Unwanted Girl

by M. K. Schiller

  The boy sat back down and took her hand in his. “You have to have faith, bhabhi. Life will get better for you.”

  She nodded to appease him and offered a small smile. It was all she could manage.

  “I hated this house after my father died. He was a good man. Not like Aditi. I prayed to God to bring him back. Instead, God brought you, and with you came laughter and love. Don’t leave me now.”

  She soaked in his words. She always felt it was Mukash who saved her time and again, but the reality of what he said, the fact they had saved each other, cracked through the seed of bitterness she’d built. She stroked his hair and kissed his forehead. “I’m sorry, little brother. You’re right and you’re wrong. I needed you much more than you needed me. Not only because of how you saved me and my baby. You showed me something I never knew existed.”

  “What did I show you?”

  “That the world has good men in it.”

  The boy’s chest puffed with pride, and he embraced her. She wiped his tears with her sari and made funny faces at him until he laughed. “I haven’t helped you much with your studies. But now, you’re probably much more advanced than me.”

  He scratched his head, a skeptic look on his face. “I don’t think so.”

  “Tell me what you are learning, my brave hero.”

  Mukash chatted on eagerly.

  She started helping him again, tutoring him while they did chores. She never sought refuge in the pages of a book anymore, but she did manage to find tiny rays of sunshine in an otherwise dismal life.

  One of which was the goat, who had become her friend. Maybe her misery had garnered the stubborn animal’s sympathy. Asha sat with him while knotting a garland made of marigolds, one she’d wear in her hair to the Holi festival. It used to be her favorite holiday, but now she no longer looked forward to the season of change. Change was never good without choice.

  The goat snatched a marigold from her hand and chewed, working its jaw slowly. Then he opened his mouth as if he expected another.

  “You’re a naughty goat.” She held up the strand of flowers. “Just for that, you can wear it.” She placed the garland around the animal’s neck. “You look prettier this way, and maybe it will soften your foul mood.”

  “Silly girl, what are you doing?” Her mother-in-law’s voice caused Asha’s back to go ramrod straight. “It’s all right, daughter. Don’t be frightened.” The old woman took a seat on the vacant stool next to her.

  Asha went to remove the garland, but the cane the older woman now carried smacked her in the hand. “Leave it.”

  They sat in silence. Asha truly believe her mother-in-law had a devil inside her. The old woman smiled whenever Aditi hit her. In fact, she encouraged her son, and in many ways, her words provided the ammunition for the weapons that were his hands. The worst was when she berated Mukash, though. She called her younger son stupid and fat. Those words hurt Asha the most because Mukash believed them, even when she tried to convince him of the brave, handsome hero he was.

  “Tell me why you did that?”

  “What mother?”

  “Why put the garland around the goat?”

  “I thought it would look nice.”

  “It does,” she said, chuckling. Asha forced herself to laugh along.

  “You’ve been very sad, daughter.”

  “We all have.”

  “There is no anguish which rivals a mother’s loss for her son.”

  “Yes,” Asha replied, clenching her fists so her hands wouldn’t shake.

  “It’s time for you to try again. My son may accept your excuses, but I recognize them for the lies they are. No woman bleeds as much as you claim to.”

  Asha swallowed, wiping away the trickle of sweat forming on her brow. “I— I—”

  “I didn’t come out in the hot sun to judge you, daughter.” She tapped the goat with her cane. “I hear the gossip. People say you have a relationship with the nun. She treats you like a daughter.”

  Asha had no idea where this was headed, but the last thing she wanted was to bring more trouble to Sarah. “I was her student once. Nothing more.”

  “I know she came to your house when your mother died.”

  “She was concerned.”

  “It’s all right, daughter. I understand she takes an interest in you, but I pray you don’t become misguided by her intentions. She does it not to help you but to feel better about herself. Just as a woman decorates herself with jewels, she can also decorate her mind. But all decorations are false. In the end, we have little power and persuasion in this world. You put the garland on the goat, but do you think it benefits the goat?”

  The old woman hobbled over to the animal. She removed the necklace of flowers and threw it in Asha’s lap.

  “Do you know the difference between the goat and you, my dear girl?”

  Asha shook her head.

  “The goat knows it’s a goat.”

