Your Truth or Mine?

by Trisha Sakhlecha

  ‘Come on, Max, let’s go for a walk,’ I said and started walking down the stairs, expecting him to follow, but he didn’t move an inch. The stupid dog wanted to stay in that horrible wire cage. I bent down and lifted him out of it. I set him down at the top of the stairs and whistled to him to follow. But once again he refused to move.

  It was roasting on the top floor. My T-shirt was stuck to my back. I hated that building. The stairs were narrow and they always stank of piss. The wooden banister was cracked and rotting. Mrs Bansal told us never to touch it because it had leeches and splinters.

  I turned to the dog and clapped. I whistled. I clicked but he refused to move. I considered carrying him all the way down but even though he was only little, he was too heavy for three flights of stairs.

  I grabbed his collar – the Bansals never used a lead – and pulled him down behind me. He yelped but I carried on till I got to the second floor. I let go of his collar when we got to the landing and then tried the whole thing again. Whistle, clap, click. The fucker wouldn’t move.

  I stepped back and kicked him in his stomach, hard. He rolled down two steps, yelping. Again. Another few steps. And again and again. He kept yelping through it all. At some point I felt my right foot get wet as a sticky warmth seeped through my no longer white canvas shoe.

  Max’s yelps got louder and louder as I kicked him all the way to the bottom of the staircase, away from that filthy building. I kept kicking until all at once the yelping stopped.

  Mr and Mrs Bansal came to our house that evening. They spoke in low tones and then my father took them into his study.

  We left for the holidays the next day and when we came back, my father told me we were moving to a new house and that meant a new school for me. He wanted me to be excited but I wasn’t.

  I snuck out after my parents went to bed and ran to Sahil’s place to tell him but his mother said he wasn’t at home, which was strange because it was nearly midnight.

  I noticed as I was leaving the Bansals’ that the kennel was gone.

  We moved to the new house the next day and I never saw my best friend again.

  On Tuesday, 15 December, at 11.04 p.m.,

  Roy Kapoor wrote:

  Mia,

  I can understand that you’re angry. I get it and I’ve been trying to give you some time to process everything. But it’s been over a week now. I can’t keep living like this. It’s starting to affect my work and I don’t know if that is something I’ll be able to forgive. I NEED to come home. You don’t have to speak to me – I’ll tiptoe around you. But don’t force me to do something I don’t want to. Can’t you see the only way we can make it out of this is together?

  Remember the lavender fields? I’m still the same man, Mia.

  I love you and I’m so sorry for what I’ve done to you. Let me in, please, so we can go back to our life.

  Roy

  MIA

  Wednesday, 16th December

  Ma is here. In my living room. Sipping on chai and talking about her blood pressure as if this were any other day. I carry a bowl of namkeen and some biscuits back to the living room and sit down across from her.

  I watch her assess the room and me. She puts her cup down on the coffee table and looks me straight in the eye.

  ‘This has gone on long enough, Mia. I can see how upset you are. Siddhant’s been miserable for days. I can understand what both of you are going through, beta, but it is high time we made some decisions.’

  She gets up and crosses the two paces between us. Her sari rustles as she sits down next to me. Her bangles jingle as she places her hand on mine. It’s sweaty. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this uncomfortable before. My eyes flick to my watch; she’s only been here fifteen minutes or so.

  ‘Now, you’ve both made some mistakes. I just wish you had listened to me. It really is so important to have a baby within two years of marriage; couples need that to hold them together. And then living abroad, with these goras . . .’ She trails off, shaking her head.

  Oh.

  Leave it to Roy’s mother to find a way to blame me for everything. If only I’d done my duty and fallen pregnant, everything would be okay. Roy may still have strayed, but hey, at least I wouldn’t have had the luxury of being angry about it. She pauses to take her hand off mine and I use all my energy to make sure I don’t sigh with relief. But it gets worse. She turns to face me and places her palm on my head. She strokes my hair and continues. ‘But ultimately, beta, you have to remember, aap Indian ho. Marriage means everything to us, not like these goras who can just throw one marriage away and move to the next one. Aur beta, you’re almost thirty now. You know how difficult it is for a woman to remarry, you come from a broken home yourself. Just look at the life your mother’s had to lead. Is that what you want for yourself?’

