Duty and Desire

by Anju Gattani

  ***

  Over the next two and a half weeks of February, Rakesh returned early from work and spent the evenings with Sheetal. Rakesh drank chai and Sheetal sipped coffee in the Japanese garden. They went out for early candlelight dinners at Chalet, IndiaFest or other posh restaurants in southern Raigun, attended movies, plays and, one evening, Rakesh took Sheetal to a ghazal recital where a male and female singer performed ballads and love songs to a live harmonium, sitar and string quartet. They took long walks along the lake, splurged on shopping sprees, and bought things they didn’t need.

  One evening, they lounged by the infinity pool, overlooking the lake and mountains, as a breeze rippled the water’s surface and the sun began its slow descent. Reclined on a deck chair, Rakesh laced his fingers and tucked them behind his head. “You think I’m some sort of monster, don’t you? Always on edge and ready to snap.”

  Where was he going with this?

  “I want you to know the real me,” his voice remained unusually calm. “I didn’t have a normal life like you. My real mother, Rashmi, she—” he paused, looked at the mountains, and blinked. “Sorry, I—”

  Sheetal reached out and touched his arm. “You don’t have to share if you don’t want to. We can talk about this later.”

  The side of his temple relaxed, and his brown eyes softened as rays of fading yellow and orange sunlight cast a silky net of gold on the waters. “I lit my mother’s pyre when I was thirteen. Just a boy. Complications after Megha was born, and the doctors couldn’t save her.”

  The Hindu ritual of death required the deceased person’s son or closest male relative to light the funeral pyre.

  “Pushpa walked in two days later. She must have been around twenty or so. Half Papa’s age. I thought she was the bai hired to take care of Megha.” His expression hardened. “Papa declared she was our new mother and we had to do what she said. He didn’t even give us time to get over Mumma’s death. Forty-eight hours, and he brings in a second wife. Obviously, he’d never cared for Mumma. She never mattered. And Pushpa, his trashy mistress, hit the jackpot with Mumma’s death. I hate her. My life. Everything. That’s why I’m so bitter. So angry. I…I just hate everything that happened. And the way it did.”

  Sheetal opened her mouth but didn’t know what to say. How did anyone apologize for all the wrongs in someone’s past?

  “At first, I rebelled. I refused to accept her. Can you imagine someone walking into your life and taking over?”

  Is that why Naina hated Sheetal? No. That wasn’t possible. Sheetal went out of her way to avoid Naina.

  “Papa didn’t give us a choice. He said we had to accept her because they were already legally married in court.”

  “I remember reading, several years ago, that you’d lost your mother and your father remarried. But I didn’t realize it had been so sudden. Was she ever kind? Gentle? Understanding?”

  “Kind enough to give us forty-eight hours to put all our family photos and any reminders of Mumma or our past life in storage. I don’t even know where those things are. We weren’t allowed to look for them, and I have no idea if they’re still around.”

  Sheetal bit her lower lip. The boxes she’d shoved back into the studio closet. Was he referring to them? She was about to say something but stopped. What if they were and Mummyji caught wind of it? Then she’d be in trouble for snooping around.

  “Megha has only known Pushpa.” His tone grew caustic. “She’s never known a real mother’s love. That’s why she may come across as a little…you know…unsure. Like she’s lost.”

  “I’m guessing Naina was affected by all this, too.”

  Rakesh looked at her, confused, and Sheetal’s tongue felt like jelly. “I mean, she must have only been ten at the time. Probably not as strong as you were to—”

  “Just leave Naina out of this,” he cut her short.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “When Papa died, he left me the majority of the company shares with a fixed percentage for Naina, Megha and Pushpa. The business is my responsibility, and I cover the expenses to run this place. But consumer and investor confidence comes with social obligations. All those dinners, charity events, you know—are a must. The mansion and estate he left to Pushpa. But Papa didn’t just leave us each our share. He slipped a caveat. If Pushpa forfeits her duties to the family or shirks them in any way, she’ll be stripped of her inheritance. All this goes to the government, and she’s left with her percentage of the company. If we lose the mansion, we lose investor confidence and—”

  “So, you’re tied to each other. Neither of you can walk away.”

