by Anju Gattani
“You are ready,” Rakesh said. “Let the public decide about your work.”
There was so much to do and so little time. “I—”
“I came here to celebrate. Don’t spoil the moment.”
***
The following Saturday afternoon, Rakesh, Sheetal and Megha returned from a luncheon to celebrate the baby and found Naina and Mummyji in the main hall surrounded by clothes, velvet jewelry cases, and a plethora of saris.
Shortly after Naina had attacked Sheetal, Naina confined herself to her room and Mummyji blamed all three of them for Naina’s relapse. Now, Naina perched on the Fulton Whites, and Mummyji stood amidst the clutter. Streams of colorful saris cascaded like waterfalls from the bulges of Mummyji’s arms. Naina pulled chiffons and silks from shopping bags and draped each one over Mummyji’s arms.
When Sheetal, Rakesh and Megha entered the main hall, Mummyji lowered her arms and the saris clumped on the floor. Then she hopscotched through pools of fabric toward Sheetal and clapped her hands.
“Good you are here, I tell you! Naina’s preparing everything she’ll need, as you can see, and she’s fallen in love with your Cartier set.”
Most of Sheetal’s jewelry sets were tucked safely in bank lockers, but Mummyji had insisted they keep a few at home, giving Sheetal immediate access to them. However, the Cartier, and the Jaipur Kundan set Sheetal had worn on Diwali, were kept in Mummyji’s personal locker.
“She didn’t just take it. Oh no!” Mummyji slapped her chest. “Naina asked if she could have it, I tell you. And I knew you wouldn’t mind. But first things first, you haven’t worn that, by any chance, have you?” She gestured to the Cartier set on the coffee table.
Sheetal plowed through the mess. The chunky gold necklace, about four inches wide, embellished with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires, and matched with a bracelet and earrings, was left in the open for everyone to view. It was bad enough she owned very little, but to let go of what little she did own? What more would they take from her?
“So?” Mummyji hopscotched back to Sheetal. “Have you worn that?”
“No.”
“Perfect! That means it’s still brand new. And I’ll make sure everyone knows you took such an expensive set from your collection to give Naina as a wedding gift.” She grabbed the necklace and held it up to the chandelier. “Even the best Indian craftsman could never get a finish like this.”
Rakesh coughed. “Shouldn’t you have asked Sheetal first?”
Naina cast aside two saris and jumped to her feet. “I knew this would happen. All you or anyone cares about is Sheetal. She-e-etal, Sheetal!”
Sheetal sensed a repeat performance ahead.
“Naina,” Mummyji intervened. “Show Sheetal some respect. She is, after all, giving it to you.”
“You hate me. All of you hate me. But when I’m gone, you’ll all be sorry, and then you’ll realize what she”—she pointed at Sheetal—“did. But it’ll be too late by then.” She tossed back her hair, spun on her toes, and stormed upstairs.
“Hai Ishwar! Did you have to say that?” Mummyji tossed the necklace back in the case. “Poor girl’s just come out of her bedridden phase today, I tell you. And what do you do? Upset her all over again.”
The slam of an upstairs door echoed through the house.
Mummyji turned to Rakesh. “I will have another set made for Sheetal. Bigger. Better. By the best craftsman in Raigun, I tell you. But you don’t want Naina to be happy, even on her wedding day. And you,” she turned to Sheetal, “didn’t even apologize after what you did to her in that studio of yours. That necklace would have sorted out all your personal differences and made her happy. Ask me! I know what it’s like, I tell you, to live without all…all this. I’ve lived the unthinkable life. But none of you would understand what it means to have so little.”
“Even if we did,” Megha said, “is Naina ever happy?”
“Enough!” Pushpa turned and trudged upstairs, no doubt to console Naina.
A lump formed in Sheetal’s throat. She swallowed. The necklace would make Naina happy for now. But what about next time Naina was unhappy? What bone would the Dhanrajs dole out to the family pet then?
“Go on, take it.” Rakesh offered her the Cartier box. “It’s yours.”
Sheetal walked away.
