Читать книгу Everything Happens for a Reason - Kavita Daswani - Страница 12

Finally, I knew what people meant when they talked about being in ‘commuter hell’. I had been told that once anyone drives in India, getting behind the wheel anywhere else in the world is a dream; Los Angeles, especially, with its infamous freeways, which were never particularly free. There were rules in this country. In Delhi, people parked sideways along narrow streets or in front of entrances or on top of the pavement, safe in the knowledge that it would take two days for a tow truck to get there. Speeding tickets would be torn up with an offer of a few hundred rupees, and it didn’t matter if you didn’t have your licence on you – or if you didn’t have one at all, for that matter. But here, in this land of rules and regulations, I knew that I couldn’t just slide by. It had taken me three attempts to get my licence; I kept knocking down those orange cones during the test. And when I was finally a fully qualified member of the driving community, I refused to use those freeways.

‘I’m scared to merge,’ I said, crying to Sanjay. ‘So many cars coming, one after the other, nobody letting me go. I want to stay in one lane only.’

‘If you do, you’ll end up in Santa Barbara,’ he said. ‘If you want to live here, you have no choice.’ This was why I knew I would never fit in. Other drivers slid in in front of me, whether I was prepared for them or not, and barrelled through lanes as if they owned the roads. I always gave them priority, convinced they had more right to be there than I did. I would rather end up in Santa Barbara than fight for the right exit.

Tonight, after shifting and merging alongside the rest of the cars on the 101 freeway, filled with their stressed-out lone occupants, it wasn’t till seven thirty that I finally pulled into the drive of our house.

Our home was distinguished from all the others on the street only by the bunch of dried chilies suspended above the front door, and the small plastic mural of Laxmi embedded into the stucco wall on the right of the entrance.

I opened the door, and saw my family seated around the dining table, about to tuck in.

‘Priya, glad you made it home in time. We weren’t sure when you would be back. Terrible traffic, right?’ said Sanjay, rising from his chair.

My in-laws looked up, while my sister-in-law, Malini waved casually across the room.

‘Hiya, bhabi,’ she said, referring to me in the way that all good girls are meant to call the wives of their elder brothers – although I knew, based on the contents of her closet and the secrets that I sensed lingered in the walls of her bedroom, that Malini wasn’t really a good girl.

‘We ordered Domino’s pizza and garlic bread,’ my mother-in-law said, huffily. ‘It became late; nothing was ready.’

‘Sorry, Ma,’ I replied. ‘Rush-hour traffic. I think it’s going to be like this everyday. I don’t know what else to do.’

‘Hah, never mind, we’ll work something out,’ she said, surprisingly sympathetically, cutting stretchy string cheese that connected a slice of pizza to the plate. ‘Maybe you just do all the chopping and cutting in the morning before you go, and then Malini and I can fry everything later.’

My sister-in-law, nibbling on a piece of bread, did not look amused.

‘You have to learn eventually, beti,’ my mother-in-law said, addressing her. ‘You are twenty now. Soon, we will have to find a boy for you and then what will you do?

‘And then,’ she continued, turning back to me ‘on weekends, we can do everything else – cleaning, dusting, sweeping properly. We will have to make new arrangements because of your job.’

That seemed a pretty equitable arrangement. Besides, didn’t everybody in America live this way? Work at work and then come home and work still?

‘Anyway, how did everything go?’ my father-in-law asked, his bald spot shining beneath the light, his thick and unruly eyebrows reminding me of a picture I had once seen of the jungles of Borneo. I was surprised by his interest; he usually only interacted with me to tell me that the cauliflower could be crispier.

‘Everything went well, Papa,’ I replied. ‘I think I will like it there.’

‘What is your salary?’

I told them, and my in-laws promptly proceeded to work it out in rupees, causing them to ooh and ahh with delight. It then fell upon Sanjay to remind them that while two hundred thousand rupees was, indeed, a fortune in India, forty thousand American dollars was just forty thousand American dollars, a lot less after tax.

‘Better you open a bank account,’ my father-in-law advised. ‘We will see how much goes towards your own savings, and how much we can use for the house expenses. Also, we have to remember that you won’t be working for long. Soon, God willing, baby will come, yes?’

I looked over at my mother-in-law, thankful that she wasn’t wielding her wooden spoon just now, although she was waving a spatula around somewhat menacingly.

‘So, tell me about the job,’ Sanjay said to me later, as we lay on our bed, watching television. ‘Are you enjoying it so far? You know, if you don’t we can find you something else.’

‘No, no, I really like it. The people seem nice – at least the four that I’ve met so far. And it’s such a great place. They run all these different magazines, and even some TV thing, and I work on the floor of a magazine called Hollywood Insider, which reports on celebrities and movies.’

‘Wow! Do you think you’ll ever get to meet anyone famous?’ Sanjay asked.

‘I doubt it. I’m just a girl answering the phones in reception. But I really am enjoying it,’ I said, snuggling up to him and enjoying the privacy of our bedroom. I knew it would be short-lived; in an hour, as was his habit every night, my father-in-law would summon me downstairs to make hot pista milk for him. And once I was in the kitchen, my mother-in-law always found something else for me to do.

‘Hey, I have a great idea!’ Sanjay exclaimed. ‘I’ve always wanted to get one of those deals where we make bags for when a movie comes out – you know, with cartoon characters and stuff. Now that you know these people at the studios, maybe you can help me do that, introduce me to the right people. Shall I give you some samples to take into the office tomorrow?’

