by Anju Gattani
“Master’s degree in arts or something. Let me see.” Pushpa flipped the photograph and read the details. She’d obviously not given this one much attention. “An oil painter. Good, maybe, no? For family reputation, and my Naina to have some creativity, some inspiration around here.”
Rakesh leaned closer. Didn’t he meet her at a dinner party two weeks ago? The father had introduced his daughter.
“Sheetal Prasad. Family owns a telecommunications business. Rana Prasad runs operations in India, and his brother in New Jersey, U.S.” Then she flipped the photograph right side up. “Induslink Corporation.”
“Is she established yet?”
“Of course! I just told you, I tell you. Her father’s company—”
“I mean, career-wise. As a painter. Artist. Whatever. Does she have her own business? Art studio?”
“No. Just painting at home for leisure. But she is good, I hear.”
Pushpa lived within hearing range of gossip, and whatever didn’t come through friends and family, passed through the club’s grapevine. “Good family. Decent family. But we can do better with that other girl, Rakhi. Such a powerful, strong family. Like us. Even that Nupur—”
“I’ll meet this one first.” He pointed at Sheetal’s photograph. “Then we’ll see.”
“Good!” Pushpa clapped her hands. “What a good day, I tell you. At least you agree to meet someone. And if you don’t like her, we can move up the ladder. Plenty of room for more opportunity, considering there are at least five families way above the Prasads.”
***
Rakesh reserved two tables at The Medit, an intercontinental restaurant notorious for its over-priced menu, chic décor, imported ingredients, and chefs with experience from the finest restaurants in Europe. Rakesh and Sheetal dined at one table and Sheetal’s female cousins dined at another.
Before dinner, Rakesh asked Sheetal if she would like a glass of wine, but Sheetal said she didn’t drink alcohol and ordered a glass of juice. Over dinner, Rakesh asked about her interests, and Sheetal answered, “Painting, reading, music.”
He waited for her to ask a question or two, but Sheetal kept looking at her watch, flipping the latch on her purse, or shifting her attention to other diners. Since it was obvious she didn’t have any interest in talking about herself, Rakesh explained his lifestyle, routine and the travel involved in his work as CEO of Dhanraj & Son. Before he could order dessert, Sheetal thanked him for the dinner and left with the chaperones, leaving Rakesh, as expected, to foot the bill.
She was perfect.
Chapter Fifteen
Garden of Rubies
After three and a half months of loneliness, Sheetal forced herself to stay awake one night to see if Rakesh came home.
She closed the bedroom door and settled on the sofa with a romance novel. The heroine met the veterinarian hero when she brought her Corgi to the clinic for a check-up. As the hero ran his hands over the dog’s back and checked its eyes, ears and tail, the heroine watched his slim fingers, gentle strokes, and noticed the absence of a wedding ring. The dog squirmed and whined, clearly uncomfortable with the stranger’s touch, but the heroine appreciated the doctor’s patient and calm manner.
He was gentle…so gentle. Like Arvind.
The words blurred. Sheetal recalled their meeting at the Broken Fort—his warm skin under her hand, the comfort of his arms around her—and her eyelids grew heavy.
A noise startled her awake. She looked at the bedroom door, but it remained closed. The digitial clock on her bedside table displayed 1:30 a.m. She rose, checked the bathroom and Rakesh’s walk-in closet. No one. She resumed her position on the sofa and returned to the bookmarked page.
The dog howled, and crinkles formed at the corners of the doctor’s lips and eyes. Even as the heroine assured her pet that it was in good hands, she was drawn to the doctor’s kind expression and couldn’t take her eyes off him.
Arvind.
She lowered the book to her lap.
He could see right through her. Whenever she looked into his eyes, he held her gaze. He saw her. Read each unspoken thought.
Sheetal rose and pressed the mirror-wall, hoping to find clues about where Rakesh went and what he did in his free time. She had tried the door numerous times, and on each occasion, found it locked. She paced the room, aching to lie on her side of the mattress.
No.
She left the bed’s footboard. She had to stay awake so she could find out what was going on.
