Invisible Lives Read Online Free PDF Page B

too young to understand the power of pride—and fear—that can make us turn away from what we want the most.
    Soon after that, my father died while on a research trip to India. I don’t remember grief. I remember flying to India for the memorial. I remember piles of steamed rice and dahl, concerned relatives pinching my cheeks and stuffing me with food. I remember my mother’s tears.
    Gradually, life returned to normal. I learned to wait in the shadows, to watch and learn before acting. And over the years, I learned that I could help in Ma’s shop, bringing happiness to strangers by selecting the perfect sari for each of them. That way, I could disguise my intentions, and nobody would walk away in a huff, embarrassed by their own hidden longings.
    My beauty blossomed gradually, creeping in and taking up residence in my body so insidiously that I barely noticed it. Like a retreating glacier, my childhood melted to reveal hidden abundance. My breasts grew to perfect proportions, my waist shrank, my legs extended into goddess legs, and my hair came in thick and lush, long and shiny. Other girls avoided me, and the boys stared. Once a bicyclist crashed into a telephone pole, knocked out two teeth and broke his nose, because he was paying more attention to me than the road ahead of him.
    Sick with grief and guilt, I shaved my head, donned combat boots, and started wearing huge sunglasses and ripped jean jackets. Ma thought it was a teenage phase, but she didn’t understand. A divine spotlight shone on me wherever I went.
    Only now can I modulate my appearance, downplay it when I need to, let my hair down at opportune moments.
    Now, in our modest saltbox house on the hill, only the soft, amorphous thoughts of squirrels and cats settle into my brain. I stop before going inside and survey the beveled windows, the stained glass catching the waning autumn sunlight. A plethora of salvaged shrubs and trees find refuge in our yard. I’ve taken such care with this garden, but when I marry, I shall have to leave, as all women do. I’ve been preparing for this, and yet my heart pounds a frantic beat.
    Take deep breaths, Lakshmi. You’re jumping to conclusions. You’ve not even met the man. All the answers will come.
    I pick up the mail and go inside, relax at the familiar smell of this morning’s tea, the wood scent of our home. Shiva greets me at the door, as usual, rubbing against my legs, purring. I scoop him up and bury my face in his gray striped fur. He settles into my arms and extends a front paw. Puffs of happiness emanate from him, and a vague relief. Every time we leave, he half believes we’ll never come home.
    “Where’s Parvati, huh? Where’s she hiding this time?” Parvati is my other Maine coon cat. Shiva and Parvati, the eternal lovers in Hindu mythology.
    I scratch Shiva’s ears, and he purrs louder. I don’t see Parvati’s whereabouts in his small, but complex mind. I never believed that smaller meant simpler. I’ve known since childhood that the tiniest field mouse survives with great skill and wit.
    I let Shiva down, and he bats a ball of fluff, then follows me through the house, his purring engine at my feet.
    I plunk the pile of mail on the dining table next to the newspaper, which sits in a mess beside my half-empty coffee cup, the soy milk congealed on top. Shiva jumps up on the newspaper, his favorite spot when I’m trying to read. He stares at me expectantly, images of grass and dewdrops filling his mind. Greenery, a symphony of tiny sounds unknown to humans, a rush of freedom and clean air and smells.
    I keep calling Parvati in a gentle voice, and a faint commotion comes from the cabinet above the refrigerator. She steps out, blinking in the light like a queen roused from a royal nap.
    “What are you doing up there, you silly thing?” I grab her and carry her to the floor before she finds her own dangerous way down.
    While the cats eat, I check our voice mail. A message from Ma’s sister,