Habitations, page 34
“I know,” she said. “I always miss people I never thought I would miss.”
“I’m not the only one? I thought everybody else in the world was better at moving on.”
“Of course not. Most people spend their lives and die in their native villages. Or towns or cities, or wherever. We don’t let go easily. I was on the Columbia campus earlier this year and I went into the corner store where I used to buy tea during my graduate school days, and the family that ran the store was no longer there. The man working at the counter didn’t know where they had gone, so I suppose it’s changed hands a few times over the years. Who knows? But I felt so sad, you know, because there are people in your life from whom you drift apart, but they’re retrievable. And then there are people you don’t know well enough to keep in touch with.”
“Right,” he said. “They’re just gone.”
They were quiet for a bit. She tapped the floor of the pool with her toe, then said, “I don’t know if that is statistically true, by the way, that most people stay in their native villages.”
He smiled, and she couldn’t tell if his look was pensive or flirtatious, or both. “What about now? Is Baton Rouge your final home?”
“No. It isn’t.” She thought of her house in Baton Rouge, the clutter of metal hangers, the stack of junk mail that would be waiting for her when they returned. How desperately she tried to distract Asha with small indulgences: Saturday picnics in the park, Sunday morning croissants, as though she could trick them both out of their malaise. Throughout the summer, Vega had been reminding Asha, “This is a holiday. After it’s over, everybody is going back home.” She was afraid Asha would think she was settling into a new and wonderful life in Chennai, surrounded by family, only to have it pulled from her.
“You’re lifting your legs,” Sudhir said.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“When you lean back, your legs go up. Didn’t you notice?”
“That’s hardly swimming.”
“But it is buoyancy. Could you do that on land?”
“Okay. I’ll grant you that. Maybe there is nothing wrong with my bones.”
“I’m going to tell you something. A small suggestion.”
“Please don’t.”
“You can’t say no before you even hear it. Just listen. Close your eyes, plug your nose, and go under. Your body can’t help but float.”
“Mine won’t,” she said. But she did it anyway, counting with Sudhir and going under the water. Then she lifted her feet and felt her body rise to the top.
* * *
Vega and Asha had been living in Montclair for three months, nearly to the date, when Rukmini arrived with the contents of Ashwini’s trunk. “All utility items,” Rukmini said. “Asha can wear them when she’s older.” She also brought with her the stack of Amar Chitra Katha comics Vega had intentionally left behind in Chennai. Now Asha was curled up on the couch, tearing through them.
“She is going to turn into a Hindu fundamentalist,” Vega said. “And we will have only you to blame.”
“Nobody becomes a fundamentalist by reading some small books.”
“Actually, that is how many people become fundamentalists.”
“You’re a good mother. You’ll see it doesn’t.”
At another moment, Vega would have kept the argument going. Now, it didn’t seem worthwhile. She took out the clothes, starched and tightly folded, those mundane reminders of Ashwini’s short life. Rukmini was exploring the living room, running her fingers along the windowsill and jiggling the door handle with the precision of a housing inspector. “The curtains are quite nice.”
“I know. Gayatri had them made for me. She sent the pillows and throws, as well.”
“It’s a good place,” Rukmini proclaimed. “Small, but adequate.”
They took Asha to the park that evening and watched her zip circles on her scooter. Rukmini was tired from her flight, a bit heavier than she had been last year, and she walked with a slight limp. She seemed much older than Vega remembered.
“You both appear settled,” Rukmini said. “And she is happy.”
Vega had accepted the position at Brooklyn College in April, and two months later, she and Asha arrived in New Jersey. “There’s no need to find something immediately,” Suresh had said. “You stay with us as long as you need.” They set her up in a basement suite they had furnished for Rupa’s parents, a blissfully cool room that smelled of eucalyptus. Suresh had moved a small desk into the corner. “For your studies,” he’d said.
She split her days between research and house-hunting, sometimes alone and sometimes with Asha in tow. She visited a floor-through brownstone in Brooklyn that she loved, blocks from Margo, that was painfully out of her price range. She saw a dizzying series of identical suburban homes in identical New Jersey towns where she knew, the moment she stepped inside, neither she nor Asha would ever feel at home.
“You can always rent,” Suresh said. “Then, if ever you need to move, you stay with us in the interim.” But Vega didn’t want to rent. She wanted to buy a home, however modest. She wanted to move in, then never move again.
“Call Dierdre,” Shoba said. “Such a good lady. She won’t take advantage. She loves Indians.” Thus, Dierdre emerged, coiffed and eager, clipboard in hand. Days later, they stood in front of a two-bedroom house with a small office, on a quiet street just off Bloomfield Avenue. “You know the area?” Dierdre asked. “It’s very multicultural.”
Vega’s stomach had lurched as they drove down Bloomfield, past the coffee shop and used bookstore—both remarkably unchanged—and past Café Abyssinia, then past an ice cream shop that Asha pointed out from the back window. The house itself had its own charm. It was the smallest on the block, white with blue shutters. On the sidewalk were faint traces of a child’s hopscotch game.
“I know it quite well.”
