Free Oleander Girl by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni Page B

Grandmother asking what’s wrong. I push past her up to my room, to my almirah, where my chiffon engagement kurti hangs. I pull it out, rummage in my drawer.
    “What are you doing?” Behind me, Grandmother is breathless, having hurried up the stairs. “Have you gone crazy?”
    The scissors snag in the soft, thin material. They refuse to slice through it as I would like them to. I have to grab the kurti in both hands and tear it.
    “Stop! Stop! Oh, your beautiful outfit. Why did you do that?” Her face is stricken and scared.
    “Grandfather hated it. It brought on the heart attack, the fight we had about it.”
    “That’s ridiculous. He’d been sick for a while.”
    I shake my head. I don’t believe her.
    “He’s gone, Korobi.” She clears her throat, though it still sounds rusty. “We loved him, but he’s gone, and we have to continue with our lives. Did Rajat talk to you about going back to college?”
    But I’m stuck on her earlier words, the traitorous finality of the tense she used. Loved.
    “Is that why you’ve started removing his things?” I cry. “I saw it when I passed by the bedroom. His clothes in boxes. His books off the shelves—”
    Guilt flits darkly over her face. “It’s not what you think. I’ve been looking for—oh, you won’t understand.”
    “No, I don’t understand!” A wild abandon has taken hold of me. I notice how pale her face has become, like a wraith’s, but I can’t stop. “Don’t you have any respect for Grandfather’s memory? Don’t you care at all?”
    Grandmother grasps the bedpost. “How easily you say that,” she whispers. “All my life I’ve cared only about what he wanted. Obeyed him even when my conscience cried out against it.”
    “Grandfather had the highest principles,” I say coldly. “I don’t believe he would ever tell you to do anything against your conscience.”
    “No, of course you wouldn’t!” I hadn’t known she was capable of such a bitter, rasping laugh. “You were always his golden child. You weren’t the one who had to put up with his black moods. You weren’t the one he dragged to the temple on the night Anu died, insisting that the baby never learn about her father. He made me promise in front of the goddess that I’d never tell you. He was determined that you would grow up believing that he’s dead.”
    I can barely understand her as she gasps for breath. I know that her blood sugar has been erratic lately. She’s panting so hard that my anger turns to concern.
    “Grandma, calm down! Here, sit beside me. I’m sorry I fought with you. Did you take your medicine today? You’re getting confused. My father died months before my mother, remember?”
    “No, Korobi . . . that’s what I’m saying . . . It was a lie,” she says slowly and clearly, looking in my eyes. “Your dear grandfather lied to you—and forced me to do the same. Your father’s alive. His name is Rob. Yes, Rob. He lives in America.”

    Sarojini lies in her marriage bed, vast as a desert, with a damp cloth over her throbbing forehead. It is perhaps two in the morning, perhaps three, she isn’t sure; the bedside clock that Bimal used to wind up every night before he slept has stopped working. Her mind will not stop replaying the quarrel, the look in Korobi’s eyes when disbelief was replaced by the shock of betrayal. The girl had made a choking sound and stumbled from the room, not looking back, though Sarojini had begged her to stop. She had heard the front door slam. Terrified at what she might do, Sarojini had sent Cook after her and had paced the bedroom until the woman returned to report that Korobi-baby was sitting on the temple steps. She wouldn’t answer Cook, not even to tell her to go away. It was as though she didn’t see her. Swarms of mosquitoes were attacking her, but she didn’t seem to care. Finally Cook lit a couple of mosquito coils, wrapped her in a shawl, shook awake a snoring Bahadur and told him to keep an eye on