***
Two weeks later, Mummyji and Naina left on another shopping spree. Megha was at college, Rakesh at work. Taking advantage of the perfect opportunity, Sheetal stole into the dining room. “Laal Bahadur?”
Laal Bahadur emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a white cotton tea towel. “Some chai, Choti Sahiba?”
“No, thank you.” Sheetal pulled a chair for herself and lowered her voice to a whisper, “I need to ask you something, and I want the truth.”
His round eyes shrunk back into the soft, dough-like texture of his face. “Badhi Memsahib leave clear instructions, not chat with anyone.”
‘Anyone’ meant her. “I understand. And she’s not here. She’s out shopping with Naina.”
“But…” He twirled the frayed end of the towel. “If anyone find out? My job. I will—”
“How about this? Don’t talk. Just nod or shake your head. That way, you’re not breaking Her house rules.”
“I…”
Sheetal took a deep breath and rested both hands on the white, embroidered tablecloth. “The night I fainted in my studio. It was about eleven, if I remember correctly. You were in the kitchen.” She quickly added, “I heard you.”
He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. “I don’t know. Just let me go, Choti Sahiba.”
Sheetal locked her fingers into a fist. “You’re the only one who can help me. Did Rakesh leave that night and go out?”
“I…I no see anything, Choti Sahiba. I in kitchen whole time.” His expression tensed.
This was not going to be easy. “Yes or no. Did you hear Rakesh’s car that night?”
Silence.
“Come on, Laal Bahadur.”
“I know so little about cars, only kitchen chores.”
“Did-you-see-Rakesh-leave-the-mansion-late-that-night? Around-eleven? Eleven-fifteen?”
He scratched his left ear then twisted an end of the towel into a knot. He nodded.
“So, you saw Rakesh leave?”
Laal Bahadur nodded.
“So, if he left the house, that means he wasn’t here. So then, who found me upstairs?”
Laal Bahadur shuffled forward. “The studio door open, little bit. I go up see if you need anything before I close kitchen for night. But then you are unconscious on floor.”
Sheetal swallowed. “Then?”
“I yell for help. Chotte Sahib”—he referred to Rakesh—“behind me. He come back in house.”
Sheetal bit her lip. So, Rakesh was lying. “Then?”
“He make me tell everyone he find you. Not me.”
“And?”
“He take you to room and tell me to wake up Badhi Memsahib.”
Sheetal straightened her posture. Her imagination was not at work. Rakesh was at work.
***
Later that evening, Sheetal made her way to Rakesh’s bedroom, determined to get answers. “Rakesh?” she called. “Rakesh?” She checked the bathroom and walk-in closet, but both were empty. She walked across the room and pushed the mirror-door. It surrendered to her weight.
The den was dimly lit. A cigarette burned on an ashtray in the center of the oak desk, near a glass of scotch beaded with drops of water. “Rakesh?” She picked up several colored slips of paper, scattered on the desk’s surface. They were bills, invoices, and receipts.
Escape, Amsterdam…a bill for fifty Euros. Bep Bar, Amsterdam…sixty-three Euros. De Kroon, Amsterdam…tickets for two, Mazzo, Panama…another bill. The names went on and on. The Twilight Zone Coffee Shop, Erotic Museum… A hotel bill, the Park Plaza, Berlin, for a one-bedroom suite for two thousand Eur
os. A second bill for the same dates of stay in another room at the same hotel for eight hundred Euros. Two KLM tickets—Raigun to Amsterdam and back, both bills in Rakesh’s name, stating departure dates on December the first and arrival in Raigun on December the eleventh.
She was at Mama’s place at the time. Didn’t Rakesh first claim he was in Amsterdam during her absence and then later deny it on the pretext of having secretly stayed home to supervise the renovations of their bedroom and her studio? Sheetal shuffled through more receipts and double purchases. What was Rakesh up to now?
“What are you doing here?”
Sheetal spun around as Rakesh kicked the door closed with his heel.
“I… I was looking for you. Where were you?”
He walked toward her. “Downstairs.”
