by Anju Gattani
Sheetal took the cloth and angled the photograph away from Janvi’s view. “Why don’t you wipe down the furniture?” She gestured to several chairs on the far side of the room.
Janvi did as she was told, and Sheetal studied the framed photograph she held. A woman in her mid-thirties, dressed in a pastel pink sari, smiled at the camera. Her black hair was parted down the middle, the fashion of previous generations, the part filled with red sindoor. Fair of complexion, the woman had a heart-shaped face, like Megha, a gentle smile, and warmth exuded from her eyes.
Sheetal wiped off more dust and Ashok’s familiar face appeared to the left. He had jet-black hair, a sharp nose and a jawline that angled sharply to a heavy-set chin. His tightly pressed lips suggested a man of no nonsense, and his focus on the camera showed his determination that the shot come out perfect. If not for the thick, black glasses, Sheetal could have sworn she looked at an older version of Rakesh. She wiped the bottom half of the frame and a boy, about ten, with ruffled black hair, smiled from ear to ear. Baby fat clung to his cheeks and chin as his dark brown eyes sparkled with mischief.
“What that?” Janvi asked.
Sheetal started and looked up. Janvi peered over Sheetal’s shoulder. Didn’t she order her to the other end of the room? “Nothing. Just some old stuff. Why don’t you see if Memsahib needs help? I’ll call if I need you.”
Sheetal waited for Janvi to leave, then wiped other photo frames. She found one of the same boy and woman seated side by side on a lush lawn. The boy had his arms wrapped around the woman, and she held him close. Another photo portrayed a man and woman seated cross-legged on the floor in a carpeted room, their expressions somber. They were flanked by others as if they were the focus of attention at a religious function. Another photograph showed the boy and Ashok standing before the Dhanraj mansion, their arms straight by their sides. The boy’s lips were pursed and he looked straight at the camera as if he had been made to follow instructions.
Why were all these family photographs packed away and hidden?
“Sheetal?” Mummyji called out. “Where are you, I tell you?”
Sheetal hastily returned the frames to the box and shoved both boxes into the closet.
Chapter Nineteen
Shark Bite
Rakesh crossed his arms, tired of waiting in the Japanese garden for Pushpa. At twenty past midnight, there was no sign of her.
“Rakesh?” Pushpa’s hushed call came from the open dining room door.
He approached her. “What’s so urgent that you had to meet me like this?”
“Wait.” She paused. “All right, we can talk now. Come inside.”
Rakesh entered and closed the glass patio door.
“It’s about Sheetal.”
“I married her. My job is done.”
“Shhh!” Pushpa grabbed his sleeve-covered arm and dug in her nails. “Quiet, I tell you. Someone will hear.”
“This is stupid.” He took a deep breath and shook his head. “Like a thief in my own home.”
“The only stupid one here is you. Your wife is moving to another room and you don’t even know, I tell you.”
“So?”
“You fool!” Pushpa hissed. “Very soon she’ll move out of our home. If she leaves, what will happen to the girls? Why, if the Malhotras find out, I tell you, they’ll think something is wrong with us. With Naina. And break off—”
“Nothing will happen,” he firmed his voice so Pushpa would stop overreacting. All it took was one trigger to set her off like a firecracker.
“How can you guarantee?”
“Because it’s my fucking marriage. Not yours.”
“Such language! But it’s not just my Naina who’s at risk. If Sheetal goes, you’ll have no chance.”
He pried her fingers off his arm, fed up with her constant schemes. She was like this huge barrel of interference that just lolled around the mansion day and night. “What chance are you talking about now?”
“The Prasad fortune.”
“We don’t need their fortune. We’re way better off than they are.”
“You have everything now, I tell you. But a shark can only survive on smaller fish. And I kept telling you those other girls, Nupur or Rakhi—”
“What’s the point?”
“Sheetal is an only child. Once Rana and Indu are dead, the Prasad fortune is hers. And what belongs to Sheetal becomes yours. But only if you are still her husband.”