  She pulls away and regards me for a second, as if to let the seriousness of my bleak future sink in. ‘Beta, I don’t think you realize how lucky you are. We are not like other Indian families. Siddhant is our only son, but did we ask for a dowry? No. You live away from us, you wear these western clothes, you work all the time, you travel so much that Siddhant even needs to cook and do the housework sometimes. Did we object? No. Siddhant’s father and I always say, as long as the children are happy, we are happy. We have given you all the freedom. But this, beta? No, I cannot allow this. In our samaaj, marriage is a union for seven lives. All these little things, they mean nothing in front of a marriage, Mia.’

  She looks to me for agreement but I don’t say anything. There’s a pit at the bottom of my stomach and I can feel the tears coming. So much of what she’s saying infuriates me, but there is so much that she’s right about. Roy and I, we were meant to be for ever. We were supposed to make it through thick and thin. But adultery and violence – wasn’t that where I was allowed to draw the line?

  ‘Siddhant’s father and I spoke about this already. It’s perfectly okay for you to want some space; you’ve both been through a lot. But it’s high time now. You must call Siddhant. The poor boy, he’s under so much pressure already, but he is so attached to you, Mia, so loving, I know he will agree to come home.’

  She picks up my phone from the coffee table and holds it in front of me. ‘Chalo, phone karo.’

  She looks perplexed when I don’t reach for it. A flash of realization. Perhaps she gets it finally.

  ‘I see, I see. Don’t worry, beta, I’ll speak to him first. It may take some time but he will forgive you.’

  He will forgive me? I thought Roy sent her to apologize on his behalf. But I can see now that his emails, progressively more desperate by the day, were just more examples of the tricks he’d used for years to control me. I feel the flicker of hope I had been protecting dissipate. I can’t fix this, not when Roy can’t see what he’s done is wrong; that what he’s been doing for years is wrong.

  ‘Ma, I want to show you something,’ I say. I get up and walk to the kitchen. Roy’s mother follows me and pulls up a chair at the kitchen table. I give it a few seconds. ‘This is where I was sitting when I found out that your son was cheating on me.’

  She sighs and nods.

  I step back. I roll my sleeves all the way up to my shoulders. ‘These are the bruises I have from when he grabbed me,’ I say and she winces.

  I walk over to the far end of the room and point to a spot on the wall. ‘These marks you see here, these are from when he smashed his phone.’

  I turn around, my back to her and pull the neck of my T-shirt to one side. It still feels sore. ‘This bruise on my shoulder, it’s from when he threw me against the wall. I have another one like that on my leg.’

  I go back to face her. She’s standing up now, her mouth set in a grim line. I can tell she’s getting ready to launch into another one of her speeches. You must have provoked him. He doesn’t lose his temper often. He’s been under a lot of pressure lately. It takes two to start a fight, don’t blame him. Everyone gets angry sometimes. The voices in my h
ead sound a lot like Roy’s mother. They sound a lot like Roy. I shake them away.

  ‘He doesn’t need to forgive me, Ma. I need to forgive him. And I don’t think I can do that.’ I pause, the words triggering a revelation. ‘I don’t think I should.’

  I make a fresh cup of tea and sit at the kitchen table. I look up the number for the sexual health clinic and ring them for an appointment for a complete STI screening, and a urine and blood test. When the woman on the phone asks me if I’d like to pay for a private check-up or wait for an NHS appointment, I tell her I’ll pay, it’s urgent. I can’t bring myself to tell her why.

  I stay in the kitchen for two hours, drinking tea and reading through Roy’s emails.

