Anjali Banerjee:

GODDESS OF LEARNING

“Don’t be a party pooper, Divya. Come with me just this once!” Gita, all cleavage, curves and perfume, smacked her red, lipstick-drenched lips in front of the mirror. “They’ll even have a DJ at the frat house. You can’t stay here and study with Lyle Beanton again.”

“I can’t go with you, Gita. Lyle and I have a marathon night of homework.” Divya flopped on her bed and pretended to study her chemistry textbook, but the formulas turned into illegible Sanskrit on the page. A twinge of excitement stole up under her ribs. She longed to break free, to laugh and flirt without fear the way her room-mate, Gita did, but Divya had heard scary stories about fraternity parties. They could become mob scenes, meat markets where half-naked girls flaunted their assets for drunken frat boys. She was too shy to flaunt anything. But still—

“Homework, Shmomework,” Gita said. “Being a freshman isn’t just about studying. It’s about having fun, letting go. If my Ma knew I was wearing this--” She yanked a strapless black dress, tight as a glove, down over her hips, “She’d have a cow and die.”

“I’d rather not risk killing my beloved mother in that horrible manner.” Divya turned the page in her textbook. Or maybe she would take the risk. Her parents lived three hundred miles away. Her father wouldn’t pop his head in to make sure she went to sleep by ten. She could party all night. What a thought.

The tiny brass statue of the Hindu elephant-headed god, Ganesh, watched her from the desktop. A gift from her grandmother, Ganesh had helped Divya pass exams and excel in music and writing since her fifth birthday. Could he help her gain the confidence to mingle at a party, to flirt with an Orlando Bloom look-alike?

She peered out the dormitory window. Seven stories below, students moved like toy figures in the courtyard, their voices drifting up in a hum of excitement. The thrill of Friday night merriment swirled around her. She wanted to venture out and mingle, but she wasn’t bold like Gita, who knew how to exoticize herself; she’d put a tiny red bindi on her forehead and lined her eyes with black kohl. Guys love it, she’d said. You’ll see. Gita had grown up in Berkeley, had never left. She was comfortable here, where ethnic groups blended like oils on a palette. She had never been the only brown kid in school, had never endured little boys taunting Paki, Chocolate Shit Face. Did you rub your face in shit? Go back to Pakistan! Divya longed to forget childhood, leave it where it belonged, frozen in snow three thousand miles north.

“You’re the World’s Most Hopeless Case, Divya.” Gita pulled a brush through her silken hair. “You need to have a little fun. Why do you think they put us in the same room? So I could help you loosen up, that’s why. You’re a babe. Let down your hair, take off your glasses, and you’ll be a goddess.”

“You make a convincing case. But I think I’m here to keep you in line.” Divya glanced at the shadowy reflection of her bespectacled face in the window. Could she be pretty?

Gita leaned one hip and made a pouty, sultry face at herself in the mirror. “I bet whoever assigned us to rooms probably thought we’d be good little Indian nerds, happy discussing our arranged marriages and cooking curry together. Little do they know! We’re two wild and crazy girls!” Gita gave Divya an impish grin, and Divya couldn’t help grinning back. She could have fun. She could be beautiful. Maybe if she lost the specs—After all, she could see without them, as long as nobody stood too close to her face.

Gita turned around, hands on her hips. Her bright, shiny lips turned down in a delicate frown. “It’s crazy to hide in here all night. One last time, come with me. You’ll look back and wish you’d enjoyed yourself.”

Poised on the edge of a decision, Divya opened her mouth just as Lyle popped his head in the door. Lyle Beanton, her best friend, his glasses thick as the Earth’s crust. His blond hair stuck out at all angles and dirt speckled his glasses. “You going somewhere, Div?”

“Don’t you ever knock?” Gita fluttered her eyelashes at him. “I could’ve been naked. Don’t I look totally beautiful?”

“Yeah, whatever.” Lyle gave Gita a blank, perfunctory look and then smiled at Divya. Whenever Lyle smiled, his warmth and sincerity burst out all over his face. “I made chicken noodle soup, and I figured out the problem on page 257. What time do you want to study, Div? It’s getting late.”

The room fell silent, waiting for Divya’s reply. This was it. Lyle Beanton, the Nice Nerd of the Seventh Floor, was her best friend. Maybe her only friend. He had startling blue eyes behind those glasses, and if he washed his hair, he could be cute. But nice and cute weren’t good enough any more. Divya wanted excitement. The vibrant promise of Friday night made her starry-eyed and restless. Perhaps Lyle wouldn’t mind studying alone for just one night. She took a deep breath. “I’m—going to a party. With Gita. I’ll catch you when I get back.”

