You Bring the Distant Near: Part 2: Travelers

Through the swinging half door that leads into the kitchen, I overhear snippets of conversation from the dining room.

Today, my mantra is taking a lot of effort; I can hardly wait until these guests leave.

He'd asked Big Harm's husband, who shares the Das surname because he's some sort of relative, to snip a lock of Baba's hair and put it in the urn before...

He'd asked Big Harm's husband, who shares the Das surname because he's some sort of relative, to snip a lock of Baba's hair and put it in the urn before...

Ma is lighting an incense stick at the small altar of statues tucked in an alcove behind the kitchen counter.

The flower child gives Ma a half-hearted Namaste.

Big Harm, whose girth has grown since we left Flushing, doesn't budge, but the others shift to make room for Ma.

A large framed photo adorned with garlands stands on the mantel over the fireplace.

A large framed photo adorned with garlands stands on the mantel over the fireplace.

I stand on a towel while she lops off my curls with quick snaps of the shears.

Then, while I lean over the sink, my sister arcs the razor from the nape of my skull to the top of my forehead, again and again, one row at a time.

When my head comes into sight, a gasp ricochets through the living room.

I turn, ready to give my usual spiel—Monday afternoons in the art room, we cover all kinds of justice and gender issues, blah, blah, blah.

I almost drop the box of tacks and a few skitter to the floor.

I like the style, but it's not as good of a buffer as my curls used to be.

"Lou doesn't need to be, Sunny. He's already fluent. Are you guys ready for the assembly? There's the bell now."

In the olden days, widows used to throw themselves on their dead husbands' burning pyres—or were thrown.

I finger the thick toweled robes, read the labels on the amenities, pat the eiderdown quilts, inspect the well-stocked refrigerator, and step into the huge, empty, gleaming bathtub.

At this rate, Lou and I will be vying to give the school's valedictorian speech in June.

At this rate, Lou and I will be vying to give the school's valedictorian speech in June.

It's almost like he's enjoying the design of me, the same way he appreciates the interlaced ballerinas.

Beside him, a bottle of red wine and a baguette are spread on a checkered cloth.

Brown and black splotches are scattered across the canvas in a haphazard design.

High marble arches circle the inside of the sanctuary, and a carved, filigreed screen divides it.

Thanks to a new lilt in Ma's voice, I couldn't bring myself to say no.

"Sunny thinks Takurdada deserved it: ‘He exploited his Muslim workers!' And Baba agreed—’God had a better plan for our family,’ he'd say. The man who took the house was Takurdada's foreman. I think his son still lives there."

I'm glad I don't have to do it in Calcutta, where relatives might insist on hiring a priest and inviting a crowd to watch one of my male cousins empty the urn and immerse himself in the river.

A chubby lady, with a face as jolly as her husband's is dour, is giggling in the hall.

Since then, I've gained twenty pounds or so—I'm not ashamed, but I no longer have a mannequin's body.

I sigh and stroke the green fabric of the sari on the bed. I can tell by the soft, light silk and gold-threaded embroidery that it's an expensive one.

Lifting the aluminum urn out of the trunk, Amit leads me down the bank to the rickety wooden platform.

Amit pops another big bite into his mouth. "Yum. This is good stuff. Another guy was convinced you were an oil magnate's wife from Dubai."

"What do you want?” the man demands, his eyes shifting from us to the World Bank insignia on the jeep.

Again and again, the matriarch of the household wipes my sadness away with the end of her sari.

Inside the curved container of their daughter's womb, a stranger is growing. Generations of ancestors hurl accusations inside Ranee's mind. "You were too permissive,” they sneer. "It's your fault.”