Duty and Desire

by Anju Gattani

  Another eight months to go until Naina’s marriage, and the last thing Sheetal wanted was to waste more time with these people. She turned to tell Rakesh she didn’t care, but he was gone, leaving behind the scent of Zara.

  The Diwali celebrations finally ended at two a.m., after numerous telephone calls to family, friends and relatives wishing them all a happy Diwali. Sheetal trudged upstairs, barely able to stand. Everything in her vision blurred. She eventually made it to her bedroom, closed the door, and trudged toward the bed, reminded of her exhaustion on her first night in this house.

  Her feet ached, and she yearned to lie down and sink into the mattress, but she had to get out of these clothes. She unfastened the safety pins, unraveled the soft maroon sari and tossed it across the footboard. Then she unfastened a series of blouse hooks running down her cleavage, peeled the blouse’s spaghetti straps off her shoulders, and draped the blouse next to the sari. She groped behind with one hand and released her bra clasp while pulling hair pins from her chignon with the other.

  The door of the mirror-wall swung open.

  Rakesh! She squeezed her shoulder blades to prevent the bra straps from slipping, grabbed the sari, wrapped herself, and rushed to her closet. She tapped the wall and glanced back. He headed toward her.

  She entered and the sari tightened against her chest. She clutched the fabric, turned, and bit her lower lip.

  Rakesh held the end of the sari and tugged gently.

  She looked past his shoulder to the door. She would have to pass him to escape. "I didn't realize you were here. I assumed—"

  Rakesh advanced and the sari sagged.

  "I shouldn't have changed in the open, but I was tired."

  "Promise, I won't bite," Rakesh said as if reading her mind. Then he wrapped the sari around her, ever so carefully, leaving a short trail on the carpet. “I should leave.” Rakesh slipped an arm around her waist. His thigh pressed hers and she leaned away from him. He pulled her toward the bed and she stiffened. Then he let go. "You're not ready." He headed for the mirror-wall. "Give it time. Come, let me show you something." He pushed open the mirror-door and waited.

  The sight of her reflection in the mirror-wall caused warmth to spread along her shoulders. She turned away, embarrassed at her semi-nakedness, but Rakesh returned and pivoted her so that she faced her reflection. He pressed against her hip,and the bulge of his manhood swelled and pulsed against her in a rhythmic cadence. She cringed, pulling her left shoulder away from his touch. She bit her lip and tasted her own blood. This time, Rakesh had nothing to do with that blood.

  Then Rakesh led her to the mirror door, directed her into the darkness, and the heavy scent of leather, tobacco and scotch snaked down her lungs. Fear gripped her. What was this room? Rakesh relaxed his grip, ran his hands down her shoulders, and flicked a switch on the left, bathing the room in soft yellow light.

  An enormous desk and plush swivel chair, its back to the right wall, was off set by brown sofas and a fur rug in the room’s center. Sheetal entered and ran a hand along the sofa’s headrest, the leather taut and cool. Shelves lined with leather-bound books dominated the back wall. She made her way across and ran her hand along the spines of volumes on business management, international trade, technology and economics.

  The gentle lilt of a saxophone pierced the air, and Rakesh led her to an opaque sheet of glass, mounted against the wall, opposite the desk. Trophies, awards and plaques filled two shelves above the glass. Sheetal leaned forward to read the inscription on a trophy when he cupped her hand, pried out her index finger and made her push a button on the wall. A crackle and harrumph filled the pause in the saxophone’s melody and flames leapt against the glass.

  Sheetal jumped back, startled, but Rakesh caught her fall and laid her down on the fur rug. Thick strands of soft fur melted under her skin as the saxophone’s long, drawn notes welled, awakening a pulse in her groin. Then Rakesh sat beside her, and Sheetal ran her fingers through his hair, the silken strands easing some of her trembling. He bent and kissed the upper curve of her breasts. She shuddered, and he teased the sari away from her cleavage and shifted the bra straps aside. Then he flicked her nipple with his tongue and a fire lit in the core of her being.

