for his sister rather than look for a bargain.
As she expects, they are here to buy uniform shoes. For Loreto House, which is the poshest of the convent schools in Calcutta. The girl moves to the foot measurement stool, but already Jiang has called out to the salesgirl to bring A-22 and 23, and C-601 and 602, in youth size 3, narrow. Four pairs of shoes arrive, two black and primly laced for schooldays, two white with tiny silver buckles for holy days. They fit perfectly. The sister offers Jiang an awed glance, and even the young man is impressed. He chooses A-23 and C-602, which are the more expensive designs, and then as Jiang is about to lead them to the sales register, he tells her that he would like to buy another pair for Meena. Her first set of high heels. Would Jiang be so kind as to pick out something suitable, since she has such fine taste? Here he glances at her feet, at the elegant square heels she is wearing, their dark blue leather a perfect match for her pencil skirt. But his glance does not stop there. It flickers (but not disrespectfully, she decides) over the skirt, which shows off Jiang’s trim figure to advantage, over the lace blouse with the tiny puff sleeves, over her neck, her chin, her mouth, and comes to rest on her eyes.
Jiang is not totally inexperienced with men. She has attended numerous socials sponsored by the China Club, where she has had occasion to fend off dozens of ardent would-be suitors. But today, as she calls out for L-66 and P-24, in beige and dark brown, she finds that her throat is dry. Meena tries on the shoes; Jiang recommends the P-24 in brown; the brother declares that it is the perfect choice.
While a delighted Meena takes a wobbly walk around the store in her grown-up footwear, her brother hands Jiang his card. Jiang has never known a man who carries a card. She looks down at the white rectangle in her hand-how heavy, how smooth-to find that his name is Mohit Das, and that he is a manager-at such a young age!- at National and Grindlays Bank. He is thanking her for being so helpful; he is asking if she would like to go to Firpo’s with him after work tomorrow for coffee and dessert; he is asking for her phone number; he is asking her name. Jiang? he says. In his mouth it sounds elegant, more exotic than she could ever have imagined herself to be. At the end of the corridor, he turns to wave. Everything has happened so fast that she is almost too stunned to wave back. But she manages. She raises her hand-still holding his card-and smiles.
Thinking back on those days, Jiang will most remember the food. The delicate flavor of marzipan and petits fours on her tongue. And later, crisp moghlai parathas eaten in tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurants where you could sit safely in a “family cabin” curtained off from the other diners. When they grew bolder, there were clandestine coffees and steamy vegetable cutlets among students at the Coffee House on College Street, and crisped-rice- and-potato chaat bought from street vendors because he wanted her to learn what real Bengalis loved to eat. The streetside snacks were so pungent that they made her eyes water, but even as she dabbed at her face with Mohit’s handkerchief, she had to admit the taste was worth every tear.
“I FELL IN LOVE, OF COURSE,” JIANG SAID. “WHAT IS FORBIDDEN is attractive. Also what is different. Also, when it is the first time. Put all of them together, they make strong wine.”
Whatever Mohit’s original intentions, he, too, succumbed to that intoxication soon enough. Additionally, as he observed her at work (sometimes, daringly, he would come to the store), he was taken by her fierce business acumen, her canny bargaining, her ability to match customers with the product best suited to them. Then there were the stories she told, about growing up in what he thought of as the Forbidden Palace. Were there really such fantastical places in Calcutta? He had to see for himself. And so, after a few months of clandestine meetings and stolen kisses in restaurants and movie theaters and the dusty carrels in the backs of university libraries, he armed himself with a box of Flurys cream pastries and persuaded Jiang to take him to her father so he could ask for her hand in marriage. The expected fireworks ensued. The grandmother threw a fit and threatened to return to China. (No one was too concerned by this, however; the family had migrated to India generations ago and did not even remember the name of their ancestral village.) But what surprised Jiang was that her father, usually so malleable, dug in his heels.