‘Sanjay, I don’t know if that’s appropriate,’ I said. ‘And I don’t know these people. I’m just a receptionist there. How can I carry a load of bags in tomorrow as if I’m selling something. It looks a bit tacky, no?’

Sanjay thought about it for a minute. ‘Hah, maybe you’re right,’ he said. ‘It’s too soon. Let’s wait a few months. I hope you’ll still be there by then.’

‘I hope so also,’ I said. ‘But you know, there is one thing. I know it’s my first day and all, but I think I’ll be needing some new clothes. The people who work there are very fashionable. Not that I have to be very fancy-fancy or anything, but just something that looks a little more decent than what I have now. Do you think that would be OK?’

‘I think so,’ Sanjay said, wrapping his arm around me. ‘We’ll talk to Mummy and Papa about it and get their permission. You know how they feel about Western clothes. But maybe they’ll agree. Then this weekend, if we have time, we’ll go shopping.’

I was up at six the next morning, making the tea, which I stored in a Thermos, pending the awakening of the rest of the household, and left slices of bouncy white bread ready to be toasted in the miniature oven. Then I got going on dinner, which wasn’t to be served for another fourteen hours, but at least prepared all the vegetables and left them covered in the refrigerator so my mother-in-law could cook them later. I unloaded the dishwasher from the night before, put everything away, cleaned the counters and was running upstairs to take a shower when Malini emerged from her room.

She was in a pair of white pyjamas with little red lips printed all over them, the top held up with two small straps, her nipples showing through underneath. I knew she was only wearing them because her parents were still asleep. As soon as they awoke, she would run into her room and throw on a dressing gown. Now, she yawned and stretched, revealing the tiny silver ring clipped through her belly button. I looked down at my high-collared floral nightgown and felt like an overstuffed chintz sofa.

‘Have a great day at work, bhabi,’ she said. I had always thought that she looked, dressed and sounded like one of those girls on Beverly Hills 90210. I couldn’t know for sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised if, when nobody was looking, she acted like one of them too.

‘Thank you, Malini,’ I said, as I sprinted back into our bedroom. ‘You have a nice day too.’

I found a place to park in the shade right beneath the building, and noted that it was exactly nine seventeen. I pulled out a Wet Wipe from the glove compartment, and ran it down my hair, removing the sindoor I had just applied before leaving the house. I had a small silver container of it in my bag, and would replace it later before I went home.

Office hours were nine thirty to five thirty, so I was early. I even had time to do what all the other early arrivals around me were doing – buying coffee and a pastry from a stall on wheels outside the entrance to the building.

Settling in behind my desk, I sat and waited for the phones to start ringing, for people to start coming through, for deliveries to pile up. At nine thirty on the dot, it seemed as if the whole place jolted awake and came to life. I could hear phones jingling all over the office, and the little system on my desk was flashing and beeping too. The doors swung open every minute or so, the reporters and researchers and photographers filing in, carrying computer bags and trendy totes and chatting with each other, occasionally and unthinkingly throwing a smile my way. I sat behind my desk and wanted to greet them all individually, making eye contact and nodding my head eagerly.

‘Good morning,’ I said, as they whisked by me, on their way to their offices. The only people who stopped to chat were Lou and Jerry, both asking me how I was settling in or if I needed anything.

‘I’m doing fine, sir,’ I said to Lou, who had already asked me four times not to call him that.

It wasn’t too hard to feel invisible; all day long, people stood around me and chatted as if I wasn’t there.

‘So, did you get your period yet?’ one girl in a short white skirt and black boots asked another. ‘You must be freaking out! Does Simon know? Are you gonna tell him, or wait until you know for sure? I mean, you don’t want him to marry you only because you might be pregnant, right?’

I cowered beneath the counter, answering phones, but couldn’t help overhearing every word.

‘He’ll probably dump me,’ the other girl replied. ‘Don’t think he’s ready for any big commitment, you know? I’m screwed,’ she said, turning paler than she already was and shaking her head. ‘Anyway, forget all that. How are you and Patrick doing?’

‘Yeah, great. He wants to go on holiday, asked me to pick where. There’s a place I keep hearing about, but don’t know too much about it. The West Bank?’

Later, in the elevator, I saw the same two women, still talking. When I got in with them, they stopped for a second, looked me up and down, and proceeded on their conversation, evidently deciding that I was too simpleminded to pay any heed. I stood in one corner, staring down at the light blue-with-black-trim salwar kameez, which was one of the nicest outfits from my trousseau. I thought I looked smart, and was hoping that the girls might comment on the exotica of my dress sense, but they said nothing, instead carrying on with their chat about missed menstruations and sun-tanning on the Gaza Strip.

Deanna was my only real link between the desk that I sat behind, and the far more vivid world that seemed to exist beyond it. During her four-a-day visits, she would tell me stories about people I hadn’t spoken to, and give me glimmers of insight into the lives of colleagues that I would probably never meet.

‘And that girl, Aimee, you know, the one who covers the nightclub scene, tall, skinny, blonde, beautiful, makes you sick just to look at her? You know? Anyway, she snuck her boyfriend in here, and was caught making out with him on the desk of the photo editor, who now wants to move out of his office because he says he can’t imagine using that desk again! Can you believe it? Hysterical!’ she said, as I stared at her, baffled at the things that went on in corporate America.

‘And,’ she continued, pausing for emphasis, ‘that overweight movie reviewer – you know the one, really serious, thinks he knows everything, total snob – he’s about to get fired because they found out he was taking money from a studio to write good reviews. Isn’t that outrageous?’ she screamed, giggling.

‘Not really,’ I replied, whispering. ‘In India, everyone does that.’