Before We Visit the Goddess

Before We Visit the Goddess by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni Read Free Book Online

Book: Before We Visit the Goddess by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni Read Free Book Online
Authors: Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
out of her too fast. She knew she sounded guilty, even though it was the truth she was telling.
    â€œI understand,” Bijan said. He looked coldly at her sari, her jewelry. “I understand perfectly.”
    â€œI love you, only you,” she cried, though she knew it was a major faux pas to speak in this manner in front of servants.
    Bijan leaned forward. “Drive me back to the office.”
    â€œAren’t we going to the zoo?” Bela asked.
    â€œYou can go wherever the hell you want,” Bijan said to Sabitri. In the mirror the driver’s eyes widened because Bijan-saab never spoke like this. Sabitri guessed it would not be long before the rest of the servants heard about it.
    They rode in silence. Near the Maidan they passed a herd of goats crossing the street; heat rose from their coats in shimmery waves. Sabitri had never seen such a sight in the city. For a moment, with a thin spike of hope, she thought she had dreamed it all.
    When they had dropped Bijan off, Bijan now transformed into someone she did not know, Sabitri told the driver to take them home. She had difficulty meeting his eyes, but she forced herself.
    â€œI want to go to the zoo!” Bela cried. “I want my ice cream. Why can’t we go to the zoo? Baba said we could. Why can’t we go?” She kicked the seat-back again and again. The noise thudded inside Sabitri’s head.
    â€œIt’s because of you we aren’t going!” she shouted. “Stupid girl—you’ve ruined everything.” The Bengali word for “ruin,” noshto, which could also mean “rotten,” or, when applied to women, “unfaithful,” hung in front of her, as visible as her future. Her hand arced through the air, there was a sound like something bursting, and Bela cried out in pain.
    The first time you hit your child with all your strength, wanting to hurt, it changes things.
    She feels that sting again now. It travels up her arm and lodges in her shoulder. The shock with which Bela had stared at Sabitri. The splotch blooming red on her cheek. The way she shrank back against the car door. Was that when the troubles between them began?
    â€œI’m sorry, Bela,” she says. “Forgive me.” Words that all these years she hadn’t been able to speak.

    The pain has taken up permanent residence in her chest. She must have dropped something with a crash, because here comes Rekha, rubbing at her eyes, then running forward with a cry. Sabitri tries to push the letter toward her. But she’s on the floor. When did she fall? Rekha shouts for the milkman, who’s rattling the door, to help her get Ma onto the bed.
    Sabitri tries to tell her about the letter. It is the only thing that matters now. It must be put in the mail. It must. “Tell Bipin Bihari,” she whispers. She thinks of his dear face, calm and steady and attentive, even in the worst of her times. “He’ll know what to do.”
    But Rekha does not hear. She is sobbing on the phone, urging Doctor Babu to get here fast. Something terrible has happened to Ma. The milkman lifts Sabitri up. Or is she flying? The bed is very soft. The pain is very large. She lifts her eyes, and there is Death in the corner, but not like a king with his iron crown, as the epics claimed. Why, it is a giant brush loaded with white paint. It descends upon her with gentle suddenness, obliterating the shape of the world.

The Assam Incident: 1963
    B ela stands on the veranda, sweating as she watches Sabitri and Bijan—that’s how she’s been thinking of them lately, rather than as her parents—drive off in a cloud of orange dust into the Assam evening. It smells like thunder, but the sky is mild and pale. Nothing in this place is what she expects it to be. Why doesn’t the heat seem to bother Sabitri and Bijan? she wonders angrily. In the back seat of the ancient Ambassador the National Oil Company has provided for their

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