“He told me my marriage would fail,” Jiang said. “When I told him I loved Mohit, he said,
Finally he couldn’t withstand her tears. He gave Jiang and Mohit reluctant permission to keep seeing each other. After a year, if they still felt the same way, he would reconsider the matter.
Mohit’s family proved tougher. Devout Hindus and staunch Bengalis, they were devastated by the prospect of their only son, carrier of the generations-proud Das name, marrying a Chee-nay heathen. The thought of slant- eyed, octopus-eating grandchildren sent Mohit’s mother’s blood pressure rocketing, confining her to bed. Mohit’s father sat him down for a man-to-man talk, in the course of which he informed him clearly that he would never give permission for such a perversion to occur in his family.
An incensed Mohit moved out of his parents’ house to stay with a college friend in his hostel. Soon after that, three men showed up at the shoe store and informed Mr. Feng that bad things would happen to his daughter if she didn’t leave Mohit alone. A shaken Mr. Feng forbade Jiang to leave the house. Chafing in her confinement, Jiang began to hate the home she had cherished until now. She was able to call Mohit at his office for only a few minutes each day, speaking in hurried whispers when her grandmother was taking her bath.
Mohit assured her of his love. He wasn’t going to buckle under his father’s pressure. They would elope. They would go to Darjeeling or Goa. He told her to pack her valuables and be ready. But he sounded harried. She could tell he missed his family; she understood how torn he felt. As she hid an old suitcase under her bed and filled it with clothes and the few jewels she owned, the thought of her father’s face when he discovered her defection pierced her with guilt. As she lay awake at night, imagining her life with Mohit in a hill town, or in a seaside cottage awash with bougainvilleas, she worried that one day each might blame the other for what that life cost them.
Who knows how things would have turned out? But both Jiang’s grandmother and Mohit’s mother, convinced of the imminent ruin of their families, sought divine intervention. The grandmother lit joss sticks at Kuan Yin’s shrine; the mother offered hibiscus garlands to the goddess at Kalighat. They both asked for the same boon:
Over millennia, people have bewailed with some justification the tardiness of the mills of the gods, but in this case they began grinding at once, though perhaps not quite in the way the requesters had envisioned. Three days after the petitions, a unit of the People’s Liberation Army of China attacked an Indian patrol in the Aksai Chin region of the western Himalayas, setting into motion the Sino-Indian War of 1962. The PLA advanced south past the McMahon Line into Indian territory, attacks spread to the eastern Himalayas and thus closer to Calcutta, and Chinese forces took over both banks of the Namka Chu River. Intelligence reports cited massive Chinese war preparations along the border. News of dead or captured jawans appeared in the papers. The Chinese consulate shut down, rumors of Mao’s plan to bomb Calcutta ran rampant, and panic flared in the city.
People stopped patronizing Chinese businesses. Stores were vandalized. A popular Chinese restaurant was set on fire because a group of customers got food poisoning and believed it was part of a deliberate plot to kill Indians. Chinese banks failed. Crimson slashes of graffiti denouncing Chinese spies appeared on the walls of houses where Chinese families were known to live. The government ordered individuals of Chinese origin to register themselves and present papers for identification. Jiang and her brother were lucky. They had been born in a hospital and had Indian birth certificates. But many others, whose families had been in the country for generations-like their Indian counterparts-had never thought of acquiring official papers. Jiang’s father was one of these.
“He was placed under house arrest,” Jiang said. “We had to lock up Feng’s and let the employees go. We didn’t know what would happen to our property, or to us. Our friends had similar problems. Vincent quit his practice. No one trusted a Chinese dentist anymore. We spent our time at home glued to the radio, trying to guess our fate. There were terrible rumors. Many friends abandoned their property and left the country. Every day the Calcutta port was jammed with Chinese trying to get berths on ships.
“I called Mohit again and again. He wasn’t there. Once a coworker picked up his phone and told me Mohit had taken leave because his mother’s health was worse. He asked my name. I didn’t give it, but I could tell he was
