by Anju Gattani
“He likes my work. He really likes it.”
Rakesh nodded.
Then a thought crossed her mind. “Did you pay Naidu Sahib to write this?”
Rakesh pulled away. “Is that what you think?”
It was hard to trust anything, at this point.
“I had nothing to do with this. Honest.”
***
Two weeks later, Sheetal was able to manage simple tasks. She carried the remains of Dawn at Dusk to her studio and opened the closet door, hoping to find a corner where it might fit. As charred as the painting was, she didn’t have the heart to throw it away.
Two cardboard boxes took up the majority of space, and there wasn’t much room left in the five-by-seven square foot area, but she didn’t want to house the painting anywhere else. She had dragged out the last box when Rakesh walked in.
Rakesh now came home early from work and spent time with Sheetal and Yash before doing anything else. However, Sheetal knew better than to trust this new change.
“Here, let me help you,” he said.
“I can do it myself.” She looked at Dawn at Dusk and ducked her head. If they were going to live under one roof, the least she could do was be civil. “I was wondering if you knew who this belonged to.” She knelt, opened the flap of a box and pulled out the cricket bat, padding gear, and cricket balls.
Rakesh stared. He slid a hand along the bat’s thin handle then ran a thumb over a ball’s scratched and worn skin. “How did you find this?”
“I did some clean up before Diwali. They lay packed in the closet here.”
“She took these away from me because I’d stopped playing after Mumma died. I searched every cupboard I could but finally gave up. I can’t believe you found them.” His expression softened, and Sheetal saw a hint of the chubby little boy in the photographs.
“Why did you stop playing?”
“Mumma used to watch me play on the front lawn. She’d clap and cheer and rally the servants to make two teams. When she died, I couldn’t play anymore. I missed her so much. And Pushpa put this all away. She told me she’d thrown it out along with all of Mumma’s photos.”
Sheetal pulled apart the upper flap of the second box and took out one photo frame at a time.
Rakesh’s eyes glazed over and he knelt beside her.
“I didn’t know who any of the people were in the photos. I’m guessing that must be your Mumma and Papa. And you.” She pointed to the little boy standing beside Ashok and Rashmi outside the Dhanraj mansion.
“I was ten,” his voice cracked. “That’s Mumma. My beautiful, loving Mumma.” He ran his fingers across the glass as if she might come to life at his touch.
“She’s so beautiful. I’m sure she must have loved you very much.” Sheetal aligned the frames side by side on the carpet, like the missing pieces of his life.
“This was taken outside. And this was taken at someone’s house inauguration.” He pointed to the solemn group gathered outside someone’s house.
“I can understand why Megha isn’t there. She wasn’t born. But where’s Naina?”
Rakesh swallowed and the corners of his eyes tightened. “Naina isn’t my real sister.”
“Oh. She’s a cousin then?”
“Pushpa’s daughter.”
Sheetal stilled. “Mummyji was married to someone else before she— And Naina is her daughter from that first marriage?”
“Pushpa was Papa’s mistress before Mumma—” He broke off.
Sheetal took a deep breath and exhaled as reality sank in. “So, Naina is their love child?”
He nodded, his gaze fixed on the carpet.
It all made sense now, why Mummyji favored Naina. Why Naina was so very different. No wonder Megha had been left to the servants’ care and Rakesh had assumed the role of a parent at the tender age of thirteen.
“As soon as Mumma died, Papa brought her in. And it’s been that way since. Pushpa locked everything from my past away. Like I didn’t have one.” He ran his fingers over the border of a frame. “And to think, of all the people, you found them.” A tear glistened in the corner of his eye.
Sheetal placed a hand on Rakesh’s wrist. Maybe now he would find himself.
***
A week later, Janvi’s cries filled the mansion, “Memsahib! Memsahib! She here. She come home.”
Megha? Sheetal’s heart skipped a beat. She limped down the stairs, followed by Rakesh and Mummyji, and all three halted at the landing.
