by Anju Gattani
Over the next two days, more ‘SOLD’ labels appeared about the gallery, as if the sale of Dawn at Dusk had triggered a buying spree. She could no longer contain her smile. She felt alive in a way she’d never experienced before.
That evening, Mukesh informed her that an elderly gentleman with gray hair had paid cash for Dawn at Dusk and then left with several more pieces.
***
On the fifth and final day, Aunty Hemu, Vikram and Anjali accompanied Mama and Papa—who’d attended every day of the exhibition.
The pallu of Aunty Hemu’s sari cascaded along the length of her left arm and swept the floor as she struggled to balance on a pair of stilettoes. Her hair was coiled in a bun and her face gleamed in the chandelier’s yellow light as thick drops of sweat oozed down the sides of her face, streaking a layer of foundation. The scent of air freshener wafted from her skin as she struck a pose.
“Hambe! Here, here, photo wallah!” she called out to the photographer. “Mera photo aisa hi laina.” She swept her left arm toward her chest, fanned the sash of green fabric that cascaded like a waterfall, and insisted the photographer shoot her in this pose.
Sheetal grabbed Mama by the hand and pulled her aside. “If you hadn’t pulled those paintings off the walls at home,” she whispered, “I’d never have met my quota.”
“Lucky I remembered.”
“You’ve done us proud.” Papa patted her shoulder.
“Of course, of course,” Aunty Hemu intervened. “All of us are proud, I tell you. Now, don’t get me wrong”—she turned to Vikram, who stood behind and waved the photographer away—“I heard Sheetal’s been secretly working on this exhibition for months. Behind everyone’s back. I even heard the Dhanrajs had to sacrifice Sheetal’s duties at the office and some of Naina’s wedding preparations so she could pursue her career.”
The lies!
Sheetal wanted to grab Aunty Hemu and wring her neck. She locked both hands into one fist behind her back to refrain from doing so and searched the crowd for Rakesh. There was only one way to shut down Aunty Hemu. She spotted Rakesh heading for the corridor toward ‘Still Waters’ and called for him to join them. “Why not discuss your worries with Rakesh, Aunty Hemu, since he knows all the secrets around here?”
“Oh!” Aunty Hemu coughed. “It’s not necessary, really.”
“You wanted something?” Rakesh joined them.
“Aunty Hemu was just sharing with everyone,” Sheetal said, “how I had to give up work at the office and some of my duties at Naina’s wedding so that I could put all this together. I thought we should hear it from you.”
“What responsibilities?” Rakesh turned to Aunty Hemu. “She doesn’t work for me or my company. And none of her paintings interfered with Naina’s wedding.”
“Oh, I—” Aunty Hemu looked from Rakesh to Papa and back. “I was just telling what I heard and—”
“Talent of any kind is God’s gift,” Rakesh cut her off. “It’s precisely why I booked this gallery and had the studio at home renovated. Anything else you’ve heard is just gossip. Besides”—he slipped his hands into the side pockets of his trousers—“what would my wife do in the office anyway when I have thousands of people working for me? Shouldn’t she pursue her own niche when she’s obviously so talented?”
Sheetal’s heart skipped a beat. Did Rakesh really mean this?
“As for Naina’s wedding,” he continued, “I don’t think any woman in her second trimester could be or should be doing more than what Sheetal managed. You would know, Aunty Hemu. Anjali just had a baby, right?”
“Oh… I…uh–the bathroom, hambe. Where is it?” She slipped away, and Sheetal straightened her posture with pride.
At five o’clock, near closing time, Pamela congratulated Sheetal. “This is the most successful exhibition I’ve seen for a first-time exhibitor, Mrs. Dhanraj. Raigun loves you.”
Sheetal’s heart soared. She felt as if her head would touch the ceiling. “I can’t believe fifty paintings sold in five days.”
Rakesh joined them. “This calls for a celebration. I’ll find Megha and we can go out for a celebration dinner.”
