Imaginary Men by Anjali Banerjee Read Free Book Online Page A

his head. “Kiki, you must go.”
    â€œGo where?” Auntie and I reply in unison.
    â€œTo America, of course. You must meet the fiancé.”
    Auntie’s mouth drops open. “Me? Go to America?”
    â€œHah, hah. You must approve the match.”
    â€œHow will I know, Pandit? Will there be a sign?”
    â€œYou’ll know.” Pandit touches her chest with his forefinger. “In your heart.”
    Auntie sucks in a long breath. “I’ll
know
.”
    I hold up my hands. “Wait, wait.
I
know him best. Let me decide, okay? He’s my fiancé.”
    Auntie and Pandit give me horrified looks. Auntie straightens her back. “I shall come to America.”
    â€œAuntie, you needn’t—”
    â€œIt’s time for a trip abroad, and in any case, your Baba’s birthday bash falls in two months. Quite soon after yours.”
    My birthday is next week. “Look, Auntie, give this some thought—”
    She lumbers to her feet. “Say nothing more. It is decided.”

Six
    S
an Francisco in late August.
    City of cable cars, Beat poets, flower children, Alcatraz. My city of dreams stretches out, vast and uncomplicated. I’m at ease as the plane descends over rolling hillsides dotted with rows of identical rooftops. I take comfort in the familiar curve of the shoreline, the Golden Gate Bridge rising red through the mist. Skyscrapers and highways run straight and symmetrical. The streets are scoured, the sky polished to a shine. Here, I can drink water free of parasites and walk around naked in my apartment. No relatives breathe down my neck, and the doors are made of solid wood with real brass knobsand locks. It’s hard to believe the chaotic city of Kolkata even exists.
    I take the shuttle to my North Beach apartment, blissfully bright and adorned with hanging plants, books, and hardwood floors. My anchors calm me—reminders that I belong here: messages from friends on my answering machine, a slew of unread e-mails, envelopes stuffed into my mailbox.
    I’m home, and here for only two months before Auntie will descend like Godzilla. She’ll destroy the city and eat all my friends if I don’t find a real fiancé in time. I should spend every minute of every day perusing the personal ads and combing the streets for the elusive Man of My Dreams. Not just for my family, but for myself.
    I fall into a jetlag-induced coma, and in the morning, I hop the bus to my office on California Street. Lakshmi, the owner of the agency, works at home, and I rarely see her, but she calls in frequently. I look forward to seeing Donna, office associate and friend.
    An hour after I’ve cleared all the e-mail that has accumulated while I was away, I daydream while listening to a client, Mr. Sen, extol his masculine virtues.
    â€œI am active runner. I enjoy sports, meditation, golf, travel, and gardening. I like the outdoors in general.” He resembles a tanned version of Prince Charles in a tight blue suit. I wish he would stop tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair.
    â€œAll that? Wow! Impressive. I need you to fill out this personal preferences questionnaire.” I glance out the window at cotton clouds dabbing the Bay Bridge.
    Mr. Sen leans forward. “I want to settle down with attractive and motivated woman, a professional girl, beautiful inside and out, with similar family background who can complement and enhance my family.”
    I imagine his dream woman as a curved glass vase in his hallway, complementing and enhancing his family. I think of Raja Prasad, looking for the perfect, docile wife. Like the robot nanny in Ray Bradbury’s science fiction story. She always smiles, always loves the children, never grows old. Never has a need of her own, except to be spritzed with WD-40 now and then.
    â€œOf course I’ll help, Mr. Sen, but I need to know more about you.” I push the forms across the desk.
    â€œMy father