Going

Going

BY PRATYUSA MUKHERJEE

Staff Blogger
Monday, March 25, 2013

One visit. That’s all I can remember, more than ten years ago. That’s my last clear memory of India. I know that there were more, frequent visits before then, but they all sort of blend together in a haze of color and relatives and noise.

Sally thinks that I’ve been handed a wonderful opportunity. Two months—Hyderabad, Bangalore, Madras, Bombay, New Delhi, Kolkata. Those names are almost as foreign on my tongue as they are on Sally’s, despite my birth. Recruiting from universities, especially the IITs in Delhi and Hyderabad, and Bombay and Madras—I’m sorry, Mumbai and Chennai. I know their proper names, the ones that people so routinely butcher, but like any pre-millennium person with any Indian blood, I still think of the cities by their old names. I’ve never been to most of these cities, never even seen the Taj Mahal or the French Quarter in Pondicherry. My childhood visits were always restricted to Kolkata. Everything I have is from my last visit back. That was when I realized that I was a foreigner, because I labeled that place, with its smells and flavors and festivals, as exotic.

This opportunity. Is it an opportunity? Are they sending me because of my skin color? I know nothing about engineering, I’m in marketing, for chrissake. I tell Sally this.

Of course you’re marketing, stupid, she retorts. That’s why they’re sending you. They want someone to paint a pretty picture of the company and why they should apply for a job, not some engineer who might blurt out something unsavory over dinner.

Oh.

She laughs and settles herself onto my lap. Come on Jay, she whispers. The Taj Mahal. Her voice is soft, soothing, hypnotic. As if the freaking Taj Mahal was some freaking miracle. I tell her as much, and earn a light slap on the side of my head.

Hey butthead, Sally says affectionately, the Taj Mahal is the miracle of love. It was one hell of a present.

It’s a mausoleum, Sally. The queen was dead—something like her fourteenth or sixteenth pregnancy.

Jay.

What?

They were in love. That’s the point. Not that she died. Sally’s eyes are dark with something; I can’t tell what, but it makes me uncomfortable. A memory rises up, unbidden, of that awkward phone call from a month ago. Some girl named Maya. I’m sure your girlfriend is a lovely woman, she said, before she hung up. Sally is wonderful, I think. But she’s sitting on my lap and staring deep into my eyes, trying to convince me of Shah Jahan and Mumtaz’s eternal love.

Alright, I say abruptly, just as Sally twines her arms around my neck. She’s reaching up for a kiss, but my statement brings her up short.  I’ll go.

Go where? She’s clinging to me, a comfortable, familiar weight disrupted by her confusion.

India. I’m going to India.

Oh. And then her face brightens. Now you can go see the Taj Mahal!

Sally, I don’t think I’ll have time to see the Taj Mahal. Me not going—it’s not a crime.

Come on, Jay. For me?

Oh god, I think. Then I say, Sally, sweetheart, this is for work. I actually won’t have time.

I really like Sally. We’ve been dating for seven months, and barely a hitch. She has a tendency to be unrealistic at times, but I think her naïveté is cute. It’s refreshing, at any rate. She’s a grad student working on the second year of her MBA; I’m two years out of the same school and the same program. Match made in heaven. We’re pretty damn compatible, too. It’s the little things, the details you’d never notice. Being with her is easy. And pretty damn boring, come to think of it. She’s been hinting at a hope for more commitment. Maybe I’m a terrible person, but I’ve been dragging my feet. Maybe commitment’s a good thing. But maybe I need some time to figure my life out.

So, I say.

So, she echoes, sounding, I think, mildly put out. I feel bad, but don’t know how to fix it.

I should email my boss and let him know, I tell her. He already sent me some stuff about the tour; I think he was hoping that I was going to accept.

Sally nods and stands up, clambering off my lap gracelessly. She asks me why I took so long to decide.

I don’t know, really. But I should get started. The trip is in a month.

Yeah, she says. I have a paper to write anyway. I guess I should get home.

I stand up, and Sally, lifting herself up onto her tiptoes, brushes a gentle kiss onto my lips. A very quick, sweet kiss.

See you, she says, and lets herself out.

I pull out my laptop, but I don’t open it right away. I sink down slowly, back onto the couch, and rest the laptop on my knees. And I think back to that last visit, twelve years ago. I was thirteen. I remember the vivid, explosive sugar of fresh rasagulla on my tongue, the powdery feel of flower-shaped sandesh. I can taste my grandmother’s machher jhol, and the bhel puri that Ramu dada on the corner always sold—the only street food my mother would trust going into her sons’ stomachs. I can see the demure brown cattle, swaying gently to a stop in the middle of the street and folding their legs into the most comfortable position, heedless of the traffic jam forming behind them. I can hear the hawkers who carry their toys and trinkets, yelling out a peculiar song in undecipherable Bengali, and my aunt’s sweet, high voice singing me to sleep with the lilting songs by Tagore.

I’m not going to India. I’m going back.