The Vine of Desire (25 page)

This is what Sudha doesn’t know:

The day she found out that Sudha’s mother-in-law was demanding she have an abortion, Anju was so upset that she did something that was rare for her: she called Sunil at work. When she told him the news, he was oddly silent. But she was too agitated to notice.

“You know how back in India people believe that each person’s allotted a certain amount of good fortune when they’re born?” she asked. “They say that’s why people born with too much beauty have problems with other things in their lives—they’ve used up their luck. Do you think there’s any truth to it? Sunil? Are you there?”

“I don’t know,” Sunil said finally. “I’m not even sure I know what’s good luck and what isn’t. Something happens, you think it’s wonderful. A couple years later you can’t stand it.”

“I hate it when you make these vague philosophical statements,” Anju said impatiently. “How can anyone be confused about what’s good luck and what’s bad? My being pregnant, for example. It’s the luckiest thing that’s ever happened to us.”

“You’re right,” Sunil said. He drew in his breath as though about to ask her about something else—the possibility of Sudha’s divorce, perhaps—whether it would be indicative of misfortune or its opposite. But she’d already moved on.

“It’s a silly belief, anyway, about you having only so much luck in your life. When we were growing up, Aunt N. used to
tell us,
Joto hasi toto kanna—How much you laugh today, that’s how much you’ll cry tomorrow.
I hated that saying, I still do. And I refuse to believe it.”

“That’s smart,” Sunil said. His voice sounded tinny and small and sad, as though he envied his wife her certainty.

Behind them, the fluted towers rise yellow-brown, color of roasted turmeric. Around them, groups of lovers in various combinations of race and gender are scattered on the grass, casual as dandelions. It is the year of cosmic collisions, when fragments of a comet named Shoemaker-Levy 9 will crash into Jupiter, producing gigantic fireballs. But here the grass is warm in the afternoon sun, and damp, as though it has been recently watered.

“American grass smells different,” Sudha says.

“In what way?”

Sudha wrinkles her forehead, trying to find the words.

“It smells more male—you know, tough and fertilizer-fortified.”

“Fascinating! I envision a whole new line of men’s toiletries
—For that tough, fertilizer-fortified look, try—”

She ignores the interruption. “If you stop taking care of it, it’ll die off right away. Indian grass looks more delicate—that startling new-green color—and yet it survives, in spite of droughts and cows and all the weeds that try to choke it.”

“Like women?” Lalit raises an eyebrow. “Is that what you’re trying to say?”

Sudha wants to come back with something flippant, but she finds herself saying, “You wanted to know how I grew up. Well, all my life, I lived with the concept of duty—how a woman
should behave toward her parents, her husband, her in-laws, her children. Don’t mistake me—I didn’t think of it as a burden. It gave me the boundaries I needed, a wall of moral safety behind which to live. Duty took the place of love—it
was
love. Without it, I believed, society would fall apart.”

Lalit is quiet now, waiting.

“But what happens when others don’t fulfill their duty toward you?” Her eyes flash. Her fingers are tightly intertwined. “Your husband, for example, who’d promised to always protect you—and, by extension, your children. That’s when I walked out of my marriage. I don’t think you can even imagine what that means in an orthodox family in India. My own mother kept telling me I should go back to him, go through with the abortion. The first few months, I felt so guilty and frightened and ashamed, I thought I would die. But I survived.”

Lalit’s eyes are on her face, intent and thoughtful. He’s struggling to put together the pieces of the life she’s flung at him. To understand her story, which is so different from his.

“I survived, but you know what happened? I let go of one duty, one relationship—and found that all the others were attached to it like the knotted handkerchiefs a magician pulls from his hat. I felt them rush through my fingers until I was left holding nothing. Nothing—and no one—to stop me from doing whatever I wanted, whether it was good or evil.”

Lalit touches her arm lightly. Is he wondering why she’s telling him this, what it means for the two of them? But maybe it doesn’t mean anything. Maybe he’s like the stranger on a train to whom you open your heart because you know you’ll get down after a couple of stations.

On the other side of the water, where black-and-white swans glide with lazy elegance, a group of people have appeared. It’s a
party, festive with loud Latino music and pungent food smells: cumin, chilies, cilantro. A few teenagers begin to salsa. A young woman in a long white gauzy dress holds a lace fan and poses for a photograph with an old lady, who is perhaps her grandmother.

“It scares me,” Sudha says. Two men are lying on the grass nearby, looking up at the sky. One of them holds the other’s hand to his chest as he talks. A faint color stains Sudha’s cheeks as she glances at them. “Especially since I came here. Everywhere I turn in America, they say, Live for yourself.”

“Not everyone here is like you think.” He speaks with some heat.

“Live for yourself,”
Sudha continues, as though she hadn’t heard him. “I’m not sure what it means. I’m not sure I know how to do it and still be a good person. And I want to, you know. I still want to be a good person, even if I’ve failed at being a good wife. There’s a terrible pull to the idea of living for myself, and a terrible emptiness. I feel like a flyaway helium balloon—all the people I know are on the ground somewhere, but so far away and small, they hardly matter. Yet I know I can’t go back to the old way, living for others.”

