She had intended to take him to Buzzed (even though the thought of running into Achyut was nightmarish), but as she neared the place, she realized that it was later in the evening than she had thought. By the time she and Harit bought their tea and sat down, they would have very little time to converse, let alone process the surely upsetting news that Harit had to share. Her next thought was Paradise Island, but knowing how dark and isolated it could be in that spot, she could not bring herself to take him there; he would find it just as reckless as she did. Then she had a genius idea: she had told Mohan that she was going to the grocery store, and since it was a superstore, it was no mere collection of produce, canned goods, and paper products but, rather, a veritable shopping mall with a café at its center.
She broke the silence, merely saying the word “groceries” as she turned into the massive parking lot, and Harit seemed to relax. She imagined that he saw the same series of reliable things that she had in mind: the cool grip of the shopping cart, a serene village of greenery and colorful packages arrayed in its netted-metal bottom; the strangely satisfying image of your face glimmering back at you on the glass of large refrigerators and freezers. And then, of course, there was the café, nestled between the produce and dairy sections, where you could get a cheap cup of tea or coffee amidst the frenzy of shopping. This is where she led him, after stopping to place a small tub of Dannon yogurt and a block of Land O’Lakes butter in her cart.
*
Ranjana would hear the story about Swati as a short story, and she would write it down later.
ON HER EIGHTH BIRTHDAY, Swati received a Barbie doll from her aunt Manisha, her father’s sister. Swati had seen the dolls, usually tucked away in display cases behind store counters and shimmering in their gowns. To actually hold one in her hands, to see the butter-colored tug of its hair and the high arches of its small feet, felt like stealing. The doll stayed in her possession at all times, except when her family went to their temple in Delhi and she kept it under her pillow at home. Had her brother been remotely mischievous, he would have seen it as an opportunity to torment Swati, hiding it in unexpected places or even disfiguring it. Instead, he was a quiet, respectful child who clearly adored his sister, and if Barbie was the most important thing in her life, he would pay the doll dutiful attention.
Barbie was dressed in a demure blue dress with a checkered pattern on its front. An apron, tied with a neat blue bow in the back, hugged her waist and curved over her ample bosom. The blood-drop of her lips and her arched, dark eyebrows seemed to come equally from India and another planet, and Harit dreamed of these things whenever he had the chance. (Later, he would realize that the attention he paid to the doll had less to do with whatever feminine prowess it exhibited and more to do with how much his sister adored it.)
In a household with very little in the way of decoration, a doll as beautiful as this was able to hold sway over everyone. Because Barbie had been given as a gift from a family member, she was not banished from the dinner table but, rather, sat next to Swati’s plate, as if she were judging every dish placed on the table and every bite of food that each person took. Swati would begin to tell the family what had happened during her day by speaking directly to the doll. “Barbie, today we learned about Nehruji and how he studied a man called John Maynard Keynes, and now we have to write three pages in our copybooks about economics.” Harit’s mother and father would smile between themselves and occasionally roll their eyes, and Harit himself began to see how important it was to be as creative as this, to find life as imaginative and decidedly odd as Swati made it to be.
Children have the tendency to pick up and then quickly discard their toys in favor of other ones, but Barbie maintained a powerful spell over Swati. As the years passed and Swati became a more self-possessed young woman, Barbie began to assume a symbolic role in her life. Even as Swati grew up and the doll was in her possession less and less, it seemed to leave an impression of its presence, charmed and strange. As one might associate Harit with the clip-on maroon tie that he often wore as a child, one would imagine Swati as she had been with the Barbie in one hand or positioned next to her plate or keeping watch from the windowsill near her bed as she slept.
Although Swati was not vain, she began to resemble the doll more and more. She exaggerated the kohl around her eyes, flicking up two streaks toward her temples, and her lipstick became redder. As she developed breasts, the white cotton shirt that she had to wear as part of her school uniform began to expand, completing the mimicry. She looked at that doll and said, “That’s what I want to be.” And, more or less, she was.
To Harit, it was fascinating that aging could make you a more defined version of what you already were. Swati seemed to grow in confidence because she practically willed it so. She seemed to be asserting herself as a strong-minded, smart, and worthy woman—not just something to be looked at but someone to respect and admire.
Then, eight years after she had received it, Swati lost the doll. It was on the windowsill next to her bed, and then, the next morning, it was gone. She berated Kamila, their housekeeper, because she was convinced that Kamila had taken it to give to her own daughter. This accusation seemed not only rash but unfathomable, as Kamila and her daughter would never have dared to commit such an indiscretion.
Swati searched the house. She checked under the couch and among its cushions. She got on top of a chair and scanned the surroundings of her bedroom, then accidentally toppled off and bruised her elbow. She explored their foul-smelling toilet, thinking that it may have been thrown in there (by God-knew-whom and for God-knew-why). With no one else in the house but her parents, Harit, and Kamila, she began to suspect that a burglar had taken it. But what kind of heartless, juvenile, and deranged burglar would break into a house just to steal a doll?
Like something out of a dark fairy tale, the doll began to assume, in its absence, an even stronger and decidedly destructive hold on Swati. She was a charming and pretty girl with lots of friends and the clear adoration of her family, yet this one little thing seemed to affect her extraordinarily. She was a teenager, a young woman with more important things that she should be focusing on, yet she seemed to be acknowledging a sad fact of life: she had come to that moment that a growing child fears but never suspects will actually happen, that at some point the symbolic accessories of youth will have to be discarded in order to acknowledge the serious responsibilities of adulthood. Begrudgingly accepting this fact, Swati began to pay less heed to her looks. Gone were the exaggerated lashes, the confidence in her appearance, the graceful but excited gait of her walk.
Her mother finally said something. Harit was making roti with Kamila, the kitchen alive with floating flour particles that caught the light. He heard his mother call Swati to the sitting room, and he knew that Barbie was going to be the focus of her speech. Kamila clucked her annoyance (she couldn’t believe that this ordeal was still happening), and Harit craned to hear the conversation.
“Beti, you must stop worrying over this. It is gone, and it is not coming back.”