The Vine of Desire by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni Page B

any more money. I was shocked to discover how much you have been sending. (Your father, of course, tells me nothing, but I looked in his bureau a few days back when he forgot to lock it and saw a stack of uncashed U.S. money orders.) I hate to think how many problems this must cause you, especially now that your household has doubled in size.
    I miss you, my son. Write to me soon. It is best to write to Gouri’s address and she will arrange to get it to me without your father knowing. Otherwise it will cause a scene. (He waits like a hawk for the mailman, although all we get are catalogues and bills.) I am thankful I have such a good relative in Gouri. Sometimes when your father goes to play bridge at the club, I take the bus to her house. Even a brief talk with her brings me some peace.
    My blessings to Anju. Tell her I remember her sweetness to me when she was here. My prayers to Lord Ganesh and to Shasthi for all your health and happiness also, and by God’s will, a new baby to fill her lap soon.
    Your mother
    San Jose
    April 1994
    Dear Respected Mother ,
    It makes me angry to have to sneak around Father’s back like this. What must Gouri Ma think of our family! But I’ll do it to keep you from getting into trouble.
    Don’t ask me not to send money. I’m repaying Father for whatever he spent to bring me up so that he can never again say how much he’s done for me. It’s a way of buying back my freedom.
    About his health I’m unable to feel any sympathy. He brings it on himself. I’m just sorry that you have to put up with all this hassle. Try to stand up to him a bit. Remember, he needs you more than you need him.
    I’m sending you some money separately with this letter. Spend it on something you like—maybe a movie when he’s out, or a new sari. Maybe you can take a trip to a holy place, if Gouri Ma is going. I wish. I could do more—but the other thing you ask—to visit. Father and talk to him—is not possible. I’m afraid you think too highly of me—I’m neither dutiful, nor particularly honorable. Maybe with your prayers, one of these days, I’ll do better!
    Your son
     Sunil

Six

    S udha
    Each afternoon I wander the pavements of the city, footstep by hard gray footstep, pushing Dayita in her baby carriage. She sucks her thumb and stares around her with eyes the color of wet licorice. The faded blue awning of a Chinese takeout. An Indian grocery where cardboard boxes of okra and bitter melon are set out on the pavement. A beauty salon that screams NAILS! ONLY $19.95! A Kmart outside which teenagers slouch, looking sulky in crew cuts and pants too big for them. She will not sleep, not until I return to the apartment. And then she will plummet into thick, exhausted dreams, refusing to wake for dinner. I am afraid she is losing weight. I am racked by guilt. Yet I find it impossible to remain in the apartment past noon. Is it fear that drives me, or desire?
    I think from time to time with remorse of Singhji and the news of his death that Gouri Ma wrote of. How scared I used to be of his burned face when I was little, the disfigurement that was his disguise. All those years he worked for us—and no one had known who he was. He had loved us—me—mutely,through his service. Loved me more than I deserved. Again and again, he took risks to bring Ashok and me together. He had known—better than I—that I should have married where my heart led. I think of the letter he slipped into my bag when I left for America, explaining that he was my father, long presumed dead, begging me to keep his secret. I should have written back, telling him that I loved him, too. But I was too unsure myself, teetering on the tightrope of my new life. I felt I had to keep my eyes fixed sternly ahead. One backward glance and I’d fall, crashing, into the nothingness below. How could I risk that? And now it’s too late.
    Minutes fall around me in clumps, like cut hair. Keep track, keep track! I must be back on our street