Where Hearts Lie

"So, Vinay, it's settled then?"

Vinay nods. He's heard it before-these questions that aren't really questions. Nothing has been settled in his mind, but his wife's mind was made up long before she'd posed the question. As always, Sonia brings things up just days before he's set to leave for America, and today, he's right in the middle of a shave. Can't a man find peace even in a bathroom? He considers his face in the mirror-square jaw, deep piercing eyes, thin lips over straight white teeth, a handsome face by any standards. His eyes drift below his neck to his chest-firm pectoral muscles covered with short curly hair, and a hard abdomen with just a hint of love handles. He'll take care of that, he vows. Once he returns from this trade show, there'll be a lull in his travels. He'll begin a serious work-out regimen. In fact, why not pick up a pair of Adidas in Baltimore? He wants to stay fit for health reasons, certainly, but also for the way women eye him, especially white-skinned American women, who have no false sense of modesty.

But, Sonia doesn't like Americans at all. Never mind that she doesn't really know any, except perfunctorily from contacts at the Lions Club or the Bombay Gymkhana whereas he, Vinay, knows all types-secretaries, professionals, housewives, people in planes, malls, grocery stores-as well he should. This is, after all, his seventh business trip to America. He's been to England and Germany too, but for his money he'll pick Americans anytime. They're warm, and friendly, if you overlook their quirks. But Sonia's tapered view gleaned from the glitz of TV and magazine ads had led her to a dynamically opposite conclusion.

"They don't mean what they say," she'd once complained.

"How so? Why do you say that?"

"Well, because I know. Like that woman who works out in the gym every Saturday, Eva-Eva-something-can't remember her surname. She'll smile, sweet like halwa, and say, 'how you doing,' then doesn't bother to listen. Why ask and then walk off? It's insulting. Half the time I talk to her backside. And that tall white fellow ..."

"Oh, but it's an expression, for God's sake-a form of greeting like namaste, or hi! You're not supposed to launch into your whole life story. No one has time to listen."

"Including you. You don't have time either."

Bitterness seeped from her pores. He'd decided to ignore the comment. He knew that tone; he heard that lorry filled with cement blocks coming full speed, and knew better than to stand there and get crushed.

In the beginning, life with her had been almost intoxicating. Everything about her, the way she carried herself, walked, talked, even scrubbed the floor, exuded an allure, a raw kind of sex, made all the more sexual by the unawareness of her movements. Other times, she was feisty, flirty, a very un-Indian girl, even on her "interview day." Arranged marriages, she would later joke, were interviews for lifelong jobs-no retirement, no benefits, just work! He remembered that day well. Her high cheekbones were like soft contours of desert sand, smooth and brown, tapering to a voluptuous mouth and a small upturned nose. Her eyes were an oasis to drown in. If she'd let you. She was unexplored territory, a handful he knew he'd enjoy handling. And so he had. But now, still childless after ten years, they'd both abandoned their exploration. Disappointed and angry, she'd fed its embers. Her waist thickened, the beautiful angles of her body rounded, and even her lithe spirit was weighted with unspoken words.

Smoothing his jaw with approval, Vinay squints at the triple-headed razor, his newest American acquisition. How he loved these American-made products; loved the variety, choices, competitive prices. Hell, if you shopped around, almost everything was half price. You could practically eat for free-well, not exactly, but you could pig out for a pittance at those all-you-can-eat places. Nice places, mind you, with big smorgasbords-roast beefs, hams, a variety of salads, even mid-Eastern stuff-tabouli, hummus, kebabs. Why, the breads alone were astounding-seven-grain, five-grain, multi-grain, whole wheat, with honey, without honey, sesame, and permutations and combinations, all catered to health nuts and America's changing faces and palates. It was luscious living-opulent and free.

That's why he'd like to migrate to America. It was the place to live. That's why he'd been secretly buying dollars on the black market in Bombay and smuggling them in, sewn safely in the lining of his jacket under his arm pits. He'd even laid away a portion of his salary from each foreign project assignment for a little start-up nest egg, hatched with his sister, Amira, who lived in Baltimore. In fact, he even got her to file immigration papers for him-a bold, perhaps foolish move, considering he hadn't yet broached the subject with Sonia. Still, it was worth getting a head start. As a mere sibling of an American citizen, his priority rating wouldn't be as high as those of children and spouses. It made perfectly good sense to begin the arduous form-filling, bureaucratic journey. If he was smart, he would sow the seed now, and let it germinate into an idea she could later claim as her own. What did it matter as long as she agreed?

