Free The Unknown Errors of Our Lives by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni Page B

without conviction.
    “Yes!” says Leela. “Yes!” She grasps the chain Mrs. Das has given her and yanks at it. The worn gold gives easily. Falling, it makes a small, skittery sound on the wood floor.
    Darkness is bursting open around Leela like black chrysanthemums.
    Mrs. Das stares at the chain, then turns and stumbles from the room. Her shadow, long and misshapen, touches Leela once. Then it, too, is gone.
    THE PILGRIMAGE PARTY makes much of Leela as she lies recovering. The women bring her little gifts from their forays into town—an embroidered purse, a bunch of Kashmiri grapes, a lacquered jewelry box. When they hold out the presents, Leela burrows her hands into her blanket. But the women merely nod to each other. They whisper words like
shock
and
been through so much
. They hand the gifts to Aunt, who promises to keep them safely until Leela is better. When they leave, she feels like a petulant child.
    From the doorway, the men ask Aunt Seema how Leela is coming along. Their voices are gruff and hushed, their eyes furtive with awe—as though she were a martyr-saint who took upon herself the bad luck that would have otherwise fallen on them. Is it cynical to think this? There is no one any more whom Leela can ask.
    ON THE WAY back to Srinagar, where the party will catch the train to Calcutta, by unspoken consent Leela is given the best seat on the bus, up front near the big double windows.
    “It’s a fine view, and it won’t joggle you so much,” says one of the women, plumping up a pillow for her. Another places a foot rest near her legs. Aunt Seema unscrews a Thermos and pours her a glass of pomegranate juice—to replace all the blood Leela lost, she says. The juice is the color of blood. Its thin tartness makes Leela’s mouth pucker up, and Aunt says, in a disappointed voice, “Oh, dear, is it not so sweet then? Why, that Bahadur at the hotel swore to me . . .”
    Leela feels ungracious, boorish. She feels angry for feeling this way. “I have a headache,” she says and turns to the window where, hidden behind her sunglasses, she watches the rest of the party get on the bus. Amid shouts and laughter, the bus begins to move.
    She waits until the bus has lurched its way around three hairpin bends. Then she says, “Aunt . . . ?” She tries to make her voice casual, but the words come out in a croak.
    “Yes, dear? A little more juice?” Aunt asks hopefully.
    “Where is Mrs. Das? Why didn’t she get on the bus?”
    Aunt fiddles with the catch of her purse. Her face indicates her discomfort at the baldness of Leela’s questions. A real Indian woman would have known to approach the matter delicately, sideways.
    But the doctor’s wife, who is sitting behind them, leans forward to say, “Oh, her! She went off somewhere on her own, when was it, three, no, four nights ago, right after she created that ruckus in your sickroom. She didn’t take her bedroll with her, or even her suitcase. Strange, no? Personally, I think she’s a little bit touched up here.” She taps her head emphatically.
    Misery swirls, acidic, through Leela’s insides. She raises her hand with great effort to cover her mouth, so it will not spill out.
    “Are you okay, dear?” Aunt asks.
    “She looks terribly pale,” the doctor’s wife says. “It’s all these winding roads—enough to make anyone vomity.”
    “I might have some lemon drops,” says Aunt, rummaging in her handbag.
    Leela accepts the sour candy and turns again to the window. Behind her she hears the doctor’s wife’s carrying whisper: “If I were you, I’d get a puja done for your niece once you get to Calcutta. You know, to avert the evil eye . . .”
    Outside the bus, mountains and waterfalls are speeding past Leela. Sunlight slides like opportunity from the narrow green leaves of debdaru trees and is lost in the underbrush. What had the guide said, at the start of the trip, about expiation? Leela cannot remember. And even if she did, would she be capable