Chitra Divakaruni - One Amazing Thing

Nirmala examined her burnished skin in the mirror. She asked whether her face would still look as good by the weekend-which, I recalled, was when Ravi was to join them. I told her the truth, which was no. The first couple of days, with the skin still toned and shining from the massage, were the best. She bit her lower lip, deep in thought. I guessed she was trying to figure out how to meet Ravi before she left for Chennai. Then she smiled. That’s how I would remember her: glowing in the mirror, the light from the ceiling casting an asymmetrical halo around her head.

NONE OF US SAW NIRMALA AGAIN, THOUGH BITS OF HER STORY blew back to us on the winds of rumor. Piecing them together, I felt stupid. Worse, I felt responsible. She had trusted me, called me Elder Sister. I should have seen what was coming and warned her. Though I had never been religious, I went to Goddess Parvati’s temple and prayed for forgiveness. But I knew it wasn’t enough.

This is what I guessed: That first night, by dressing Nirmala far above her station and keeping her constantly at her side, Mrs. Balan made sure that Gopalan noticed the maid. Nirmala herself must have piqued his interest with her amazement at the extravagance of his house. Admiration is a powerful aphrodisiac. After the guests left, it would have been easy enough for Mrs. Balan to complain of a headache and send Nirmala to Gopalan’s room for some medicine. Who knows what transpired between the two of them there? Only these facts are certain: Long before Ravi and his father joined the festivities, Nirmala was moved from the servants’ quarters to a suite of her own in another wing of the house. Her fake jewels were replaced with real ones, her hand-me-down clothes with designer saris studded with sequins and deep-cut blouses that showed off her charms. And from the manner in which he patted her behind when she fetched him his gin and tonic, it was clear to his guests that Gopalan had found himself a new girl.

MRS. BALAN CAME IN TO LOVELY LADIES A COUPLE OF WEEKS later. She informed Lola that she wanted the softest, most natural-looking curls. Ravi was getting engaged to the youngest daughter of Kumaraswami, a real-estate tycoon from Bangalore. They had met on the last day of Gopalan’s birthday celebrations. The marriage would take place in the girl’s hometown, but the engagement party would be held this weekend at the Balan residence-a small affair, really, no more than three hundred guests.

“Do you like the girl?” Mrs. Nayar asked.

“Of course! After all, she comes from an excellent family. A bit short, and a trifle plump, but smart as a whip. Already she’s talked Ravi into handing over Vani Vidyalayam to a manager and going to work for her papa. I’m a little disappointed that he’ll be moving to Bangalore -but I’m not one to hold a son back from his happiness. Now, Lola, can you make sure I’m the chicest, youngest-looking mother-in-law ever?”

Lola assured Mrs. Balan that she could. I watched amazed, because when Lola first heard the news about Nirmala, she had kicked a table and used several colorful expletives to refer to Mrs. Balan and her ancestors. Yet now, with the utmost politeness, Lola pointed Mrs. Balan to the best salon chair. I realized that the secret of Lola’s success was a perfect separation between business and personal emotion.

“No, not here,” Mrs. Balan said. “I don’t want everyone seeing what you do and then asking for the same look. You must keep this a secret. I don’t mind paying extra. And I want only Malathi to assist you.”

Lola called my name.

“Where is that girl hiding, anyway?” Mrs. Balan said.

For a moment, I considered disobedience, but when Lola called again, I followed them to one of the private rooms in the back. My heart lurched as we entered. It was the room to which I had brought Nirmala. I felt as though the goddess was sending me a message. An idea pushed through the muck of confusion in my brain.

Mrs. Balan was in high spirits. “If you do a good job,” she told me, “I’ll give you the biggest tip you’ll ever earn.” Lola entrusted Mrs. Balan’s tresses to my care while she went hunting for youth-inducing unguents. I combed out Mrs. Balan’s hair with trembling fingers. But by the time I started mixing the chemicals for the perm, they were rock-steady.

“Smells funny,” Mrs. Balan said. “Are you using something different?”

“Yes, madam,” I said, applying carefully. “This is a special occasion, no?”

“It stings.”

“As you know, madam, beauty has its price.”

“Be careful,” she warned. “I don’t want to end up looking kinky-headed, like some Andaman aborigine.”

“Such an outcome is most unlikely, madam,” I said.

AS SOON AS LOLA WALKED INTO THE ROOM, SHE SENSED THAT something was wrong. I could see it in the way she scrunched up her nose. Would she order me to unwind Mrs. Balan’s hair and wash it out at once?

“Give madam a pedicure while you wait for the perm to set,” she said. She busied herself with scrubbing Mrs. Balan’s face with an imported and extremely expensive exfoliant.

Mrs. Balan’s hair started falling out as soon as I ran water over it. By the time I finished rinsing, clumps of it lined the sink like dead seagrass. The shriek she emitted when she opened her eyes brought the girls-and any clients who were not attached to machines-rushing to the back room. Several shrieked in sympathy. About half of her scalp was as bald as a baby’s bottom and covered with a rash. The other half sported wilting sprouts. I swayed between terror and exhilaration. Mrs. Balan spewed invectives as she attempted to simultaneously strangle me and gouge out my eyes. Lola, who had been vainly trying to calm her, instructed two girls to remove me from the premises. As I left, I could hear her declaring that I would never set foot in Lovely Ladies or any other beauty shop in Coimbatore again.

I lay awake all night. I would sorely miss the salon and the company of the girls. What would I do now? I was barred from the only profession I was good at or cared about. Probably, I would have to find a husband-and that, too, without the benefit of a Diamond facial. Worse, I feared I had landed Lola, who had understood my dreams better than anyone in the world, in deepest trouble.

All morning, I stayed in my room, pretending to be sick, not confessing to my parents that I had been fired. But after a while I felt like I was suffocating. I had to go to the salon, no matter how angry Lola was with me. She would probably throw me out without hearing my apology. But I had to try. I wanted to tell her how I had felt responsible for Nirmala’s fate, and how, therefore, I had to even the score no matter how much bad karma I accrued in the process.

I went around to the dingy back entrance of Lola’s, which was used only by the sweepers. I had never been there before. It took me a while to find the unmarked door. The stinking garbage piled along the open drains was symbolic of the turn my life had taken. The girl who answered my knocks looked anxious when she saw me. I said I would wait outside. Would she ask Lola to see me for just a minute?

Standing in that alley for what seemed like a lifetime, I wondered if Lola would even come. Finally, she opened the door, hands on her hips, her face stern. I whispered my explanation and apologies, my eyes on the ground. Halfway through, I was distracted by strange gasping noises. Was she apoplectic with anger? Or could she-the Amazonian Lola I had hero-worshipped-have been reduced to tears? Perhaps Mrs. Balan had threatened to sue her. Perhaps Lola would lose her beautiful salon. When I dared to look up, I saw her hand over her mouth. She was trying to keep her laughter in check.

“Did you see her head?” Lola managed to choke out finally. “And her face? It was priceless!” Both of us burst into hysterical peals.