by Anju Gattani
Amita’s black hair, tied in a ponytail, emphasized her wide-set eyes and full lips. Her olive-tan complexion, broad shoulders, slim waist, tight hips and muscled frame contrasted with Sheetal’s extra-large body. That Amita, who exuded confidence, control and determination, appeared to be Sheetal’s age, made Sheetal squirm with embarrassment over her own physical condition.
Amita knelt beside her. “Palms flat on the floor. Breathe. Control. Concentrate. Look at the ceiling, find a spot to focus on and fix your attention there.”
Sheetal searched for an imperfection on the white ceiling panels, but the uniform black holes offered no distinctive mark on which to focus
“Flow of movement, range of motion and stability are what you will begin with.” Amita tapped an index finger on the lower half of Sheetal’s breastbone. “The xiphoid, let’s call it button one.” She slid her index and second fingers down Sheetal’s chest in a straight line, fanned them apart and stopped at two imaginary points over Sheetal’s rib cage. “Button two.” She continued south and halted on Sheetal’s belly button. “Button three.” At her pelvis, “Button four. And the last one…”—she halted at the pubic bone—“is button five.” Amita tapped Sheetal’s xiphoid. “Imagine my finger is constantly pushing down on button one. Suck your chest in here.”
Sheetal took a deep breath.
“Not hold your breath. Suck this portion of your body in. Root it to the mat.”
Sheetal exhaled, curled her shoulders and sucked in her torso until her spine pressed the rubber mat.
“Good, we call this closing button one. Remember, don’t hold your breath. Just hold your position and breathe. You should feel like you’re anchored to a bed of concrete.”
More like a frog pegged for dissection.
Sheetal looked toward her toes. The flab at her waist curved like a jelly half-moon across her horizon. Helplessness lodged in her throat. She’d been zipped into a tight-fitting wedding gown all over again. Only, this time, she wasn’t padlocked behind folds of fabric, but trapped in her own skin. She gulped, resisting an urge to cry.
“What happened?” Amita asked.
“I…I can’t do this. I’ve just come out from forty days of confinement and now this? I signed up to lose weight, not trap myself all over again.”
“Don’t think of it as a trap. Think of it as gaining control. Finding parts of yourself you didn’t know existed. Shall we begin now?”
“Begin what?” Her body longed to spring into its natural position, but she kept her spine pressed against the mat.
“The exercises.”
“I can only just breathe and you expect me to move?” Self-anger swept her. She shouldn’t have eaten all that fat-laden food. Maybe if she’d protested, she would have gotten her way and not ended up with a barrel for a body. “This is impossible. I just had a baby. Maybe it’s easy for skinny instructors like—”
“I’m a mother of three, Mrs. Dhanraj. And each birth doesn’t get any easier.”
“Three children?” She didn’t look like she had one.
“Six, four and two years old,” she said as if reading Sheetal’s mind. “Look, I know it’s hard, but once you do a few sessions and practice, it’ll become second nature.” Amita placed the edge of her left hand across Sheetal’s collar bone and the right across Sheetal’s thighs. “Your central focus, the area between my hands, is your powerhouse. The inner core of your being. Your deepest level of inner strength. Once you learn to anchor your body before any movement and navigate so that your arms and legs work together and in opposition, you’ll begin to feel and find a strength you never knew you had. Slow and steady movements paired with breathing is how we begin. I know it’s going to take a while to get used to, but our aim is to help you achieve balance, alignment, inner strength and core stability.”
Our aim. Sheetal allowed the words to sink in. She was not alone.
Later that day, Dr. Banerjee, a dietician, drew up Sheetal’s meal plan with restrictions on her calorie intake. He encouraged Sheetal to incorporate a cardio program with Pilates and to set a goal to lose fifty pounds over the next six months.
Sheetal skimmed the timetable, folded the sheet and slipped it into her handbag. She could do this. She would do this. For herself and Yash.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Good Father
Rakesh returned from work and was heading upstairs when Yash’s wails pealed the air. Expecting one of the nannies, on round-the-clock shifts, to attend to Yash, Rakesh headed toward his room when his son’s cries intensified into a full-pitched scream. Rakesh’s heart raced. Where was everyone? Sheetal? Pushpa? Megha? Surely, someone was around. He jogged toward the south wing while memory assaulted him like a physical blow.