“Good! Now, there is no backyard. Which is why it’s been on the market so long. But there is a park up the street. And, I always say, a park is like a lawn you don’t have to water.” She went on about the school district and the local Indian community, but Vega didn’t need any convincing. She had found where she wanted to live.
* * *
“What about when your fellow comes?” Suresh asked one night. They had eaten dinner at his house, as they did most Fridays, and were clearing the table. Rupa was bathing Vikram. Shoba, Mohan, and the girls had come and gone, and Rukmini and Asha were in the basement playing one of their endless rounds of Go Fish. In three days, Rukmini was returning to Chennai, and Vega was beginning to feel the first surfacing of sadness. That morning, she found a grocery list Rukmini had written on the back of an envelope and left on the bookshelf: cooking oil, bananas, brown bread. She held on to it, unable to throw it out.
“It will be good when I go,” Rukmini had said. “It’s good to have your routine back.”
It was true. Vega did like her daily routine. She liked walking Asha to school, then taking that familiar commute into the city. On Wednesday and Thursday nights, when Asha slept at Suresh and Rupa’s, Vega stayed late on campus then went out to dinner, sometimes by herself, sometimes with Margo. And then there were Fridays, when they ate at Shoba and Mohan’s or Suresh and Rupa’s, always leaving late, Asha falling asleep in the car on the way home.
“You’re prying, Suresh,” Vega said.
“I’m not prying. I’m talking about logistics, only. Asha should stay with us that week. Easier for everybody.”
She and Sudhir had been in close touch over the year, and occasionally one of them hinted at something more permanent. But beyond his visit in late November, they had made no plans for the future. Sometimes, the thought of being with him thrilled Vega. She imagined him moving to New York and getting to know Asha. In some distant way, she fantasized about having a child with him—a second sibling for Asha and grandchild for her parents. Other times, she was happy just as she was.
She spooned the last of the dhal and vegetables into Rupa’s lunch container, then slid it into the fridge. From the bathroom, they could hear Vikram crying. A few weeks earlier, he had said his first word: ball. The language came steadily afterwards. Amma, Appa, Asha, vroom. Vega was reminded of Asha at that stage, the slow start and then the quick acceleration, the shocking realization of what she had been processing all this time.
“Rupa has to be at the hospital early,” Suresh said. “She should go to sleep.”
“Go help her. I can finish in here.” Vega took the dish towel and wiped down the table. Then she went into the kitchen, washed the last of the pots, and set them in the rack to dry.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to the MFA program at Boston University. To Leslie Epstein, Xuefei Jin, and Sigrid Nunez: I owe this book—and every future book—to your wisdom and generosity.
My agent, Judythe Cohen, and the entire team at Janklow & Nesbit believed in Habitations with the heart and tenacity that writers dream of. My editor, Carina Guiterman, along with Sophia Benz, Stacey Sakal, and Susan Bishansky, pushed me to sharpen this novel with every revision. I am also grateful to Kayley Hoffman, Megha Jain, Lewelin Polanco, Beth Maglione, Amanda Mulholland, Jackie Seow, Danielle Priellip, Hannah Bishop, and all of Simon & Schuster.
So many writers lit the path for me through the brilliance of their work and the warmth of their encouragement. Thank you to Deesha Philyaw, Mecca Jamilah Sullivan, Weike Wang, Pooja Makhijani, and the No Name Writers’ Group of New Orleans: Adrian Van Young, Anya Groner, Jessie Morgan-Owens, Julia Carey Arendell, and Tom Andes. Thank you to my earliest writing teachers: Robin Coste Lewis and Matt de la Peña. I’m eternally grateful to Val Otarod and Victor Yang for the joy and camaraderie you brought to this process. How does anybody write a book without the two of you? Thank you to Katy Ancelet and Chital Mehta for sharing your precious time and incisive feedback, and to Aftab Ahmad for your guidance with Urdu translations.
To my colleagues and students at the University of Mississippi: It’s a gift to work and write alongside you. Thank you also to the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference and the Barbara Deming Memorial Fund.
To my parents, Girija and Kalyan Sundar, and my brother, Arya Sundar: Thank you for a childhood filled with books and laughter.
To my family in India: Thank you for always opening your doors to me.
To my web of aunties and uncles in the States: Thank you for the decades of boundless love.
Thank you to the friends who have sustained me: Namrata Krishna, Devika Gajria, Abbey Marks, Mia Green-Dove, Faye Zemel, Kristy Magner, Asia Wong, Brett and Shiva King, Katy Ancelet (once again), Emily Maw, Jill Polk, and all the children and adults of my beloved Sunday Supper family.
To Toshan, Amara, and Sajan: You are the funniest, wildest, smartest, and most delightful people I know, and you have filled my world with wonder (and cats).
Finally, thank you to Aaron DeLong, the love of my life and my sharpest critic. You made every draft of this book possible.
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About the Author
© CLAIRE BANGSER
Sheila Sundar is a professor of English and creative writing at the University of Mississippi. Her writing has appeared in the Virginia Quarterly Review, the Massachusetts Review, the Threepenny Review, and elsewhere. She lives in New Orleans with her husband and their three children. Habitations is her debut novel.
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ISBN 978-1-6680-1610-7
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Sheila Sundar, Habitations
