The Mistress of Spices (32 page)
My last day dawns heartbreaking-bright, the sky colored palest indigo, the air smelling of roses, though how in this city I do
not know. I lie on my thin mattress a while, afraid to look, but then I hold up my hands. The knotted knuckles are gone, the fingers are long and tapered. Not yet fully young but growing toward it.
I release my breath in a great sigh. Spices I apologize that until now I had not dared to hope.
O you who are young, you will never know the delight with which I rise from bed, how the simple act of stretching these newly middle-aged arms upward makes me giddy with forbidden pleasure.
I shower, running my hands over my body, feeling it grow firmer even as I touch. I let my wet hair fall over my face, half darkness, half light.
Already this. By night how much more.
Impatient Tilo, put aside night thoughts. First there is a full day’s work to be done.
I pull back my hair in a no-nonsense coil, pull on my American dress from Sears. I open the front door to tape up the LAST DAY sign.
On my doorstep, a bunch of them, spilling red velvet. Roses the color of virgin blood.
Until tonight
, says the note.
I gather them tight to me. Even the thorns are a pleasure. I will place them in a jar on the counter. All day we will look at each other and smile our secret.
News of the sale has traveled. The store is busy as never before, the cash register rings without pause, my fingers (younger, younger) are tired from punching buttons. The register drawer grows full. When it can hold no more I stuff the money into a
grocery sack and smile at the irony of it, I Tilo to whom these banknotes are of no more use than dead leaves.
I would have given it all for free, for affection’s sake. But it is not allowed.
“What’s happening?” the customers ask over and over, eager for a story.
I tell them only that the old woman is closing the shop for health reasons. Yes, something sudden. No, not so serious, not to worry. I am her niece, helping out this last day.
“Say good-bye to her for us. Say thanks for all her help. Say we will always remember her.”
I am moved by the warmth in their voices. Even though I know that what they say, what they believe, is an illusion. Because in time all things are forgotten. Still, I imagine them walking this street next month, next year, pointing. “There once was a woman here. Her eyes like a magnet-rock drew out your deepest secret,” they say to their children. “Ah, what-all she could do with spices. Listen carefully.”
And they tell my story.
Late in the afternoon he comes slowgaited, Geeta’s grandfather pausing to catch his breath.
“Is still hurting a bit, didi, but I had to come to thank you, to tell what hap—”
He stops in midword, scowls at me. Keeps scowling even after my explanation.
“How can she leave us like this? It is not right.”
“She doesn’t always have control. Sometimes she must do as she’s told.”
“But she has so many powers, she could—”
“No,” I say. “That’s not why the powers are given. You in the wisdom of your age should know that.”
“Wisdom,” He gives a wry smile, then grows serious. “But I am needing to let her know things.”
“I’ll make sure she knows them.”
He frowns distrustfully, adjusting his glasses, Geeta’s grandfather, all the enjoyment taken from his tale.
“Did Geeta return to your house last night?”
His head jerks up. “How are you knowing this?”
“My aunt told me. She said to watch for you, you might come.”
He stares a long moment. Finally he says, “Yes. She came back with Ramu. Her mother is so happy that late at night she is cooking all over again, mustard fish,
cholar dal
with coconut, all Geeta’s favorites. We all sit around the table and talk, even I, because I have taken the medicine and feel better, though unfortunately I cannot still eat.” He clicks his tongue at the thought, all that good food gone to waste. “Anyway, everyone is being very happy and very careful, talking of jobs and movies and cousins back in India, not to get any more anger going, I most of all. Your aunt will be proud how I am holding my tongue, not asking this or that, only making comment about American political news.
“Then just before we get up to wash our hands Ramu says Well maybe you should ask your young man to come over for a visit. And Geeta very quiet says If you wish Daddy. Ramu says Mind you don’t take this as permission, and Geeta says I know. And that’s all. Each goes into their bedroom but smiling.”
He looks up, that smile still caught in the folds of his face.
“I am so happy for them,” I say. “For you too.”