  * * * *

  A few weeks passed since the disturbing conversation with her mother-in-law. She’d continued on, but what happened that morning frightened her enough to turn to Sarah once more.

  “Tell me,” Sarah said as soon as she set eyes on Asha.

  “Aditi is going on a pilgrimage to pray we have a son. He told me when he gets back that I need to give myself willingly or he will take what’s his,” Asha said, shuddering through the words. “If I refuse him, he will overpower me. I can’t Sarah. I can’t do this again. I will die this time. I will gladly take all the beatings in the world if it means I will never carry another baby.”

  “I could help you escape,” Sarah said, barely above a whisper.

  “They’ll know it was you. He’ll look for me, and he’ll have the villagers on his side. They’ll shut down the school. He’ll beat Mukash for information. All your good intentions will only result in destruction.” Asha saw that line of fate clearly. Her only escape would be death. She’d contemplated taking her own life, but as soon as the thought entered, she shook it away. At her core, she was a spiritual girl, and her faith, although dampened, would never allow her to walk that path.

  “What do we do?” Sarah asked.

  From the way Sarah titled her head toward the ceiling, she confirmed the question was not directed at Asha. Asha answered it anyway. “We pray I don’t get pregnant again.”

  Sarah was quiet for a long time, but her mouth moved, and her fingers clutched the cross around her neck. “We can do more. Wash up.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To a doctor in the city.” She combed through the girl’s hair with her fingers. “Asha, what we’re going to do goes against every fiber of my beliefs, but there is a point where right and wrong intersect. We are in that space now.”

  On the ride back, Asha studied the packet of white pills in her hand.

  “You’ll have to hide them,” Sarah instructed.

  “I will. Thank you, Sister.”

  “Will you do something for me?”

  “Anything.”

  “Resume your education.”

  “Why is it so important to you?”

  Sarah took a deep breath. “My mother always wanted to be a school teacher, but her life took a different road. She married my father, and they had eight children. We were very poor. Each night, she’d take us girls to the sitting room and have us read from the three books we owned.” Sarah smiled softly as if recalling some faraway faded memory. “The Bible, Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities, and Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women. Those are still my three favorite books. Anyway, she made all of us study, but especially the girls. My father said she would do better to teach us how to clean and cook than waste our time with books. I’ll never forget my mother’s response to him. It’s the reason why your education and the work I do is so important to me.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said educating a woman is the worthiest of endeavors. When you do that, you raise up all the generations before her and give fresh
hope to those who follow.”

  “But what use is it to me?”

  “I don’t have an answer for you, child. God’s plans for us aren’t always clear. This much I do know. You think you don’t have choices, but this is something you can do. You can free your mind even if your body is jailed. That is a choice you can make and an opportunity to own yourself.”

  Chapter 24

  Nick walked with his hand clasped around Shyla’s through the few streets that made up Little India. The vibrant colors and smell of fresh spices indulged all his senses.

  “These are called samosas,” Shyla explained, pointing to a street vendor. “They are pastries stuffed with spiced potatoes, onions, peas, and lentils.”

  “Sort of like a hot pocket?”

  “I suppose. Would you like to try one?”

  “Sure.”

  He went to remove his wallet, but she held up her hand. “It’s my treat.”

  She ordered in a mixture of Hindi and English. The clerk and her made small talk as Nick watched with awe. Her accent seemed more pronounced today surrounded with similar accents, although there were definite differences in cadence and speech. The clerk, a heavyset man with a wry grin, pointed to Nick and said something before laughing heartily. Shyla handed Nick the triangular fried pastry still hot and wrapped with tin foil.

  “Is he laughing at me?” Nick asked her, an amused smile on his face.

  “It’s not a big deal,” Shyla said.

  “What did he say? C’mon, I want in on the joke, especially if I’m the butt of it.”

  “I ordered a spicy one for me and a mild for you. He said if it’s for him, then you will want the extra mild. We make it special for the whites.”

  Nick arched a brow. “Oh, I see…for the whites.”

  “And then he said”—she held up air quotes for his benefit—“white men can’t do Indian spice.”

  Nick wondered for a moment if the statement had some deeper meaning. The store clerk continued to stare at them, his chin propped on his hands, a mocking smile on his face. “You understand everything we’re saying, don’t you?”