  He raised her to a seated position, inched his fingers behind her neck, unclasped the ruby necklace, and the warm metal slid between her breasts, across her navel and stopped at her petticoat. Then he unscrewed the chandelier earrings, slid the bangles off her wrists and Sheetal was weightless. Free.

  Rakesh laid her back against the rug, removed her petticoat and panties in the same smooth motion, then rose to his knees, peeled off his kurta and discarded the black silk.

  He bent and ran his tongue over the slope and peaks of her curves, his bare chest glistening in the light. His strokes awakened sensitivities she’d never known existed. Moisture oozed between her legs.

  The saxophone moaned with longing and desire.

  She ached to be held, to be loved.

  He entered her.

  She stiffened. Until he thrust, and her body awoke to primal instincts that drove all memory from thought.

  ***

  Sheetal woke and ran a hand across Rakesh’s half of the mattress. The bed held no impression of Rakesh’s body or pillow indentation. It was like he’d never been there.

  That couldn’t be!

  Sheetal switched on the bedside lamp. Her sari and blouse lay draped over the bed’s footboard. She looked at her arms. The bangles were there. All of them. She touched her ears and neck. The earrings and necklace were there. How was that possible? He had taken them off.

  She slid out of bed, crossed to the mirror wall and positioned herself at the midpoint, where she estimated the door to be. She pushed, but the wall stood firm.

  A dream? No. It couldn’t be.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Shadows

  Sheetal opened the third leg on her floor easel, adjusted the easel’s angle, then stepped back to approve the room. Finally, her studio was in order. She reached for a black canvas just as the door swung open.

  Megha clumped in wearing thick, brown Woodland shoes, jeans and a T-shirt twice her size.

  “There you are! I’ve b-been l-looking all over f-for you.”

  Sheetal smiled and positioned the canvas on the easel. During their afternoons together, Megha shared the pranks students pulled during college lectures, and cafeteria gossip. While learning about Megha, Sheetal relived her college days and her stolen moments with Arvind.

  Megha surveyed the studio. “Wow. You f-fixed this g-ghost r-room up real g-good. B-but it n-needs m-more work.”

  “We only did a quick dusting.” A full clean-up had to wait because Mummyji had scheduled the servants for a three-day, post-Diwali cleanup. But more than cleaning, the room needed renovation. Red streaks the color of faded paan juice stained the marble floor. Moss-green paint peeled off the walls in huge patches, and a faint odor of rotting wood and mold clung about the windows. With only two more weeks to go, though, the cleaning issues didn’t bother Sheetal.

  She arranged a palette, a jar of turpentine, and a flat-blade knife on a rickety wooden table then squeezed green, blue, umber, red, yellow, gray, and brown paints onto the palette. “So, how was your day?”

  “G-good, yaar,” Megha used the term of affection reserved for close friends. “We had a d-dissection t-today. Our b-bio p-prof was g-going to d-dissect this f-frog when he j-jumped.”

  “The professor jumped?”

  “N-not him. The f-frog.”

  “So, it was alive?”

  “The l-lab t-tech s-said it was s-supposed to be d-dead b-but g-good old p-prof f-found a l-leak in the g-gas chamber and f-froggy d-didn’t q-quite g-get it g-good, c-catch m-my drift?”

  Sheetal tried hard to follow Megha’s speech, but Megha strung words without pause or inflection, and when her breathing grew erratic, she so tripped over consonants that meaning was lost behin
d a waterfall of sounds as large as her over-sized clothing.

  “L-let’s j-just s-say he was on the b-borderline of the afterlife. S-speaking of which, they should t-try s-some on N-Naina it m-might d-do wonders, b-ut use l-laughing g-gas instead.”

  “Everyone’s a little different.”

  “She’s s-so d-different I d-don’t understand her. I d-don’t think anyone d-does.” She pushed her eyeglasses up the bridge of her nose.

  “She’s your sister.”

  “N-normal for a while, l-l-ike us, and then P-Papa d-died and everything changed. G-gets really weird weeks without t-talking t-to anyone, always l-locked in her room and p-pampered.” She looked past Sheetal. “I m-mean, M-Mummy has all N-Naina’s m-meals wheeled up and everything then—p-poof, b-bang!—one fine d-day you find N-Naina bright and chirpy as if n-nothing happened.”

