Invisible Lives Read Free

and Mr. Basu never quite recovered. His bald head, round body, and slightly sour odor don’t help his prospects much, and neither does his propensity to hide in the back room unpacking boxes.
    The golden bubbles burst, and fragments of Ma’s jumbled worries break through—she’s probably fretting about the leak under the bathroom sink.
    Mrs. Dasgupta keeps chattering. “—to see past your specs, a man needs to have X-ray vision like that Superb-Man, or what’s it—”
    “Superman,” I say. “Maybe I am waiting for a super-hero.” I let out a hollow giggle and push the glasses up on my nose. Nobody knows they’re plain glass, not prescription lenses. The elastic hair band is so tight that it’s yanking the ponytail from my scalp. I can’t let my hair down in the shop, where brides-to-be wobble in nervously on cold feet. The goddess told me not to flaunt my beauty.
    “—and you’ve studied the Rabindrasangeet?” Mrs. Dasgupta goes on. “Lovely songs, nah? The perfect expression of Bengali culture.”
    “I love to play the piano, mainly classical,” I tell her. Erudition and musical skills are coveted assets to make a prospective wife more attractive, but to me, music is a blissful escape from the longings of others.
    “And the Kama Sutra?” Mrs. Dasgupta gives me a sly look.
    “Mrs. Dasgupta! Really!”
    She lowers her voice. “I call it Kama Sutra for your benefit, but I know it as Kamasutram, and it is about the science of love, not at all about what the Americans think! Only twenty percent is about you-know-what! Written by the great Vatsyayana. He was a celibate scholar, did you know?” She sounds reverent, as if his celibacy somehow made him an expert on sex.
    “Fascinating, Mrs. Dasgupta.” The blood heats my cheeks. I don’t want to imagine her in exuberant youth, practicing all sixty-four positions of the Kama Sutra. With her shadow-man!
    She’s fingering the saris and thinking of him. Then the image of her husband’s bulbous young nose returns, and she’s at her wedding again. The ceremonial fire rises in bursts of flame, the crimson wedding sari burning away, leaving only the gold and jewels. She still wears those gems on her fingers, around her neck, in her earrings.
    But who was the shadow-man? What about the blue sari? Did she wear it for him?
    I know just what to give her!
    “How about this new soft cerulean blue muslin?” I unfold the sari on the countertop, and the heady scent of handwoven cotton fills the air. “This wasn’t mass produced. A master weaver made this—it’s very expensive.”
    “Oh, my goodness.” She leans over the counter, and the pallu slips from her shoulder. Her thoughts burst with pulsing hearts of happiness. She flips the sari back over her shoulder. “How did you know about this blue?”
    The door swings open, and the whole store goes silent. A damp breeze wafts in on a current of exquisite floral perfume. Even before I glance toward the door, I know someone important has arrived. A faint imprint of thoughts drifts toward me—color and brightness, a swirling burst of rose petals.
    Mrs. Dasgupta turns around, and her mouth drops open. “Oh, Shiva,” she whispers and elbows me. “Is that who I think it is? Coming into your store? Oh, what I will tell my friends!”
    If it weren’t for the wall clock ticking away the hour, I would think time had stopped. Customers freeze, holding kameezes or earrings, mouths stop in the open position, words stick to the air. And still the rose petals swirl toward me.
    Ma’s on the move, hurrying to greet the new customer, a beautiful young woman in a wheelchair, her leg thrust forward in a cast. She’s in black slacks, floral silk shirt, and a purple coat beaded with raindrops, the blustery storm rushing in around her. Shiny black hair cascades past her shoulders. Her perfect oval face shines, and her wide, long-lashed eyes exude divine beauty. Only this woman is not a goddess, she’s a Bollywood actress, Asha