  He nodded. “That’s why I’m still here. Only Naina and Megha are free. It’s bad enough Naina’s been spoiled fucking rotten from the beginning, but forking out nine hundred million rupees for this damned wedding? Just to please her and Pushpa? It’s—”

  “Nine hundred million?” Sheetal shrank back. “Do you have that much? In cash?” she added, not wanting to insult him.

  “I’ve got five hundred and fifty in liquid. I’ll borrow the other three hundred and fifty from the company and return it later.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know just yet. But I’ll find a way.”

  “Why are you going beyond your means? If you can’t afford it, just tell Mummyji.”

  “And let Pushpa go to the press? She’ll give The Raigun Herald a field day. False information about me. Like I—we—just had this huge wedding and now I don’t want to spend on Naina. She’ll make me look like some kind of prick.”

  Sheetal didn’t know what a prick was, but it didn’t sound good. To think, a daughter’s wedding, paid for by her father, was now Rakesh’s burden. Still, something didn’t make sense. Why did he hate Naina so much? She was his sister. And why wasn’t Naina in any of the photographs with Rashmi, Ashok and Rakesh? Why did Mummyji openly favor Naina? Why didn’t Megha and Rakesh object to the discrimination?

  “I’m sorry for what I’ve done. How I’ve made you feel.” His voice dropped to a murmur, “I’m always on guard, like I need to protect someone or something. I…I don’t even know what I’m trying to protect. I’ve only been close to Megha, like a mother and father to her all my life, even when I was a child. I don’t trust people the way you do. I need time to get to know you. To—” he gazed longingly into her eyes, and Sheetal’s heart fisted in her throat. “Give me time to come around.”

  The orange melted in the sky, dissolving her hatred for Rakesh with the evening. But how could she trust him after what he’d done?

  ***

  The next day, Sheetal selected brushes, filled a glass jar with turpentine and was squeezing paint onto a palette when Rakesh entered and closed the studio door.

  “Don’t mind me, I’m just here to learn.” He settled onto the sofa.

  Sheetal left her workstation, reached for Rakesh’s hands, pulled him to his feet, and led him to her prepared canvas. A sheet of white contact paper with a large, central oval cutout covered the canvas like a second skin. Two strips of masking tape, an inch wide, ran horizontally across the upper and lower thirds of the canvas. “You can’t learn by observation.”

  “I can’t paint,” Rakesh said.

  “Really? You can’t paint, considering how much you had to say about Renoir and Picasso?”

  Sheetal positioned herself in front of Rakesh, brought his left arm around her bare midriff and leaned back against the warmth of his chest. Then she chose a brush and tested the bristles against her left palm to make sure they were dry.

  “Cool.” He ran his left hand over the curve of her shoulder, down the length of her arm and snaked her breast.

  Sheetal slapped his hand. “That’s irritating. Not painting.” She placed his right hand atop her wrist and tightened his fingers.

  “Ready.”

  Sheetal dipped the brush into the red paint, then pthalo blue, and swirled easy strokes of sky onto the upper th
ird of the canvas. His grip restricted her movements. She freed her wrist, turned, and instructed him to flex his fingers. “Loosen up. You’re so uptight. No wonder you can’t paint.”

  “What do you mean loosen up?” His eyes sparkled. “This is how I am.”

  “Then change. Let go a little.”

  “But I didn’t ask to paint. You just grabbed me and—”

  “I know. Made you paint. Now, let’s do it right.” She resumed her previous position and was about to dip the brush into paint when Rakesh pressed kisses along her nape. Warmth welled. “That’s dangerous.”

  “Not as dangerous as you. But…well, I’ve got to do it right.”

  Sheetal was about to dot the center of the horizon with yellow paint when he pulled her close and hugged her.

  The brush fell from her hand and clattered near her toes. “You almost spoiled the sun.” Sheetal bent and grabbed the brush.