“A double celebration,” Pamela joined in. “A first for us, too, and a success we’re going to remember for a long time.”
***
Sheetal swung open the gallery door and stepped outside. Storm clouds roiled overhead.
Rain in December? Unheard of.
Wind whipped tendrils of hair from behind her ears, lashing each strand against her cheeks as streaks of lightning flashed across the sky. A boom of thunder caused her to jump. All hell was about to break loose, for sure.
Sheetal tore down the gallery’s stone steps to the black Mercedes parked at the curb as plastic bags, dried leaves and shreds of paper whirled around. The chauffeur swung open the door. Sheetal slid into the vehicle before he slammed the door shut and he resumed his position in the driver’s seat. Then the heavens cracked open and raindrops bounced off the windshield and windows like popcorn.
Rakesh rushed out, taking the steps two at a time. He tapped on Sheetal’s window and hoisted a blazer above his head for a makeshift umbrella as water plopped on his slick, black hair and trickled down his collar.
Sheetal rolled down the glass and pulled away from the icy drops that splashed in.
“Where’s Megha?”
The last time she had seen Megha was half an hour ago with that young man. Had they gone off somewhere together?
Rakesh stared past her shoulder and blinked. “Did she say anything about plans to go out for the evening?”
Sheetal bit her tongue. How much could she tell him? And how much did she really know? Sheetal pressed her lips together. This was not her problem. “She promised to meet us after the exhibiton was over. Near the fountain,” she yelled above the roll of thunder.
“Something’s wrong.”
Sheetal turned away before her expression gave her away.
“That tall college student. The guy with the glasses. He was with her, right?”
“You’re worrying too much. The last time I saw Megha, she was with a group of friends.”
“There was no group at four-thirty. It was just the two of them. Alone. Remember?”
How could she forget? They walked hand in hand, unconcerned with what anyone might say.
Rakesh fished his Blackberry from a trouser pocket. “Hello, Janvi?”
Tell him, an inner voice said. Sheetal looked past Rakesh’s shoulder to a flash of lightning tearing across the sky.
He switched off the phone and tucked it inside the pocket. “Megha’s not home. Janvi said she left this morning carrying a large sports bag.”
“Oh.” She numbed.
A deafening boom shook the air. The storm raged overhead. Thick, grey clouds—the meaning of Megha’s name—pregnant with rain, scudded across the sky. Lightning blazed, melting the success of Sheetal’s exhibition with the downpour. Thunder rumbled again and again, all night long, but neither heaven nor hell knew where Megha had gone.
Chapter Thirty-Seve
Missing Megha
Rakesh spent the night reaching out to every contact in Megha’s phone book, but twenty-four hours later, there was no news of her whereabouts. He called the police, declared her a missing person, and the Raigun authorities began an investigation, advising him to wait for further news.
Wait? Rakesh numbed. He couldn’t just sit and wait. What if Megha had been kidnapped for ransom and her life endangered? He located a recent photograph of Megha and drove off in the Lamborghini. He cruised the streets surrounding the college campus, pulled up at cafes, restaurants and venues where young people hung out and held up Megha’s photo, but none of the students had seen her. He turned to shop owners and residents, but no luck. Frantic, he approached pedestrians and offered a hundred-thousand-rupee reward to anyone who could help find her, but no one, not even beggars, had the time.
Rakesh rak
ed his fingers through his hair as never-ending streams of rush-hour traffic, smog and pedestrians fogged his thinking. Where could she be? Or have gone? He held up Megha’s photo like a placard to every passerby, but no one took notice. His head pounded as desperation mounted. When he wiped sweat from his temple, his fingers came away slimed with dirt. To think, he’d never given any beggar so much as a paisa, and now he begged every street urchin and roadside peddler for information.
If she’d run away, was it to escape him? Why? He was only doing what Papa would have done had he been around. He’d stood up for Megha, been her rock since she was a baby, and she returned the favor by abandoning him? His heart ached and his chest constricted with guilt.
