Free Oleander Girl by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni Page A

religious riots in Gujarat. The garden has been invaded by slugs. They’re eating even the oleanders. Grandmother wonders if an exterminator should be called.
    Slugs! I push the food around on my plate. They’re talking about slugs.
    I can’t keep my eyes from Grandfather’s chair, its vast emptiness. Passing by his bedroom on my way downstairs this evening, I noticed that his clothes had been taken from the almirah and stacked on the bed.The untidiness of the heap bothered me. He was always so exact. Why would Grandmother do such a thing? The last time I saw him as himself, he’d been sitting on that bed. I remember again the fight, my last, unforgivable words. Why had he apologized in the hospital, just before he died? Why had he looked beyond me at the door, as though someone else were standing there? Had it been my mother’s ghost, come to help him on his final journey?
    Once, feeling guilty about the precariously piled newspapers that Grandfather had loved to pore over, I looked through one. The news in it horrified me. Ordinary people, people just like our family, were killing each other in the streets. Without Grandfather in it to maintain equilibrium, the world had gone mad. I threw the rest of the pile in the garbage.
    Grandmother says, “Korobi, shona, listen to Rajat—he wants to take you for a drive.” She eyes my plate. “Looks like you’re not going to eat any more. In that case, go ahead now. I don’t want you to be out too late.”
    My body feels heavy with resentment. Why won’t they leave me alone? I tell them that I would rather stay home.
    “You must go! You need the fresh air.”
    “If fresh air’s so good,” I find myself retorting, “why don’t you go with him instead.”
    “There’s no reason to be rude to Grandma!”
    The crackle of Rajat’s voice makes me jump. He’s never spoken to me like this. In a way, I’m thankful. Since Grandfather’s death, everyone has been tiptoeing around me, and I’m sick of it. I’m ready for a good fight. But I don’t want to do it in front of Grandmother.
    Rajat dismisses Asif and takes the car down toward Victoria Memorial, driving fast with the windows open. The night wind whips my tangled curls into my face. My skin smarts; I welcome the pain, clean, immediate, a good distraction from the muddled ache inside me.
    A little distance from the lit white dome with its dark angel, where on a very different evening he had kissed me into love, Rajat stops the car.
    “We have to talk.” His voice is measured. He’s trying to be calm, reasonable. “I’m concerned at what’s happening with you. I understand that you’ve suffered a great shock. But lying in bed all day is no good for you. It’s been three weeks. You’ve missed a lot of classes. You can’t just—”
    I don’t let him finish. I remind him he hasn’t had anyone close to him die. How can he presume to understand how I’m feeling? What am I? A clockwork doll that he can wind up and say, Three weeks have passed, enough moping, now smile and dance?
    His jaw tightens. He takes a deep breath but doesn’t say anything.
    Something has come over me. I tell him he’s insensitive. A tyrant. He wants to control my life. In the closed car, my voice ricochets like bullets. I keep saying these things though they’re making both of us feel worse.
    He turns the car around. “You’re not yourself,” he says. “We’ll talk when you can see sense.” He’s upset. I can tell that by how he drives. He runs a red light, but luckily no one’s at the intersection. At the gate he lets me out, says he won’t come in.
    “Try to remember that Grandma’s going through as much as you, if not more.” His voice sounds tired.
    His words are like a slap. The worst part is I know they’re true. A tightness is growing in my chest like a giant abscess. I wish he’d fought with me. A fight would have burst it and let the poison out.
    When Cook opens the door, I slam it behind me. I hear