“Why do you have to choose one or the other?” He’s sitting up now, his fingers tearing at the grass. “Can’t you find a compromise?”

“I don’t know how to,” Sudha says simply. “Do you? Or do you live for yourself, too?”

“That’s a tough question,” Lalit says. “It’ll take me some time to even begin to answer it.” He throws the remains of their meal into a garbage can and holds out his hand to help Sudha up. “Remember, I promised to get you home before dark so that you don’t have to live out the rest of your life in a pumpkin patch.”

Sudha gives his hand a sudden yank, making him fall to his knees beside her.

“Whoa! What did they put in that kung pao—” But he breaks off at the impassioned look on her face.

“I don’t care what you promised,” she says, her breath coming fast. “You have to talk to me. I’m going crazy because I have no one to talk to—not even Anju, whom I loved more than I loved anyone else; even my daughter, even myself. But not anymore …”

Lalit looks at his hand, which she’s still grasping, her nails pressing into the side of his palm.

“We’ll talk as long as you want,” he says quietly. “Let’s get to the car, though, where we’ll have more privacy.”

To get to the car they have to pass by the Hispanic family, who smile and call out “Hola!” A man rises from a table to offer them a plate of pastries. “My daughter’s fifteenth birthday!” he says. “Have some dulce—wish her happiness!”

Sudha and Lalit share a flaky, sugared pastry and wave at the girl, who, flushed with excitement, is leading a line dance of some kind. The low sun forms a red halo behind her head. She throws them a kiss. “Join us!” some people shout.

“They were so friendly,” Sudha says as she gets into the car. She frowns a suspicious frown. “They don’t even know us. Why were they so friendly?”

“Does there have to be a reason?” Lalit asks. Then he adds, “There’s a lot about America that’s unexpected. Don’t be in too much of a hurry to make up your mind about things. Or people.”

“Like you?” She’s smiling a little now.

“On the contrary—I hope you’ve already made up your
mind that I’m the most debonair and delightful man you’ve ever met.”

“Absolutely. Now, back to the other question I asked.”

“Didn’t they ever teach you that flattery will get you nowhere?” Lalit says. “Well, they were wrong.”

By the time he finishes talking, it’s long past dusk. The swans have disappeared, and the quinceañera and her court. A wind comes up, turning the lights shining on the water into a thousand broken glimmerings. His car, a comfortably shabby Honda in which Sudha feels at home, is the only car left on the edge of the Palace of Fine Arts, to which darkness has given a surreal, ruined aspect.

“God!” he says. “It’s really late.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Your family will be worrying. You’d better call them.”

She pushes away the cell phone he’s holding out and shakes her head. “Thank you for talking to me like this,” she says.

All the way back, she holds his hand. She doesn’t let go even when the road swerves and he has to turn the wheel sharply with one arm. They don’t speak.

In the parking lot he says, “By the way, did you figure out the answer to the riddle I asked?”

“The soldier and the lady? Not yet.” She puts a finger against his lips. “No, don’t tell me. Give me till next time. And, please—don’t get out.”

“Let me at least walk you to the elevator—”

“No, really, I prefer it this way. Thank you, once again, for everything.” She opens the door.

“Wait! Is it kosher to ask for a kiss?”

“Ko—?” But already she’s figured the word out. “Sure. But it’s more kosher to refuse.” Even in the car’s shadow, her grin is pearly with mischief. Then she’s gone, leaving him shaking his bemused head, the air in her wake charged with expectation.

Sixteen

L
alit

what I said

Once upon a time I used to labor under the delusion that I was unique. Special. I’ve learned better since. So I’ll begin my story where the stories of most young men begin. With my father.

My father was a typical Indian immigrant in the following ways: he believed in his abilities, he was prepared to work hard, he was convinced America would make him rich. Oh, yes, also, he was an engineer.

In the following way he was untypical: he was an incorrigible dreamer.

All immigrants are dreamers, you’re saying? Yeah, but they’re practical about it. They know what’s okay to dream about, and what isn’t.

what I didn’t say

I want to find out what you dream of. But I get the feeling your dreams are still unformed; each night they move like amoeba,
reaching in a different direction. But already, inside, there’s a nucleus forming. Once you learn its real shape, you’ll go after it, single-minded, and God help anyone who stands in your way.

what I said

My father had a theory about money: it fell into two categories, he said, boring and exciting. His job as an engineer brought him a good amount of the first kind, enough for us to live a comfortable life, but that didn’t satisfy him. He wanted to invest in ventures that would bring him millions in profits, preferably overnight. He loved the thrill of riding the roller coaster of risk. Yes, you could say he was a gambler, even though he always spoke disparagingly of casinos and such, and never bought a lottery ticket. Unfortunately, he had none of the instincts of a successful gambler, and every idea he funded—from a fish farm to a household robot that would do chores to a car that would run on wind power—went belly-up. Pretty soon we were left with very little money of any kind.