Chapter Twenty
The Lion’s Lair
Over the next two weeks, servants scurried through the mansion in a frenzy of Diwali cleaning in the belief that Lakshmiji, the Goddess of Wealth, roamed the Earth on that night and showered money on those families who had cleaned their homes from top to bottom.
Even though the Dhanrajs held assets in stock, real estate and cash to last them ten lifetimes, it obviously wasn’t enough for Mummyji. She had every blade of grass and flower petal on the front and back lawns hosed down. She demanded that every crystal on the twenty-one chandeliers gracing the mansion, sparkled until she could see her reflection in each.
Having never seen a cleaning frenzy of this magnitude, Sheetal watched in amusement, relieved this would be her only Diwali here.
On day seventeen of the cleaning frenzy, Mummyji threw open the door to Sheetal’s bedroom, marched in and opened Sheetal’s closet.
Sheetal placed her newspaper on the sofa, rose and followed Mummyji, furious. “You promised to knock before entering.”
“No time, I tell you, for such formalities. So much cleaning to do.”
“In this room?”
Mummyji browsed through Sheetal’s sari collection. “We should take a look at your clothes first, I tell you. Must make sure everything is in order.”
“How could anything get dirty or worn when I just moved in five months ago?” Even a dust mite would think twice before invading this place!
“No need to get all fussy, I tell you. We’re just getting rid of rubbish for Diwali.” She clucked her tongue, then began pulling saris off hangers. “These must go, I tell you.”
“Where?”
“Donate them.”
“Why?”
“Because…well, because—isn’t it obvious?”
Nothing around here was obvious.
“They’re not good enough.”
If Mummyji didn’t like them, that was her problem. “They’re custom-designed. Mama and I spent hours selecting them.”
“Well, you’ll never look like a Dhanraj in any of them, I tell you.”
“And what is a Dhanraj supposed to look like?”
“Hai Ishwar! Didn’t I demonstrate recently? But you young girls nowadays just don’t pay attention. Gave you plenty of time, I tell you, to prepare for the pop quiz. To follow my perfect schedule. But you—”
“I don’t need instructions on how to live my life.”
Mummyji dropped the saris on the rug, whipped around and pumped both hands on her hips. “Oh, but you will when no one gives you any respect. No one listens or cares what you have to say. And no one believes you. That’s when you will see. In any case, I’ll just remove every inappropriate sari and replace them. In fact, how does a new wardrobe sound? Good, no?”
Sheetal positioned herself between Mummyji and the remaining saris. Any sari this woman replaced would be paid for by the Dhanrajs and considered their property, not hers. She wouldn’t be able to use any of them when she started her new life with Arvind. “No.”
“Ai-ee!” Mummyji squealed. “I am trying to put things in order, but you just don’t understand. Out of this room at once!”
“You can’t kick me out. This is my room.”
Mummyji shoved Sheetal out the room, slammed the door in her face and locked it from the inside.
Sheetal tightened her fingers into fists and stared at the door in shock. How dare this woman throw her out of her room? Where was she supposed to go? To the
Marquette Dining Room? That was used only for meals. The Fulton Whites? That was the formal seating for guests only. The Bradford Brown sofas? That was Naina’s turf, and she was bound to throw a fit and stake her claim if she found Sheetal there. The room on the south wing was still a mess.
Sheetal paced the north wing. The railings blurred in her vision. What kind of a nuthouse was this? Seventy-five thousand square feet of living space and not an inch of breathing room! Sheetal was about to leave for the Japanese garden when her bedroom door swung open.
Mummyji left the room, marched past and headed for the stairs.
Sheetal hurried in and gasped at the sight. Fifty of her saris were strewn over the floor. To think, five months ago, they had been pleated, folded and carefully shaped into kites, peacocks, boats, the ocean, and put on display. Now, they were rubbish, according to this woman.
Sheetal squatted to gather her belongings. Two and a half more weeks, she calmed herself with that thought. And then, no turning back.
***
On the evening of Diwali, Sheetal checked herself in the mirror one last time, determined to prove what a real Dhanraj should look like. Through the window, blue, red, green, gold and silver fireworks showered the night sky.