He had arrived home from school and Megha’s cries filled the air. He waited for Pushpa to attend to her, but learned, from the servants, that Pushpa had gone out for afternoon tea.
Rakesh headed straight to Yash’s nursery, adjacent to Sheetal’s room, and found Moushmi Kaki, the older of the two nannies, in her sixties, bent over the railing of the crib. A breeze from the open window flapped panels of Thomas the Train curtains just above her head.
“What’s going on?”
Moushmi Kaki jumped, startled. “He no stop crying, Sahib. I not know what wrong. I try everything. Change diaper. Give bottle, but no stop.”
“You’ve probably forgotten something.” Rakesh set his briefcase on the blue carpet and peered at Yash, who had balled his fingers into two tiny fists. Eyes squeezed close, tears coursing down his cheeks, Yash pumped his legs back and forth. “Where is Sheetal?”
“Go to gym, Sahib.” Moushmi Kaki lifted Yash and propped him upright against her shoulder.
“The gym? At this hour? What was she doing all morning?”
“Busy, with Chotte Baba”—Little Master—“all morning and afternoon. Little bit sleeping. Play with him, then she do her work. Just now she go. About one hour ago.” Moushmi Kaki paced the nursery, patting Yash on the back, gently bobbing with each step. However, her efforts did little to soothe Yash’s cries.
Like the time he was thirteen and Papa, Pushpa, Naina and him sat down for dinner in the Marquette Dining Room when Megha’s cries came through the speakers of the baby monitor. He turned toward Pushpa, expecting her to rush off and quiet his baby sister in the nursery upstairs, but she simply hollered for a servant to attend to Megha.
Megha’s cries grew louder, echoing between the walls. Rakesh’s insides crumbled. Unable to take Megha’s wails any longer, he jumped to his feet to take care of her, but Pushpa grabbed him by the arm, dug in her nails, and sat him down.
“Nothing will happen if she cries a little longer, I tell you. Now sit down and eat. She’s not the only baby on earth, I tell you.” Then she switched off the white monitor and an ominous silence filled the room.
Rakesh turned to Papa, but Papa was helping himself to another serving of curry. Naina, three, in a booster seat, played with her food. Panic gripped him. What if Megha choked? They’d never know.
He broke free and ran as fast as he could while Pushpa yelled for him to come back. He bounded up the stairs two at a time. Megha’s cries tore at his heart. He rushed into the nursery and peered over the raised bars of the crib.
“Bai!” he called for the nanny while standing on tiptoes. He reached over the bars of the crib but wasn’t able to reach her. Megha sucked furiously on her fist.
He pulled a chair from the corner, climbed onto the seat and scooped Megha into his arms. “Bai!” he called again, and the nanny rushed in with a bottle of milk. She slid the teat into Megha’s mouth and Megha’s pink lips curved around the nipple and sucked hard. Rakesh held her until she finished every drop, his heart bleeding. If Mumma had been alive, this wouldn’t have happened.
Rakesh reached out to hold Yash, but then withdrew. What if Yash squirmed out of his arms? Or he squeezed too hard and Yash asphyxiated or died of a heart attack?
No. A shiver ran up his spine. “Do something!”
“Maybe colic, Sahib.” Moushmi Kaki spoke above Yash’s cries. “Tummy aching. Many babies have. Choti Sahiba always knowing what do.”
“Call her, then.”
Moushmi Kaki gestured to Sheetal’s phone on the changing station table. “She forget take phone, Sahib.”
How irresponsible! “Here. Give him to me.”
Rakesh locked the fingers of his hands into a fist and raised them to chest level in the shape of a cradle, like Sheetal had taught him.
“Too big, Sahib.” Moushmi Kaki gestured for Rakesh to cup the opposite elbow in each palm, then she laid Yash horizontally across and helped Rakesh adjust position to mold to Yash’s contours.
