Invisible Lives by Anjali Banerjee Read Free Book Online

sense the warmth that it will bring her.
    “If you ever need to talk to someone. Day or night. Call me,” I say. “My home number’s also in the telephone book.”
    Sita gets up, an automaton stepping out to greet her mother, and I find my fingers trembling.
    I hand the orange chiffon sari to her mother. “It’s not a wedding sari, Mrs.—”
    “Dutta. What’s this orange?”
    “Important for building her trousseau. I also have a wedding sari.” I show her a shimmering ruby-red sari that changes hue when viewed from different angles.
    “Ah, lovely!” Mrs. Dutta and Sita gasp in unison.
    Mrs. Dutta pays, grabs both saris, and strides out, her daughter close behind.
    I go back into the office to catch my breath. Frightened brides have blown into the shop before, carried on the northwest winds. Tastes of the exotic, memories of India, images of gold and jewels and love and kisses. Pulsing hearts, roses bursting with fragrance. Hope and children and white picket fences, enormous wedding parties and priests adorned with garlands—all of these images have passed through, travelers on their way to future lives. I’ve held the hands of brides, guided them through the fear and into bliss.
    But have I done my best to help Sita? Will the orange sari work?
    “Bibu, what are you doing hiding back here, nah?” Ma bursts in, her face flushed, eyes shining. “Hurry up and come out—Asha is here with her driver!”

Six
    A sha Rao is back in the store, and I’m trapped in an invisible bubble that keeps the knowing outside. Someone—maybe the goddess—blew that bubble and is now secretly laughing at me. Ha-ha. Now see how well you survive with only your five senses. Ha! But Helen Keller survived without sight or sound. If she could do it, I can make it without the knowing.
    I push the glasses up on my nose and stride forward to take Ms. Rao’s cool, delicate hand. The driver is in a navy blue suit that brings out the startling blue of his eyes; his long blond hair is slicked back.
    I focus on Asha’s delicate expressions, her movements, the shift of her eyes, her words, for I have no knowing to guide me.
    The driver curls his fingers around the wheelchair handles and pushes Asha around the room in that effortless way, as if he could push a house.
    Mr. Basu comes running from the back and stops in the middle of the room.
    “Oh, gods!” he exclaims and presses his hands to his cheeks. “The leak has come again!” As if the leaky pipe under the bathroom sink is an unwelcome cousin. The two hairs on his head are drooping, portending foul weather.
    Across the room, Ma’s face freezes in a proprietary smile.
    “Oh, no,” I breathe and hurry back to stifle Mr. Basu. “What’s going on?” I whisper. “If it’s just the drip—”
    “Puddles on the floor,” Mr. Basu says with great sadness, as if a monsoon has swept away his family.
    I step closer, grab Mr. Basu’s arm. “Get the handyman.”
    “His wife says he’s working in Bellingham.”
    “Then call the plumber. Have him come in the back way.”
    “Plumber’s busy, Lakshmi.”
    “Damn it.” I rarely use such words. I glance back toward Ma and Pooja, dancing like consorts around the Bollywood goddess. Our position is precarious. Nick stands near the counter, scanning the shop, hands behind his back. I turn to Mr. Basu. “Do whatever you can to fix it.”
    Then Nick is beside me. “Problem?”
    I step away, putting a protective distance between this enormous man and me.
    “No problem, no problem.” Mr. Basu scratches his head. “We’ve got a leak.”
    I cringe. “We can take care of it,” I say. “Small drip.”
    “Huge ocean,” Mr. Basu says. “All over, all over, it will be flooding into the office next.”
    “It’s nothing.” I push Mr. Basu back toward the office, trying to stuff him in there the way I stuff saris into boxes, but he stands his ground.
    “Making gushing sound,” he says. “Something new.” He’s always offering