Tania James - Atlas of Unknowns

When she presses ENTER, several entries appear. The first three belong to a site called East West Invites. Anju presumes this must be a mistake, after reading the snippet of information below the first entry: “… with the spectacular creations of head designer Linno Vallara whose invitations were featured in Me & You magazine …”

An alternate Linno Vallara. Probably born here, an NRI, a nonresident Indian, or, as Powder likes to say, a “Not Really Indian.” Or perhaps a Bombay socialite like the Solankis, one with connections and wealth to hoist her to these entrepreneurial heights. But something about the phrase “beautiful creations” makes Anju linger over this entry. And as if this Linno can tell her something about her Linno, Anju clicks the mouse.

The computer brings her to a picture of a woman who, as Anju suspected, is not Linno at all. She is older, with a bun and a stiff schoolmarm smile. Above her are the words “Meet Us.” Next to her is a small block of print that begins, “Alice Varghese, president of East West Invites, is a leading visionary in the invitation industry …”

Anju scrolls down to the picture below that of Alice Varghese. Unlike the latter photo, this photo was taken by a window, by someone who understands the subtle pleasures of natural light. The colors are rich, the phosphorescent sunlight sifting through the window, illuminating the side of the woman’s face. The woman is surrounded by a flock of open, intricate invitations, as if she herself is a goddess sprung from the heart of a small shrine.

By some strange, mental mitosis, Anju feels herself dividing into the part of her that is looking and the part of her that is falling, a vertiginous sensation that increases the longer she looks at this Linno, who, unlike every other Linno Anju thought she saw in the streets, is the only one that does not look away. Here are her shoulders that used to hunch over a sketch, now held back with a degree of modesty. Here are her moon-pale fingernails; here is her knotted sleeve laid plainly on her lap.

Anju forces herself to stop looking at the picture so that she can read further. Slowly, she gleans that Linno has become the head designer for an invitation company called East West Invites. That she has been featured in major magazines. That people come to her, specially, for invitations like the ones featured in these other photographs, a resplendent bouquet, a blossoming peacock, whole cities built of folds and holes, and many more such miracles made by her hand.

Again, there comes that flying, falling feeling. Disbelief replaced by a restless churning in her stomach. The questions pelt her from every direction, ones with answers that she cannot even begin to guess, so spellbound by this photo of her sister who is not frozen in time, as Anju assumed she would be. If home belongs to those who are there to watch it change, then what of sisters who change even faster? All Anju can do is put her elbows on the desk and her head between her hands, staring until Linno’s face begins to shift and blur. Anju wipes her eyes. She has never wanted for something or someone so despairingly. These are the feelings she has kept so long at bay, but the tide of them now pulls her under, gutting her of every tear she has not yet wept.

BIRD IS THE FIRST TO ARRIVE, just as Anju is buttoning up her coat. “I brought you a pastry,” Bird says to Anju’s back. The pastry looks like a limp mattress laid on a napkin along with a tiny plastic pillow of icing. “I didn’t squeeze the icing yet.”

Anju turns around, her coat buttoned up, aware that her skin is sallow, her eyes swollen and red. No matter how many times she rinsed herself at the bathroom sink, the face that stared back in the mirror was tear-streaked and impossibly tired. “I feel sick. I think I’ll go home.”

“Do you have a temperature?” Bird puts her hand to Anju’s forehead but Anju moves away. “Why don’t I come with you?”

“No. I just need sleep.”

“But should I walk you home at least?”

She must summon up some effort to say it, but Anju has no reserves of courtesy left. “I would like to be alone.”

Bird pauses, slightly wounded, then folds the pastry into the napkin. “Okay. If you like.”

Anju moves past her into the pure blue day, the kind that arrives like a reward after last night’s rains. She pulls her coat closed and continues down the sidewalk.

AT BIRD’S APARTMENT, Anju sits in front of the television watching a Kairali news report on the Indian Parliamentary elections. She pictures Ammachi nodding along to the current talking head, a political expert who pounds a fist into his open palm, revving his rhetorical engines. “… and this social unrest we cannot ignore. Unemployment among the poor. Malls built on top of slums. The current BJP government cannot respond to the seven hundred million poor who have been abandoned by the high-tech boom.” The next clip shows a BJP rally crowding the street in front of a Tamil temple selling incense sticks that bear the BJP slogan, India Shining! Another clip shows a clay-tinted elephant on its elbows and knees, a voting machine awkwardly mounted on its back.

Anju was hoping to watch some sort of home or human makeover show, something dull enough to prevent her from thinking and lying in bed, curled as she was for an hour, unable to sleep. She could hardly focus on the television. Her mind was shrouded by a thick fog, so that all she heard and felt was the sad, plodding thump of her heart. At some point, her heartbeat stopped. And then she realized that the sound came from the padded footsteps of the person upstairs.

She turns off the television when the phone rings, presuming the call to come from Bird, but it is Rohit, fresh from his meeting with Mr. Brown.

“Now look who’s avoiding who,” he says playfully. “They said you took a sick day? Good for you.”

“What did the lawyer say?”

“A lot of things. Are you sitting down? I have something to tell you. Something that really came as a surprise to me, so I hope you don’t think I misled you. I mean, this is the first time I’m learning this too, but just remember, it’s all good news….”

AT THEIR FIRST MEETING, Rohit was discouraged to find that Mr. Brown was a rather unintimidating presence, shrunken within his oversized tweed suit, afflicted by a lisp not unlike the whistle of a kettle. While Rohit poured out Anju’s history, Mr. Brown did not interrupt but simply removed his glasses and wiped the lenses with a pocket handkerchief. After putting the glasses back on his nose, he asked: “But how do you know she’s illegal?”

“It said so on a website,” Rohit said. Mr. Brown raised his eyebrows. “An official website. The Department of Homeland Security website. It was in the rules. It said that if you default on your school attendance then you’re immediately illegal.”

“I see,” Mr. Brown said, in a tone that meant Rohit had not seen enough.

Mr. Brown went on to describe the American immigration system as “a broken-legged beast.” Outdated, unwieldy, unable to enforce its own rules. “It could be that this girl’s school reported her to the police, but they never reported her to the INS. Schools fail to do that sometimes. In which case, she’d be legal until the departure date on her Arrival/ Departure form.”

“What would happen then?”

“Well, if she wants to continue her education, she could enroll at a college of some sort. I had one client who enrolled at the York School of Medical and Dental Assistants. She extended her visa for two years. When she finished, she got a job offer, which got the ball rolling on her permanent residency application. It all comes down to time, luck, and money.”