I had orchestrated their stories within mine and it had given me time to think and to wonder. I sat by the window of my bedroom and remembered Anjali's caresses the first night I had slept with her and the day that I met Vanessa. As I wrote that day, I felt a breeze that brought with it the memory of summer evenings with Anjali.

But I loved Vanessa as well. I had leafed through our journal so many times the pages were starting to come undone at the seam near the binding. I missed Vanessa terribly. I wanted to tell her that I had, in fact, just picked up and left because I needed to. And I wanted to tell her that I had talked to my mother. I had shown the courage that I had required she have. I wanted more than anything to hear Vanessa's voice.

I felt as if I owed them both the truth. But I didn't know myself what that was. How could I say something that hadn't yet come to me? I had brooded for weeks but I still had no answers. And I wasn't willing to go back to New York without knowing for myself what it was I was going to do.

The answer to all my difficult questions didn't come with brooding. It came suddenly, in a flash when I least expected a solution. I was sitting in the garden late one afternoon when my mother asked me if she could oil my hair. She said it was malnourished and needed a good oiling, something she was sure I never did in New York. I agreed mostly because I had started to miss the person she used to be and when that person returned to oil my hair, I wanted her touch and her promise that I was loved.

I sat and played with blades of grass as my mother went inside to get the oil. When she came back, she brought with her a comb and a full bottle and sat behind me to comb my hair. As the teeth of the comb slowly raked my scalp, I felt peaceful. I closed my eyes and breathed. It was then that my mother opened the bottle and poured some oil in her hands. I heard her rub her hands together and she slowly started massaging my scalp.

“Ma, that's wonderful,” I said.

“Getting spoiled in Kolkata, aren't you, Beta?”

“Hmm…” I said.

Her fingers were, as always, comforting. My scalp felt warm. I sat and released all the thoughts that I had been turning over and over in my head. But then it came to me. I breathed deeply. I breathed again.

Unmistakably, in the air that surrounded me, I smelled the essence of jasmine. Vividly, I remembered Vanessa's face when I had first seen her. I imagined the expression on her face when we made love and she was about to come. I imagined, then, the image of her the last time she had walked away from me. I remembered the desolate look she had held and how defeated she had looked. I wanted to hold her. It was there, in a garden full of scents and memories, that I realized how much I loved her.

My thoughts shifted to Anjali. I remembered our apartment, the taxicab ride where we were so filled with desire and passion that nothing else mattered. I thought of her unfailing devotion. I thought back to General Tso's and
Kabhi Alvidaa Na Kehna
. I thought lastly of the night I found her praying in the glow of sacred flames. And even that night, I was sure, she had prayed for me. Had she really married Abhay?

“What are you thinking about?” my mother asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Jess,” she said. “Close your eyes.”

I closed my eyes reluctantly.

“Don't open your eyes until I tell you.” she said. “And don't talk, don't do anything.”

“Okay.”

What was she thinking? I wanted to open my eyes but kept them shut.

“When you were younger we took you to a fair once. And all you wanted was ice cream. And not one but two, one vanilla, one chocolate, one for each hand. I remember I had dressed you in a pink dress with white lace. You spilled ice cream all over that dress. Then I had to wash it and the chocolate wouldn't come off. So then I went and tried to buy an identical dress for you but I couldn't find one.”

Why my mother was telling me this story I didn't know. But I kept listening, waiting.

“And so you were a very stubborn child. Very independent but very stubborn. You were always a little strange that way. You asked a lot of questions, did a lot of thinking. You know what?”

“Hmmm…,” I made a noise within my throat so as to ask, “What?”

“Open your eyes Jess.”

I did. I was thoroughly confused. I was thinking of pink dresses and ice cream and moments in my childhood that I hadn't thought about for years.

“What's her name?” my mother asked.

“Anjali.” I stopped short.

What had just happened?

“Ma, what are you doing?”

“Now you know,” she said softly, “Now you know between the two.”

“That doesn't work, Ma. This is stupid.”

“Achcha? Is it?”

“Anjali?”

Peepul leaves and dusk fell in a whisper around us. The grass was damp between my fingers. I tugged at the damp earth.

I had believed until then that love was enjoying the essence of someone that was physically in your life. What I learned that afternoon was that love is what happens when someone is not there and yet you still find her in everything. I found her in a half full bottle of oil. I found her in the blades of grass between my fingers. I found her within my mind where I had quiet dialogues with her and told her everything I wanted to share. Love is what happens in absence, the seeping of someone into all you do and know and breathe. And that is what I learned that day in Kolkata.

I knew I had to return to New York and at least try to let her know.

“Go home,” my mother said, “And tell her.”

I booked a ticket for the next day. Before I left, my mother anointed me with sandalwood paste and vermillion and softly said, “I will miss you, Beta.”

As I stared at the tears in her eyes, I was more confused than anything. But I accepted whatever she said, kissed her cheek, hugged her and held her and then turned to leave. The next time I come here, I thought, it won't be alone.

As I got in the car to go to the airport, my father waved from the gate. My mother got in the car with me and held my hand the entire way there.

“Jesse,” she said.

“Yes, Ma?”

“Doubt anything you want but don't ever doubt that I love you, Beta.”

“I did for a little bit.”

“I know. But there are certain relationships that withstand and endure. Those are the ones that last, that ask no questions, that just are. I'm not saying ‘Theek hai, do what you want.' I don't condone it. But I love you, Beta, more than anything.”

I nodded.

Little did my mother know that I had discovered this truth myself as she was oiling my scalp just a day ago in the garden.