“I mean, in the first week of December.” She held up the receipts. “When I was visiting Mama.”
“None of your business.”
“You told me you were here. That you cancelled the trip to renovate our room. But these receipts say you were in Holland with someone else.”
He slid both hands into his trouser pockets. “What difference does that make? I’m never alone when I’m on business. Clients.”
“What business, exactly?”
“I don’t answer bullshit. You entered without my permission. You should be the one answering questions. Not me.”
“You lied,” she raised her voice to show she wasn’t scared. “I want the truth.”
He was two feet away and closing.
“There’s another woman, isn’t there?”
The left corner of his lips curled into a sneer. “And what if there is?”
Her fingers numbed and the receipts fell onto the desk.
“All this pregnancy and snooping around like some silly detective is plain stupid. You’re losing it.” He gathered the sheets, walked around the desk and sat in his chair, causing it to creak. “What will you do if there is someone else?”
Fear crept through her veins. “You’re lying. You’re—”
“Get out.”
“I won’t leave until you—”
“Vipul Sahib was with me, if you must know. Does that explain two of everything?”
Vipul Swampat, the oldest employee at Dhanraj & Son, had worked with the late Ashok Dhanraj for a good twenty years. After Ashok’s death, Vipul was made CFO under Rakesh’s leadership.
“There’s only one way to solve this. We have to stop interfering in each other’s lives and start living our own.”
Weren’t they already leading separate lives? What did this mean? A divorce? The baby. Panic gripped her. What about the baby? It was too late to consider abortion. Where would she go at the end of her first trimester?
***
All five Dhanrajs were seated at the dinner table that evening when Rakesh announced that Sheetal would move to a different room on the east wing, close to Mummyji. Sheetal would no longer have to put up with his smoking or unpredictable hours, and the move would be good for the baby.
***
That night, Sheetal sat at her dressing room vanity and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Was Rakesh moving her out because he expected her to become bloated and ugly? Is this what Shashi Behn meant when she talked about love dying? Was love based on appearance? Or—a pain fisted in her heart—had there been no love to begin with? What he’d done on her birthday was certainly no expression of love.
She threw her hairbrush on the table’s surface. The prongs hit the mirror and bounced off. Tears rolled down the sides of her face. She was in this mess because of them. All of them. She swiped an arm across the dresser, hurling bottles of perfume onto the carpet. She cupped her face and propped both elbows on the vanity’s surface. She was losing her mind. Her sanity. She had to do something before she lost everything.
Sheetal picked up the phone and called Mama. She was going home for good.
Dadi picked up the phone. “Hello, Sheetal? You won’t believe the good news.”
Sheetal resisted the urge to raise her voice. “Can I speak to—”
“Anjali’s pregnant!”
Anjali, Aunty Hemu’s daughter-in-law, had moved into Mama’s house two months ago with Hemu’s son, Vikram.
“She’s due in three months, just a little ahead of you. Which is why Hemu and I decided she should have the baby here in Raigun. And the best part is, now Hemu will get to stay even longer.”
A knot formed in Sheetal’s throat.
“A baby! So much excitement. So much for Hemu to do, to manage,” Dadi went on. “So much responsibility once the baby arrives. And after all that is out of the way, we’ll see about Hemu’s return to Vilaspur.”
‘We’ll see’ meant ‘we’ll try and postpone.’ And because Dadi was using ‘we,’ she was banding the Prasads and Choudharys together as one family.
“Until then…oh…oh…so much to look forward to. Now,” she paused, “you called to speak to Indu?”
Sheetal couldn’t breathe. What would she go home to now? Give birth to a fatherless baby and fall in everyone’s eyes?
“Hello? You still there, Sheetal?” Dadi coughed. “Say something. Are you there?”
Sheetal put down the receiver. She didn’t know where she was anymore.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Good Husband
The next morning, as Rakesh headed out for work, Pushpa called to him from behind the stairs, “It’s an emergency, I tell you. Meet me in the TV lounge.”
