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

together. The band tied pirate-style around his forehead shimmers in the last of the sun. His cloak—or maybe it is a large shawl—shimmers as well, and when he smiles, there’s gold in his teeth.
    Her breath is a solid thing, stuck like a bone in her throat. “How do you know my name?” she manages to say.
    â€œI know.” His eyes crinkle in amusement. “Your father is Bijan Das Babu, and the company has brought him here to help them put in better pipes to take our oil away.”
    He bends forward slightly and Bela can see, for a moment, the oil rushing through steel tunnels, swirling black flecked with gold, rushing with a great roar that dies away, and then the tunnels are empty and then they, too, are gone.
    The man steps out from behind the bushes and begins to walk toward Bela. The fear she had forgotten rises in her again, because only yesterday Ayah had warned her about the children-snatchers. “Always looking-looking,” Ayah said, “most of all for girl-children to sell. Fair-skinned like you, lot of money. Better watch out.”
    Bela gathers her breath to push a scream out from the clogged tunnel of her throat, but the man shakes his head in such a knowing, indulgent way that she feels foolish. Besides, he isn’t carrying a giant-sized sack to put children in, as snatchers are supposed to. His hands, which he holds out in front, are empty and elegant and curiously smooth. Even his palms are unlined. As she watches, his fingers do an intricate dance like the leaves in the breezy pipal tree above, weaving a pattern of light and shadow.
    â€œWho are you?” Bela asks.
    The man bows, his long hair swinging around his glistening chocolate face, and Bela knows what he is going to say before he speaks. Then he reaches out and pulls something from under her chin. She gasps and he puts the coin on her palm, the silver dull and cold as though it hasn’t been touched by human hands in a long time. She sees the profile of Queen Victoria staring haughtily into the horizon, like in her history book. “How—?” she begins, but Cook is at the door, swatting at mosquitoes with his dish towel, yelling for her to come to dinner right now, food’s getting cold, and why is she standing outside at this time of evening, does she want to catch a fever again?
    By the time she turns back to the magician, her palm is empty and he is gone.

    â€œDo you believe in magicians?” Bela asks Bijan on the way to school. Immediately she regrets the question. She treasures this time, her only chance to be alone with her father. It is so peaceful in the back of the Ambassador, so silent. Also, he might respond with his own question: Have you made any friends at school? And then what would she say?
    The morning breeze, still cool, sifts through Bijan’s hair so that for a moment he looks glamorous, one of those fathers who appear in advertisements for Cinthol soap, or Horlicks steaming in oversized glasses. Bela scoots closer until she can lay her head against the sleeve of his starched blue shirt. He smells of English Leather, wholesome and clean and reassuring, and as she breathes in the scent, she can almost believe that this is how he has always smelled.
    Bijan smiles. “You mean the kind that draws rabbits out of hats? Like the one that came to Leena’s birthday last year? There’s nothing to believe. It’s all tricks, sleight of hand. But it was fun to watch, wasn’t it?”
    Leena used to be Bela’s best friend in Kolkata; they had known each other since class one. After Bela left for Assam, Leena had written twice to her. Bela tried to write back, but she was struck by a strange paralysis. How to describe the riot around her: the night-blooming flowers with their intoxicating odor, the safeda tree with its hairy brown fruit, the oleanders with their poisonous red hearts? She wanted to tell Leena how much she missed her. At times her heart