Ajay and the senior Malhotras stood near the Fulton Whites while Naina lay unmoving on the white cushions. Ajay fished a stack of papers from his briefcase and threw the bundle across the glass coffee table. “Your copy of the divorce papers.” He gestured to Naina. “I’m done with her.”
Sheetal grabbed the banister for support. The charade was over.
Mummyji turned from Rakesh to Ajay. “Ajayji.” She approached him. “I’m sure we can find an alternative to this, I tell you. It’s such a small childhood problem, really. And Naina recovers so quickly. I was going to tell you myself, I tell you. Wasn’t I, Sheetal?”
“So, this has happened before.” Mrs. Malhotra turned to Mummyji. “After the wedding, she told me the wedding was too much for the girl. That Naina had collapsed from fatigue. Fatigue, my foot!”
Sheetal lowered her gaze to the floor. It was time to reap the rewards of behaving like a Dhanraj, and there was no one to blame but herself.
“Please, listen to me,” Pushpa begged. “I’ll have Naina’s treatment reviewed and—”
“Nonsense. I have nothing more to do with her.” Ajay crossed his arms.
“I’ll double the dowry,” Pushpa pleaded. “I’ll—”
“You’re paying us to keep her? Is that it?” Ajay barked. “You dump a defective piece on our hands and think you can shut us up with more money? Just you watch, I’ll have the entire dowry returned this week and let the media know what you did.” Then all three Malhotras turned to leave.
“You can’t do this!” Pushpa ran to catch up with them. “Come back. Please, come back.”
Two days later, the only thing that came back from the Malhotras was the dowry.
***
A week later, Janvi’s cries filled the mansion, “Memsahib! Memsahib! She here. She come home.”
Megha? Sheetal’s heart skipped a beat. She descended the stairs, followed by Rakesh and Mummyji, and all three stopped at the landing.
Megha, Raj, and the three Saxenas stood near the Fulton Whites. Dressed in a bridal red and gold salwar suit, Megha held on to Raj’s hand.
Rakesh walked toward them, his attention fixed on Megha.
“A copy of our marriage certificate, Sir.” Raj handed Rakesh a thin bundle of papers. “We were legally married in court and the temple.”
The air escaped Sheetal’s lungs and she stood frozen in awe. No dowry. No Swarovski-dotted, silk wedding invitations or colossal golden chariot to mark Megha’s wedding. The girl had taken destiny in her own hands. To think, Megha had taken nothing from them, yet had been blessed with everything that wealth, prestige and status couldn’t buy: a husband who loved her for who she was.
Rakesh leafed through the papers and swayed like he was about to lose balance. She advanced, pressed a palm against his back, and felt the muscles in his back relax. She removed her hand.
Rakesh turned to Raj and held out a hand. “Welcome to the family.” Then he turned to Megha. “Welcome home.”
***
With Naina back, Mummyji quickly settled into her previous routine, and was even quicker to blame the divorce on the Black Pagoda theme. Plus, she threatened to ostracize Megha from the family for having married a lower-class man of her own choosing. Her remarks, however, had little effect on Sheetal and Rakesh, who pointed out that Naina needed professional therapy and Megha would always be family.
“And what will the world say, I tell you, when they find out Naina’s seeing a menta
l doctor?” Mummyji shook her head.
“That she would have made so much progress by now if you had shown her to a psychiatrist long before instead of worrying about the world’s opinions,” Sheetal replied.
Sitting by the koi pond one afternoon, Sheetal gently rocked Yash in a baby rocker until he fell asleep. The setting sun cast the final rays of sunlight for the day, and Sheetal shifted to block sharp streams from falling across Yash. It was easy to protect him now. He was small and knew nothing of the world. But what would she do as he grew? How would she protect him then? Could she continue to live with Rakesh forever?
The kois darted through the water. One glided up and broke the surface.
