Read Online The Newlyweds by Nell Freudenberger - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nell Freudenberger
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laying her head for a moment on Amina’s shoulder, as if for comfort, before she stepped away.
“I have all different kinds of tea—jasmine, green, tulsi. I know you prefer coffee,” she said to George, “but I don’t have any.”
Amina thought she’d misheard. “You have tea made from tulsi leaves?” Her mother was a particular believer in the beneficial properties of the tulsi leaf for ailments ranging from eye strain to stomach cramps and rashes and took it regularly, in both tea and tincture form.
“That’s what I’m having—let me make you some.” Kim disappeared into a galley kitchen, almost as small as the one in Mohammadpur, and George led Amina through an archway into the apartment’s single room. The room was dominated by a futon bed made up to look like a couch and a fireplace, which Kim had filled with houseplants. Amina recognized spider plants, aspidistra, and aloe, but there was one very beautiful species that she didn’t know, with a single, red waxy bloom. The apartment seemed bigger than it was because of three large windows, which Kim had outlined with strings of tiny white Christmas lights; beneath the windows was a long, low wooden table, with potted plants and a collection of jewelry and figurines, artfully arranged as if in a case at a museum. Among the miniatures Amina recognized the Buddha and several Hindu deities, their fierce expressions and odd many-armed postures crafted from silver, bronze, and jade. On the wall above the bed Kim had thumbtacked a Tibetan painting onsilk, with an inscription below in that forbidding alphabet, the letters like tiny knives. Because there were no proper chairs (and George would have been uncomfortable on one of the colored cushions scattered over the rug), the two of them sat on the bed.
Amina knew of course that George’s cousin had lived in India, but somehow she hadn’t imagined that so much of that place would’ve made its way into Kim’s daily life. Her own idea of India encompassed the Taj Mahal, the great saint’s tomb at Ajmer (where her father had always dreamed of making a pilgrimage), and her youngest aunt, Sufia—who had won a vocal scholarship to a music school in Calcutta, married a Hindu, and was now the mother of twins. The rest of the country was simply colored shapes on a map, and she had only the vaguest notion of yoga as a Hindu religious ritual.
“You’ve been here before?” she asked her husband.
“I helped her move in,” George said matter-of-factly. “When she got back from India.”
“When was that?”
George thought for a moment. “She was back in the U.S. in 2001, but she didn’t come home to Rochester until ’03—about a year before I met you.”
“Is she a Hindu?”
“Who knows.” George was looking glumly at the rug, which was dotted with tufts of red and orange wool that was coming off on their socks. She could’ve guessed that this apartment wouldn’t be to his taste. Her husband was casual, even sloppy, about the state of the house, but he had a bias against the curios and mementos that had decorated his childhood home: he had taught her the word “knickknack,” a pejorative. He believed that if you hung something on your wall, it should be there for a reason, and so their walls were sparsely decorated: his own diplomas, a map of the world oriented to Asia (which he’d bought when she arrived), a photograph from his parents’ wedding, and one from their own. He preferred that everything be framed, in spite of the expense.
The exception to George’s general rule about souvenirs was the refrigerator, which was covered with magnets from each state he had visited. Although he’d had the opportunity for international travelonly once before coming to meet her in Bangladesh, he had visited forty-five of the fifty states, and he hoped one day to see Alaska, Hawaii, Alabama, North Dakota, and Nebraska, too. His first trip out of the country had been to Mexico, where he had gone with other
“I have all different kinds of tea—jasmine, green, tulsi. I know you prefer coffee,” she said to George, “but I don’t have any.”
Amina thought she’d misheard. “You have tea made from tulsi leaves?” Her mother was a particular believer in the beneficial properties of the tulsi leaf for ailments ranging from eye strain to stomach cramps and rashes and took it regularly, in both tea and tincture form.
“That’s what I’m having—let me make you some.” Kim disappeared into a galley kitchen, almost as small as the one in Mohammadpur, and George led Amina through an archway into the apartment’s single room. The room was dominated by a futon bed made up to look like a couch and a fireplace, which Kim had filled with houseplants. Amina recognized spider plants, aspidistra, and aloe, but there was one very beautiful species that she didn’t know, with a single, red waxy bloom. The apartment seemed bigger than it was because of three large windows, which Kim had outlined with strings of tiny white Christmas lights; beneath the windows was a long, low wooden table, with potted plants and a collection of jewelry and figurines, artfully arranged as if in a case at a museum. Among the miniatures Amina recognized the Buddha and several Hindu deities, their fierce expressions and odd many-armed postures crafted from silver, bronze, and jade. On the wall above the bed Kim had thumbtacked a Tibetan painting onsilk, with an inscription below in that forbidding alphabet, the letters like tiny knives. Because there were no proper chairs (and George would have been uncomfortable on one of the colored cushions scattered over the rug), the two of them sat on the bed.
Amina knew of course that George’s cousin had lived in India, but somehow she hadn’t imagined that so much of that place would’ve made its way into Kim’s daily life. Her own idea of India encompassed the Taj Mahal, the great saint’s tomb at Ajmer (where her father had always dreamed of making a pilgrimage), and her youngest aunt, Sufia—who had won a vocal scholarship to a music school in Calcutta, married a Hindu, and was now the mother of twins. The rest of the country was simply colored shapes on a map, and she had only the vaguest notion of yoga as a Hindu religious ritual.
“You’ve been here before?” she asked her husband.
“I helped her move in,” George said matter-of-factly. “When she got back from India.”
“When was that?”
George thought for a moment. “She was back in the U.S. in 2001, but she didn’t come home to Rochester until ’03—about a year before I met you.”
“Is she a Hindu?”
“Who knows.” George was looking glumly at the rug, which was dotted with tufts of red and orange wool that was coming off on their socks. She could’ve guessed that this apartment wouldn’t be to his taste. Her husband was casual, even sloppy, about the state of the house, but he had a bias against the curios and mementos that had decorated his childhood home: he had taught her the word “knickknack,” a pejorative. He believed that if you hung something on your wall, it should be there for a reason, and so their walls were sparsely decorated: his own diplomas, a map of the world oriented to Asia (which he’d bought when she arrived), a photograph from his parents’ wedding, and one from their own. He preferred that everything be framed, in spite of the expense.
The exception to George’s general rule about souvenirs was the refrigerator, which was covered with magnets from each state he had visited. Although he’d had the opportunity for international travelonly once before coming to meet her in Bangladesh, he had visited forty-five of the fifty states, and he hoped one day to see Alaska, Hawaii, Alabama, North Dakota, and Nebraska, too. His first trip out of the country had been to Mexico, where he had gone with other
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