  Her head ached at the merry-go-round of words. Did anyone else have trouble understanding Megha? And why didn’t anyone try to help the girl?

  “B-but it’s actually m-more irritating to have her that way c-coz then she l-loses her t-temper, g-gets into all these m-mood s-swings and we all j-just have t-to d-deal with it l-like that p-painting episode when she k-kept insisting the t-trees were identical and you t-tried to t-tell her they weren’t.”

  “Maybe Naina just thought she was right.” Sheetal tried to make light of the episode even though she was still furious at having been told to apologize. The last thing she wanted was to dig up those memories.

  “Even when she’s wrong she g-gets away with everything.”

  “Why?”

  Megha shrugged. “It’s b-been l-like this f-forever, n-no chance except f-for the m-mother I l-lost and this one.” She referred to Mummyji. “I wish I’d known m-my real m-mother.”

  “Do you remember anything about her?”

  “Just her name. Rashmi.” She calmed. “B-Bhaiya s-says she had the house s-stripped d-down and every t-trace of m-my real m-mother removed.”

  “I bet you miss her.”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  Sheetal bit her lower lip. She’d never imagined a life without Mama, and realized her importance now that she didn’t have Mama’s ready counsel and support.

  “I should g-go. L-lots of s-studying to do.”

  “Wait.” She didn’t want Megha leaving upset. “Would you like to help me?”

  “With what?”

  “A painting.” Sheetal pointed to the canvas.

  “I d-don’t know m-much about art.”

  “There’s always a first time for anyone. I need to get the lighting and distance just right and can’t be in two places at once. Can you get me that lamp?”

  Megha grabbed a six feet tall floor lamp, placed it beside a flower arrangement on a nearby table, and, under Sheetal’s direction, adjusted the lamp’s swivel head left, then right, and right again until the light hit the flowers at a forty-five degree angle. Then Megha grabbed a folding stool that leaned against a wall, flipped it open, and sat on Sheetal’s left.

  Sheetal added drops of linseed oil to a mixture of blue and green paint, repeatedly dragged a two-inch brush through the paint until the bristles were well coated, then used crisscross strokes to create a rough circle of color in the center of the canvas. If only she could replace the darkness of the Dhanraj world with bright hues and colors that made the heart sing.

  What if she ended up returning after her ‘visit’ home?

  She paused. Was there a chance that anything here could change for the better?

  She dismissed the thought, took a deep breath to regain focus, angled the brush, and feathered the edges of the circle in short, sporadic sweeps. Glass bangles chimed up and down her wrist.

  She switched to a one-inch brush and created a coppery brown pot at the base of her dim blue-green sunburst. “See anything yet?”

  Megha inched aside for a better view. “B-black. L-lots of it.”

  “Now for some magic.” Sheetal scraped her pallet knife through green paint, deposited the mound next to the palette’s umber, and dragged a brush through the side-by-side colors until half of her brush held green and the other half held umber. She studied the flower arrangement for a moment, then turned back to her painting and positioned the brush tip against the canvas. With each quick, short stroke, she rotated the brush handle, widening and then narrowing the lines she created.

  Sheetal paused and tightened her grip on the brush, but her fingers felt stiff, like someone gripped them. She yanked off the engagement ring, rammed it on the third finger of her left hand, flexed her fingers, and continued. Much better.

  As she worked, the day’s tension slipped away.

  “I c-can s-see it!” Megha said. “I-It’s—”

  “Shh.”

  “What are you g-going t-to d-do n-now?” Megha asked.

  Sheetal filled the canvas with hues of red, copper-yellow and gray. “A little mauve, blue and black is all we need.” She added those colors to her palette.

  Finally, she exchanged the brush for a finer one, coated the long, thin bristles evenly in red and pulled stamens out of the fantasy flowers hidden in the darkness.

  “Wow! You are g-good, yaar!”

  “I’m a little rusty. It’s been nine months since I last painted.”

  “How c-can you c-call yourself rusty when you b-brought a n-nonexistent p-pot to l-life?”

  “I painted what I saw. But I could have done better.”

