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The e-Life of Beena Patel

Fiction

By Anne Gordon PerryPublished 3 years ago Updated 3 years ago 10 min read
2
The e-Life of Beena Patel
Photo by Hans Vivek on Unsplash

Beena sat at her husband’s old desk holding her phone. As she dialed her daughter’s number automatically, she adjusted her sari.

“Hello?”

“Shalini—”

“Mummy, I’m driving to school.”

“Dear God, be careful. I was watching the tele—”

“And?”

“There are floods in south India.”

“Mummy, we hardly know anyone in the south. Almost there. I have an exam.”

“Some buses washed away.”

“Mummy, you really should get e-mail—”

“Over 40 people died—”

“Have to go, Mummy. Talk tonight.” Click.

Beena looked at the clock. How should she spend her afternoon? That morning she had arranged her spices in alphabetical order by their English names: anise, basil, cardamom, cloves, coriander, cumin, and so on. She had dusted her shrine and picked fresh marigolds from the garden to lay before Ganesh.

A computer. Hm. Her son Dhaval also wanted her to use one. But now they were in college, who would teach her to use it? Her husband had offered, but she was too busy with the children, the house, carpools, Halloween costumes, and adjusting to Arlington, Texas.

She hadn’t been to India in years. Her phone bill was high from keeping up with family gossip—another reason to use e-mail, according to Shalini.

All right, she thought. I will go look at computers. She grabbed her purse and went through the kitchen into the garage, a room her relatives from rural India had been fascinated with, as they thought it meant she was very rich. If only they knew….

Beena pulled out of the driveway cautiously. Even though she had her own car for more than two decades, she had preferred her husband to drive.

Best Buy was crowded. A young man, Sammy, asked how he could help her.

“I am looking for computer,” she said, after introducing herself to him.

“What kind?”

She shrugged. “For Internet.”

“You want a basic computer for word processing and Internet use?”

“I think so.” But what words would she be processing? She was used to writing by longhand.

“Toshiba’s on sale.”

Her mind flashed to her favorite market in New Delhi, where she would bargain until the price was acceptable, and then have a cup of tea with the shopkeeper.

Sammy looked at his watch. “Sure you want a computer?”

Beena laughed. “My children think if I have e-mail, I won’t bother them by calling.”

“My mom sends me messages all the time. But a lot of it’s spam she’s forwarding.”

“Spam? For sandwiches?”

Sammy laughed then asked, “Are you related to Dr. Gopal Patel, my math instructor at UTA—”

Beena stood straighter. “My husband.”

“My favorite professor.”

Beena stared at Sammy, wondering if he had been in the class when her husband had collapsed from heart failure. In the end, she bought a Toshiba—not because she really wanted it, but because she enjoyed talking with Sammy.

* ************************

Beena tried unsuccessfully to set up the computer. She called Sammy, who sent over the Geek Squad. At last, she was ready to send her first email.

Dear Shalini and Dhaval, I think about you both, always. I now have a computer and have learned to process words and send messages. Please write back when you can. I love you very much. Mum

Within minutes came a reply from Shalini: omg mummy u r so hip! btw my cars falling apart gotta run

Beena winced. This, from the young woman whose English papers sparkled? She hoped Shalini wasn’t taking drugs.

Dhaval was so surprised by her message that he called her. She hummed Indian tunes all afternoon.

************************

Beena discovered that her relatives in India were prolific correspondents. Suddenly, she was getting news—who was dyeing her hair, who was arranging a marriage—jokes, shopping tips, gossip. Being on-line was magical!

After she woke up, she checked her e-mail. Then she explored the Internet. She learned to understand Shalini’s cryptic notes, filled out forms, received discount coupons and invitations for free gift cards. Soon her inbox was burgeoning.

One day the sun went down, and she was still in her pajamas, had never made her bed. Her spices were disordered, and the marigold flowers had shriveled, but it didn’t seem to matter. Everyone wanted to communicate with her—Beena Patel. She was offered mortgage-refinancing, government grants, business opportunities. It pays to be in cyberspace, she thought. Now I am an established citizen, respected.

One day she received a message entitled “Lonely?” from a dating service and immediately wrote back: Thank you for your message. While I am technically single, I will not dishonor the memory of my husband by dating. I appreciate your concern, but I am not interested in your service. Warmly, Mrs. Beena Patel

Oddly, the messages continued. Another day, this appeared: UPSET BCOZ OF UR SHORT DlCK? S-ensational revolution in medicine! Inlarge your penis up to 10 cm or 4 inches! You will be impresed with results!

How could anyone post such a message? And how could they possibly think that Beena was a male’s name and address her in this way? Her inbox became gorged with offers to enlarge or shrink body parts and other things she could not possibly want. Despite the messages she sent suggesting discretion or offers to help with spelling, she received no response. Create your offspring with Spermamax, one message read. You wiIl have more sperm then water in the ocean and sperm will be tasty as a cake.

Disgusted, she asked Sammy about why her computer attracted undesirable messages.

“It’s spam—every computer can get it.”

“Spam. Not for sandwiches.” This time she laughed, too.

********************

Then she received a heartbreaking message:

Greetings, Madam. I am Alhaji Mohammed Abacha, only child of a father who was a rich cocoa merchant in Abidjan, economic capital of Ivory Coast, before he was poisoned to death by business associates. When my mother died in a terrible car accident, I became motherless.

