Imaginary Men Read Free Page B

cool fingers in mine. I want to tell her I lied. I want to explain, but the words won’t come.
    â€œHow could you keep this from your mother? Auntie Kiki and Uncle Gula came and gave congratulations, and I was pretending to know all about your fiancé. Lucky I’m a good actress.”
    A skill I inherited. “I was planning to tell you, Ma.” I step away and grab a
roshogolla
from the table.
    â€œBaba’s indigestion has returned, you know. Ulcer last winter, and he never fully recovered. This news will make him well.”
    â€œI’m glad.” I nod and smile as relatives go by, but my stomach turns upside down. Baba’s health problems worry me.
    â€œWe’re so happy for you.” Ma’s eyes shine with concentrated joy, and I don’t have the heart to undo my lie. “What’s his name?”
    â€œIt’s a secret for the moment.”
    â€œA secret? Why? What does his father do? Does he come from a good family? Does he make enough money to support you?”
    â€œHe makes loads of money—”
    â€œGood. You’ll tell all.”
    â€œNot now, Ma. Later. We must entertain the guests.”
    â€œThen soon, nah?” She leaves me with fake answers on my tongue and flits off to join my father, a half-balding man talking to the groom’s father.
    I can handle Baba from a distance. He resembles any other Indian father-of-the-bride, puffing with pride. And Ican handle him at his office, where he wears a white coat and stethoscope, jots prescriptions, and orders the nurses around. When he tries to order me around, my fingers curl into fists and my jaw clenches. His bushy brows gather like a storm, the tightness in his lips saying I’ve failed him.
    I wonder what he thinks of me now. What would he do if he knew the truth? He would disown me; tell everyone he never had a daughter named Lina.
    I turn away and find myself trapped among a group of aunts peppering me with questions. I deflect the nosiness with my best vague lies. My stomach churns. I escape to the room where the younger set congregates. Someone cranks up a Bollywood pop song, a high-pitched Hindi soprano over a repetitive synthetic backbeat. Women slip off their sandals and drag their husbands onto the dance floor. Kali dances with a handsome man with long hair tied back in a ponytail. I wonder if this is her Dev. Bellies gyrate, and Pee-wee cuts through the crowd toward me, a piece of mint leaf wedged between his two front teeth.
    Didn’t he get the message? I’m off-limits, taken, spoken for, practically hitched.
    â€œOne dance?” he asks in his nasal voice. “You’ll not have another chance to be a swinger.”
    â€œI’m … feeling too sick to swing.” I try not to stare at the green leaf in his teeth.
    â€œCome, come. You’ll change your mind about your fiancéwhen you dance with me.” He grabs my hands, but I yank them away and rush outside into the courtyard.
    I should dance with Pee-wee, try to make the best of the festivities, for Durga’s sake. I should celebrate my sister’s marriage, only I don’t belong. Why? Because my own fiancé died two years ago, left me with unfinished dreams and half-formed wishes? Anger wells in my throat. I stride away from the house, away from the laughter.
    Only the servants are here, clearing cups and crumbs from the ground. Flaming torches flicker around the courtyard, sending fingers of shadow across the grass.
    I cross my arms over my chest, hunch against the dampness, and hurry out to the lane. My lies pursue me like chattering ghosts. I’ll lose myself along the street between houses. I need time to think.
    Threads of distant music drift out into the night. I’m light-years from my family. I glance back at Auntie’s mansion, its window-eyes gazing out with indifference.
    Then I turn and leave it all behind. The farther I go, the quieter the night becomes. The occasional