Fireworks signified the triumph of good over evil and Lord Ram’s homecoming to Ayodhya after a fourteen-year exile, during which he defeated the demon king Ravana.
Sheetal adjusted the antique kundan diamond-cut ruby necklace along the curve of her collar bone and used a tissue to wipe a smudge of maroon lipstick on the lower left corner of her lip. She peeled a sticky maroon-and-gold, S-shaped bindi from a packet, pressed it between her eyebrows, ensured the sindoor running down her middle parting hadn’t smudged, and aligned the heavily embroidered crimson sari pleats across her chest one final time. Finally, she was ready.
At the first-floor landing, Sheetal took a sharp right and entered a corridor that cut diagonally beneath the stairs to the temple.
Most Indian families maintained a temple in a prominent location in the house, but the Dhanrajs’s temple sat tucked away from view because Mummyji didn’t want the gods to distribute her wealth and good fortune to visitors.
A marble statue of Lord Krishna holding a flute to his lips stood on a pedestal in the temple’s center. A one-by-two-feet photograph of an idol of Lakshmiji, bordered in gold-leaf and glittering with crystal ornamentation, occupied a low marble platform on Lord Krishna’s right. Red velvet rugs spread on the floor offered a place for worshippers to sit and pray, but Megha and Naina stood in a corner of the room while Mummyji paced. Megha was home from college for three weeks, while bank and office employees only had the day off.
Megha rushed to greet her. “Ooh, you l-look g-gorgeous, B-Bhabhi.”
“So do you,” Sheetal lied.
Megha fidgeted with the dupatta of her pastel pink chikan-embroidered salwar suit. Her kurta, a size too large for her petite frame, drooped off her shoulders and the full sleeves ran past the tips of her fingers. The hems of her straight-cut pajamas pooled in folds between her heel and the floor, hampering her gait. “I b-bought this outfit j-just l-last week.” She slid her glasses up the bridge of her sharp nose and smiled, but her chapped lips quivered.
“If a prince sees you tonight, he may steal you. Then we’ll have two summer weddings to prepare for instead of one.” Sheetal winked.
Naina added, “I wouldn’t be surprised, na.” Overdressed in a bright purple sari with a string of large amethysts garlanding her neck, Naina’s eyelids were clogged with purple eye shadow and her lips with matching lipstick. “Megha has this habit of trying to steal my moment.”
Sheetal pursed her lips and turned to Mummyji. “Is this what you meant by dressing up as a Dhanraj?”
Mummyji looked from Sheetal to Naina and back. “Are you hinting that my Naina—”
“Did you hear that, Mummy?” Naina whined.
“S-stop c-complaining.” Megha crossed her arms. “It’s n-not your fault if a m-mirror c-cracks every t-time you l-look in one.”
“Quiet everyone, I tell you.” Mummyji adjusted her eyeglasses, checked the contents of the silver puja thali that contained mounds of religious grains, rice and vermilion powder, positioned near Lakshmiji’s photograph, then flipped through the pages of a book. “Now, where is that Lakshmiji aarti?” she referred to a hymn sung in honor of the goddess.
In the framed picture, Lakshmiji was depicted wearing a pink-and-gold sari, standing on a fully blossomed pink lotus. Two of her four hands held miniature pink lotuses, a third showered gold coins, and the fourth, with forward-facing palm upraised, showered blessings on worshippers.
Offerings of flowers, fruits, joss sticks and sweet mithais made by Laal Bahadur were arranged before the photograph.
“Let’s begin now, I tell you,” Mummyji announced.
“B-but B-Bhaiya isn’t here yet,” Megha protested.
“Prayers have to be performed according to prayer times, not Rakesh’s schedule.”
“Did I hear my name?” The scent of thick, heavy Zara cologne permeated the air as Rakesh sauntered in, his black, silk kurta pajamas with gold trimmings swishing with every step.
“You’re late,” Mummyji said.
“I was on a business call.”
“It’s a holiday, Hai Ishwar! Who works on Diwali?”
“The Belgians,” Rakesh answered. “And if you haven’t noticed, I’ve been working from home all day.”
