by Anju Gattani
How could it be a surprise if she knew about it? “No.” Sheetal crossed her arms. “And I don’t plan to, either.”
“Well”—Mummyji raised a palm in the air, causing diamond bangles to jingle—“we’ll see about that. As for mealtimes—”
“I don’t think I’ll be hungry again.” Sheetal tossed the paper aside, full to the brim with commands, lectures and resentment.
“The hunger strike thing, no? We’ll see how long that lasts, I tell you.” Mummyji adjusted the sari pleats that fanned across her chest, then marched out the door.
A hunger strike. Sheetal sighed. Like anyone would care.
***
Sheetal phoned Mama twice or thrice a week, and every time she begged to come home, the conversation took the same turn. “You know coming here is not the answer, and it will only unsettle you,” Mama said this afternoon. “Your in-laws’ place is your home and you must give yourself time to understand the ways of their family.”
“But I need some time away from them. To think. To be myself,” Sheetal said.
“I will have to talk to Pushpaji about a good time for you to come and spend a month with us.”
Sheetal’s grip on the handset loosened and the instrument begin to slip. “But Mama, I can’t wait that long. It could take forever. And they’re so difficult. So obnoxious. So rude. Self-centered. And Mummyji keeps a close watch on me all the time. She even dared to—”
“Sheetal—”
“And Rakesh doesn’t care. He—”
“He’s your husband and the only earning member in the family,” Mama was firm. “Are you expecting that he wait on you hand and foot?”
Sheetal paced the length of the phone cord. “I’m not expecting anything. Just that—”
“It was the same when I married your father. I only saw him in the mornings before he left for work and late in the evenings when he returned. I spent all my time with his mother. But a woman like Pushpaji!” she raised her voice as if in awe. “To preserve the Dhanraj name, she must keep a close watch on everyone and make sure no one strays. So much pressure and effort to keep balance and unity in the family.”
Sheetal shook her head in disbelief. The marriage celebrations were over, the guests had gone home, but Mama was still fixated on the Dhanraj label.
“You are a grown woman now. Not a child. You will always be the apple of our eyes, but you shouldn’t expect—”
“You don’t understand, Mama. They keep shoving lists of rules and regulations down my throat. And act as if—”
“You’re not on holiday. Or a guest. And you’re not an only child now. You have two sisters-in-law and a responsibility toward them.”
Even though Naina was twenty and Megha, seventeen, custom demanded that Sheetal be mature, understanding, and assume a mother-like role toward her husband’s younger siblings.
“You must try and settle in,” Mama continued. “Respect your husband and mother-in-law. And remember—”
Sheetal tightened her grip on the handset. “I’m not comfortable here. Always on edge. Always—”
“Comfortable?” Mama cut her short. “We didn’t have a fraction of your comforts when I married your father. And until you were nine, we lived in Nariyal Ka Rasta. Have you forgotten? Sometimes, we scraped by with two meals a day. Remember that time? On the way back from school, you insisted on buying the ten-rupee coloring book. You must have been eight then.”
Sheetal thought hard but she couldn’t remember ever missing a meal. Mama would drop her off and pick her up from school every day on foot and Sheetal, like any other child, wanted to buy some trinket from the roadside stalls. However, one day she insisted on buying a coloring book from a magazine stand. Mama explained that it was expensive and they should let it go. Eight and stubborn, Sheetal insisted on buying it and Mama gave in.
“I know, Mama. You’ve told me before.”
“I was meant to use that money to buy vegetables for the evening’s dinner. And spent it on the coloring book you wanted.”
Sheetal’s heart sank. Mama had never told her they’d gone hungry because of the incident. “So, what did you eat?”
“We managed.”
Her heart fisted in her throat. They managed to stay hungry because of me? Sheetal bit her lip and her attention fell on the princess-cut diamond ring. The ring would have fed her family for years back then. It could have bought them proper windows instead of chipped wooden shutters to keep out the stench from the streets. It could have repaired the flush so that they didn’t have to pour buckets of water down the sit-and-squat-on toilets. It could have—
“And you must learn to manage now,” Mama’s calm voice filled the speaker. “You have everything any woman could want. Learn to fit in. Find your place in your new home.”