The charade had gone on long enough. She had three options. She could easily force three Elavils down the throat of their relationship and live the illusion of happily ever after, or, like Megha, take control of her destiny, which meant seeking professional help and getting to the root of the problem. Then, of course, the easiest route involved taking Yash and walking out.
Chapter Forty-Six
Peace
Rakesh sat alone in the dimly lit den, his attention on the black and white portrait Sheetal had sketched, mounted on the wall. The portrait wasn’t just good. It was deep, insightful, and clearly the work of an artist who could see what others didn’t. A sigh escaped his lips and he exhaled. That was the problem. Despite all he’d done, Sheetal had been good to him. She held him up when he was at his weakest. She believed in him when no one else did. She found the missing pieces of his life. She was the one true connection to the real world, the foundation he never had. She was his strength, his peace, and he owed her freedom in order to find his inner peace.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Home
A week later, it was time for Sheetal’s annual holiday at Mama’s place, but this time she made it clear to Mummyji there would be no time limit and she would decide when to return. “I need time away from all of you,” she was firm. “I need to put time and energy into raising my son, now that I’m healing, and focus on my career.”
Sheetal had received orders and advances from two five-star hotels, three clubs and one convention center, and the requested series of works would easily take two months to complete.
Sheetal walked downstairs, headed to the front door with Rakesh close behind, while servants loaded three Louis Vuitton suitcases into the boot of the black Mercedes.
Rakesh steered her toward the Fulton Whites. “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day. You’re right. I’m selfish, uncaring, and I’m sorry for everything. My behavior, what I said. And I want you to know, I ended the other relationship. It’s over. I want us to start over.”
Was this a joke? Did he expect her to forget and fall lovingly into his arms? “I don’t have time for this. I’m getting late.”
“And,” he went on, “I’m letting you go.”
Letting? Sheetal gritted her teeth. He had the nerve to say that after everything? “I will decide what I do from now on, with or without permission.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Rakesh quickly added, “I—”
“I’m tired.” Sheetal looked past him to the tessellation of black and white squares spread across the floor like a never-ending maze. Then she looked him in the eye. “Just leave me alone.”
Rakesh withdrew a brown envelope from his coat pocket and offered it to her.
“Another timetable? Another list of dos and don’ts? Or am I supposed to follow Dhanraj rules at Mama’s house, too?”
Rakesh opened his mouth to say something, but Sheetal grabbed the envelope and rammed it into her handbag. “I’m leaving.” Then she walked out the mahogany doors to the waiting car.
“Sheetal!” He followed. “I’ll agree to whatever you say. Psychiatric help. A marriage counselor. I’ll change. Promise.”
Sheetal slid into the back seat beside Moushmi Kaki, who cradled Yash. She sat upright, careful not to press her back against the leather seat. The majority of her burns had healed, but some patches were still swollen with pus. “Challo, Driverji.”
The driver revved the engine, and Rakesh grabbed the edge of the half-open window and peered in. “Can I come see Yash?”
“You wanted to know what mark I would leave behind in this world. How people would remember me after I’m gone. Well, look in Yash’s eyes and you’ll find the answer. And no, you shouldn’t, because he needs to get away from you, too.”
“But— I’ll have all your things shifted back into our room. I’ll cut down on my drinking. Smoking. Promise. I— For Yash. I’ll do it for Yash.”
“If you step back for Yash, that might be better. We don’t want to run over your foot.”
Rakesh backed away.
“Driverji speed pakro. Late ho rahi hai,” Sheetal commanded the driver to pull out and hurry.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Insaaf (Justice)
The black Mercedes turned into the driveway at Prasad Bhavan and halted before the main door. Sheetal left the car, climbed the front stairs, and held her breath at the sight of Aunty Hemu standing in the doorway beside two green suitcases. “Are you leaving, Aunty Hemu?”