She returned to the sofa, opened the novel, leaned against the armrest and blinked in an attempt to clear her sight enough to read.
At two o’clock, the door swung open and Rakesh walked in dressed in a navy-blue Armani suit. Sheetal waited for him to say something, to offer an explanation for his late arrival, or ask why she was up so late, but he simply loosened the knot of his red-and-blue tie and headed for the bathroom. He didn’t even bother to acknowledge her.
Running water drummed the glass shower box. Sheetal tried to concentrate on the words of the novel. She would return to Arvind soon. Just a few more weeks and all this nonsense would be over.
Her attention wandered to the mirror-wall on the left and the reflection of the bathroom door. She imagined drops of water beating against Rakesh’s chest, trickling down his smooth skin, white fog from the hot spray shrouding every inch of muscle while he ran his fingers through his gelled black hair. Blood charged through her veins, and she bit her lower lip in guilt. Did such imaginings betray Arvind?
Then the splash of water halted and seconds later, the bathroom door glided open. Rakesh emerged, a green towel wrapped around his taut waist while he dried his hair with a smaller towel. Droplets of water glided down the bulge of his muscles.
She forced her gaze back to the book, but stole glimpses of his reflection. Then Rakesh tapped the wall of his walk-in closet, adjacent to Sheetal’s. The door glided open, and he bent to one of the shelves.
A hot, moist sensation welled, rising and sinking, as her groin throbbed. The heroine of her story must have felt the same way with the stranger. Perhaps, the author had chosen not to write the details. She looked away. She wasn’t supposed to look at him. Not like this, even though they were married.
She moved to another seat, her back to him. Then Rakesh rose to his full stature and turned toward her. The towel around his waist fell to the floor. Sheetal tried to look away, but her eyes were glued to his reflection, and she snatched a glimpse of the naked manhood that throbbed between his legs. Their eyes locked for a second. A split second. She felt her soul being sucked away. Then he grinned, turned his back, and she could breathe again.
Sheetal tried to focus on the warmth of Arvind’s touch, the sinewy strength of his arms, but his features faded like a wall of fog misting between them.
***
Sheetal paced her room, nervous over the prospect of her first public appearance with Rakesh. Three hundred guests were expected to attend the anniversary party at the Hyatt Hotel’s Ruby Garden, including some guests from the U.S. and U.K. How was she supposed to behave as Rakesh Dhanraj’s wife in public when she still hadn’t figured out how to do so in private?
At precisely eight o’clock, Sheetal and Rakesh entered the Ruby Garden hand in hand, passing beneath a canopy of trees threaded with miniature lights. The hosts, Aradhna and Akshay Damani, welcomed and led them to the reception, where fountains sprouting golden cobwebs of champagne danced in the breeze. A quintet of musicians, including a saxophonist, seated on a miniature dais, played a soothing melody as Rakesh and Sheetal mingled with the guests. Rakesh placed Sheetal’s hand on his arm and led her from one group of friends to another. He addressed individuals by their first names and slipped into conversations with such ease, Sheetal suspected he’d grown up with these people.
Other Indian men, all crème de la crème of Raigun’s posh society, wore expensive clothing and spoke the Queen’s English that Sheetal had learned, but th
eir words were coated in a thick Indian accent and they didn’t carry themselves with half the suave sophistication of Rakesh.
Blessed with an unusually fair complexion and fine features, Rakesh, at six feet two, stood several inches taller than most Indian men. When he walked, he exuded a confidence that few of his contemporaries matched. When Rakesh spoke, his audience held their breaths. No one sipped wine or champagne, perhaps afraid of missing something significant. And when they wanted Rakesh’s attention, they made eye contact, awaited his nod of approval and then spoke. Some broke away from another group to shake Rakesh’s hand, or called the photographer to have a picture taken with him, adding a quick reminder that the photographer send them the link to the online album. Because Rakesh had graduated from Harvard and taken over a business empire at an age when others were still apprentices, he could speak his thoughts while others thought through their responses. He infused every sentence of the English language with American slang while others struggled to keep their British English intact. He drove an Italian Ferrari while others drove Marutis, Hondas and BMWs.