“That father-daughter, so alike, so proud. I’m sure they are having many more fights.”
“As long as they don’t forget the love,” I say.
“I will remind.” He taps his chest proudly.
“Without too many words, my aunt told me to tell you. And here, she said you were to have all the
brahmi
oil in the store. Keep your head cool, she said. No, no, it’s a farewell gift from her.”
He watches me wrap the bottles in newspaper, place them in a sack. “So she’s really not going to come back.”
“I don’t think so. But who knows what the future holds.” I strive to keep my voice light, though sorrow swells in my throat.
“You have her eyes,” he says as he turns to go. “I did not realize all this time they are so beautiful.”
He does not ask more, this spectacled old man who sees deeper than many with perfect vision. Nor do I offer. It is our unspoken pact.
“Tell her,” he says, “I am wishing her all happiness. I am saying a prayer for her.”
“Thank you,” I say. “She is much in need of prayers.”
But look who comes into my store now, a young woman I’ve never seen, her skin the clean dark of a plum, her crinkly hair caught in a hundred tiny braids, a smile like fresh-baked bread.
“Wow, this is neat. I’ve never been in here.”
She is offering me something, an envelope. I hesitate and then, by her sky-color uniform and carry-bag, the curve-beaked bird on her armband, I know. She is the mailwoman.
“My very first letter,” I say, taking it in wonder. I glance at the handwriting, but it is not known to me. “You just get here?”
“No. In fact I’m about to leave.” I want to confide more in this friendly-faced woman, but what can I say that she—that anyone—would understand.
“It’s my last day,” I tell her finally. “I’m glad I got a letter on my last day.”
“I’m glad for you too. It took a while because this person didn’t have a zip. No return address neither, or else they’d have sent it back. See.”
I look where she’s pointing, but my eyes stray to the name on the letter.
Mataji
.
Only one person has ever called me that.
My lungs have forgotten how to breathe. My heart hammers so hard surely it will break my body into pieces. The edges of the day curl into burned brown.
“This letter means a lot to me,” I say. “Thank you for bringing it.”
Blindly I grope through the brown air to find something to give her. Return with a bag of golden raisins,
kismis
for energy that endures.
“From my country. A gift.”
“Thanks, that’s real sweet of you.”
She is looking through her bag. For what? Why does she take so long? When will she leave so I can open the letter?
Then it strikes me that she too wishes to give something. She finds it, hands it to me.
Thin silver rectangles all tied together with green paper, soft to the touch. The sweet fresh scent of mint rising.
“Chewing gum,” she says at my questioning look. “Thought you might like it. Something from America, you know, for your journey.”
I hope she sees it in my eyes before she goes, my appreciation for this unasked gift, I Tilo who for once cannot think of what to say.
At the door sunshine catches on her face, as it did so long ago for Ahuja’s wife.
I lock the door behind her. I need to give this letter my full attention, all the words and in between.
I unwrap a stick of gum, fold it into my mouth. The generous sweetness on my tongue gives me the courage to read.
Mataji,
Namaste.
I don’t have your full address so I don’t know if this letter will ever get to you, but I have heard the U.S. postal system is a good one, so I will hope. Because I want so much for you to know.
I am not at home anymore. I am in another city, though I am not allowed to say where for safety reasons.
All this happened one week ago although I have thought and thought of it for months.
You know that magazine you gave me? In the back were notices. One said, If you are a battered woman, call this number for help. I looked at it for a long time. One minute I
would think Why not. Next minute I would think Chee chee, what sharam to tell strangers your husband is beating you. Finally I threw the magazine in the pile of old papers he takes to the dump for money end of every month.I decided to try one more time. Put the past behind. How much choice did I have. I told him, Why not I go see the doctor and see what is wrong, why I am not becoming a mother.
He had no objection. Even the money he was willing to spend. Maybe he too thought a baby will make things better, tie us in a shared love. Okay, he said, as long as it is a lady doctor. Indian is better.