Lyle’s eyes widened. “A party. You?”

“Don’t look so surprised.” She sat up and squared her shoulders.

“Does she need your permission to go out?” Gita said.

“No fine. Div just knock when you get back.” Lyle ducked out without another word. Divya didn’t have time for regret. Gita already danced around her, pulling off her glasses, playing with her hair. “I’m so glad you’re coming, Div. Just a little make-up, some sexy threads, and you’ll be so hot.”

The deep bass beat pounded through Divya’s teeth. Packed with bodies, noise and the odors of perfume and beer, the dance hall shook. Divya had danced and danced, growing hotter and hotter, and now she lifted her hair to let cool air hit the back of her neck. Across the room, a man leaned casually against the wall. He’d been there a while notable for his height, broad shoulders and striking features.

And he was looking at her.

A little thrill spread through Divya’s insides. She was beautiful in an elegant mauve dress imprinted with a paisley print design, the only daring feature a slightly scooped neckline. She’d let her hair down and rimmed her eyes with kohl. So why wouldn’t a man stare at her?

She wasn’t used to the attention, and half of her wanted to step back and hide in the shadow. She forced herself to stay put. Could the man really see her in the dimness? Or maybe he was looking at someone behind her, but there was nobody there, only the wall.

Out on the dance floor, Gita swayed to the music, every motion a provocative suggestion of foreplay. A blocky football-player type flailed in front of her, mesmerized by her beauty. When the song ended she left him standing alone and rushed to Divya. “Little Miss Universe. I see that guy eyeing you over there. You go, girl! I’ll get you some punch.” Gita glided away, returned with a plastic cup and again disappeared in the crowd.

Divya gulped punch. Liquid burned her throat, sent a rush of heat through her chest. She wasn’t much of a drinker, but tonight the cup nestled like a warm companion in her hand.

The tall man had left his post. He was coming over.

Divya broke out in a sweat. Maybe she could dash into the hall, hide in the bathroom. She stood transfixed, heart pounding in time to the rhythm of the music. She tossed her empty cup into the trash. The man loomed a few inches away, stooping as though accustomed to looking down at people. Close up, he smelled of glycerin soap and faint metallic cologne.

“I must’ve met you in my dreams last night, Miss--?” His voice came out smooth and cultured, its deep baritone vibrating through her system.

“Divya,” she whispered, her throat dry.

“Indian name. The best kind to have. I’m Alan McLeod. At your service, m’lady.”

“I don’t think I need any—service.” Why did she say that? What did he have in mind, exactly? She didn’t think service meant doing her laundry.

“You never know. A knight in shining armor might come in handy in a crazy place like this.” He lips turned up in a slight smile. His irises were flecked, the color of peanut shells. He didn’t look anything like Orlando Bloom. He resembled a young Robert Redford.

“So you’re my knight? Where’s your horse?” There, score one point for Divya in the Witty Comeback department.

He glanced at the ceiling. “He’s upstairs, in my room. You don’t think I’d let my trusty steed stomp all over everyone down here, do you?”

“How do you hide him from the hall monitors?”

“We don’t have hall monitors. We’re all grown-ups here.” He moved closer to her, making her heart beat even faster.

“What’s your horse’s name?”

“Raja,” he said. “That means King in Sanskrit. King of horses. Did you know that?”

“Of course. I have a cousin named Raja.”

“Ah, you’re Indian. I knew it.” He pressed a hand to the wall behind her head.

“I grew up in Canada, though. I was only born in India. I feel—American.” Now why did she say that? She’d drawn Alan McLeod to her, and now she had nearly blown it with him.

“How fascinating.” He gave her his full attention, and the rest of the room—the noise, laughter, music—fell away. She heard herself talking, the words spilling out one after the other, about her childhood visits to Stanford where her father taught summer classes, about how she’d loved to wander the campus, pick eucalyptus leaves and crush them in her hand so she could sniff the sharp scent of menthol.

“Eucalyptus isn’t a native species,” Alan said. “Neither are you. I like that about you. You’re different from other girls. You have this—unknown element. In your eyes. They’re so dark. And your hair—Sexy.”

Divya’s cheeks flushed, and her chest tightened so much, she could hardly breathe.

Alan laughed, a deep, rumbling sound, and ran long fingers through his hair. “India’s such a cool, mysterious country. You’re a mysterious woman.”

Divya didn’t feel like a mysterious woman, she felt like mush about to melt into the floor. She wondered if Alan would ask her to dance, but he didn’t. “Come upstairs and see my steed?” he said instead. “You may be disappointed, though. He’s not real.”

“Somehow, I suspected as much.” There, she’d found her voice again.

