Invisible Lives Read Free Page A

Rao. I recognize her from Star magazine.
    If I whip off the glasses and let down my hair, I’ll look as radiant and beautiful as Asha. And that’s precisely why I keep my head down, glasses on, my figure hidden beneath the baggy shirt. The last time I showed my beauty, the customer, a bride-to-be, fled the store in a huff and took her business elsewhere.
    “Asha Rao,” Mrs. Dasgupta says in a hysterical whisper. “In your store. Ah, Lakshmi. What is happening?” The blue sari slips from her fingers. Time moves again as customers stare at Asha. Their longings crowd in. Some want her to be their daughter, their sister. Some want to be a Bollywood actress like her. Some want to throw her off a cliff and steal her life. Some want to steal her fiancé, the jet-setting hotelier and actor Vijay Bharti—hooked nose, big hair, and all. Asha’s thoughts bounce out into the fray. She imagines dancing with Vijay in a Bollywood musical, rose petals fluttering down all around them. An entourage of fans bobs in the background.
    I feel him before I see him—a deep, reckless presence, a man who could jump from a plane at high altitude, brazenly sure that his parachute will open. In a tailored black suit, he’s pushing Asha in the wheelchair. His blond hair is long, parted on the side, and he’s tall, broad-shouldered, large as a quarterback. His eyes are the blue of hard-cut gems.
    He steps across the threshold and the door slams, trapping a pocket of the storm inside with us. The rose petals fall away, sucked down an invisible drain into the cosmos. Someone pressed the mute button on everyone’s secret thoughts, shut the window, closed the curtains.
    I sense no longings, no thoughts, no deep desires from others. I’m blind to it all and gasping for breath, a goldfish flung from its bowl. In the space of a moment, my entire sixth sense collapses and disappears.

Two
    I close my eyes and reach for images, but nothing comes except the orange and black Rorschach blots on the backs of my eyelids. I snap my eyes open, squint in the harsh light. The blood drains from my face. I brace my hands on the counter to keep from toppling over. The lights brighten, perfumes assaulting my nose. The rustle of saris turns into grating noise. Is all this happening because the knowing escaped into the storm?
    “How can we help you, Ms. Rao?” Ma’s saying. “We’re thrilled to have you in our store.”
    Mrs. Dasgupta blinks, her mouth slightly open in wonder.
    “Vijay and I are eager to marry,” Asha says in a well-modulated, stagelike voice. “The auspicious date comes very soon, or so Vijay’s astrologers and gurus say! And we haven’t time to return to India right away. Later, we’ll have three more ceremonies in three Indian cities, but for now, I’ve got to stay here to make this blasted film, and so—”
    “You would like us to help with the wedding here,” Ma says.
    “We need to clothe all the family and friends,” Asha says.
    “Of course. We work quickly.” Ma breaks into a confident smile, revealing one crooked eyetooth, the rest slightly stained from years of tea. She gestures toward me. “I’m sure you’ve heard of my daughter’s ability to—”
    “Choose the right fabrics?” Asha turns and gives me a dazzling smile. “You know the Desi community. Everyone knows everything. Indians here must have each others’ houses bugged.”
    “Then you’ve come to the right place.” Hope and anxiety shine in Ma’s eyes, but her thoughts have melted into the Northwest rain. She knows about my heightened intuition, but I’ve never revealed the true extent of my ability. I don’t want to tell her that the knowing has suddenly flown the coop.
    I can’t let her down. Not now.
    Mrs. Dasgupta goes pale, clutching the blue sari.
    Asha glances around at the staring customers, then lowers her voice. “We need the whole place to ourselves for the time being, nah, Mrs. Sen?”
    “Of course, of course.” Ma springs into action,