You Bring the Distant Near

There's something about putting words on a page in private that makes me feel powerful in public.

Where am I from? Can the answer be stories and words, some of theirs, some of mine?

My skin is soft and smooth and the color reminds me of rain-drenched earth. But it’s as if the darkness of it keeps Ma from noticing my assets: curly hair, a round face that makes babies smile, deep dimples in both cheeks, big eyes that notice details other people miss. I like my face, even if Ma doesn’t. I resemble Baba, and he’s got presence.

Libraries. How I love them. My source of stories. And solitude.

Masjid turns on the radio, and Rabindra Sangeet adds the perfect soundtrack to the scene: “Por ke korile nikot bondhu”—you bring the distant near. One of Baba’s favorites.

Theater, my Star?” Baba asks. I listen carefully, but there’s no disappointment in his tone, only surprise. “Yes, Baba,” I say. “It’s been an interest of mine. And I think I might be good at it. But Ma—” Baba takes my hand in both of his. “My grandmother used to organize natok in the village for the children—she loved to act. There’s nothing wrong with telling a story onstage. It’s beautiful work; it brings people together. Rabindranath Tagore wrote plays, didn’t he? I’ll handle your mother—don’t worry about that.

Ma comes to stand beside me, and our intruder makes a clucking sound of disapproval. “This one worries me, Ranee. She’s very secretive.

I’m glad we’re in the same school,” I say, and drop a kiss on her head. In London we were enrolled in different schools because Sunny’s so gifted. Here there’s no separate school for extra-smart students, and she’s coming in as a freshman, as they say, while I’ll be a junior. With her around, I’ll be sure to have one set of admiring eyes at least.

I wish the Ganges could wash the grief from my heart, but it can't.

Thanks, Ms. Liberty! Is that a sari you're wearing? I hope not.

I began to feel that this city is my home. It came nearer to my heart, not so distant. That’s how it started, but now it’s different. I am enjoying making friends my age in my church-non-Bengali friends who don’t know the customs that keep a widow so lonely.

Modest women have rights too, Coach,' I can't help adding.

My heart is still Bengali. Isn't Didu's?

pen. Where am I from? Can the answer be stories and words, some of theirs, some of mine?

You read her diary! That’s wrong, Ma!” Ma closes the incinerator door and raises her palms in the air like she’s praying. “I have to find out what’s going on in her head, don’t I? It’s my duty to keep her safe.” “You’ll make her dangerous instead,” Starry answers.

Nothing makes you feel more beautiful than a sari.

A muddy river is a muddy river, whether it's in Bengal or in Baton Rouge.