“I’m late.” Rakesh looked at his watch. He had a nine a.m. meeting with Vipul Sahib and it would take more than half an hour to get there.
“I don’t care. Now.”
With no alternative, Rakesh headed to the TV lounge.
“I just don’t understand,” Pushpa shook her head. “You were supposed to get along with her, I tell you. Not kick her out the room.”
“She snoops around my stuff. It’s impossible!”
“I don’t care how impossible,” Pushpa hissed. “You shouldn’t leave her alone at a time like this, I tell you. Hai Ishwar! What will people say? She’s carrying your child. What if the Malhotras find out? What impression will they have of you? Of me? Of Naina? It’s not like the old days when a woman was stuck to her husband until she died. Ask me. I know how impossible it was to find a reliable man in my time. My parents couldn’t afford much, barely two meals a day. But the Prasads can afford anything they want. And they’ll have Sheetal back if that’s what she wants. But in my time—”
“In your time, you latched on to Papa,” his voice cracked at the memory of how ruthless she’d been when she’d set foot in their home. Only thirteen, Rakesh was grieving Mumma’s death when Papa introduced Pushpa as their new mother. Servants scurried to obey her crack-like-whip commands. Rakesh had hoped she would, at least, be gentle and caring toward newborn Megha. But kindness didn’t exist in Pushpa’s dictionary. “You forced your way into our home and took away—”
“I didn’t force my way into anything. It was all legal, I tell you.”
Rakesh took a deep breath and maintained calm. “Legally wrong. You tore my family apart.”
“Your family was falling apart until I came.” Pushpa’s face swelled with rage. “I put everything and everyone in order. So much chaos—”
“We were doing fine. Just fine without you.” Anger clawed his heart. “You took away Mumma’s memories. Every last one.”
“I did what any sensible woman would, I tell you. Did what it takes to keep this family together and move everyone forward. It was my promise to Ashok. He made me swear on my dead mother’s grave. But how would you know any of this when no one ever told you?” The freckles on her face darkened. “If I failed, Ashok promised to send me back to my parents’ home. Penniless. Poor. With just the clothes on my back. Three years since your father died and still, every day, I keep my promise.”
“He’s dead. Gone.” Rakesh’s ches
t tightened. “But what about me and Megha? You keep screwing up our lives.”
“I am not ruining anything. You have to live according to society. First your marriage. Then Naina’s. Then Megha’s.”
Like she’d ever take an interest in Megha’s life.
“I won’t let your life fall apart for Naina’s sake. I was here when you all needed me. And I am still sacrificing, managing all your lives.”
Managing? Rakesh worked to calm his rage. “You’re like a fucking Hitler.”
“Ai-ee! Call me what you want. But one thing I’ve never done is run away like you and Sheetal. Or defamed the Dhanraj name. I’ve been loyal, faithful to this family for seventeen years, I tell you. But that doesn’t mean Sheetal will be loyal. And Rana will call her back if he’s the slightest bit suspicious that you are up to no good.”
“He’s a coward. The embarrassment will kill him. Especially now that Sheetal is—”
“Pregnant—no? I don’t like this attitude of yours. You should be taking care of her. Be a good husband. Spend time with her.”
And have her discover something that could give her a nervous breakdown? Then he’d risk losing her and the baby. He swallowed. Saliva lodged in his throat.
“Wait.” Pushpa raised a hand. “I think I hear something.” She maneuvered to the patio door, slid it open, and peered outside.
The yard was empty.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Going Solo
Before Mummyji had the opportunity to assign Sheetal’s new accommodation, Sheetal had the servants dust and aerate a room on the south wing, two doors away from her studio. She discarded the old furniture, had the room painted pastel green, beige carpet laid, bought new furniture with floral-green upholstery, bookshelves, a twenty-four inch TV, a Sony boom box, a new wall clock, matching bed linens, and several knick-knacks to spruce up the décor.
Mummyji appeared at the doorway and pumped both hands on her hips. “Didn’t Rakesh say you are to move two days from now into a room close to mine?”
“With twenty-two bedrooms, surely I can choose one that I like.”