The Unknown Errors of Our Lives Read online

  THE UNKNOWN ERRORS OF OUR LIVES

  ALSO BY CHITRA BANERJEE DIVAKARUNI

  Sister of My Heart

  Arranged Marriage

  Leaving Yuba City

  The Mistress of Spices

  Black Candle

  D O U B L E D A Y

  New York London Toronto

  Sydney Auckland

  THE

  UNKNOWN

  ERRORS

  OF OUR

  LIVES

  Stories by

  CHITRA BANERJEE DIVAKARUNI

  CONTENTS

  Also by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgments

  1. Mrs. Dutta Writes a Letter

  2. The Intelligence of Wild Things

  3. The Lives of Strangers

  4. The Love of a Good Man

  5. What The Body Knows

  6. The Forgotten Children

  7. The Blooming Season For Cacti

  8. The Unknown Errors of Our Lives

  9. The Names of Stars in Bengali

  Copyright page

  TO MY THREE MEN:

  Abhay,

  Anand,

  Murthy

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  MY DEEPEST THANKS TO:

  My agent, Sandra Dijkstra, for the battles she fights on my behalf

  My editor, Deb Futter, for guidance, encouragement, and vision

  Michael Curtis, Jhumpa Lahiri, Dean Nelson, Susanne Pari, Amy Tan, and Latha Viswanathan, for helping these stories find their shape and place

  My mother, Tatini Banerjee, and my mother-in-law, Sita Divakaruni, for blessings and belief

  Murthy, Anand, and Abhay, for putting up with all my errors

  Gurumayi Chidvilasananda and Swami Chinmayananda for Grace

  “Who you are is a mystery no one can answer, not even you.”

  —JAMAICA KINCAID, The Autobiography of My Mother

  “the desire to touch

  the desire to speak . . .

  i could love her standing in the doorway,

  thinking she’s made the wrong choice”

  —TOI DERRICOTTE, Tender

  THE UNKNOWN ERRORS OF OUR LIVES

  MRS. DUTTA WRITES A LETTER

  WHEN THE ALARM goes off at 5:00 A.M., buzzing like a trapped wasp, Mrs. Dutta has been lying awake for quite a while. Though it has now been two months, she still has difficulty sleeping on the Perma Rest mattress Sagar and Shyamoli, her son and daughter-in-law, have bought specially for her. It is too American-soft, unlike the reassuringly solid copra ticking she is used to at home. Except this is home now, she reminds herself. She reaches hurriedly to turn off the alarm, but in the dark her fingers get confused among the knobs, and the electric clock falls with a thud to the floor. Its insistent metallic call vibrates out through the walls of her room until she is sure it will wake everyone. She yanks frantically at the wire until she feels it give, and in the abrupt silence that follows she hears herself breathing, a sound harsh and uneven and full of guilt.

  Mrs. Dutta knows, of course, that this turmoil is her own fault. She should just not set the alarm. There is no need for her to get up early here in Sunnyvale, in her son’s house. But the habit, taught to her by her mother-in-law when she was a bride of seventeen, a good wife wakes before the rest of the household, is one she finds impossible to break. How hard it was then to pull her unwilling body away from her husband’s sleep-warm clasp, Sagar’s father whom she had just learned to love. To stumble to the kitchen that smelled of stale garam masala and light the coal unoon so she could make morning tea for them all—her parents-in-law, her husband, his two younger brothers, the widow aunt who lived with them.

  After dinner, when the family sits in front of the TV, she attempts to tell her grandchildren about those days. “I was never good at starting that unoon—the smoke stung my eyes, making me cough and cough. Breakfast was never ready on time, and my mother-in-law—oh, how she scolded me until I was in tears. Every night I would pray to Goddess Durga, please let me sleep late, just one morning!”

  “Mmmm,” Pradeep says, bent over a model plane.

  “Oooh, how awful,” says Mrinalini, wrinkling her nose politely before she turns back to a show filled with jokes that Mrs. Dutta does not understand.