“Honestly!” Mummyji huffed. “What do others care about our festivals or—”
“I agree,” Megha turned to Rakesh. “F-from n-now on, you should t-tell your b-business c-clients t-to c-coordinate their holidays with our Hindu c-calendar.”
“Enough!” Mummyji cut in and turned to Rakesh. “Don’t you have a more sensible color to wear? Lakshmiji only comes when she sees beauty, cleanliness and festivities, I tell you.”
“All I can say is there’s too much festivity going on here.” Rakesh raised his eyebrows at Naina. “I thought I’d balance it out.”
“Mummy!” Naina pouted.
Mummyji shook her head. “I meant something a little more appropriate, I tell you, like—”
“Sheetal’s sari? I’ll keep that in mind.” Rakesh grinned. “Megha? Remind me to have a word with Khanna Sahib”—his personal designer, Arjun Khanna—“to match my wife’s bloody maroon for next Diwali.”
Heat spread across Sheetal’s shoulders. She turned away.
Mummyji clucked her tongue. “Such language before puja time, I tell you. Now, sit down, everyone.”
The Dhanrajs sat on the rugs, crossed their legs, and Mummyji had Sheetal inaugurate the prayers by lighting eleven shallow, earthenware diyas filled with oil and cotton wicks. After the final diya wick flared, Sheetal dotted the edge of the diyas with vermilion powder and sprinkled dry grains of rice. Fifty more diyas awaited Sheetal’s attention, but she would light and decorate the mansion with those after the prayers concluded. The ritual of worshipping and decorating the home with diyas commemorated Lord Ram’s homecoming after fourteen years of exile.
Diwali, an auspicious time for inaugurations and new beginnings, gave Sheetal hope for a better year ahead, away from these people.
Sheetal dotted Lakshmiji’s forehead with a bit of vermilion powder and dry rice, pressed her palms together, closed her eyes, and prayed for the next two and a half weeks to fly by and never return. Then she scooted behind Naina and Megha, took her place on Rakesh’s left, and waited for the others to offer their prayers.
Something cold tingled along her midriff. Sheetal wiggled to brush it off. Seconds later, something sharp pricked her waist and Sheetal swiped a hand to brush it off. When something slithered down the curve of her back, she gritted her teeth and turned to Rakesh.
Rakesh’s eyes sparkled. He slid a hand behind the sari pleats, across her chest, and traced the lower curve of her right breast.
An electric charge surg
ed through her veins and Sheetal tensed. How dare he, in front of everyone? Then Rakesh snuggled his left thigh under hers. What game did he play this time? Why was he touching her when he wanted nothing to do with her?
She inched away, but he pressed a hand on her thigh, a command to stay.
She couldn’t speak for fear of embarrassment. Blood rushed to her head and she exhaled to calm herself.
The snap and crackle of distant fireworks and Rakesh’s constant fidgeting made her turn to Lord Krishna for help. She focused on his flute.
Stay focused. Just a few more days.
They stood to sing Lakshmiji’s aarti.
After the song ended, Mummyji called, “Now, Sheetal. Megha. You two will decorate all the rooms with diyas. And from now on, Sheetal will light the first firework and decorate the house with the first diya every Diwali.”
“That’s not fair!” Naina protested. “Why should Bhabhi get all the honors? What about me?”
“As the fu-ture lady of the house, I tell you,” Pushpa clarified.
“Sheetal, Shee-tal, SHE-ETAL!” Naina screamed. “You act as if she owns the place.”
“You will be married by this time next year, I tell you. And Mrs. Malhotra will do the same for you. Besides, how can Sheetal own the house or anything when the estate and mansion are all in my name, and I am alive and breathing?”
Sheetal took rapid, shallow breaths. Precisely what were Mummyji’s intentions? To celebrate or insult her as a member of this family?
“I bet when she’s—”
“Stop it, Naina. Enough from you, I tell you.”
Naina tossed her hair away from her face, turned on her heels, and rushed out in a flood of tears.
“Don’t mind her,” Rakesh whispered. “She’s always been spoiled, but marriage should put some sense in her head.”