  At half three my phone rings; it’s Roy. I let it go to voicemail and play it back as soon as he hangs up. He wants to know if I got his emails and texts. He wants to know if he can come home. If we can try to talk again. If I have forgiven him. Funny thing is, he still hasn’t apologized, not properly anyway. I’m sorry for the way things have unfolded. I can see how it’s partly my fault that he thinks he can get away with it. And I’m scared that is exactly what will happen if I speak to him again. He’ll cry, I’ll crumble, and he will move back in. I tell myself it’s okay to focus on myself for once.

  I place my phone on the kitchen table and switch on my laptop. I’m looking at flights to India when it rings again. Private number. I sigh and pick it up. It’s the estate agent in Bristol. As much as I still hate the idea, I hear him out, then ring James. After a few minutes of awkward conversation, I get to the point.

  ‘Listen, James, the agent just rang. He’s missing the freehold certificate. Have you still got it kicking about somewhere?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure Addi passed everything on, but hang on a second while I check.’ I hear the sound of drawers opening and papers rustling. ‘So I’ve been seeing all the news about that girl who’s missing. She used to work with Roy, did she not? Were they close?’

  ‘Just business acquaintances,’ I say. I still haven’t told Addi about any of this. She has enough to deal with right now.

  ‘Still. Nasty business. I hope you guys are holding up okay?’

  ‘Yes, it’s all incredibly sad. We just hope they find her soon,’ I say. It feels odd to refer to Roy and me as ‘we’. Strange how quickly that happened.

  ‘Well, it’s not looking good now, is it? Terrible tragedy.’ He pauses. ‘Anyway, I’ve looked through the papers. Addi made copies of everything your mum gave us and I can’t see a freehold certificate in there.’ He hesitates. ‘I can check if she’s still got it?’ he adds. I don’t need to check the calendar. Mum’s in chemo this week.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about it, I’ll sort it out. As a matter of fact, I’ve just thought of one more place I could check.’

  ‘All right then. Tell the hubby I said hello and let’s all catch up soon.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I lie and hang up. I love James but I’m not ready to see him yet.

  I set the box down on the kitchen table in front of me. I lost a few hours when I first went through it, trying to construct a memory to go with each newly discovered relic of a forgotten life. Focused entirely on the pictures and the cards, I didn’t pay attention to the official-looking documents in it. I open the box and start working through the contents, stacking them all up on the table as I go.

  A picture stuck to the back of a card catches my eye, the Kodak stamp on the back faded and yellowed. I peel it back and the edges curl inwards, as if to protect the picture. I flatten it out and peer at the faded scene. I feel myself deflate. It’s just a picture of a beach. Anonymous. No Daddy, no me. I tuck it into the album with the other photos and put it to one side. I carry on emptying the box, running through the medical records, bank statements, day planners and letters. There are a couple of A4 envelopes at the bottom. I pull them out and go through each one systematically. I hit gold with the third one: freehold certificate and a copy of the house deed. I email the agent to let him know I’ve found them and absent-mindedly rip through the remaining two envelopes. The first one is Daddy’s medical degree from Cambridge accompanied by a single faded photo of him and Mum with Uncle Bill and Aunty Jane. Daddy is in the centre, squinting into the camera, one arm thrown around Mum, her face eclipsed by a shadow, both of them grinning in their graduation gowns. Aunty Jane is at the edge of the frame and Uncle Bill, still a teenager, is standing next to Daddy, looking frazzled, the camera clicking a second before he was ready. Daddy looks smug, as if he’s just got away with the ultimate prank. I try to picture him goofing around, messing with a teacher, wooing Mum, but I come up with a blank. My only claim to my father is via a handful of memories and the bank of second-hand knowledge I have of him.

  I’m surprised to see that Aunt Laurel isn’t in the picture. As one of my parents’ best friends at Cambridge, she was there in almost all the other pictures I found earlier. I figure she must have been the one behind the camera and put the picture away.

  Fragments of a memory flash past. Running through a house opening every door. Laughter. A garden. Butterflies. I try to piece it all together but it hovers, just out of reach. I shake the images away and open the last envelope. The legal writing is instantly familiar and I’m about to place the document with the freehold certificate I found earlier, ready to send to the estate agent, when I notice the address on it.

