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Zusatztext “ Oleander Girl is a riveting and powerful exploration of family secrets! betrayal! love! and ultimately! the search for self. Divakaruni paints colorful characters on a rich tapestry of modern India! all still haunted by the past.” Informationen zum Autor Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni is the author of sixteen books! including Oleander Girl ! The Mistress of Spices ! Sister of My Heart ! Palace of Illusions ! One Amazing Thing ! and Before We Visit the Goddess. Her work has appeared in The New Yorker ! The Atlantic Monthly ! and The New York Times ! and has won! among other prizes! an American Book Award. Born in India! she currently lives in Texas and is the McDavid professor of Creative Writing at the University of Houston. Klappentext From the bestselling author of "One Amazing Thing!" a sweeping! suspenseful! atmospheric coming-of-age novel about a young woman who leaves India for America on a search that will transform her life. Divakaruni has been hailed by Junot Diaz as a "brilliant storyteller" and by "People" magazine as a "skilled cartographer of the heart." Oleander Girl ONE I’m swimming through a long, underwater cavern flecked with blue light, the cavern of love, with Rajat close behind me. We’re in a race, and so far I’m winning because this is my dream. Sometimes when I’m dreaming, I don’t know it, but tonight I do. Sometimes when I’m awake, I wonder if I’m dreaming. That, however, is another story. I smile and feel my mouth filling with cool, silver bubbles. Rajat’s fingers brush the backs of my knees. Even in my dream I know that if I slow down just a bit, he’ll grab my waist and pull me to him for a mischievous kiss. Imagining that kiss sends a shudder of pleasure through me. But I don’t want it yet. The chase is too much fun. I surge away with a splashy kick. Hey! he calls out in spluttering protest, and I grin wider. Competitive, he slices through the water with his fierce butterfly stroke and lunges for my ankle. I wait for his strong, electric grip to send a current through my veins. My mouth floods with anticipation of our kiss. Then out of nowhere a wave breaks over me. Salt and sand are on my tongue. I try to spit them out, but they fill my mouth, choking me. Where’s Rajat when I need his help? Gasping, I thrash about and wake in my bed, tangled in my bedsheets. In my mother’s bed, I should say. The bed I used every year when I came home from boarding school for the holidays. The bed that’s made with the same sheets she covered herself with as a girl. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I know at once that someone is in the room. My heart flails around. It’s impossible. I always lock the door before going to sleep, and the window is barred. But there it is, in the armchair in the corner of the bedroom: a still female form, black against the darkness of the room, looking toward me. “Mother?” I whisper, my fear replaced by a yearning that’s as old and illogical as anything I can remember. I know so little about my mother, only that she died eighteen years ago, giving birth to me—a few months after my father, an ambitious law student, had passed away in a car accident. Perhaps she died of a broken heart. I never knew for sure because no one would speak to me of them. My grandparents had to put aside their own broken hearts to care for me, and I’m grateful: they did it well. Still, all through my years growing up, I longed for a visitation from my mother. The girls in my boarding school whispered stories about such occurrences, deceased parents ap...
