The Vine of Desire by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

face and traces the outlines of the bones. Is it true that beauty can be a curse? She moves her fingers slowly, cautiously. The way a doctor might touch the victim of an accident, feeling for fractures. Or the way a lover might touch his beloved’s face. The way Sunil touched her.

    Dinner is preceded by a tournament of circumventions, questions shot around the table, parried, shot back in the form of other questions.
    She: Goodness, Anju! How late you are! I was killing myself with worry! Why didn’t you call? What were you doing all this time?
    She: Please! The way the two of you are going on, it’s like I disappeared for a whole month. I’m a big girl, okay? And sometimes I need to stay on campus and catch up on things I need to do. Can we talk about something else now—like what’s for dinner. I’m starved.
    He: Your cousin’s right—next time you should let one of us know what’s going on.
    She: There’s dal and a brinjal curry that’s still cooking—sorry, I’m a bit behind today.
    She: You’re telling me to call! That’s rich! How many times have you been late and not let me know? Remember the time when—
    He: We’re talking about now. Why do you always have to bring up ancient history?
    She: Anju, can you give me a hand in the kitchen? Come on, Anju!
    She: It’s always like that, one rule for you, another for me. Why?
    He: (Silence)
    She: (Silence)
    She: (Silence)

    They eat with small, jerky gestures, pushing the food around their plates, not tasting. Sudha has forgotten to add salt to the curry. But no one pays attention. The wind curls itself complacently on the windowsill. Dayita, oddly quiet, wriggles from Sunil’s arms to the floor, and for once he doesn’t call to her.
    A tableau of silence: three people, inside their chests small black boxes, holding inside them smaller, blacker boxes. Secrets packed in secrets: velvet scraps, foam pellets, wood shavings, baby-black hair. Some of these they know, some they guess at. Others itch inside them like the start of an infection. Until, at the very center of the chest, the secret of whose existence they are totally unaware. The secret of their own self, already pollinated by time’s spores, waiting to burst open when they are least prepared for it.

Five

    L etters
    Calcutta
    April 1994
    My dear Anju ,
    Blessings of the goddess Kali on all of you.
    I miss you more than a letter can convey. The house is empty without the little one’s laughter and mischief. We old women feel even older. We’ve taken to wandering the streets, bargaining with vendors for things we don’t need, because we dread coming home to silence. Selfishly we wish we had married you to a Calcutta boy. Then our family wouldn’t be scattered across the world today. But then I think, the new life you are living in a land unfettered by old customs will perhaps give you opportunities I was unable to provide. I am particularly pleased that you and Sudha have each other for companionship.
    I am very glad you are taking classes again. Now I do not feel as guilty about depriving you of college in order to get you married. Perhaps I was overhasty. But I made a good choice, did I not? How many husbands would have been as supportive as Sunil about you continuing your education? And how generous he has been to take Sudha and Dayita into his home. Yes, I know what you are thinking, your nostrils flaring with annoyance (how well I remember your gestures!). It is your house, too. But if he had said no, how much trouble it would have made!
    It is good that you are busy with your studies. Keeping oneself busy is the best cure for sorrow, I know that too. But do not repeat my mistake and build a wall of work between you and the people you love. Spend a little time alone with Sunil. In that land of strangers, who does he have for love and comfort except his wife?
    Pishi hopes you two are telling stories from our epics to Dayita. These stories, she says, have much old wisdom embedded in them.