  He pulled her hips to his crotch and pressed her against his bulge.

  Sheetal straightened and faced him. “No more games. Promise?” She caught Rakesh’s hand, dipped his index finger into a puddle of cadmium yellow, raised his finger to the canvas and dotted a ball for the sun. Then she returned Rakesh’s hand to her wrist and swept the brush in long, easy strokes, left and right across the sky and around the sun. The strokes blended one hue into another. Then she scooped a little crimson, mixed it with pthalo blue and pointed to an empty spot on the canvas. “Your turn. Alone, this time.”

  “Look, I can’t.”

  She forced the brush between his fingers, cupped his knuckles and tilted his hand until he held the brush at an angle. She swept the upper third of the canvas in soft, curly motions, spinning clouds in the evening sky, and pulled wisps of lilac away from the sun.

  “Sexy.”

  “Really?”

  “The painting, of course.”

  “Of course.” She continued her lead on the lower third of the canvas, lifting waves from the ocean’s surface, and again on the shoreline, filling the area with sand and shells. Paint smudged outside the contact paper’s edge.

  “Aren’t you supposed to paint inside the cut-out?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll see.” She peeled away the upper strip of masking tape that divided sky from ocean, and the lower one that divided ocean from coastline. Then she took the brush from Rakesh and curled his fingers around her fist. “This is where the details come in, so I’ll lead because you’ve got to be delicate. All three parts must merge into one.” Sheetal filled in the empty white horizontal spaces with just the right shades, merging horizon and ocean, then ocean and coastline.

  “There. All done.” She lowered the brush and tapped the bottom right corner of the contact paper’s edge. “Now, I want you to peel this off like I did with the masking tape.”

  Rakesh peeled the contact paper, leaving a perfect, oval-shaped painting of a sunset on the beach, and took a step back. “That’s stunning! Perfect.”

  Sheetal shook her head. “Not quite.” She took a pencil-lead-thin brush and painted two tiny V-shaped objects, for seagulls, on the upper third of the canvas.

  “Sweet. Life just ain’t complete without chicks, right? We should give this a name.”

  “Like?”

  “Purple sunset?”

  “Too boring.”

  “Purple haze?”

  Sheetal crossed her arms and gave him The Look.

  “All right, all right.” He raised his hands.

  “How about dawn?” she suggested. “It’s like the dawn—new beginning—of our marriage.”

  “But isn’t it dusk?”

  “You’re right.” She sighed.

  “How about Dawn at Dusk?”

  “Perfect.”

  ***

  Rakesh and Sheetal made wild, passionate love for the third time that evening, then lay spent in a warm Jacuzzi as sunlight streamed through the bathroom windows, casting golden, horizontal streaks across the white tiles.

  Rakesh stroked Sheetal’s chest with a wet sponge and squeezed water over her shoulders and neck as she relaxed against him. Bubbles frothed and popped all around them. Sheetal leaned forward and the space between their bodies filled with warm, soapy water.

  Rakesh pulled Sheetal back and placed kisses along her neck.

  ***

  On Thursday morning, Rakesh left the bedroom headed for the office. Seconds later, thudding footsteps entered the room.

  Sheetal turned toward the door.

  Rakesh caught her by the arm, startling her. “Let’s get away from here. Now. Right now.”

  “What do you mean, get away?”

  “Run away. You know…just leave and go somewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere. What difference does it make?”

  “But that’s like running away,” she said.

  “Don’t be a spoilsport. It’ll be the honeymoon we never had. We never get time alone. There’s always too much going on around here.”

  If they dropped everything and left, Mummyji would go on and on about how irresponsible she was and how she’d broken another rule. “No.”

  “Grow up, Sheetal. You’re an adult.”

  Didn’t Mama say that recently? ‘Find happiness with what you have.’ She crossed her arms. “Shouldn’t we tell someone?”

  “Stop being such a baby.”

  This had to be another of his stupid ideas. “We haven’t packed.”

  “We don’t need anything. Just each other.

  To drop everything and live free of responsibilities sounded irresistible.

