Free Haunting Jasmine by Anjali Banerjee

caustic comments with a dose of charity. “Give them a break.”
    My parents say nothing as Dad turns onto a manicured, upscale side street and pulls over to the curb. Several cars are parked in front of the Mauliks’ house, a two-story stucco box surrounded by lush rhododendrons and fir trees.
    I barely recognize the woman who answers the door. Her face is puffy, her black hair limp, her eyes glazed. Auntie Charu, dusky skinned and beautiful, has lost her luster. “Jasmine! So good to see you.”
    I hug her tightly. “It’s been a long time.”
    “Come in, come in.” She steps aside, hugs and kisses my parents. Inside, the Mauliks’ house exudes the essence of India. Kashmiri carpets cover the hardwood floors; statues of Hindu gods perch on teak side tables. In the dining room, silk wall hangings depict scenes from Hindu epics, and in the vast living room, which overlooks the water, an imported couch sits beneath a painting of a battle scene from the Mahabharata. The air carries the odors of wood smoke and heavy spices. The Mauliks have always preserved the memory of their homeland, with such intensity that their homesickness for Bengal seems to ooze from every surface.
    My parents’ house, on the other hand, mixes artifacts in a blend of East and West, perhaps a result of my father’s love of travel and change. He, Ma, and Auntie Ruma were the first in our extended family to emigrate from India. They forged a new path, embracing America with exuberance.
    Ma and Dad introduce me to several guests whom I only vaguely recognize. We all gather on the patio and nobody mentions my divorce or my lack of children. The house crawls with the offspring of Indian family friends. Children, especially boys, are the badges of success, and every friend or cousin my age has become a physician, an attorney, a professor.
    My father tends the salmon on the barbecue. Uncle Benoy is pouring drinks. My mother is talking to an old friend from India—I recognize her face, but her name eludes me.
    I stand awkwardly next to the stone garden wall, pretending to be interested in the rhododendron plants.
    “So, Jasmine. You’re doing well in business now, nah?” Uncle Benoy shuffles over to give me a big hug. Since the last time I saw him, a decade ago, his hair has gone completely white.
    “I’m doing all right,” I say, another lie. The fragility of my position at the firm hits me full force. “You look well, Uncle.” His face is lined and gaunt.
    “How about that Gita, getting married, nah?”
    “We’re all looking forward to it,” I say politely.
    “Drink? Snack for you?” He pats my back.
    “Water would be great.”
    “Water, coming right up.” He saunters off.
    “Jasmine, is that you?” A long-haired young woman sidles up to me, a cherubic baby girl on her hip.
    “Sanchita?” I peer at her. She resembles an elongated version of her childhood self—same dark, oval face and bug eyes—with an added layer of downy black hair on her upper lip. Last time I saw her, she was barely eighteen, three years younger than me. Soon after that, she left for college.
    A little boy runs up to her. He’s maybe three or four. He’s waving a big picture book, Fuzzy-Paw Pajamas ! “Mom, can you read me this?”
    Mom? Sanchita, an only child who received everything her heart desired, has given birth to two children of her own. I’m flabbergasted, and I am feeling older by the minute.
    “After supper,” she says.
    “Ma-a-a.”
    “Go and play.”
    He wanders off, pouting.
    “Vishnu!” she calls. “Wash your hands before supper.”
    He nods, not looking back.
    “He’s cute,” I say. My stomach twists. Okay, I’m envious. I don’t want her life, but I’m envious of her happy little family, her ability to fulfill everyone else’s expectations, her obvious comfort in the role she is supposed to play.
    “She’s the difficult one,” Sanchita says, nodding toward the baby on her hip. The little girl’s lips tremble. Her