“But good news--I don’t have a room-mate. Being a junior, I get my own room.”

Another little thrill raced through her. She could be alone with him, and the prospect did not frighten her. Instead, anticipation grew inside her. She wondered how his arms would feel wrapped around her, how his breath would feel against her cheek, how his lips would feel against hers. Would he try anything more? Would she mind so much if he did?

Like a sleepwalker she followed him upstairs to the end of a narrow, dim hall. The party receded into a muffled roar downstairs, distant and insignificant.

The heavy scent of incense hit her nose before she entered Alan’s room. A bedside lamp cast a diffused glow, transporting her to a Bombay bazaar; no Indian home would be cluttered this way. Indian paintings, statues and rugs emerged in the half-light. A brass God Vishnu and sandalwood sculptures encircled the bed — a jungle of bodies intertwined. A black, wide-eyed mask stared from the wall with mouth open, red tongue hanging out. A particular carving caught Divya’s eye — a naked couple, the woman leaning back, her legs wrapped around the man’s thighs, her face turned up in abandon. Alan wasn’t kidding. He really did have an obsession for India. Yet all these mementos had somehow lost their meaning, removed from their original contexts.

Alan strode to the desk and flipped through a dog-eared book. His face looked angular in gauzy light — solid, strong, with glittering eyes. Divya’s hands grew clammy. She stood in the center of the room, unsure where to sit. Should she try to make more witty conversation, or wait for Alan?

“Have you seen Satyajit Ray’s films?” he asked. “The Postmaster?”

She nodded. “A long time ago in India—I hardly remember.” In truth, she preferred independent films from France, Germany, and Spain.

“You remind me of the Indian girl with the round eyes. Only you’re darker—”

His voice melted into her memory of a dim theater in Bombay, rife with odors of coconut hair oil and sweating bodies. The audience had chattered through the whole show. She hadn’t felt like an Indian then; she’d felt like a Canadian irritated by noise, longing for order in chaos. That was how Alan’s room felt now: chaotic and unfamiliar.

“I love your black skin,” he said. “Were you born in the South? Chennai?”

Nobody had ever referred to her skin as black. She was dark, to be sure, but black?

“That’s a stereotype,” she said. “People with darker skin must be from the South.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” He lit an incense stick. “I meant to say I like tanned skin. That’s all. No big deal.” He stuck the incense in a stand on the windowsill. “Makes you look… healthy.”

“I’m supposed to be flattered, right?” She thought of Harold, the blond guy who lived on the sixth floor in her dorm. He dated only African-American women. Divya had never considered his choices, but now she wanted to confront him and demand an explanation, not that it was any of her business. People could date whom they wanted to date, couldn’t they? She wondered whether Alan had dated other Indian women, whether he complimented all of them on the color of their skin, on their Indian-ness.

“Why don’t you have a nose ring?” he asked. “They’re so ethnic.”

Divya imagined herself as a black cow, Alan tugging her massive nose ring. She nearly burst into laughter at the absurd thought. “Why do I need a nose ring to be who I am?” She picked up a wooden horse. The tail was cold, smooth and smelled of sandalwood.

“Well Indians wear kurtas, right? Or saris. How many saris do you own?” He wiped ash off the sill.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t see what an inventory of my wardrobe has to do with anything--”

“I think Indian clothes are so cool. Really ethnic.”

There he went, using that word again. “You’re ethnic too,” she said. “Everyone has an ethnicity.”

“My family was mostly Irish and Scottish--”

“Then why don’t you wear a kilt and blow bagpipes?”

“Hey, I’m a mutt, some English and Dutch thrown in, but India is in your bones. You should be proud of your heritage.”

“What makes you think I’m not proud? I am proud, but my bones are the same as everyone else’s.” She put down the horse. Her nose clogged with incense smoke and her eyes burned.

“Your name is Indian, your hair is Indian. Your eyes. Even your dress is Indian. Paisley.”

“I bought this dress at Macy’s.” Annoyance bubbled up through her insides, but Alan didn’t seem to notice or care.

He took his book and sat on the bed. “I want to show you something.” His peanut-shell eyes beckoned her, reflected lamp light. She hesitated, then sat next to him, aware of his breathing. What did he have up his sleeve this time?

He pointed at the page. His face twitched with excitement. Modeled in marble, the Hindu goddess Sarasvati gazed out from a glossy photograph. Even in stone, her eyes conveyed wisdom and peace. Two tiny consorts kneeled at her feet. Two more stood by, gripping sitars and lyres. “Goddess of learning, music and literature,” he said. “You look just like her.”

“That’s flattering. But… I’m not some statue.”

“Goddesses always reflect an ideal—”

“I’m not an ideal. Not even close.” She felt suddenly tenuous.