“Look here!” a photographer called out. “This way, sir. Madame?” Sheetal raised a hand in silent protest and turned away from the camera’s flash. She withdrew her hand from Rakesh’s elbow, but he slid his left arm around her waist and pulled her back, digging his fingers into her midriff. The air seemed to thickened.
Then a woman rushed toward Rakesh, gripped his right shoulder, aligned her body to his contours and pecked him lightly on the cheek.
Sheetal tensed.
Someone remarked upon Rakesh’s close proximity to the woman, but Rakesh laughed and ran a free hand along the back of his gelled hair. He pulled Sheetal closer, draped an arm casually around the other woman’s shoulders and whispered something in her ear that caused her to cock her head back and laugh.
Sheetal went rigid with anger.
The woman stepped away.
Rakesh erased the lipstick mark with his pristine, white handkerchief. “Jealous?”
Sheetal struggled not to explode.
“Calm down. She’s an old friend.”
So, just because Rakesh knew her, that gave this tramp an excuse to pounce on him? Sheetal turned away and the crowd blurred in her vision, their high-pitched voices and laughter, coupled with the music, making it hard to think.
“Sheetal? Sheetal?” someone called.
Sheetal turned toward the speaker. A camera flashed.
“Where did you and Rakesh go?” asked a woman in a red halter-neck evening gown and matching lipstick.
Sheetal closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This woman? The hostess. Her name? What was her name? Her head spun. She opened her eyes. How could she forget when she’d just met her an hour ago?
Sheetal had spent all evening trying to remember the names and faces of people she’d met, but she kept getting confused. She had tried to associate a person’s name with some element of their clothing, but when two people shared the same name, that method failed. “Go where again?” she asked.
“Your honeymoon, for God’s sake. Weren’t you listening?” The woman swayed to the beat of the music, causing the sash of her gown to brush the grass in long strokes.
Aradhna! That’s it. Sheetal bit her lower lip, embarrassed. She was about to explain why the honeymoon had been cancelled when Rakesh leaned over and whispered in Aradhna’s ear.
“You’re hilarious!” Aradhna giggled, playfully slapped Rakesh’s shoulder, then wrapped her long arms around him, and hugged him close. When she released him, she grabbed her husband by the arm and dragged him toward the dance floor.
Rakesh raised another glass of champagne to his lips and drained it. He turned to Sheetal and wrinkles tightened the corners of his eyes and lips. “Look what you did.” He reached for Sheetal’s waist and tightened his grip until she winced. “Embarrassed me. At this rate, we’ll be the laughingstock of Raigun.”
Laughingstock. First Papa. Now her husband. Was that all she was?
“Let’s dance.”
Sheetal broke free of his grip. “I don’t feel like it.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” He thumped his empty glass on a high-boy table and dragged her to the dance floor while Sheetal struggled to keep pace.
“Dance when I say dance. Understand?” He spun her around until she faced him. Swirls of sharp, silver zardozi embroidery pricked her skin. Her necklace’s double-string of mauve-colored diamonds pressed against her collarbone.
The crowd parted, Rakesh strode to the center of the dance floor, and people closed around them as the beat of bass thickened. Gripping Sheetal’s left hand, Rakesh flung her out of his embrace and then rolled her back again into the cave of his chest. She spun in and out of his arms, twirling and whirling as the pallu of her lavender sari swirled to the tempo of Rakesh’s force. He pushed her back, pulled her forward, and her body gave in to his demands.
The dance went on and on until the moon, stars, trees and miniature lights became one dizzy blur.
The crowd cheered in frenzy. Then the music revved to a climax, and Rakesh spun Sheetal halfway out of his embrace.
She reeled back, balanced on the heel of her left stiletto. She began to free fall. The moon and stars blanketed her vision just as her back slammed into the rail of Rakesh’s arm. She tried to stand, but the barrier of Rakesh’s body kept her down.
She needed light. Air. Breath.