“It’s all right, Papa’s here,” Rakesh cooed and paced the room, but that didn’t help. “Shhh…calm down my Beta.” He rocked his son like he’d seen Sheetal do, but that didn’t help, either. How on earth could an infant this tiny scream with such force? Rakesh turned to Moushmi Kaki for help. How dry his little throat must— That’s it! “Kaki!” He gestured to an army of baby bottles on a trolley. “Give me that bottle.”
She rushed over and picked up one. “This?”
“No. The blue lid.” He pointed.
Moushmi Kaki slid the teat into Yash’s mouth and Yash sucked hard. Air bubbles streamed up through the bottled water. Relief calmed Rakesh’s nerves. He did it! He took care of his baby. His son.
“Very good, Sahib,” Moushmi Kaki smiled.
Yes, life was good. Very good. Maybe he could learn to let go a little and love again.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Crowning Galleria
At nine-thirty a.m. on December fifth, half an hour before the opening of the exhibition at Crowning Galleria, Sheetal walked past a marble fountain in the center of the lobby. Shifting silhouettes of people on the other side of the frosted glass doors caught her attention. She stopped and turned toward the doors.
Jewel-toned, stained glass vines and fruits spiraled up the frosted glass, and Ravi Shankar’s instrumental swept through the room. The soft plucking of the sitar’s strings and gentle drumming of the tabla peaked and plateaued with the shift of shadows beyond the door. The first two days were for VIP guests by invitation only and Sheetal hadn’t expected anyone to arrive until after lunch. Her heart stirred with unease. She gulped. Surely, they weren’t all here for her exhibition. There had to be another event happening simultaneously.
Rakesh strode past two guards in beige uniforms and across the lobby toward the main showroom door. He had taken a week off work to organize the event, making sure every painting was mounted correctly, educating the staff about Sheetal’s work, and ensuring the right combination of wines, cheeses, and fruit adorned the buffet. He looked stunning, as always, in a beige crepe linen suit, a Burberry tie, and ochre shirt. So calm and composed, while Sheetal could hardly contain the butterflies in her stomach. Rakesh paused and glanced in her direction, a look of concern on his face. Then he signaled Pamela, the curator, and Mukesh, the gallery manager, and they followed him down a corridor.
In her late twenties, Pamela had been with the gallery for five years and answered potential buyers’ questions concerning an artist’s work. Mukesh handled sales, and the gallery retained a thirty percent share of any painting sold.
The central lobby fanned out into five corridors, like fingers on a hand, that linked to five unique showrooms. Each display room housed a different collection of work, from ‘Antiques’ and ‘Still Lifes’ to ‘Falling Forests’ and ‘Running Waters.’ However, ‘Sunset Boulevard’ was expected to attract the largest crowd.
Sheetal glanced at her Chopard watch. Nine-forty. Twenty minutes to go. She shifted from foot to foot. The rising tempo of the music didn’t help to calm her nerves, and the crowd beyond the door continued to grow. There must be twenty, no, thirty people outside.
Sheetal loosened the hand-painted scarf around her collar. Drops of sweat rolled from her chignon down her nape. She fiddled with her diamond solitaire earrings, straightened the cuffs of her shirtsleeves and fished in her handbag for the phone. Should she call Moushmi Kaki to see if Yash was okay? No, he must be fine, she reasoned.
Murmurs of the waiting crowd floated like a storm cloud, ready to burst. An art critic from The Raigun Herald was expected to attend today’s premiere, and he had a reputation for ruthlessness that had ended careers before they had a chance to bud.
What if he hates everything? What if he declares me an amateur? What if…
One of the guards unlocked the glass doors.
Men and women in formal black and white business attire, with gold name tags pinned to their shirt pockets, entered and zigzagged across the lobby, blurring her thoughts.
Rakesh nudged her hand. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
Sheetal flexed her fingers, aware of her nails biting into her palms. “Is the gallery hosting another event today?”
“No, why?”
“So many people. I don’t think I can do this.” Her knees weakened, but Rakesh held her hand and tightened his grip. Warmth surged through her veins and calm dispelled fear.
“You’re going to be fine. Just fine.”