  Megha brushed hair from her face. “If this is p-practice, imagine what I’d n-need.”

  “A canvas and paint. That’s all. If I can do it, anyone can.” Sheetal washed her brush in turpentine and tapped the edge against the jar’s rim.

  “I’m s-so happy you’re here,” Megha said. “You’re s-so d-different f-from anyone I know.”

  Sheetal’s heart skipped a beat. No one had said anything nice about her since her arrival. “Different in what way?”

  “You’re p-patient. You understand and you’re honest.”

  Sheetal was touched. She didn’t want to risk losing the only friend she’d made so far, but what if she could help Megha? “Can I ask you something?”

  “What?”

  “Why do you wear baggy clothes and those heavy boots? They’re more for hiking.”

  Megha frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a smart, beautiful, intelligent, young woman. There’s no need to hide from anyone. You should be proud of who you are.”

  “You’re s-saying I d-don’t know how t-to d-dress?”

  “Not at all. I just…I can help you become better.”

  “I was right all along. You are s-special.” Megha grabbed a brush and playfully buttered Sheetal’s cheek with paint.

  Sheetal numbed in shock. Only friends, sisters and brothers took such liberties.

  “I’m… I—”

  Sheetal grabbed a brush, dipped it in paint and turned, but Megha jumped back, giggled, and ran across the studio.

  Sheetal chased her around the room. She ran wild and free, bubbling with laughter as the room spun, but Megha was too fast and she couldn’t keep up. Was this what little sisters did? Splatter you with paint and follow you around like a shadow? Sheetal tripped on the pleats of her lilac sari, recovered her balance and ran. When she tripped a third time, she grabbed a large section of pleats and tucked them in deeper at the waist so the hem rose six inches off the floor. “Now I’ll get you.” She lengthened her stride, but the spinning room tilted toward the door as if she were being pulled off kilter by a magnetic force. Inches away from Megha, Sheetal raised her brush to strike. Megha dodged left, revealing Rakesh, his hands at his sides. Sheetal tripped. She fanned her arms to recover balance and struck him with the brush.

  “What the hell is going on?” Rakesh demanded.

  “We’re p-painting.” Megha giggled, taking cover behind Rakesh.

  Pleats pooled around Sheetal like a broken waterfall. Sh
e hastily tucked them in.

  Rakesh pinched his T-shirt. “You call this painting?”

  “It was an accident,” Sheetal panted.

  Rakesh crossed to the easel and Megha followed. “Isn’t it g-great? B-Bhabhi d-did that j-just n-now.”

  “Not bad for a beginner.” He crossed his arms. “Could have been better.”

  Beginner? Sheetal marched over to the easel and tossed her brush onto the palette. She grabbed the canvas, set it to dry in a corner of the room and headed for the door. “I need to wash up.” She left.

  She took shallow breaths to maintain control. If not for Rakesh, she wouldn’t have stumbled. Or made a fool of herself. Or ruined his T-shirt. Why did she always have to be at the wrong place at the wrong time?

  Sheetal lathered her face, splashed cold water, and checked her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her face remained a collage of blue and brown paint. She grabbed a bottle of olive oil from the mirrored cupboard above the sink, poured some in the palm of her hand, pumped more soap from the dispenser and lathered the mixture over her face. She used her fingernails on the paint, but patches refused to wash off. Fifteen minutes later, cold water streaming down her cheeks and into the crevice of her blouse, she blindly groped for a hand towel. The cold, metallic towel rod filled her grip. There had been a towel there. She was sure of it. She had seen it before—

  The soft fibers of a cloth pressed her forehead, her nose, mouth, chin and cleavage as the scent of mint filled her lungs. Rakesh. She snatched the towel and opened her eyes. “I can dry myself, thank you.”

  Rakesh pressed his body against Sheetal’s back, which indented her navel against the sink. He pulled away, stepped aside, and her attention flew to the streak on his T-shirt.

  “I’ll have that dry-cleaned, washed or…”

  “No can do.”

  “I’ll get you another.”

  His right cheek bulged as if he ran his tongue there. “Nope.”

  “I—”

  He climbed the four marble steps and entered their bedroom.

  She followed.