“Why, Hambe. Yes. My job is done for now, and Anjali can manage.” Her attention drifted to Sheetal’s easel, equipment, and suitcases being carried in. She snorted, and the corner of her lip curled up in a sneer. “Hambe, you here to stay?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.” Sheetal shrugged. “I’ll see.”
Aunty Hemu pressed an index finger to her chin. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s expecting you.”
Sheetal took a small breath and held her calm. “I don’t care what people expect anymore.”
“Problems at the Dhanraj’s?”
Sheetal walked past Aunty Hemu and made herself comfortable on a sofa in the living room. Moushmi Kaki, who had followed her, handed Yash over and she propped him on her lap as Aunty Hemu entered the living room. “I thought you were planning on staying forever,” Sheetal said. “But you’re leaving. Problems at the Prasad’s?”
Aunty Hemu brushed the air with a hand. “Hambe. It’s not right for a woman to spend too much time at her mother’s place after marriage. No matter how much it feels like home. A woman’s real home is the husband’s home.”
Sheetal’s jaw tightened and she reminded herself to relax. “So true. A woman’s real home is the husband’s home and in the husband’s heart. But she should feel she belongs; otherwise, she is forcing herself where she is not wanted. No?”
Aunty Hemu batted her eyelids and turned away. “Your burns are healed, I suppose. You must be here for rest, then.”
“I don’t have time to rest. I have several orders I have to start on. I’m here because I want to be here.”
“In our days, we didn’t—”
“You didn’t do a lot of things in your days that women do now. How could you? You didn’t have the courage or chance to make yourself heard. You had to do as you were told. But times have changed.”
Aunty Hemu spun on her heels and frowned. “We respected our elders. We kept within our limits.”
“We keep limits.”
“We listened.”
Sheetal tightened her grip on Yash. “Listen, Aunty Hemu—”
“Oh Beti!” Mama exclaimed, rushing in. “So good to have you back. And how are the burns now? Healed?”
“Mostly, but a lot of scars and patches still.”
“Everything heals and fades with time.” Mama sat beside her and took Yash in her arms. “I have some good news.”
If Aunty Hemu’s plans change, that won’t be good news.
“You have your old room back, just the way you wanted.”
“Really?”
“Vikram and Anjali have moved into another, bigger one, farther down the hall. And—”
Just then, a car honked.
Aunty Hemu b
ade them goodbye and left for Vilaspur.
***
Sheetal lay Yash on her bed and inhaled the comforting scent of lavender. It was good to be home again. She threw open the balcony doors and the fragrance of moist grass flooded the room as Yash cooed and gurgled.
“Yahaan rakhoon, Choti Sahiba?” Moushmi Kaki asked if she should put Yash’s things in Sheetal’s room.
“Theek hai.” Sheetal nodded and then asked her to help Mama, who was downstairs, so she could have some privacy. She sat on the edge of the bed, pulled the brown envelope from her handbag, and emptied the contents on the floral-print duvet. A small, white envelope and thin stack of papers slid out. Sheetal unfolded the papers and her chest tightened. Divorce papers. So, that’s what Rakesh meant by letting go. She flattened a palm against the duvet. Something hard and bulky pricked her fingertip. It was the princess-cut diamond ring. She peeled the flap of the white envelope with her thumb and pulled out a white card.
I’m sorry for all the trouble between us. Hope to see you home soon. –Rakesh
Hope and home. Two words she’d carried in her heart for nineteen months. And here they were together in Rakesh’s handwriting.
It would be easy, so easy, to shove the ring back into the envelope, sign the divorce papers and return them. She could erase the last year and a half of her life in seconds, pretend it never happened and move on. But there was no pretending. She had lived every moment of those days, weeks and months.
Yash gurgled and laughed, and her attention fell on the curve of his round cheeks and toothless smile. There was no denying any of it. Yash was living proof.
Sheetal held the ring in her right hand and the divorce papers in her left. Yash deserved a family, but how could she give him one without going back? And what was there to return to? Rakesh had lied, cheated and abused her. Going back meant risking everything she had fought for.