***
With no better alternative, Sheetal decided to learn about the Dhanrajs and their history. She read past newspaper clippings and magazine articles carefully filed over the years in transparent sheet covers, which filled several binders.
She returned the pop quiz unanswered, much to Mummyji’s dismay, and spent evenings reading in the peaceful quiet of the Japanese garden behind the mansion.
The Japanese garden, shaded by clusters of trees rich with lush foliage, offered Sheetal respite from the mansion’s cold temperature and the outdoor heat. Landscaped with bridges, ponds, miniature waterfalls, rockpools and bonsai trees, this extension meandered to a clearing at the far back where the gardener burned dead trees, hedge trimmings and dried leaves.
Sheetal took her favorite spot on a bench on the far right, near the pond of Japanese koi, and began reading an article from three years ago, written after the late Ashok Dhanraj’s death. It described how Ashok had died of a heart attack, and how Rakesh took over Dhanraj & Son immediately after and guided it into a multi-million-rupee empire.
Rakesh was described as the Harvard graduate-returnee who made it big by proving industry pundits wrong. Industry leaders claimed that new business strategies and innovative marketing techniques learned in the U.S. would not work in India. They believed the only way to keep the Indian economy strong and self-reliant was by barring international goods. However, Rakesh pointed out that the international playing field was levelling and the country couldn’t function in isolation anymore. Collaboration with international brands, allowing them access to the Indian market and, in return, gaining access to markets abroad, was the only way to prosper and fuel economic growth. The jump in Dhanraj & Son’s stock price months later proved the point.
Sheetal was about to turn the page when the tink-tink of porcelain rattling on a trolley caused her to look up.
Mummyji was making her way toward Sheetal. A servant followed, wheeling a tea trolley. “My meeting at the club was called off, I tell you.” Mummyji reached and settled upon the stone bench. Her body blocked the sunlight. “So, I decided to spend my evening with you.”
How thoughtful. Sheetal smiled as the gray-uniformed servant poured hot masala chai into two teacups.
Mummyji grabbed a cup and saucer and began sipping the tea in loud, irritating slurps. The servant handed Sheetal the second cup. She took it reluctantly.
“Perhaps it’s good my meeting got cancelled, I tell you. With Naina so miserable and upset, I shouldn’t leave her alone until she gets better.”
“Is Nainaji all right?” Sheetal asked. “I haven’t seen her in two weeks.” After the incident over the trees, Sheetal had steered clear of Naina, making sure to avoid crossing paths or being in the same room with her. This was relatively easy, considering the mansion had endless corridors and rooms. However, lately, she hadn’t seen Naina, at all. Clearly, something was wrong.
“I know,” Mummyji sighed. “It’s something you must get used to.”
Sheetal stared at the tea in her cup and winced. “I don’t drink tea. I prefer coffee.”
“Well, you’ll get used to the taste over time, no, I tell you.”
Sheetal was about to emphasize that she didn’t like the spicy, milky flavor, but Mummyji didn’t give her a chance.
“In her room for ages now. My Naina refuses to eat or do anything, I tell you. Hai Ishwar!” She fluttered her thick brown eyelids and coughed. “She goes through…these…these phases where she needs to be alone. After a while, once she’s her usual self again, she’s normal. Nobody understands. Poor child,” Mummyji’s voice cracked and a tear glistened in the corner of her eye. “It all started with Ashok’s death. Of the three children, I tell you, only Naina loved him the way a real daughter should. She’s the only one who really cared for him. She was so hurt after his…his…” She began to sob.
Sheetal’s throat tightened. She hadn’t meant to upset Mummyji.
“Anyway.” Mummyji wiped the tears with her fingers and instantly stopped crying. “Let’s talk about you now.”
So, Mummyji wasn’t here to talk about Naina. She was here to exchange information about Naina in return for some of hers. Sheetal gritted her teeth.