Rakesh’s head eclipsed the moon, casting Sheetal into shadow. His lips, a hair’s breadth above hers, parted and the odor of alcohol washed over her. He pressed his lips against hers and drove his tongue between her lips. The thick, heavy taste of cigarettes burned Sheetal’s throat. The crowd roared, and Sheetal gasped for air.
“Now, that’s what I call dancing,” the DJ bellowed over the microphone.
Rakesh abruptly straightened and Sheetal struggled to remain upright as he forced her off the dance floor and made for the entrance. Strings of catcalls followed their exit as servers uncorked bottles of champagne.
A breeze swept across the sidewalk, but only now did Sheetal feel the chill. She tightened the sari pallu about her right shoulder as Rakesh ordered a valet to bring their vehicle.
“Yes, sir.” The man darted around a corner of the building, no doubt, frightened by Rakesh’s tone.
Rakesh lit a cigarette—the third this evening—took a drag, blew hard and lowered his fist to his side. The cigarette smoked in his grip. He tightened his fist until the knuckles turned white.
The valet pulled in two minutes later with the Ferrari and handed the keys to Rakesh.
Sheetal slid into the passenger seat, and the valet shut the door. She clipped her seatbelt, then leaned forward to straighten her sari pleats.
The tires screeched and she was thrown against the backrest as Rakesh sped off into the night.
***
Sixteen minutes and thirty-five seconds later, Rakesh dragged Sheetal upstairs to their bedroom, slammed the door behind them and hurled her across the bed.
Sheetal struck the duvet face down, heart pounding. Her panting blocked out any other sound, and she tensed in anticipation of a strike. A second rape.
She closed her eyes and prayed he’d leave.
The roar of the Ferrari engine through the closed window caused her to snap her head up and around. The bedroom door stood open. The room was empty.
Seconds later came the screech of tires and shattering of glass.
Chapter Sixteen
Typhoon Tycoon
The next morning, the Dhanrajs gathered in the Marquette Dining Room for breakfast, where a basket of croissants, platters of vegetable cutlets, upma, steamed vegetable semolina cakes, and platters of fruit embellished the table.
Naina slurped tea while Megha helped herself to a semolina cake. Seated at the head of the table, a Band-Aid and gauze taped across his forehead, Rakesh reached for a croissant.
Pushpa stormed in a
nd slapped The Raigun Herald atop the cutlets.
The headline on the “Life and Leisure” section read, “Typhoon Tycoon’s Kiss of Life.” A four-by-six colored photograph of Rakesh kissing Sheetal at last night’s party accompanied an article about the Damanis who had celebrated their first anniversary with such flare. However, the focus was on how Rakesh and Sheetal had lit the evening with their “fiery performance.”
Pushpa’s cheeks ballooned and she raised her eyebrows.
Sheetal sighed. Who would she have to apologize to this time?
Rakesh continued to butter his croissant as Mummyji walked over to Naina, stood behind her chair, pumped both hands on her hips and turned to Sheetal. “I hope there’s an explanation for this, I tell you. I expected you, of all people, to know better.”
“Leave her out.” Rakesh didn’t look up. “I’m responsible.
“Hai Ishwar! Sheetal’s also to blame.”
“I forced her.”
“And what were you thinking?” Pushpa gripped the finials of Naina’s chairback. “Your father was photographed for meeting prime ministers and presidents. At conferences and conventions. Not once, I tell you, did he tarnish our family name. And just look at what you’ve done. Nothing but night clubs, bars and showing off your playboy lifestyle to the media. For heaven’s sake, I tell you, grow up. At least live up to you father’s reputation, if nothing else.”
“I am not my father.” Rakesh clanked his knife onto the plate. “What I do is my business.”
“Last night you bang your car into a lamp post. Your business. You refuse to discuss it. Your business. It’s supposed to be all right, no, I tell you? Because it’s your business.” The freckles on Pushpa’s face darkened. “I—” She raised both arms in the air and was about to say something when she took a deep breath and lowered her arms. She softened her tone, “What if something happened to you last night? What if—”