  Five minutes later, Sheetal and Rakesh drove off to the Raigun Cricket Club and rented the Presidential Suite. They watched DVDs, slept in each other’s arms, read dirty magazines, ordered room service, and ate their meals dressed in the RCC’s plush white bathrobes. At times, they didn’t even bother to wear those.

  On Saturday morning, Sheetal suggested they call Mummyji and let her know their whereabouts, but Rakesh suggested Sheetal chill, watch TV, and leave Mummyji to him. Sheetal tried to focus on the TV screen, but her attention wandered to the wall. What if Mummyji reported them missing and their faces appeared on a newsflash? Or Mummyji somehow tracked them down and barged in?

  Sheetal channel surfed to take her mind off those worries. She grabbed a magazine from a side table, flipped the pages, then resumed channel surfing—just in case. But two hours later, when the world hadn’t ended, she leaned back against the sofa cushions. Is this what Mama meant by getting to know each other and giving their relationship time? Possibly. This was a side of Rakesh she’d never seen before. She wanted the weekend to pass slowly, and to bask in Rakesh’s attention.

  On Sunday morning, the final of the four-day weekend, Sheetal’s heart sank at the thought of returning to the Dhanraj mansion. She tightened the knot on her robe and was about to ask Rakesh if they could extend their stay another day when he swung open the suite’s main door. Fifteen bellboys entered carrying bouquets of red and pink roses. They arranged the vases on every available surface. Then a bellboy wheeled in a trolley with a bottle of champagne in ice and two fluted crystal glasses.

  Rakesh thanked the bellboys, generously tipped them, locked the door behind the last one, then approached Sheetal. “Happy Birthday!” He hugged her.

  Birthday? She looked at the date and time panel on the suite’s phone. February twenty-fifth. “Can you believe, I forgot my own birthday?” She laughed.

  “I didn’t.” Rakesh uncorked the champagne, filled both glasses, handed her a glass, and proposed a toast, “To your first birthday with me. And many more to come.” He gulped the liquid down like water. “You haven’t touched yours.”

  “You know I don’t drink.” She placed her glass on the trolley and sat on the couch.

  Good Hindu women from good Hindu families didn’t drink alcohol, smoke or chew tobacco, and Sheetal wasn’t about to bring shame on her family.r />
  “You can make an exception today.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Everyone drinks nowadays. It’s okay. Chill, Sheetal.”

  “I don’t agree with it.”

  “I do.” His expression hardened. “What if I say you have to drink?”

  “Then I’ll run away,” she said.

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  “One sip. For me.”

  “No.”

  “And if I force you to?”

  “What do you mean, force me?”

  “Depends whether you look at this as a force or an opportunity to change.”

  Sheetal stared past his shoulder at the roses. Was all this, the last three days, a charade? And the flowers—what did they mean? She tossed her loose hair away from her face, stood and went into the bedroom. “This is a joke.”

  “One sip. Last chance.” He trailed behind.

  She didn’t care about chances. She sat on the bed, leaned against the headboard and fanned open pages of The Raigun Herald.

  This is a game. She caught her reflection in the mirror. Another silly game that swings with his mood.

  Rakesh’s shadow fell across her, accompanied by the scent of champagne. Sheetal lowered the newspaper. Rakesh stood there, holding her glass.

  “Come on, this isn’t funny.” She closed the gaping neck of her robe.

  He stepped closer and gestured for her to drink.

  Sheetal pressed a palm againt the mattress and inched away. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Nothing will happen if you take a sip.”

  Sheetal tucked her feet under her hips and squirmed against the headboard. This stranger wasn’t the Rakesh she’d known for the last three weeks.

  He thrust the glass forward. “I changed for you and proved it. Now you change for me.”

  The headboard prevented retreat. He blocked the route to the bathroom. She reached for the glass, sipped, and swallowed the bitter liquid. “There.” She handed it back.

  “Finish it.”

  “You said one sip.”

  “Finish it.” He fidgeted with the knot of his robe.

  “It tastes sick.”