He puts on a pair of well-ironed brown pants and a cream shirt. His fingers riffle along the edges of his ties. Dressing for the embassy, even just to pick up a visa, takes some thought. Important people look important, more important than merited. They carry leather briefcases, smell of Boss cologne, most likely purchased on the black market, and politely excuse themselves to the front of queues.

It is later than he wants it to be. The road through the bazaar is the shortest route to the train station. Dust, dirt, dead leaves, banana peels, lumps and bumps of cement blocks lie in his path. He passes carts piled with pyramids of fruit-papayas, pomegranates, guavas-and vegetables-brinjals, gourds, okra.

He is peripherally aware of the ire of women bargaining down prices. "Oh, bhaiya, give me a final price. Enough of this kit-kit; I'm in a hurry."

One thing about Americans-no one quibbles about prices. Everything is always on sale. Time is precious in their culture; they hurry and get everything done. Past meat stalls with fresh, red, lean sides of beef hanging from clips off a taut wire, his mouth waters for a juicy steak, with a buttery, un-spiced potato, but that will have to wait till he can rip off his vegetarian cloak in America. One thing about Indians-they spice everything. Everything looks yellow or red. He picks up his pace. A vagrant wind churns up loose-leafed newspapers and magazines from a pile lying be-side a heap of coconuts. Passing a circle of women and children crowding the middle of the street, he wonders for an instant if something tragic has happened. But as the lilting, mesmerizing melody of a flute wafts in the air, he knows it's only a snake charmer charming a venomless snake and a gullible audience.

The platform is swarming with people. In the first-class compartment, he finds himself squashed against the window, peering out as the tracks race beneath. Huts, streets, buildings blur past. Vibrantly colored saris hang from balconies, bathed in sunlight. A strong putrid whiff assails his nostrils as the train whistles over a polluted inlet of the bay, bordered with mud huts packed in rows like biscuits in a tin.

He wonders if tonight might be an opportune time to plant the seed. Amira had estimated a two- to three-year wait before his application would inch to the top. In the meantime, Sonia's waffling could begin-What? Why? Why to go to America? No, never. Then, a toning down, a mulling over, yes, well maybe, then all the obstacles, the buts and what-abouts, regressing back to no, no, never, and the vacillating cycle would begin again. He pulls out his passport nestled in his breast pocket and looks at it-midnight teal, the Ashoka lion seal, The Republic of India embossed in gold. It looks imposing, imperial. Some day, perhaps, he'll carry a different passport-smaller, bluer, with the seal of the United States.

On this trip to America, he thinks, he should splurge for Sonia-buy something beautiful, alluring, a piece of jewelry, heart shaped. Or, perhaps not. American gold was dull, not like India's turmeric-yellow, twenty-two carat. Something she's never seen before, perhaps, sexy underwear, or Elizabeth Taylor's White Diamonds, or a palette of eye makeup with complementary lipsticks. If she could glimpse the differences between Baltimore and Bombay, see beyond the superficialities of boundaries, she'd love Baltimore. Such a city of eclectic rowhouses; ethnic groups-German, Greek, Korean, Italian-who knew, perhaps there might even be a Little India tucked away in one of the neighborhoods. With the steady influx of immigrants it was just a matter of time. It was a smart city, too, bursting with colleges and universities and businesses. The city benches read "Baltimore-The Greatest City in America." And unlike Bombay, people were friendly. They called you hon or sugar and told you to have a nice day. And they named their neighborhoods after parks-Hanlon Park, Druid Park, Roland Park, Park Heights. Amira said they might even rename the whole city-Balti-more-or-less, or Believemore, or just More! Imagine a city with an exclamation point! Maryland had it all, she said, all within the span of a three-hour drive-mountains, a bay, beaches, a harbor, four gorgeous seasons, and a mere hop away from the sheer madness of New York and Washington.

With his American visa tucked safely against his breast, he takes the steps up to the second floor, two at a time, a bunch of yellow roses in his arms. He feels spirited, uplifted. Sonia is dressed in a pretty purple sari with sprays of pink and lavender flowers scattered all over. She has swept her hair to one side, draped it softly over her neck; her lips and the bindi on her forehead are a deep pink, and suddenly she looks younger than she has in years. She stands in front of her dresser, considering a pair of dangling amethyst earrings and a matching bracelet.

His eyes take her in. "Wow! Where are you going? You look beautiful."

She purses her mouth as if to wince, then smiles instead. "You don't know? I asked you this morning if it was settled, remember?"

He makes a quick, calculated recovery. "Oh, but of course. Yes, you did."

She grins. "So what was it?" He hasn't fooled her. For once her eyes are shining, playful. "You don't have a clue, do you?"

He gives in. "No, actually I don't." Her flirty flippancy excites him. "So, tell me."

"We're going to Meena's birthday party. She turns 40 this year."