  “That’s why you should sleep in now, Mother,” says Shyamoli, smiling from the recliner where she sits looking through the Wall Street Journal. With her legs crossed so elegantly under the shimmery blue skirt she has changed into after work, and her unusually fair skin, she could pass for an American, thinks Mrs. Dutta, whose own skin is brown as roasted cumin. The thought fills her with an uneasy pride.

  From the floor where he leans against Shyamoli’s knee, Sagar adds, “We want you to be comfortable, Ma. To rest. That’s why we brought you to America.”

  In spite of his thinning hair and the gold-rimmed glasses which he has recently taken to wearing, Sagar’s face seems to Mrs. Dutta still that of the boy she used to send off to primary school with his metal tiffin box. She remembers how he crawled into her bed on stormy monsoon nights, how when he was ill no one else could make him drink his barley water. Her heart balloons in sudden gladness because she is really here, with him and his children in America. “Oh, Sagar”—she smiles—now you’re talking like this! But did you give me a moment’s rest while you were growing up?” And she launches into a description of childhood pranks that has him shaking his head indulgently while disembodied TV laughter echoes through the room.

  But later he comes into her bedroom and says, a little shamefaced, “Mother, please, don’t get up so early in the morning. All that noise in the bathroom, it wakes us up, and Molli has such a long day at work . . .”

  And she, turning a little so he shouldn’t see her foolish eyes filling with tears as though she were a teenage bride again and not a woman well over sixty, nods her head, yes, yes.

  WAITING FOR THE sounds of the stirring household to release her from the embrace of her Perma Rest mattress, Mrs. Dutta repeats the 108 holy names of God. Om Keshavaya Namah, Om Narayanaya Namah, Om Madhavaya Namah. But underneath she is thinking of the bleached-blue aerogram from Mrs. Basu that has been waiting unanswered on her bedside table all week, filled with news from home. There was a robbery at Sandhya Jewelry Store, the bandits had guns but luckily no one was hurt. Mr. Joshi’s daughter, that sweet-faced child, has run away with her singing teacher, who would’ve thought it. Mrs. Barucha’s daughter-in-law had one more baby girl, yes, their fourth, you’d think they’d know better than to keep trying for a boy. Last Tuesday was Bangla Bandh, another labor strike, everything closed down, even the buses not running, but you can’t really blame them, can you, after all factory workers have to eat, too. Mrs. Basu’s tenants, whom she’d been trying to evict forever, had finally moved out, good riddance, but you should see the state of the flat.

  At the very bottom Mrs. Basu wrote, Are you happy in America?

  Mrs. Dutta knows that Mrs. Basu, who has been her closest friend since they both came to Ghoshpara Lane as young brides, cannot be fobbed off with descriptions of Fisherman’s Wharf and the Golden Gate Bridge, or even anecdotes involving grandchildren. And so she has been putting off her reply while in her heart family loyalty battles with insidious feelings of—but she turns from them quickly and will not name them even to herself.

  Now Sagar is knocking on the children’s doors—a curious custom, this, children being allowed to close their doors against their parents—and with relief Mrs. Dutta gathers up her bathroom things. She has plenty of time. It will take a second rapping from their mother before Pradeep and Mrinalini open their doors and stumble
out. Still, she is not one to waste the precious morning. She splashes cold water on her face and neck (she does not believe in pampering herself), scrapes the night’s gumminess from her tongue with her metal tongue cleaner, and brushes vigorously, though the minty toothpaste does not leave her mouth feeling as clean as did the bittersweet neem stick she’d been using all her life. She combs the knots out of her hair. Even at her age, it is thicker and silkier than her daughter-in-law’s permed curls. Such vanity, she scolds her reflection, and you a grandmother and a widow besides. Still, as she deftly fashions her hair into a neat coil, she remembers how her husband would always compare it to night rain.

  She hears a commotion outside.

  “Pat! Minnie! What d’you mean you still haven’t washed up? I’m late every morning to work nowadays because of you kids.”

  “But, Mom, she’s in there. She’s been there forever . . .” says Mrinalini.

  Pause. Then, “So go to the downstairs bathroom.”

  “But all our stuff is here,” says Pradeep, and Mrinalini adds, “It’s not fair. Why can’t she go downstairs?”

