Writing

The Strand

There was a rhythm to the Strand, a steady stream of books entering the store. They flew in from basements, bedrooms, personal libraries, secret attic stashes. Some were being sold because someone needed money. Some were being sold because someone had died or moved suddenly. There had been a disruption and the books couldn’t come along. They’d been thrown into the air to where they would land. A safe space was the Strand, where they would be loved.

When I began to work there, Ben took me under his wing. Ben McFall was a legend even back then, the Oracle of the Strand. Every day, a stream of Ben’s admirers came to the store. They’d bring him gifts of chocolate, flowers. I’d always know who these people were when they first entered the store and make a beeline for the back where Ben’s Fiction desk was. Around Ben, I’d see their hard shells of protectiveness fall. I’d see them break open, becoming innocent bookworms, the children they’d once been. Ben would pull the material out from under his desk and their adult faces would break open into flowers

Even celebrities came. Cecily Tyson, Tom Brokaw, Fran Lebowitz. So maybe that was why it was not outside the realm of possibility when Rekha and her assistant walked into the store.

Rekha was pure gold, literally; she was wearing a gold sari, gold purse, gold in her ears, gold in her neck. Her sari was covered with a coat, but I could see glimpses of the gold underneath, swishing at her feet. She moved through the aisles in ripple waves. I couldn’t help feeling afraid for the dust it was picking up.

How many hours had I spent watching Rekha dance across the screen of Bollywood movie, her three dimensional presence falling out of the blockbuster Bollywood movies, onto the living room floor of my childhood home.

What was she looking for? Where was she going? She had the magnificence of the ocean moving through the store.

Then I had a realization: no one knew who she was. No one recognized her. No one was saying anything, and if they glanced at Rekha, it was the way that people would glance at my own mother, not oh my god, the biggest mega star of Bollywood, a legend, an icon. Just immigrant. Immigrant woman.

Of the woman next to her, they might say: immigrant, immigrant man. Farzana, the name came to me now. Farzana was Rekha’s assistant, but everyone assumed they were lovers. Farzana was dressed like my father when he was in his work clothes: beige pants, a white shirt rolled up at the sleeves. She had glasses, short haircut cut. Her every sense was attuned to Rekha. Her arm was around Rekha’s back, as if shielding her from the masses. Even though there were no interested masses at the Strand. Everyone was just interested in their books. It was so obvious now, what I had not processed or put together before. They were lovers.

Rekha walked to the back of the store towards Ben and I felt them as two forces moving into the center. I moved closer, hiding behind a bookshelf. I was so close I could smell Rekha’s perfume walked by, the smell of tea roses as she drifted past.

“Ben?” In her mouth, his name was glorious. “They said to speak to Ben.”

Ben peered at Rekha over his glasses and a smile moved across his lips. “Yes, I have the book for you.”

He pulled a paper bag out from underneath his desk. “We have to keep it back here, but I don’t mind. I like it when things are illicit

Something tugged at my brain with that world, another reality. Illicit.

He smiled his Cheshire cat smile. Farzana and Rekha looked at each other and laughed and just like in the movies, Rekha’s laughter was as beautiful as a water-soaked prayer.

I laughed too, and Rekha turned. Her gaze was so startling. She became the owl, and I became the mouse.

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