"Oh!" He moves closer, yellow roses still in hand. "I brought you these. I thought we might ..."

"Might what?"

His arms tighten around her. "Stay home tonight." His fingertips linger on the bare skin of her back, dip into the indent of her spine, slowly swinging up and down along the groove, as if they were on a trapeze. She arches, leans in, the softness of her breasts against his shirt. Her eyelids flicker open and shut like butterfly wings, then close. He lets the roses drop to the floor, freeing both his hands, and in one swift movement undoes the pleats of her sari at her waist. Lifting her gently on to the bed, he loosens the strings of her sari petticoat, unbuttons her blouse and buries his lips in the depths of her neck, moving down slowly. Slowly.

At the Baltimore Washington International airport, Vinay hugs his sister. She is wearing a pair of tight jeans and a shirt open at the collar. He holds her at arm's length. "You look younger every year, behnji."

She hugs him tight. "Oh, poof! Take your pick. I made sandwiches fresh-turkey club, and steak and cheese, just for you. Flattery won't make them fresher."

He piles his luggage into her station wagon and gets in beside her. She eases the car through the exiting airport traffic and settles back at a steady cruise. He begins to fidget with the radio knobs. "News, news, everywhere. What happened to songs?"

Amira perks up. "Oh, speaking of news, I have some good news for you."

He blurts it out before he can stop himself. "What? Are you pregnant? Am I going to be an uncle?"

Her face drops to the car floor. "No. Is that all you think about?"

He kicks himself, yanks his foot out of his mouth, and says nothing. Her eyes veer away from the steering wheel briefly and meet his penitent ones. "Oh, okay, I'm a little testy," she says. "It's just that Anand and I have been really trying, and nothing works. Just like you and Sonia. We have bad luck in our family."

"Oh, I doubt it."

"I've been drinking turmeric milk with almonds, and eating three hundred pomegranate seeds every morning."

"Three hundred?"

"Yeah, people say it helps."

They pull into her driveway. He'll just have to wait for the good news. Perhaps it isn't all that good after all.

It isn't till the next day that Amira brings up the topic again. "It looks like your papers will move quickly-Anand's friend who works at the immigration office has pulled your application to the top of the heap."

He bounds off the sofa he's lounging on. "Really? This isn't going to take three years?"

"More like three or four months."

The news is phenomenal. For the next several weeks, he works long hours, even weekends, eager to return home to India to prepare. Plans glide past his eyes like a movie reel. He won't sell his entire business in India; just one-half, enough to get started in the States. He'll apply for a private import/export license. He'll keep options and operations alive in both countries; he'll hire a manager for the Indian segment. Globalization. What perfect timing!

Vinay glances at his wristwatch. His plane for India leaves in three hours. Chuckling, he makes the sign of the Cross, the way he joked with his Christian school friends, tapping his forehead, groin, left and right jacket pocket, saying, "Spectacles, testicles, passport, ticket."

It has been more two months since he's seen his wife. She'd decided not to meet him at the airport-the long cab drive back and forth, the pollution, the crowds, and the noise. "Don't even think about it," he'd said on the phone. "I'll see you soon." Then, unable to restrain himself, he'd burst out. "I have some great news."

As on that night they'd stayed home, she is dressed in the same purple sari with lavender flowers, her hair swept to one side, except that she looks more radiant. She walks into his arms. "I have news for you, too," she whispers. Taking his hands, she directs them to her belly. Her eyes glisten. "Can you guess?"

He steps back. "What? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Not on the phone! Your mother said to wait, to tell you in person. We have a puja tonight! And after the ceremony, a big dinner. Everyone is coming! My mama is already planning for me to come home."

"Come home?"

"Of course. Because I'm pregnant, silly! Like Amira would come to her mother's house if she was pregnant."

His heart jumps like a yo-yo in his chest, up and down, the highs and deep lows. He looks at her face-she who has never been abroad, who marks time by the fire of gulmohur trees in bloom, and the rolling monsoons in June, who can crack a coconut down the middle with one swing of a hatchet, who cannot fathom that "how you doing" isn't a genuine question. Nothing in his suitcase will allure her away to a distant land, not in the immediate future, if ever. Yet, the timing is perfect. A child born in the United States would be a citizen, and its parents would become citizens, too, before long.

She looks up into his face. "Now tell me your great news. Is it greater than mine?" In her eyes, there is an instantaneous burst of light, quick as a firefly, there and gone. "What's wrong? Aren't you happy?"

His voice is high. "Yes, of course!"

On the dresser, past her shoulders, he glimpses a vase of fresh yellow roses, their petals shimmering with water droplets.

-by Lalita Noronha