  A longer pause. Inside the bathroom Mrs. Dutta hopes Shyamoli will not be too harsh on the girl. But a child who refers to elders in that disrespectful way ought to be punished. How many times had she slapped Sagar for something far less, though he was her only one, the jewel of her eye, come to her after she had been married for seven years and everyone had given up hope already? Whenever she lifted her hand to him it was as though her heart was being put through a masala grinder. Such is a mother’s duty.

  But Shyamoli only says, in a tired voice, “That’s enough! Go put on your clothes, hurry.”

  The grumblings recede. Footsteps clatter down the stairs. Inside the bathroom Mrs. Dutta bends over the sink, gripping the folds of her sari. Hard to think through the pounding in her head to what it is she feels most—anger at the children for their rudeness, or at Shyamoli for letting them go unrebuked. Or is it shame that clogs her throat, stinging, sulfuric, indigestible?

  IT IS 9.00 A.M. and the house, after the flurry of departures, of frantic “I can’t find my socks,” and “Mom, he took my lunch money,” and “I swear I’ll leave you kids behind if you’re not in the car in exactly one minute,” has settled into its placid daytime rhythms.

  Busy in the kitchen, Mrs. Dutta has recovered her spirits. It is too exhausting to hold on to grudges, and, besides, the kitchen—sunlight sliding across its countertops while the refrigerator hums reassuringly—is her favorite place.

  Mrs. Dutta hums too as she fries potatoes for alu dum. Her voice is rusty and slightly off-key. In India she would never have ventured to sing, but with everyone gone, the house is too quiet, all that silence pressing down on her like the heel of a giant hand, and the TV voices, with their unreal accents, are no help at all. As the potatoes turn golden-brown, she permits herself a moment of nostalgia for her Calcutta kitchen—the new gas stove bought with the birthday money Sagar sent, the scoured brass pots stacked by the meat safe, the window with the lotus-pattern grille through which she could look down on children playing cricket after school. The mouth-watering smell of ginger and chili paste, ground fresh by Reba the maid, and, in the evening, strong black Assam cha brewing in the kettle when Mrs. Basu came by to visit. In her mind she writes to Mrs. Basu, Oh, Roma, I miss it all so much, sometimes I feel that someone has reached in and torn out a handful of my chest.

  But only fools indulge in nostalgia, so Mrs. Dutta shakes her head clear of images and straightens up the kitchen. She pours the half-drunk glasses of milk down the sink, though Shyamoli has told her to save them in the refrigerator. But surely Shyamoli, a girl from a good Hindu family, doesn’t expect her to put contaminated jutha things in with the rest of the food? She washes the breakfast dishes by hand instead of letting them wait inside the dishwater till night, breeding germs. With practiced fingers she throws an assortment of spices into the blender: coriander, cumin, cloves, black pepper, a few red chilies for vigor. No stale bottled curry powder for her! At least the family’s eating well since I arrived, she writes in her mind, proper Indian food, rutis that puff up the way they should, fish curry in mustard sauce, and real pulao with raisins and cashews and ghee—the way you taught me, Roma—instead of Rice-a-roni. She would like to add, They love it, but thinking of Shyamoli she hesitates.

  At first Shyamoli had been happy enough to have someone take over the cooking. It’s wonderful to come home to a hot dinner, she’d say, or, Mother, what crispy papads, and your fish gravy is out of this world. But recently she’s taken to picking at her food, and once or twice from the kitchen Mrs. Dutta has caught wisps of words, intensely whispered: cholesterol, all putting on weight, she’s spoiling you. And though Shyamoli always refuses when the children ask if they can have burritos from the freezer instead, Mrs. Dutta suspects that she would really like to say yes.

  THE CHILDREN. A heaviness pulls at Mrs. Dutta’s entire body when she thinks of them. Like so much in this country they have turned out to be—yes, she might as well admit it—a disappointment.

  For this she blames, in part, the Olan Mills portrait. Perhaps it had been impractical of her to set so much store on a photograph, especially one taken years ago. But it was such a charming scene—Mrinalini in a ruffled white dress with her arm around her brother, Pradeep chubby and dimpled in a suit and bow tie, a glorious autumn forest blazing red and yellow behind them. (Later Mrs. Dutta would learn, with a sense of having been betrayed, that the forest was merely a backdrop in a studio in California, where real trees did not turn such colors.)

