Read Online Sister of My Heart by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
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doesn’t have to be accounted for. It makes us feel rich and reckless.
“I’ll buy clothes with mine,” says Sudha dreamily. “Salwaar kameezes soft as a baby’s skin, colored like dawn. Saris made of the finest translucent silk, the kind that can be pulled through a ring. Scarves shimmering like a peacock’s throat. I’ll buy satins and stitch them into puff-sleeved sari-blouses with tiny mirrors embroidered in, and white lace nighties light as gossamer forsummer nights, all of it as different as possible from the drab, decorous dresses we’re forced to wear—”
I’m taken aback by the longing in her voice. Sudha’s always seemed so calm and accepting—I had no idea she hated our clothes—which are admittedly unexciting—so much. What other surprises might my cousin have in store for me?
“You’d never even be allowed to try on such things,” I say sadly. “You know how strict the mothers are about what a daughter of the Chatterjees should look like when she goes out in public.”
Sudha smiles. “I don’t care. I’ll wear them in my own room. I’ll wear them for you. But what’ll you buy?”
“Books! I’ll send away for books that are hard to find in this country. Books by writers the nuns mention disapprovingly. Kate Chopin. Sylvia Plath. Books where women do all kinds of crazy, brave, marvelous things. I want the latest novels, to give me a taste of London and New York and Amsterdam. I want books that’ll spirit me into the cafés and nightclubs of Paris, the plantations of Louisiana, the rain forests of the Amazon, and the Australian outback. All the places”—here my voice grows a little bitter—”I’ll never get to visit, because the mothers won’t let me.”
Sudha gives me a quick hug. “Oh, Anju, I’m sure you’ll see many of them! Maybe after marriage—”
“Sure! I’ll probably end up married to some stodgy old fellow who’ll never want to step out of Calcutta, someone whose idea of a good time would be to lie on a divan, chewing paan and listening to filmi songs. Someone who’ll—”
“Now who’s getting all worked up about imaginary things?” says Sudha, laughing. “Don’t worry, I’ll make a wish for you, that you’ll travel all the way across the world. But oh, I’ll miss you so much when you go.”
“I don’t believe in wishes,” I say grumpily. But inwardly I hope my cousin is right.
We spend the rest of the afternoon in Sudha’s room, examining her birthday bedspread. It’s an ambitious design that’ll take even someone as diligent as my cousin a good many months to embroider. There’s a large sunflower in the center, and a border of dancing peacocks intertwined with a saying in an old-fashioned script that takes us a while to decipher. Then we both burst out laughing, because the letters read Pati Param Guru, the husband is the supreme lord .
“Where on earth did Aunt N dig that up from?” I say, grimacing.
“Maybe she special-ordered it,” Sudha says, wiping her eyes.
“She must have said to the bedspread maker, I want something that will teach my wild and wicked daughter the proper womanly virtues,” I add, “and the bedspread maker must have said, Madam, by the time she’s finished embroidering the hundredth Param Guru, I gurarantee you she’ll be the perfect wife.”
We laugh again, our voices high and shaky, the way you laugh when you’ve been too close to the edge. We decide that if Sudha puts extra-long tails on the peacocks, it’ll cover up the writing and no one will know the difference. We seal our conspiracy with a kiss.
But that night, lying in a tangle of damp bedsheets in the hot dark, my heart still aches like someone ripped it in two and then stitched the torn edges roughly together with one of those thick needles the streetside muchis use to repair our sandals. I can’t stop wondering why Sudha had made that strange comment about not being who I thought she was. What could have possibly happened to shake her
“I’ll buy clothes with mine,” says Sudha dreamily. “Salwaar kameezes soft as a baby’s skin, colored like dawn. Saris made of the finest translucent silk, the kind that can be pulled through a ring. Scarves shimmering like a peacock’s throat. I’ll buy satins and stitch them into puff-sleeved sari-blouses with tiny mirrors embroidered in, and white lace nighties light as gossamer forsummer nights, all of it as different as possible from the drab, decorous dresses we’re forced to wear—”
I’m taken aback by the longing in her voice. Sudha’s always seemed so calm and accepting—I had no idea she hated our clothes—which are admittedly unexciting—so much. What other surprises might my cousin have in store for me?
“You’d never even be allowed to try on such things,” I say sadly. “You know how strict the mothers are about what a daughter of the Chatterjees should look like when she goes out in public.”
Sudha smiles. “I don’t care. I’ll wear them in my own room. I’ll wear them for you. But what’ll you buy?”
“Books! I’ll send away for books that are hard to find in this country. Books by writers the nuns mention disapprovingly. Kate Chopin. Sylvia Plath. Books where women do all kinds of crazy, brave, marvelous things. I want the latest novels, to give me a taste of London and New York and Amsterdam. I want books that’ll spirit me into the cafés and nightclubs of Paris, the plantations of Louisiana, the rain forests of the Amazon, and the Australian outback. All the places”—here my voice grows a little bitter—”I’ll never get to visit, because the mothers won’t let me.”
Sudha gives me a quick hug. “Oh, Anju, I’m sure you’ll see many of them! Maybe after marriage—”
“Sure! I’ll probably end up married to some stodgy old fellow who’ll never want to step out of Calcutta, someone whose idea of a good time would be to lie on a divan, chewing paan and listening to filmi songs. Someone who’ll—”
“Now who’s getting all worked up about imaginary things?” says Sudha, laughing. “Don’t worry, I’ll make a wish for you, that you’ll travel all the way across the world. But oh, I’ll miss you so much when you go.”
“I don’t believe in wishes,” I say grumpily. But inwardly I hope my cousin is right.
We spend the rest of the afternoon in Sudha’s room, examining her birthday bedspread. It’s an ambitious design that’ll take even someone as diligent as my cousin a good many months to embroider. There’s a large sunflower in the center, and a border of dancing peacocks intertwined with a saying in an old-fashioned script that takes us a while to decipher. Then we both burst out laughing, because the letters read Pati Param Guru, the husband is the supreme lord .
“Where on earth did Aunt N dig that up from?” I say, grimacing.
“Maybe she special-ordered it,” Sudha says, wiping her eyes.
“She must have said to the bedspread maker, I want something that will teach my wild and wicked daughter the proper womanly virtues,” I add, “and the bedspread maker must have said, Madam, by the time she’s finished embroidering the hundredth Param Guru, I gurarantee you she’ll be the perfect wife.”
We laugh again, our voices high and shaky, the way you laugh when you’ve been too close to the edge. We decide that if Sudha puts extra-long tails on the peacocks, it’ll cover up the writing and no one will know the difference. We seal our conspiracy with a kiss.
But that night, lying in a tangle of damp bedsheets in the hot dark, my heart still aches like someone ripped it in two and then stitched the torn edges roughly together with one of those thick needles the streetside muchis use to repair our sandals. I can’t stop wondering why Sudha had made that strange comment about not being who I thought she was. What could have possibly happened to shake her
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