Invisible Lives by Anjali Banerjee Read Free Book Online Page B

when he walked in.
    “You’re really good at fixing things,” I say.
    “I fix whatever breaks at my parents’ place all the time,” Nick says. “My dad’s not the greatest with tools.”
    “Even our handyman takes hours, and he doesn’t seem to know what he’s doing. Not that you’re a handyman. That’s not what I meant.”
    “No problem. I found this in the pipe.” He hands me a golden ring, untarnished and glinting in the light. For an awkward moment, it feels as if he’s proposing to me.
    I bring the ring close to my face. A few stray bubbles float by. “Wow—looks like pure gold. I wonder who lost this.”
    “Could be a wedding ring.” He peers closer, the scent of his metallic aftershave in my nose.
    “Initials J.T. in English. I can’t read this part, see? Words engraved into the inside. Looks like Sanskrit! Maybe it’s my mother’s, or she knows whose it is.”
    “I love a good mystery.” Nick grins as he presses a business card into my hand. “Let me know what you find out.”
    “Why? Do you want to keep the ring?”
    “Finders keepers?” Now he’s smiling.
    “I suppose you’re right. You found the ring.”
    But I can’t help thinking he gave me the card for another reason. Nick Dunbar, Dunbar Limousine Service. With a telephone number. I glance into his eyes, catching a glimpse of promise. He sees past the glasses, past the baggy shirt and my severe hairstyle.
    “Thanks for fixing the…pipe,” I call after him as he leaves.

Seven
    A fter Asha and Nick leave, the bubbles pop, but I’m not back to normal. I’ve entered an unmapped territory with unknown suds lurking in the shadows. I’m spent, shaky, disoriented.
    The knowing returns gradually, but why did it leave again? Is the goddess testing me?
    “Oh, what shall we do?” Mr. Basu presses his hands to his cheeks. “So much more work! Fittings and stitchings—”
    “Hush, Sanjay. This is all good!” Ma rushes around straightening saris, smoothing kameezes. “We’ll take it one step at a time. We must order more jewelry.”
    I remember the ring. “Ma, I want to show you something.”
    In the office, I show her the ring.
    “Where did you find this?” Her face goes hard.
    “Nick found it in the pipe under the sink.”
    “Ah, the driver,” Ma says dismissively.
    “Is it yours? The initials are J.T. ”
    Her lips form a tight line. A hint of anger touches her eyes and is gone. “I know nothing about this. You can throw it away.”
    “Throw it away! But Ma, it’s gold, and it has this etching too—”
    “I don’t know about any etching.”
    But I’m sure she does. She’s distracted the rest of the morning, putting saris on the wrong shelves, walking away from customers halfway through conversations.
    At lunchtime, Mitra shows up in her VW Bug to take me to the Cosmos Café for lunch. A long-haired, dark-skinned Kathak dancer, she exudes compact efficiency, but her wild streak hovers close to the surface, in the silver stud through her nose, in her carefree driving style. I’ve known her for nine years, and she has always been reckless. And she has always loved Kathak, her one thread of connection to her Indian culture. Katha means “story,” and traditional Kathak dance always weaves a tale in elaborate, precise movements as old as time, as delicate as butterfly wings. Her feet move so quickly, tap-tapping the stage, enormous silver bells called ghunghrus clanging on her ankles.
    “You’ll get us both killed,” I scream as she cuts across two lanes of traffic.
    She ignores me as usual. “You look flushed. Are you sick? I hope you’re not catching the cold that’s going around—”
    “Look at the road, not at me!”
    “Or maybe that sixth sense of yours went into hyper-drive?”
    I tell her about Ravi Ganguli, Asha Rao, the ring in the drainpipe. “And the weird thing was, the knowing disappeared.”
    “Are you reading me now?”
    “I’m not a two-bit fortune-teller, Mitra. I can’t read you at