I didn’t find an Indian doctor but the American lady said everything was fine with me. It could well be your husband, she said. Maybe his sperm count is low. Have him come in for a checkup. Tell him not to worry. Plenty of things can be done nowadays, easy.
But when I told him this, his face turned dark as the monsoon sky. The veins in his forehead were like blue knots. What are you saying, he said, I’m not a man? You want to look for someone better? He started shaking me so hard I could hear the bones in my neck make snapping sounds.
Please, I said, I’m sorry, my fault, let us forget it, you do not have to go anywhere.
He slapped me hard, two, three times. This is all part of your plan, no? Get the American doctor on your side?
He pulled me to the bedroom, threw me on the bed. Take off your clothes, he said. I’ll show you whether I’m a man or not.
Mataji
I was so terrified my hands went to the buttons of my sari-blouse, like usual. Then I remembered what you said, No man, husband or not, has the right to force me to his bed.I sat up. One part of my mind said, He will kill you for this. One part said, How can that be any worse. I forced my voice to tell him, I will not go to bed with a man who beats me.
For a moment he stood surprised like a stone. Then he said, Oh yeah? We’ll see. He lunged forward, grabbed the front of my blouse and tore it. I can still hear the ripping sound, like it was my life.
I cannot write what else he did to me. It is too shameful. But in a way it was also good. It broke my last hesitation, my fear of hurting my parents. I lay there afterward, listening to him crying, begging my forgiveness, putting ice compresses on my face, saying, Why do you make me do these things. When he fell asleep I went in the shower and stood under hot water scrubbing, even the bruises, till my skin felt as if it would come off. I watched the dirty water being sucked down the drain and knew I had to leave. If my parents do not love me enough to understand, I thought, then so be it.
Next morning he told me not to go out anywhere, he’d take a half-day, be back at lunch with a surprise for me. I knew his surprises, jewelry, saris, things we can’t afford. Him believing they would make me forget. It made me ill to think I'd have to wear them for him. As soon as his car turned the street I went to the old paper pile. At first I
couldn’t find the magazine. I was so scared. I thought somehow he’d seen it and thrown it away, that I would have to live with him forever.I went through the pile again. My head was feeling dizzy, I was so nervous he’d come back early. When I found it I started crying. I could hardly talk when I phoned.
The woman on the line was very kind. She was Indian like me, she understood a lot without my telling. She said I was right to call, they would help me if I was sure of what I wanted to do.
I packed a bag, took my passport, some wedding jewelry that was in the house, whatever money I could find. I didn’t want to touch anything of his, but I knew I’d have to survive.
Two women picked me up at the bus stop. They drove me to this house in another town.
I don’t know what I’ll do now
, Mataji.
They’ve given me lots of books to read. My rights. Stories of other women like me who now lead better lives. Stories of women who went back and were beaten to death. They tell me if I want to file a police case they’ll help me. Also they can help me set up a small tailoring business if I like. They warn me things won’t be easy.There are other women here. Some cry all the time. Some don’t talk at all. They’re afraid to press charges, afraid to leave this place. One woman had her skull fractured with a wrench. Sometimes I hear her praying
, He Ram, forgive me for leaving my husband.
I can’t even pray. Who shall I ask to bless me? Ram, who banished poor pregnant Sita to
the forest because of what people might say? Even our gods are cruel to their wives.Somedays I’m afraid too. And so depressed. I look at the room I share with two women, all of us living out of suitcases. I have no place to be alone. One bathroom in the house for six of us, underwear hanging everywhere. The smell of monthly blood. I think of my neat home. And then my mind plays tricks, reminds me of the happy moments, how sometimes he could be so kind, how he would bring video movies and pizza on Friday nights, how we would sit on the sofa watching Dev Anand, laughing.
There are voices in my head every day. They whisper, He’s learned his lesson, things will be different now, would it be so bad to go back?
I try to push them away. I remember what you said to me just before I left. I tell myself I deserve dignity, I deserve happiness.
Mataji,
pray for me that I will remain strong enough to find it.Yours,
Lalita