  The picture had arrived, silver-framed and wrapped in a plastic sheet filled with bubbles, with a note from Shyamoli explaining that it was a Mother’s Day gift. (A strange concept, a day set aside to honor mothers. Did the sahebs not honor their mothers the rest of the year, then?) For a week Mrs. Dutta could not decide where it should be hung. If she put it in the drawing room, visitors would be able to admire her grandchildren, but if she put it on the bedroom wall, she would be able to see the photo, last thing, before she fell asleep. She had finally opted for the bedroom, and later, when she was too ill with pneumonia to leave her bed for a month, she’d been glad of it.

  Mrs. Dutta was not unused to living on her own. She had done it for the last three years, since Sagar’s father died, politely but stubbornly declining the offers of various relatives, well-meaning and otherwise, to come and stay with her. In this she had surprised herself as well as others, who thought of her as a shy, sheltered woman, one who would surely fall apart without her husband to handle things for her. But she managed quite well. She missed Sagar’s father, of course, especially in the evenings, when it had been his habit to read to her the more amusing parts of the newspaper while she rolled out rutis. But once the grief receded, she found it rather pleasant to be mistress of her own life, as she confided to Mrs. Basu. She liked being able, for the first time ever, to lie in bed all evening and read a new novel of Shankar’s straight through if she wanted, or to send out for hot brinjal pakoras on a rainy day without feeling guilty that she wasn’t serving up a balanced meal.

  When the pneumonia hit, everything changed.

  Mrs. Dutta had been ill before, but those illnesses had been different. Even in bed she’d been at the center of the household, with Reba coming to find out what should be cooked, Sagar’s father bringing her shirts with missing buttons, her mother-in-law, now old and tamed, complaining that the cook didn’t brew her tea strong enough, and Sagar running in crying because he’d had a fight with the neighbor boy. But now there was no one to ask her, querulously, Just how long do you plan to remain sick, no one waiting in impatient exasperation for her to take on her duties again, no one whose life was inconvenienced the least bit by her illness.

  There was, therefore, no reason for her to get well.

  When this thought occurred to Mrs. Dutta, she was so frightened that her body grew numb. The walls of the room spun into blackness, the bed on which sh
e lay, a vast four-poster she had shared with Sagar’s father since her marriage, rocked like a mastless dinghy caught in a storm, and a great, muted roar reverberated in the cavities of her skull. For a moment, unable to move or see, she thought, I’m dead. Then her vision, desperate and blurry, caught on the portrait. My grandchildren. She focused, with some difficulty, on the bright, oblivious sheen of their child faces, the eyes so like Sagar’s that for a moment she could feel heartsickness cramping her joints like arthritis. She drew in a shuddering breath; the roaring seemed to recede. When the afternoon post brought another letter from Sagar, Mother, you really should come and live with us, we worry about you all alone in India, especially when you’re sick like this, she wrote back the same day, with fingers that still shook a little, You’re right, my place is with you, with my grandchildren.

  But now that she is here on the other side of the world, she is wrenched by doubt. She knows the grandchildren love her—how can it be otherwise among family? And she loves them, she reminds herself, though they have put away, somewhere in the back of a closet, the vellum-bound Ramayana for Young Readers that she carried all the way from India in her hand luggage. Though their bodies twitch with impatience when she tries to tell them stories of her girlhood. Though they offer the most transparent excuses when she asks them to sit with her while she chants the evening arati. They’re flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, she reminds herself. But sometimes when she listens, from the other room, to them speaking on the phone, their American voices rising in excitement as they discuss a glittering alien world of Power Rangers, Spice Girls, and Spirit Week at school, she almost cannot believe it.

  STEPPING INTO THE backyard with a bucket of newly washed clothes, Mrs. Dutta views the sky with some anxiety. The butter-gold sunlight is gone, black-bellied clouds have taken over the horizon, and the air feels still and heavy on her face, as before a Bengal storm. What if her clothes don’t dry by the time the others return home?