  My father owned a house in Eastbourne?

  ROY

  Thursday, 17th December

  I type up a quick cover note and press send on the Wanderlust piece. Not my best work, but it’ll have to do for now, considering I can barely keep my thoughts straight. I pick up my phone and call you but once again it goes to voicemail. I send you yet another text. Where are you, my love? I haven’t heard from you in days and I’m starting to get worried.

  I lean back in the chair and hit refresh on the browser. No new email, either.

  I get up and wander into the living room for want of something to do. The TV’s on, and Emily’s face fills the room. I can’t seem to escape her. I turn it off.

  My parents’ bedroom door is ajar and I hear voices wafting out. They’re talking about me, no doubt discussing how catastrophically I’ve disappointed them. I take a step closer and strain to make out the words.

  ‘He wasn’t a child then and he certainly isn’t one now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He hit her. Do you understand what that means? He needs to take responsibility.’

  ‘So what do you want to do? Leave him to rot in—’

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying. But perhaps if we had done something—’

  ‘We did what was best.’

  ‘A girl died!’

  It hits me then. Her face flashes before me, the empty eyes, the blue lips, the blood trickling down her nose.

  I move away from the door just as my father catches my eye.

  ‘So now you eavesdrop too? Is it not enough to be a cheat, a wife-beater and a murderer?’ he shouts, slamming the door shut.

  I stumble out of the hotel and walk to the station. I’ve spent so long running and now that my past is catching up with me, I have nowhere left to go. I am back where it all began, haunted by a ghost.

  I step off the tube when I reach Embankment. I get out of the station and go to the adjoining garden. It’s still light, but the park is quiet. I buy a coffee from the kiosk and sit at a table overlooking the river. My thoughts, as always, find their way back to you; to the last time I was here with you.

  You were sitting at the very table that I am at now. You stopped writing and looked at me as I sat down.

  I set my coffee down and ran my fingers over your notebook – it was the same one you had accused me of stealing – and at least for the moment, it was the closest thing to touching you. My fingers settled on the inscription. LIKE THE SEA.

  ‘Did you have this inscribed?’

  You nodded. You had that slight frown on your face that I had come to un
derstand meant you were focusing on the present, making sure the past didn’t pull you adrift.

  ‘What does it mean?’ I asked, my fingers trailing over the tiny gold letters.

  You didn’t say anything and I wondered if you’d heard me. I was about to repeat myself when you spoke, so softly I had to strain to hear you.

  ‘It’s my life. I’ve had such little control over everything, it often feels like I’m being swept up in the sea, as if the waves are carrying me towards the end.’

  You looked down then, and reached over to touch the letters yourself. Our fingers grazed. The current that ran through me could have lit up the entire city.

  ‘I don’t know if I can make it out, if I ever will,’ you whispered.

  ‘You will.’

  When you looked up again, your eyes were wet. You pushed your hair back and I noticed the fresh bruise snaking around your neck, the make-up only concealing it so much.

  I knew how cautious you were, but in that moment, I didn’t care. I placed my hand over yours. I squeezed.

  ‘And if you don’t, I’m okay with drowning,’ I said.

  You let my hand linger on yours for a moment and then you pulled away.

  ‘I could never let you drown.’

  I get up when it starts drizzling. I walk back to the station and get on the tube to Canary Wharf. The rain is in full form by the time I come out and I run the short distance to the hotel. The concierge stares at me as I shake the water off. I walk straight past him into the hotel bar. There’s a fully stocked sideboard in my room but I’m in no mood to see my father and the thought of a semi-dark room full of strangers feels oddly comforting.

  I sit at the bar and order a glass of Macallan 25. Double. At only £42 a pop, it seems reasonable to let my father foot the bill. He is constantly telling me how entitled I am; may as well prove him right while I have the chance. Mia once told me that she thought being around my parents turned me into a teenager, and it occurs to me now that she may have been right.