She had to be fine. She took a deep breath and collected herself. She was ready.
Five hours into the exhibition, Mummyji cruised up and down the buffet table, attending to friends, relatives, and members of the ladies’ club. Sheetal happened to overhear Mummyji complain how Sheetal had shirked the responsibilities of Naina’s wedding to work on her paintings. Sheetal was about to refute the false accusation when a middle-aged gentleman in a dark business suit and thick silver eyeglasses headed straight for ‘Sunset Boulevard.’ Sheetal recognized him from the thumbnail photograph that accompanied his “Art and Aesthetics” column in The Raigun Herald. Naidu Sahib.
Sheetal broke away from the attendees and followed Naidu Sahib, maintaining a ten feet distance. She prayed he would consider at least one of her works adequate and give her a chance, but from the way he paused before a canvas, shook his head and moved on to the next, it didn’t appear as though she’d make the cut.
Then he stopped before Dawn at Dusk, and Sheetal’s heart skipped a beat.
He slipped a hand into his trouser pocket, pulled out a pen and notebook and scribbled something.
Her throat felt parched. Should she ask if he had questions, or wanted an explanation, or—
He took several steps back, slid his eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose, and jotted more notes.
Was something wrong? Had he somehow guessed she hadn’t done the painting alone? Impossible, she reasoned. It was just like any other painting. But then, why was he focused, like he’d discovered some secret?
‘Believe what you see, not what you think you see.’
She had to stop second guessing and making more of his observation than existed. He was simply observing her work. Nothing more.
Sheetal stepped closer.
When she was three feet away, Naidu Sahib snapped shut the notebook and frowned.
Guests milled about, blurring in her vision. Sheetal held her breath. My career is over.
“Interesting work.” Naidu Sahib folded his hands together in namaste and made for the lobby door.
***
The following day, an even larger crowd attended the event. People complimented Sheetal’s work with phrases like, ‘such talent,’ ‘amazing blend of colors,’ ‘such fine details,’ and ‘budding artist.’ However, the comments meant little because Rakesh measured success by net worth, and no painting had sold.
Sheetal was in the hall of ‘Sunset Boulevard’ when Rakesh approached.
“Hey, all okay?”
“Fine.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Really, I’m fine.” She lowered her gaze, and the cracks running across her Italian leather pumps seared her heart. What sarcastic comment was he going to come up with
this time? Budding failure?
“Did you see that?” He pointed to a wall behind.
Sheetal turned. A ‘SOLD’ tag was pinned beside one of her paintings. Not just any painting. Beside Dawn at Dusk.
***
Later that evening, several more ‘SOLD’ signs popped up on walls, but Sheetal didn’t have time to ask Mukesh the buyers’ details. When she had a free moment, she crossed the lobby to Pamela, hoping she’d have some information.
Pamela flipped through the register of sales and shrugged. “No names here. Seems like the last few were purchased by anonymous buyers.”
“There must be a check somewhere.”
Pamela drew an imaginary line down the sheet with her index finger. “Says here, cash…cash…and cash.”
Who walked around with ninety-five thousand rupees in cash?
“I was out for lunch when Mukesh was on duty. He handled all the sales. Look, his signature here…and here and here.” She tapped several identical signatures.
“Where is he now?”
“Off duty. But he’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Is there an address or some location we can track to find where the paintings are headed?”
“It just says personal pick up.”
“Well.” Sheetal crossed her arms. “Whoever Mr. Anonymous is, he sure knows how to stay anonymous.”
***
Megha attended the exhibition every evening after college, and each time brought a different group of friends. She began her tours by introducing her friends to Rakesh and Sheetal, then led them through the five halls. However, one friend, a tall, lanky young man, accompanied Megha every day. He walked with one arm around Megha’s shoulders or waist and lingered on late in the evening, well after others had gone home. He smiled at Rakesh and Sheetal from a distance but walked away if either approached.
Mr. Anonymous? No, Sheetal reasoned. How could a college student possibly have that much cash on him? Perhaps he was Raj, the young man Megha loved. Sheetal was about to ask Megha and then stopped. This was not her problem, and she didn’t need to get involved.