Free Haunting Jasmine by Anjali Banerjee Page A

cheeks hang down past her chin. She’s beyond cute. She’s freshness and new life.
    I touch the baby’s hot cheeks. “She’s adorable, absolutely precious.”
    “When she wants to be.” Sanchita bounces the baby. In pale twilight, the gauntness of Sanchita’s face comes into focus, a touch of emptiness in her eyes, as if a part of her has vacated the premises.
    “So, I haven’t spoken to you in a while. You went away to university. What are you doing now?”
    “I’m a physician. Pediatrician.”
    The word— pediatrician —shimmers on her like silk. She is doing what my parents wanted me to do. What her parents wanted her to do. What every Indian parent would want a child to do. She is the quintessential product of an upper-class Bengali family. She has chosen a highly esteemed profession, and she has given birth to a son and the token chubby girl whose cheeks are available for frequent pinching. Nobody could ask for more.
    “Congratulations,” I say, my throat dry. “Must be a rewarding profession.” I bet she lives in a mansion and hires a nanny to care for the kids, unless her husband is a stay-at-home dad.
    “Yes, usually pretty rewarding.” She’s looking over my shoulder at someone behind me. Perhaps I’m not important enough to merit her complete attention. “What about you?”
    “I live in L.A. I manage money—retirement portfolios.”
    She nods, only one-quarter interested. Her baby girl is playing with her hair.
    Uncle Benoy returns with my glass of ice water and pinches the baby’s cheeks. “How is my little Durga today?” He coos to her in Bengali, which I don’t understand, lifts her out of Sanchita’s arms, and carries her away to show off to other guests.
    Sanchita must expect great things from her children, having named them after powerful deities in the Hindu pantheon.
    “And your husband?” I ask. “What does he do?”
    “He’s a brain surgeon,” she says, watching Uncle Benoy walk away with Durga.
    My eyebrows rise. What else would he be? “Is he here today? Or is he working? On call? Surgeons work long hours, don’t they?”
    “Oh, he’s here. Family is so important to him.”
    “That’s wonderful.” Family was important to Robert, too. He would have started several families with several women, if given half a chance. Lauren won’t last long. She’s only the latest in Robert’s series of fascinations.
    “And you? You’re married?” Sanchita asks, then licks her lips. “No, you’re separated. Divorced.” Someone in her family must have mentioned my plight. Did you hear about poor Jasmine?
    “Nearly a year ago,” I say, keeping a careful smile on my face.
    “That’s right. He was Indian, or American?”
    Was , as if he’s now dead. “American.” I expect her to say, Well, that figures.
    “How did you meet him?” she asks.
    “Mutual friend, faculty party. He’s a professor of anthropology.”
    She nods. “Wasn’t that your major, too?”
    “At first, but I switched to something more practical.”
    “And Gita? She’s getting married next spring? To an Indian?”
    “So I hear,” I say.
    A tall, dashing man strides up to us in an open-necked silk shirt and slacks. He could have stepped out of a Bollywood movie, the hero of an epic tale. He is comfortable, in command of his space. If I had married a man like him, would my life be different?
    “Darling,” he says to Sanchita in a smooth voice, touched by a slight Bengali accent. His eyes fill with adoration for her. “Your mother would like help in the kitchen.”
    “Tell her I’m coming,” Sanchita says.
    He turns to me and smiles. Perfect white teeth. “I’m Sanchita’s husband, Mohan, and you are…?”
    “Jasmine. Nobody’s wife.” I’m not a mother, and I’m a sorry excuse for a bookseller. I can manage stock portfolios like nobody’s business, but I’m almost out of a job.
    Sanchita and Mohan look at me blankly.
    “Never mind,” I say. “A lame joke.”
    “Sanchita!”