“Dear God, poor boy,” Beena exclaimed.

Before the death of my father, he called me and told me that he had $38,000,000 dollars—

Beena gasped.

—in a finance company and as next of kin I should seek a foreign partner where I would transfer this money and use it for investment.

Beena’s heart raced.

Madam, I solicit your assistance: to provide a bank account where this money will be transferred, to serve as guardian of it, since I am 19, and to help me continue my education and procure a residential permit in your country. I offer you 25% of the total sum for your efforts and 5% for any expenses you incur.

Her mind whirled. Yes, she could house the boy; he could go to UTA. She knew how to get a residence permit. He was Muslim, but she had always been respectful of other religions.

Please, madam, this should be concluded within seven days, so I am out of sight from my father's enemies. This transaction demands absolute confidentiality. There is a saying in my country, Loose lips sink ships. I look forward to your urgent, positive response. May Almighty God bless you, amen. Alhaji Mohammed Abacha

Beena stood. How and why this had come to her was a mystery—but perhaps it offered the solution to her problems.

Beena went into the kitchen to prepare a cup of chai. She wondered what the boy would study, how her relatives would react when they heard she had adopted a young man from Africa—a Muslim. Well, it was her business, and she could travel, buy some new clothes, perhaps even offer her children some security. Dear Alhaji, she wrote. I am sorry you’ve had to suffer so much. I have a spare room for you; the university is nearby. I can help you with your residence visa. Here is my number. I will not betray your trust. With the loving regards of a surrogate mother, Mrs. Beena Patel

She paused only briefly before clicking send.

**********************

The call came during the night.

“Mrs. Patel?”

“Yes?”

“This is Alhaji.” He sounded older than she imagined. “So happy you can help me.”

“Yes. Are you out of danger?”

“I will be—if you can just give me your account number, so I can transfer these funds.”

“Of course.” She went to get her savings passbook and read the numbers to him. He repeated them back, slowly.

“When will the money arrive?”

“Tomorrow, I hope.”

“Will you have the funds to get your ticket to Arlington?”

“Where?”

“Arlington, Texas.”

“I will e-mail you.”

“Your room will be ready.”

“Thank you. Goodbye!”

She heard a laugh and then a click. Perhaps it was strange for him to think about a room prepared for him, after such hardship.

In the morning, she sent him particulars about Arlington, then practiced his name aloud: Alhaji, Alhaji, Alhaji.

She put on her best sari, marigold orange with a gold border. She carefully coiffed her hair. At the bank, she asked Mary, the teller who had been there since Gopal first opened their account, if there had been a deposit that day.

“Let’s see…. No. Expecting something from Shalini or Dhaval?”

“I cannot divulge the source.” Beena’s eyes were bright. “I will check later.”

“Namaste.” Mary smiled, using the one word she knew to use with her Indian clients.

“Namaste.” Beena sang out. Walking out, she remembered how it felt when she was first in love with her husband.

A second stop by the bank revealed no change. She went home to check her messages, but there was no response from Alhaji. He is still in danger, she thought.

She lay down, exhausted. As she slept, she dreamed of her wedding day, of a pile of coins she sorted with henna-painted hands.

Darkness greeted her when she awoke. Her beautiful sari was rumpled. She fell into a pensive state. What if he were unable to transfer the funds? What if he were shot and killed?

In the morning, she donned an everyday sari and drove slowly to the bank.

“Good morning, Mary. Any deposit today?”

“I’ll look.”

“Thank you.”

“Beena—there is nothing in this account.”

“Pardon?”

“The account is empty. There was a withdrawal yesterday afternoon for . . . $36, 592.67—the total amount.”

Beena clutched the counter. “That is impossible. He was going to put money into the account.”

“Who?”

Beena’s head swirled. Loose lips sink ships. She shook her head.

“You can’t say?”

Beena dropped her purse on the floor. She felt hot; her hands shook.

“Does this have anything to do with the Internet? You may be the victim of a scam.”

“Alhaji,” Beena whispered. “How could you?”

* ********************

At home, Beena leaned numbly against her kitchen wall. She sorted her spices. When she could face her computer, she read: Here writes Madam Rita Smyth, sufering from cancer. My husband Sir David Smyth was in privat practise before his unforetunit death, depositing 20 Million Pounds for the upkeep of widows, orphens, and . . . Beena deleted the message. She felt no instinct to respond, not even to correct the spelling.

Then she wrote: Dear Alhaji, I’m sorry you will not be coming to my home to pursue your education, your dreams. Perhaps with the money you have now, you will find other opportunities—

Before she could continue, she dusted off her shrine and prayed. Dear God, help me, help us all. She lit candles and called upon Krishna, Radha, Ganesh, and Saraswati. Then she invoked Zoroaster, Moses, Jesus, Bahá’u’lláh, and even her dear husband, Gopal. Finally, she turned to Muhammad. Forgive your son. He could have been anyone’s son—and then the tears fell.

She went back to finish her message: I have prayed to Allah and Muhammad for forgiveness for you. Surely, they are the same Gods who watch over us all. Sincere regards, Beena Patel

After that, there was nothing to do but go to her garden, where she gathered the last marigolds of the season to place on her shrine.

Short Story
2

About the Creator

Anne Gordon Perry

A writer of fiction, poetry, essays, and biography, Anne teaches college writing and humanities and lives in Texas with her husband and (now) a bunch of cats.

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