“Are you more comfortable here?” Mummyji fidgeted with her necklace’s diamonds. “It’s been three months.”
Sheetal didn’t want to appear difficult. “Everything’s a little different. It’s still taking a while to get used to. New home. New place. New faces.”
“Oh!” Mummyji’s cheeks ballooned into a smile. “I’m sure you must find everything here, the quality of being a Dhanraj, so much better, grander, richer. No?”
No! Was being a Dhanraj all Mummyji or anyone else cared about?
“Anyway”—Mummyji waved a hand in the air—“I often worry about you and Rakesh. Are things all right between you two? I know Rakesh doesn’t give half the attention you deserve. Perhaps he’s a little uncomfortable with you, no?”
Me? Wasn’t it obvious she was the one uncomfortable with him? She was uncomfortable with Mummyji, too. Had Mama talked to Mummyji behind her back?
“I wonder sometimes whether you two are as intimate as you should be. What with your honeymoon to Europe cancelled, I tell you.”
Something urgent had came up at the office and the planned two-week trip to Europe had been cancelled, much to Sheetal’s relief. Two nights with Rakesh was enough discomfort to last a lifetime.
“With Rakesh so busy, I think you should join him in the office,” Mummyji continued. “That way you’ll be more helpful and can spend time together. I have no clue, I tell you, what’s happening in the company since Ashok died. Rakesh doesn’t tell me a thing. And because he doesn’t spend time with you, I”—she pressed a hand against her chest—“am doing my personal best to help you fit in. All the socializing, I tell you, we’ve been doing together…it’s only brought us closer—no?”
Sheetal had accompanied Mummyji to several dinners, charity events and exhibitions, but she hardly knew anyone in the Dhanrajs’s circle of friends and business acquaintances and felt more like a model used to showcase the latest designer sari and jewelry than a family member.
“You don’t know how worried I—”
Sheetal broke in, “We’re fine, Mummyji. We’re old enough to manage our relationship. You do understand,” she softened her tone, “bedroom doors were made for a reason. So that people knock before entering. Perhaps the reason we don’t have the intimate relationship we should is because you barge in whenever you want.” With that, she snapped the hefty black binder shut and walked off.
Chapter Fourteen
Picture Perfect
Rakesh grabbed a black DuPont pen from his six-feet-long cherry wood office table and leafed through a stack of papers. Tiny red arrow tabs marked several black lines, indicating where he should sign. He twirled the pen between his fingers and sighed. This would easily take thirty minutes. He skimmed the fine print. On second thought, fifty-five minutes.
Rakesh read every document in detail before he signed, especially the fine print, because that’s where the loopholes were placed. And he was not one to fall for them.
Yet, he’d managed to get stuck in the biggest loophole of his life. The guests had come and gone, Pushpa had enjoyed her week of glory as the groom’s mother, and everyone else had witnessed the matrimony of a lifetime. But he was now stuck with a wife.
The pen accidentally left his fingers and landed near a wedding photo of him and Sheetal, taken after the Varmala Ceremony, and now sealed inside a black and silver frame. They were frozen in time, like gold and silver mannequins, and from Sheetal’s expression, she’d just woken from a nightmare.
The feeling was mutual. No contract to dictate the parameters of the deal. No fine print to hunt for hidden clauses. Just a marriage certificate they signed after the wedding, binding them as husband and wife. He shook his head and swiveled his chair to face the swarm of skyscrapers beyond the floor-to-ceiling window.
At least, he’d established authority in their first week, and established the marriage rules–which was good. So far, Sheetal hadn’t interfered with his work or caused any trouble. Still, the thought of her presence in his home, room and bed was enough to make him wince.
Rakesh propped his right elbow on the armrest, stretched his legs and swiveled away from the crowded view. He had explained to Pushpa that he wasn’t cut out for marriage or settling down and that he was content as a bachelor. All he wanted was breathing room. However, Pushpa argued that most good Indian men married in their late twenties—thirty, at the most—and if he didn’t, all the ‘good girls’ from ‘good families’ would be snapped up.
