Passage I

PROSE FICTION: This passage is adapted from the novel Queen of Dreams by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni (©2004 by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni). The narrator of the passage is a girl named Rakhi.

My father has been telling us stories all week, while he tries out snacks and sweets on us. I'm rusty, he claims. Got to get in shape. But I suspect he just loves to feed us. I enjoy the snacks, but it's the stories I really crave. He has told us about his early days as a student in America, about the odd jobs he held to make money—a janitor in a hospital, a slot-machine repairman in a casino. About the people he met in these places. I would never have guessed that such a consummate storyteller lay waiting all these years inside my father. He prolongs the suspense until we're about to shake him; he makes us burst out laughing at unexpected jokes. My favorite stories are about his life in India. But so far he has not told us any stories involving my mother, though he does mention her—lovingly, ruefully—in passing.

From time to time my father sings as he cooks, mostly songs from the movies, though sometimes a haunting tune that sounds far older will wind like wood smoke through the store.They make me restless, these tunes, as though there is something inside my chest that wants to escape. There's a feeling like pinpricks in my fingers, a need to paint—something I haven't been able to do since my mother's death.

When I ask, he tells me these are folk songs that field hands sing in Bengal. He picked them up during school holidays when he visited his uncle, who was the subestate manager for the royal family of Nataal. I sense a story there. No, stories tucked within the envelopes of other stories, an entire post office worth of them, filling me with giddy anticipation.

But today my father tells us this is no time for lolling around, listening to foolish tales. Tomorrow's a big day. Flyers have been passed out via Marco and his friends, advertisements have been placed in the East Bay Express and India West. I've given in and let my father deploy Sonny as our publicist, and he's been talking up our new concept at the nightclub. We must be ready, my father insists. He needs to make another batch of gawja, those crisp diamonds of fried dough crusted with sugar. He wasn't satisfied with the consistency of the melted sugar last time. We assure him that the gawjas were delicious, but he shakes his head. Nothing less than perfection will do for our reopening, as grand he calls it. He assigns Belle the task of writing our new menu on the board. She asks if she should provide brief descriptions of the items, but he says no. No pandering to tourist types here, he adds sternly. This is a real cha shop. If people ask, you can explain. But you'll be surprised at how much they know already—and how much they can learn on their own. Jespal, who has just come in, is set to dusting the furniture.As for me, he shoos me outside to paint. The new name has to be dry by the time we open tomorrow. I comply, a little taken aback by his bustling, managerial manner. Is there no end to the personalities hiding inside my father's skin? Don't rush it, he warns as he disappears into the back room.

I trace the letters, then begin to fill them in. Kurma House. My father is the author of this name. I pointed out to him that kurma is a dinner dish, something we don't plan to serve. He shrugged. We are artists, Rakhi, he said loftily. Must we be bound to literalities?

The heft of the brush in my hand, heavy with paint, feels so right. Even though this isn't the same as composing a painting, there are resemblances. The dip of the wrist as I tap it against the edge of the can, the curve of the arm as I trace the top of the K. I hadn't realized how much my body had missed such movements.

As I paint, my eyes stray to the inside of the store. Jespal has done a good job of cleaning the glass—it's almost as though it doesn't exist. He reads out items from a list my father has jotted down while Belle writes them on the board. From time to time their eyes meet and they smile shyly. Suddenly it comes to me that within the year they will marry. (Is this prophecy, intuition, or just a guess? How far can I trust it, I who am not my mother?) Watching them, I feel at once happy and lonely. It's not the loneliness of being without a mate, but something more primal. As though I were the only being left on this side of the glass, while the rest of the world—happy, uncaring—lived out its life on the other side. They were aware of my presence, they even waved to me from time to time, as Belle was doing, but they didn't know how it felt to be looking in, waving back, unable to cross over.