The Sari Shop Widow. Shobhan Bantwal
glass display counter behind which her parents stood. They’d been mutely watching her pace like a caged panther all this time. Now the mildly optimistic look on their faces told her they hoped her dark mood had passed, or at least diminished to some degree.
Well, no such luck. The distress was still spiraling inside her like a mad January blizzard. She raised her troubled eyes to them. “Why didn’t you guys tell me about the problem sooner?”
Her father, Mohan Kapadia, a wiry man with glasses and a heavy mop of graying hair, gave a helpless shrug. “We didn’t want to upset you. And I honestly thought your mother and I could handle it by now.”
“But we’re equal partners in this. I’m not a child who needs to be protected from bad news.” She took a deep breath to steady her tremulous voice. “I know I nearly lost my mind some years ago, but I don’t need coddling anymore.”
“I know that, Anju, but I’m upset at myself for not being a better businessman.” He sent Anjali a rueful look. “I suppose I didn’t want to believe it myself at first. It’s not easy admitting to one’s daughter that one is…uh…a failure.”
She immediately regretted her outburst. “I’m sorry, Dad. You’re not a failure. It’s not all your fault. We’re all in this together.”
“But still…”
“I’m just as much to blame,” she said. “I should have kept an eye on our finances a bit more. What I can’t believe is why you went to Jeevan of all people for help.”
“Jeevan is my eldest brother. Who else could I go to when we’re in financial trouble?” He combed his long, skinny fingers through his hair for the fourth time since Anjali had walked into the store minutes ago. His nervous raking was making his hair stand up in stiff peaks, making him look like one of those troll dolls sold in novelty stores. His starched blue shirt and gray slacks paired with sensible black shoes did little to improve the troll image.
“You could have gone to that old man, the Indian capitalist with three wives…What’s his name…Harikishan.”
Usha Kapadia, Anjali’s mother, gave a derisive, unladylike snort. “After killing off his first two wives, old Harikishan has met his match. His third wife is young and pretty and smart. She keeps him…um…occupied,” she remarked, clearing her throat. “He’s not interested in pursuing the financing business anymore.”
“How about Naren-kaka?” Naren Kapadia was her father’s youngest brother.
Her father shook his head. “Naren has a large debt on his motel. You know that.”
“Then why not go to a legitimate bank?” Anjali suggested. “Instead, you called your other brother Jeevan, in India?” She still couldn’t make sense of her parents’ wacky decision.
“Your uncle’s got the best business brain in the world,” her father argued.
“But Jeevan’s a dictator.”
Her mother, trim and elegant in a shell-pink chiffon sari, and tiny pearls at her throat and ears, threw her a scorching look. “Anju, Jeevan is your oldest uncle. Show your elders some respect. And stop referring to him as Jeevan. To you he’s Jeevan-kaka, just like he’s Jeevan-bhai to your father and me.”
“I’m sorry.” Anjali sighed. From her mother’s tone one would think Anjali was a teenager or young adult at most. Their family business, essentially their livelihood, was headed for ruin, and her mother was lecturing her, a grown woman, on the old-fashioned Gujarati way of talking about one’s uncle. “You know as well as I that Jeevan-kaka is bad news, Mom.” He was a short, tubby, beady-eyed scoundrel who sat atop a mountain of money. He was rich and mean and sly and unscrupulous—a lethal combination.
Jeevan was the oldest of three brothers and two sisters, and never let his siblings forget it. In his eyes, he was only one small step below God. At the mention of his name, the family trembled with fear. With a simple phone call he could reduce some of them to tears. Most often, when someone in the family mentioned Jeevan’s name, it was preceded by “Oh, God,” and rightfully so.
Mohan shook his head. “Jeevan-bhai is a little bit on the strict side. That doesn’t mean he’s unkind.”
“Little bit strict?” Anjali groaned. Was her father living on the same planet as she? She looked at him. The shape and deep brown tint of their eyes were similar, and the thick black lashes were definitely something she’d inherited from him. In fact, most of her sharp features were her father’s, but her complexion and straight black hair were genetic traits from her mother’s side of the family. “After the beating you took from him as the middle brother, you still choose to defend him, Dad?”
This time Mohan’s eyes glinted with irritation. “You of all people, with your fancy college degrees, should realize we have major financial problems. We need some serious help and advice. Who better than your uncle to give it? Everything your uncle touches turns to gold.”
Her mom gave another scornful snort. “That’s why they call him Bada saheb.” Big boss. Despite admonishing Anjali about her lack of respect for Jeevan, her mom had plenty of contempt for her eldest and most feared brother-in-law. But then Usha always had a different set of rules for herself. And they changed frequently according to her convenience and mood.
Having expressed her sentiments, her mother turned around to cast a quick glance in the mirrored wall and patted her hair, which was swept back into a simple but elegant chignon. Then she went back to arranging the new shipment of jewelry in the display case—earrings, bracelets, and rings made of rare yellow diamonds.
Anjali watched her mom’s dainty fingers gently lift each piece and arrange it over the sapphire blue velvet spread. Having grown up in a family of jewelers, Usha knew her gems well. And at fifty-nine she looked wonderful—much younger than her age.
“Whatever my brother’s faults, he has the knowledge and money to help us,” said Mohan, picking up his calculator and gathering up the day’s receipts. “And his advice is free.”
Anjali mulled over the issue for a minute. There had to be another, less drastic solution than the insufferable Jeevan. “Can’t you call him again and tell him you were wrong?”
“No.” Her father shook his head emphatically.
“Say you made an error in judgment and that everything’s just fine?”
Mohan gave her a bland look. “I can’t. He’s arriving here next week.”
“What?” A dull thud jolted both Anjali and her father. Usha had dropped a box on the counter and turned dark, accusing eyes on her husband. “You didn’t tell me your brother was coming here.”
“I thought I did.” Mohan’s tone was mildly apologetic.
“Not true, Mohan,” Usha reminded him. “This morning, when you called your brother, you said you were asking for a little advice and nothing more. You didn’t say anything about him coming to New Jersey.”
“Slipped my mind…I guess.” Ordinarily a resolute man with a good head for business, Anjali’s father seemed to turn to putty when his beloved Usha was around. Despite her sweet face, dimpled smile, and her preference for soft colors and understated accessories, she wielded the gavel like a seasoned judge. It was a good thing, too, because Anjali’s dad was too softhearted. If it were up to him, he’d give away half the store to someone he thought was needy.
She watched the angry color rise in her mother’s amazingly unlined face. “Slipped your mind? Something as important as that?”
“But…but he said he wanted to come. How could I say no?”
“Exactly when is Jeevan-bhai arriving?” Usha demanded. “Or were you planning to tell me after he arrived at Newark Airport?”
Anjali had a feeling her father had deliberately kept his brother’s visit a secret. She felt a twinge of sympathy for her dad. The poor man was caught