On the third day, Rakesh woke before dawn to cruise the streets, this time west of campus—a maze of open-air food stalls and kiosks. He drove down roach-infested back alleys, hit dead-ends, and almost struck a lamp post. He squinted in an effort to discern the divide between sidewalk and road, convinced he was going in circles. Twelve hours later, his throat raw and full of cacti needles, he searched for a bar, located one, and parked the Lamborghini. He sat for a moment, pounding head pressed against the headrest, eyes closed, before summoning the strength to step from the car. He reached for the door of the bar when someone in the distance with Megha’s neck-length hair and petite frame caught his attention. The young woman, dressed in a pair of skinny jeans and a tight-fit, green T-shirt stood on the curb with her back to him.
“Megha!” he yelled. “Megha!”
The girl hitched her purse on her left shoulder, stepped off the pavement, and zigzagged between six lanes thick with traffic.
“Wait!” Rakesh took off after her. He dodged hawkers, fruit carts and open-air food stalls in a rush to catch up, but she vanished amid swarms of bodies on the far side of the road.
He stepped off the pavement, but a man on a bicycle with two huge aluminum milk containers hanging on either side of the bicycle like lop ears almost knocked him over.
“Arrey, sambhal ke challo!” the milkman yelled for him to watch where he went as the rattle of aluminum against wheelspokes grated the air. A lorry passed by in the second lane, blasting diesel fumes that made Rakesh’s eyes water. Then headlights caught him in a glare of blinding light. A horn blared. He closed his eyes and braced for impact. Someone yanked him aside. Wind whooshed. Hairs on his body stood on end.
“Why you try to die?” yelled a beggar in tattered brown clothing who reeked of fish, sweat and stale alcohol. “People like you have everything and want to die, while people who have nothing, like me, should be dead but continue to live.”
Rakesh pried the beggar’s fingers off his suit and stuffed several rupee notes in his half-open palm. Then he staggered across the road, weaving in and out of human and vehicular traffic. Megha, he remembered. Find her. On the crowded far pavement, he waded through the stench of sweat-filled bodies, looked up and saw the girl again. He lengthened his stride, but she rushed ahead. “Wait! Megha!” He elbowed past people and swept them aside. “Megha!”
The girl leapt into the arms of a young man and kissed him on the lips.
“Don’t touch her,” he yelled.
The young man let go. The girl turned and the breath caught in Rakesh’s throat. She wasn’t Megha.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Déjà vu
Sheetal sat beside Rakesh in the TV lounge as the overwhelming odor of scotch, burnt cigarettes and stale deodrant enveloped her. If she didn’t speak up now, she’d regret it later. “I…I think I know where Megha might be.”
Rakesh placed his glass on the coffee table. “You think you know, or you know?”
“There’s this boy she likes in college. Raj. She mentioned—”
Rakesh turned to her in disbelief. “She what?”
“A while back.”
“And you…she…none of you told me? The guy with her in the exhibition. That was him, right?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you know? What else did she tell you that I should know?”
“She said you were trying to fix her up with someone. Prakash Goyal.”
He flinched.
“You invited the family over to meet Megha, and you didn’t tell her they were coming or why. You didn’t even tell me.”
“She’s eighteen. I figured I had to start—”
“She’s only eighteen! That doesn’t give you the right to decide her life.”
“I wasn’t fixing anything. The Goyals had come to meet, talk and get to know her. That’s all.”
Wasn’t that how Mama and Papa had arranged her marriage? First meet Rakesh at a party, then over lunch. “But did you ask? Did you talk to Megha beforehand?”
“Papa would have done the same if he’d been alive.”
Anger surged through her veins. “That doesn’t give you the right to decide Megha’s future.”
“This…this—what’s his name? That fellow—”
“Raj.” First that Arvind, now that Raj. Why couldn’t love be accepted? Why did love have to carry a label like a taboo?
“I’m guessing he’s probably some punk off the—”
“He’s not off the street and this is your fault. All of it.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You were trying to fix her up with someone she hates. Someone she didn’t want to—”
“That bastard,” he cut her off.