“Leftovers. That isn’t what you want, I tell you,” Pushpa’s words swirled in his head. He had just returned home from work and she’d started again. “For how long will you live like this? Reckless. Awara.”
Rakesh tensed. He wasn’t a nomad.
“Clubbing every day, I tell you. Drinking. Spending time with clients. How many dinners? How many—”
“It’s for work.” He dumped his Saatchi briefcase on a Fulton White ottoman and sat on a single seater.
Pushpa had arranged thirty photographs of eligible bachelorettes on the glass table. Some women wore saris, others wore salwar suits, but they all shared one thing in common. They came from wealthy families.
Rakesh was about to protest, then stopped. What was the point? Pushpa would have her way in the end, like she had seventeen years ago, shortly after his real mother, Rashmi, gave birth to Megha and then died of post-natal complications. Pushpa and three-year-old Naina marched into their lives a week after Rashmi’s funeral, and Ashok introduced them as the new mother and sister.
Pushpa had been quick to take control of their lives.
Pushpa grabbed a photograph, flipped it so that the candidate’s information, scrawled in black marker, faced him, and turned to Rakesh. “Sasha. Five feet nine…”
The backs of each photo listed all the pertinent information, from the candidate’s height, body measurements, complexion, education and hobbies to the family’s net worth. But Pushpa had obviously spent so much time preparing for this moment that she had memorized their details. Though an Indian man was expected to study hard, marry in accordance with the parents’ wishes, have children, and provide for the family, Rakesh was sickened by her behavior.
“You have to marry,” Pushpa insisted. “Don’t turn away, I tell you. How else will I find a suitable boy for the girls?”
‘The girls’ meant Naina.
“They will think something is wrong with you. Us. And then what future is there for the girls, I tell you?”
Because Rakesh was ten years older than Naina, he had to marry first so they could move forward with Naina’s matrimony. It was the only way to get rid of her.
“You must think of your sisters and their futures. If not for that heart attack three years ago, your father would still be here and handling all this. But he isn’t. And you owe us this much, at least.”
His attention fell on the photographs. Saliva lodged in his throat. He gulped.
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Pushpa reached for a photograph of a woman in a blue and magenta salwar suit. The woman had a pleasant expression and leaned against a waist-high pillar. “Nupur. Twenty-four. Five feet ten. Bachelor’s degree in arts. Working in her father’s jewelry business, I tell you. Likes to dance, watch movies, play the piano…”
Rakesh leaned over for a closer look. She was pretty but overconfident. Given her business experience, she’d probably try to meddle with his affairs at Dhanraj & Son.
“No? There’s another good prospect here.” Pushpa grabbed the photograph of a woman wearing a blue-and-gold-bordered sari. “Very talented, I tell you, this one. Rakhi Sengupta. Twenty-six. Five feet eight. Studying to be a doctor in Amrikaa. Parents are both doctors in Amrikaa and they recently inherited a huge estate on the outskirts of Raigun.”
“America,” Rakesh corrected her and perched both elbows on his knees. He linked his fingers into a fist below his chin. A doctor in the house? She’d be more focused on starting her own practice—if she wasn’t already running one—and not have time to be a mother-figure to Megha. Any conflict in schedules meant she could back out of social obligations on a whim and leave him high and dry. Besides, her complexion was too dark. She wouldn’t complement his height, sharp features or good looks. He needed someone he could take out to dinners, parties and clubs. “No can do.”
Pushpa replaced the photograph in its slot and picked up another of a woman dressed in a lime green salwar suit. She began rattling off a list of the woman’s attributes, but Rakesh’s attention snagged on a woman wearing an orange sari, her photograph tucked on the far-right corner of Pushpa’s display.
“Oh, now you are interested, I tell you?” Pushpa grabbed the photograph and raised it to eye level. “Not on top of my list. But well-established family in Raigun. Only twenty-two. Very young. Too young for you, perhaps, no?”
Not too young. Not too dark. Her skin was a light coffee color and her eyes brown and soft. Not overconfident, as revealed by the hint of a forced smile.