Tania James - Atlas of Unknowns

And now, with the week come to an end and the Folgers canister a bit fuller than before, Anju has permitted herself a paper cup of payasam from the bakery. Back home, she would pluck out the boiled raisins and drink the sweet, milky remains; here she intends to drain the whole cup exactly as Ammachi would have made it, cardamom, raisins, and all.

Standing outside the bakery, she takes her first sip and waits for a taste that never comes. It is a little bit like Ammachi’s payasam and nothing like it at all, each spoonful adding to the disappointment. She throws it away, not wanting to ruin what she remembers. To chase an old taste is impossible, it seems, a taste perfected by memory.

IT IS MARCH. Anju flips through the calendar on Bird’s wall and wonders how so many days could have collected behind her already, without her having resolved a single thing about her visa or green card.

On a legal pad, one of many Bird stole on her last day at Tandon’s office, Bird writes the amount of money that Anju has earned ($625) and calculates the total of her projected earnings by April. “In time, you will have a thousand, plus a thousand from me will equal two. That will be enough to hire a lawyer, at least to start things.”

“Can you talk to Ghafoor?” Anju asks. “Ask him to give me more hours? I want to start the process sooner. I only have until June.”

“I tried. He said he was already booking you for arm and leg waxings.” Bird sits with her head in her hand, absently breaking off the stale edges of a muffin. “What else can we do but continue as we are? I called several lawyers from the phone book and their fees were in the thousands, all of them. All we can do is wait and work.” Bird looks up. “What about your father? I’m sure if you asked him—”

“I can’t ask him.”

“Why?”

Anju hesitates. What little money her father possesses, he would use to buy her return ticket home. And hearing his voice over the phone, she would not be able to refuse him.

“My family is too deep in debt,” Anju says firmly. “We have nothing left.”

“But what if there is no other way?”

“I will have to make a way.”

Anju utters her words with a flat, implacable calm. Her face is frozen, all signs of life held far within. It is clear to Bird that in this instant, the girl thinks herself a woman, and Bird knows well that life can do harm to girls like that.

“Okay, okay.” Bird takes a bite of her muffin and speaks between chews. “Enough melodramatics. This isn’t Days of Our Lives . This is my day off. So let’s go shopping.”

ON BIRD’S SUGGESTION, they go to a department store so that Anju can at least look presentable when it comes time to meet with lawyers and officials and other hazy, important figures. In English, Bird says: “You know what presentable means? It means like a present, a gift. You must gift people with your appearance.”

They browse racks of slacks that cling to the rear and flare at the ankle, tweed blazers that defiantly halt mid-rib. “Look at this thing.” Bird holds up a semi-blazer. “If they’re going to cut it in half, they should also cut the price in half, allay?”

Anju enjoys shopping with Bird, as it is less of a purchasing expedition and more of a Conference on the Calamities of Western Dress, a conference of two. Every garment falls into one of three categories: (1) wretchedly sluttish, and hence symbolic of the downward spiral of American civilization; or (2) a sequined knock-off of Indian styles; or (3) either of the above, but cheaply stitched by children in India with eyes the size of buttons on a winter coat. For a while, the conference involves simply fingering the collars of tops and showing the fellow attendee, “See? Made in India.” Bangladesh and Pakistan also count.

They stand in a long dismal line outside the dressing rooms, their arms piled high with clothes on hangers, behind women who wear the jaded faces of prisoners doing time. When finally they enter the dressing rooms, the conference takes a sharp turn for the worse.

It is not several rooms but one large, sad chamber with mirrors on every wall. Before the mirrors, women are peeling off their limp hosiery, sizing up their reflections, forcing their button flies to close over bellies that simply refuse. To Anju, it is a horrifying sight. She is reminded of a Holocaust film that included a scene of women in a gas chamber. Is she the only one aware of the panorama of flesh, of graying bra straps, of dappled thighs, of cotton and nylon stretched far too thin by bending over to put on a sock?

“Stop staring,” she hears Bird say.

She follows Bird to a patch of wall that seems relatively empty, if not for the women to her immediate right and left and reflected all around. Anju paces her small circle of space like a restless cat. Bird thrusts a pair of pinstriped slacks into her hands. “This won’t try itself on.”

“Can I try it on over my pants?” Anju asks.

Bird is as appalled as she would be had Anju suggested trying the pants on her head. “We are not buying something unless we know what we are buying. And anyway what is the big deal? Powder saw you in that paper knicker.”

Anju turns her back on the woman beside her wearing lacy lingerie and argyle socks. Tiny hairs, like magnet filings, cover her shins. “I don’t know these people.”

“So what? If they see, they see. You’ll never see them again.”

But it is exactly this fact that worries Anju most, that their first and only impression of her will be a half-naked one. And yet, she has no choice. Keeping her eyes mostly fixed to her feet, she tries on piece after piece while Bird returns each to its hanger. There is something warmly maternal about the way that Bird evaluates each outfit with brutal criticism and care, as if Anju’s appearance is more important than her own. Bird grimaces openly at the rejects, smiles proudly at the successes, never interested in selecting anything for herself.

While Anju changes, Bird turns to the side to allow her privacy, thereby eliminating the privacy of another woman who is sliding a magenta tunic onto a hanger.

“That is made in India,” Bird says to the woman.

“Is it?” The woman looks at the label on the collar. “Oh no, it says here Malaysia.”

Bird nods knowingly. “Same thing.”

ANJU RETURNS TO WORK in various combinations of her new clothing: pinstriped slacks, a blue sweater, a white blouse, and khakis. At first, the clothes seem to imbue her with their newness. She is the latest style, exclusive, and not for sale. But as the days wear on, her contentment turns temporary, a quick-flash trend gone by. All that remains is guilt, the prickly reminder of what Linno might say to all this new and useless finery.

At least Anju is improving at her job. She is now accustomed to the mild form of schadenfreude experienced by the first-time clients who enter the back room, the site of future torture. With earnest hope, they try to befriend Anju, seeking words of comfort with their eyes fastened to the medieval-looking pot of wax. Held hostage in the chair, the clients giggle nervously at the placement of the mirror, nailed to the wall opposite their splayed legs. Anju agrees that this is a terrible place for a mirror, as there are few women, no matter how shapely or waxed, who are flattered by that angle. But Anju has learned from Powder how to maintain a professional distance from the giggles and smiles, for the less she smiles, the more they respect and tip her. It is an illogical but working science.

She has also learned how to exact the least pain from a strip, and if, by accident, the client winces or scowls, Anju clucks like an old mother hen. “I see you did the shaving down there …” She really has no idea if someone has or has not been using a razor, but this intimate accusation usually works half the time, making the client take responsibility for what might be Anju’s own shoddy work. “Terrible,” Anju says. “Might as well use a vegetable peeler.”