If Raj was wealthy and from a decent family, Megha stood a chance of marrying him. ‘Decent’ meant Raj’s family should own a bungalow, a few estates, membership in the Raigun Cricket Club and a successful family business.
“At least find out who he is before calling him names.”
Later that afternoon, Sheetal and Rakesh learned that Raj Saxena was Raigun University’s top medical student in the final year of his M.B.B.S. and held no criminal record.
The Saxenas, a family of four, owned a two-bedroom apartment in a mediocre section of Raigun and Raj was the older of two siblings. Mr. Saxena was a manger for Nokia, the country’s leading mobile phone supplier and telecom network service provider, and Mrs. Saxena was a primary teacher in a private school. The Saxenas had also reported Raj ‘missing’ around the same time Megha’s case had been filed and they hadn’t heard from their son since.
“I’ll buy out Nokia. Shut down the damn school,” Rakesh shouted against the din of a soap commercial while pacing the lounge. “I’ll put them on the streets so no one will give him or his two dogs a job for life.”
“You put the Saxenas on the streets and that’s precisely where Megha will be.” Sheetal lowered the TV volume with the remote. “She’s not coming back.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she loves him. There’s nothing more powerful than love. So what if Raj is not like—up to our standards? Give him a chance.” A chance was all Arvind needed.
“It’s your fault. If you had kept your womanly advice to yourself, none of this would have happened.”
The blood rushed to her head. First Mummyji. Then Naina. Then Megha. Now Rakesh. How convenient for everyone to blame her when things went wrong. “Megha came to me for help. Not once, but twice. I was the only person she could talk to, and I suggested she tell you about Raj, but she obviously chose not to. I even suggested that you’d eventually turn around, but she was scared. I see why now. You’re stone, Rakesh. And she’s petrified of you. We all are.”
“Do I look like some kind of—” He swiped the air with a hand. “You sold her all that how-pretty-you-are nonsense. Brahma-created-you rubbish. She obviously soaked it up and flaunted herself to hook a man. She was fine until you came along. You screwed us all and turned Megha into a God knows what!”
Sheetal curled her fingers into fists. “She was lost. She didn’t know who she was. I helped her discover her potential. But you’re too blind to see that.”
Rakesh sat down and cupped his forehead in his hands.
“You turned her into a slut in those tight-fitting clothes.”
“The same tight-fitting clothes you forced me to wear not so long ago? Remember Graffiti? Those clothes hardly covered me.” Her attention was fixed on Rakesh, but his expression blanked. “I did what any woman with a heart would have done. I gave Megha confidence to escape her shell and be a woman. Clothes are just the outside, it’s what you are inside that matters.”
“She’s only eighteen.” He looked up. “A girl, dammit. Just a girl.”
Sheetal almost choked. “My grandmother had a child by the time she was eighteen. Megha’s just a girl to you because that’s how you choose to see her. What’s that you said the other day? Believe what you see, not what you think you see. You see every woman as a sitting target. Aim. Shoot. Fire. Because you choose to see all women that way. Except Megha.”
“You have no fucking right to put yourself between me and my sister.”
Sheetal anchored her spine against the sofa’s backrest. “Do you know why Megha ran away?”
Rakesh’s attention narrowed on the carpet.
“Because of you.”
“How dare—”
“If you don’t want me in your life, you shove me off to a room on another wing. Is that your answer to our problems?” Adrenaline rushed to her head. She didn’t give him a chance to answer. “But if I don’t want you in my life, where do I go? Do I have a choice? Husbands and wives don’t hide things from each other. They share their lives. They live with one another. And do you know what the worst part is?” She rose to her feet and towered two feet above him. “Even if I want, I can’t run away from you.”
***
Sheetal was about to sip her coffee alone in the dining room late that evening when Laal Bahadur emerged from the kitchen, fidgeting with the ends of a white tea towel. “There’s something I come to tell you.” He shifted weight from one foot to the other. “Some time ago…”