“You have her shape.” Alan moved closer until his leg touched hers. His breath carried a faint scent of mint toothpaste.

“Okay. You’re right. I’m made of ancient stone and my arms have broken off at the elbows.” She stood up and turned to face Alan.

“What? Silly. Come here.” He grinned and opened his arms as if he expected her to fall into them. Only a few minutes ago, she had wanted to. Oh, how had she had longed to fall into him, but this was too much. “Maybe I am a goddess.” She pointed at the book. “Did you know that Sarasvati is just one incarnation of Shakti?”

“I know Hindus pray to her when--”

“When they want to succeed in the arts. But do you know who she really is, what she becomes when she’s angry?”

“Sarasvati doesn’t get angry. She’s serene. Look at her face.”

“Oh yes, she does. She gets angry.”

“Divya, you’re not making sense.”

“When Sarasvati sees demons, she gets angry and rises to defend the world,” Divya said, gaining confidence. It was as though the essence of the goddess infused her with new power.

“Sarasvati doesn’t fight demons. She plays the flute.”

“How much do you really know about Hindu mythology?” She strode across the room to the window. She grabbed the incense stick between thumb and forefinger and snuffed it out. “If you make the goddess angry, she’ll become Kali, goddess of destruction, the consort of Shiva. She will become the black hag gripping severed heads, dripping blood. Kali, a synonym for black.” Divya pointed at the black mask of Kali with her mouth open, red tongue hanging out. “That’s her. Or didn’t you know?”

“I knew it was a ritual mask worn during the Puja—I’ve gathered many things like that--”

“Am I one of those things?” She spun on her heel. “To keep in your room?”

“Of course not.”

“How many Indian girls have you dated?”

Alan looked at his fingers. “Do I have to count them?”

“Ha--Do you ever date American girls? European girls?”

“They’re not that interesting.” He shrugged. “Everyone has preferences. Not everyone likes toffee, or chocolate. I like Earl Grey tea. You might like Indian chai. What’s the difference?”

“It’s different when it comes to people,” she said. “And maybe you’d better brush up on your Hindu mythology. You don’t want to disappoint the next exotic babe who comes to your room.” She couldn’t believe she was saying these things. Her body trembled, and she could see the shadowy ghosts of the Indian girls who had been here before. How many of them had bought into Alan’s obsession with India? It wasn’t a real appreciation of her culture—it was a voyeuristic fixation. Had she been wrong to emphasize those elements of herself in her dress, her make-up? No, she thought. She was Indian, but not in the way Alan wanted her to be.

A keen disappointment stabbed at her chest as she strode toward the door. She had wanted to be close to Alan, had fantasized about this tall, handsome man only minutes earlier. How quickly the heart could shift. She turned back toward him for a moment, her hand on the door. “Your trusty steed ran away, I see,” she said. “And I thought you should know. Just because I’m Indian, I don’t have to like chai. I drink double tall vanilla lattes.”

“Divya, wait--” he called as she left the room and returned downstairs to the party. She lost herself in the crowd, surprised to find the sting of tears behind her eyes. She had wanted the evening to work out, had wanted to get to know Alan, but if she’d shown up in jeans, her hair tied back, would he have given her a second glance? She suspected not.

In a few moments Alan appeared, his body jerking to the music like a rusty robot. He was looking for her, his gaze sweeping the crowd with precision. Then Gita glided toward him until the two touched elbow to elbow. She was the only other Indian woman here. Divya wanted to whisk Gita away and warn her. He doesn’t care who you are, and he doesn’t even know it, but Gita and Alan found each other like ship and beacon in the night. He leaned down, whispered in her ear. Gita threw her head back and laughed. Her hair brushed his arm. The two stood with gazes locked as the music ended.

Divya swallowed the lump in her throat and threaded her way to the front door. Outside, she started down the sidewalk in a cool, clear evening. Her breath condensed and dissipated in a soft cloud. Maybe Alan would see Gita for who she was, but somehow, Divya doubted it. Gita flaunted her assets. Although Alan would want to dive into her like plunging into an exotic, foreign ocean, Gita could take care of herself. She was an expert at handling men.

The moon had risen, outlining elm and oak trees along Divya’s path. Shades of mauve and yellow appeared in leaves that had seemed lifeless before. She stepped lightly, freely, buoyed by the goddess inside her.

She picked up the pace, hoping to catch Lyle still awake in his room. Perhaps he still had some chicken soup left, and later they could take a walk to Café Mediterranean for a midnight latte. Perhaps she might take off his glasses and get a better look at those brilliant blue eyes. A friend’s eyes. Honest eyes.