Haven

It had been a month since she had moved when she saw the marigold.

She was at the market, scrambling to find milk to make yogurt to serve with dinner. Her ears had been tuned to snatches of The Bangles playing overhead, interspersed with news reports that the new president- she had seen Ronald Reagan on the television before but apparently it was a new man now- was being sworn in, when she stumbled across the array of potted plants. They were a burst of color in the pristine white aisles and fluorescent lights of the supermarket. She remembered how they grew with wild abandon in her parents' garden, their vibrant orange blossoms peeking out from between bitter neem leaves.

Strange how the most unpredictable things can bring back such vivid memories. The pungent tang of cow dung and the delicate smell of incense seemed to flood her nostrils as she drifted back to the life in Chennai that she had left behind. She had moved to Connecticut after her visa had gotten approved and her husband had found a job with a software company. And strangely enough, she had realized that everything she had found frustrating about India was what she sorely missed after she had arrived. She missed the riotous melange of color and sound that constantly flooded the senses. It almost seemed too quiet to wake up without hearing the calls of hawkers selling vegetables mixed with the songs and strum of the veena that would drift into the house from the local temple. The streets were beautiful and clean here, dusted with the snow that she had dreamed of seeing as she struggled to keep cool during the hot Chennai summers. But they were oddly forlorn without the hibiscus flowers and mango trees, the bright yellow autos decorated with kitschy paisleys and slogans to which she had become accustomed.

"Have a nice day," the cashier sang, watching her lug her groceries to her car. People never said that in India. They were certainly not as courteous as they were here. They would make comments about her thinning hair and expanding waistline after she delivered her son that would leave her breathless with indignation. Was it physically possible for people to speak with such audacity without combusting? But they would turn around and bring her homemade mango pickle and sarees and toys for her child because they thought she would like them, without her having to ask.

As in India, she felt a sense of bustle here. But it was all from within- managing expenses, looking for a job, raising her son while her husband was at work. She had been so busy running a house that she hadn't had time to cultivate it into a home. Long-distance telephone calls were so expensive that she hadn't heard her parents' voices since she had moved. There was such turmoil in her heart that she didn't understand how she could even convey it to her parents in a letter. She had never felt so alone.

And like a knife, the memory of the marigold pierced her. How she would help her mother choose them when she was a little girl. How they would sit together in the little prayer room, infused by the lingering scent of camphor, and decorate the gods and goddesses with the orange and yellow blooms. She would admire the jingle of her mother's bangles as she did this and dream of what it would be like to be sari-swathed and grown. It was the ritual they did together. It was their source of peace before emerging from their cocoon into the hectic streets of Chennai, filled with dust and the horns of motorcycles.

As usual, that evening, her son ran into her arms from the playground as soon as he saw her. As usual, he chattered about his school day and the friends he had played with as she gave him a bath. But instead of running to start dinner, she sat with him in her lap in front of her favorite idol of the goddess of learning and art, a gift from her mother. She pointed to the marigolds and asked her son, "Do you want to dress her up?" As he clapped his hands in delight and they chose the flowers together, she finally knew what to write in her first letter to her mother.