  The man tilted his head from side to side in a motion that neither confirmed nor denied Nick’s question.

  “I like spicy food, just so you know,” Nick said, narrowing his eyes at the vendor. Shyla giggled, and Nick pulled her closer to him. “Et tu, beautiful?”

  She patted his chest. “You’re not used to this kind of spice. It’s different. Mine is made with chili peppers.”

  “I can handle it.”

  The clerk snorted with derisive laughter.

  “What? Is that a challenge?” Nick asked the man.

  The man pointed to Shyla’s samosa. “If you eat it, I will give you a sweet for free.”

  “Challenge accepted.”

  “Nick, you’re being silly. You can’t—” Before she could finish the sentence, he grabbed her wrist, brought the pastry to his mouth, and took a huge bite.

  He chewed fast at first, but after a few seconds his jaw didn’t want to move. Shyla gaped at him, her eyes wide and her mouth forming a perfect O. He could taste all the spices now. There must have been at least one hundred of them…a hundred degrees of spice melting his tongue.

  “Nick, are you okay?” she asked, putting her hand on his chest as if feeling for a heartbeat.

  He gulped down the food and wiped his forehead. “Yes,” he said, his voice raspy from the burn. The clerk’s loud chuckle reinforced his determination. He took a deep breath, which was a mistake because the air hitting his tongue only dispersed the five-alarm fire in his mouth.

  “I’ll get you some bread,” Shyla said. Bread? He needed a fire hose to douse the flames.

  “I’ll take the sweet now,” Nick said, holding out his hand to the shop clerk.

  “I ran out. Come back in an hour, and I’ll have a package for you,” the man replied.

  Nick tried not to show his discomfort, but he knew he was failing, especially when the man’s grin resembled that of a Cheshire cat’s. Shyla took a plastic bag of pita and placed another dollar on the counter. She clasped Nick’s hand and led him away.

  As soon as they were out of earshot, she started laughing.

  “Oh, thanks,” Nick said, bumping her hip and taking her iced coffee.

  “Hey, that’s mine,” she said, trying to grab it from him. He placed his other hand on her head and held her back. She tried in vain to capture the cup.

  He sipped it down until the full cup only contained ice. Then he opened the lid and swallowed the ice. “Sweetheart, I need this more than you. I’m about to self-combust.”

  “Your own fault.”

  “How can you eat that stuff?”

  She shrugged, a seductive smile on her pretty mouth. “I like my food like my men…hot.”

  Damn, he loved her flirty side. “Let’s sit,” he suggested, pointing toward a bench.

  His gaze trailed over her. She wore a green cotton top with white embroidery indicative of the Indian style, faded jeans, sunglasses holding her hair back, and golden sandals. Nick marveled at how beautiful this girl could look in anything she wore, but today she seemed downright radiant.

  He put down the bags he carried with their purchases. Little India was mostly shopping, not something Nick enjoyed, but Shyla found some spice mixtures, tea, and incense there. Nick picked up a carved wooden flute for Maya, who’d expressed an interest in music lately. Although he suspected the girl would squeal at the gift, he grimaced at how pissed off her mother’s would be when she practiced on it for hours.

  Shyla held up her wrist, moving the silver bangles there. They glinted against the sunlight. “You shouldn’t have bought these for me. It’s too expensive.”

  Nick gave her a quizzical look because the baubles had cost very little. He’d taken the jewelry out of her hand and purchased them before she could object. He’d wanted to buy her something far more expensive with real silver or gold, but she’d given him such a hard time over the cheap jewelry, he figured it was best to hold off.

  “It was nothing. Are you having a good time?”

  “Yes, thank you for today.”

  “I’m enjoying it, too.” He placed his arm around her and kissed her head.

  She fed him pieces of bread, and although the fire in his mouth was sufficiently quenched, he didn’t stop her.

  “Did you read the pages I wrote?” he asked. He’d written the chapter from the notes she’d left on the recorder, but they hadn’t really talked about it.

  She looked down at her hands. “They were perfect.”

  “It’s getting somewhat farfetched.”

  “How so?”

  He sighed. “Well, a young girl in labor holding off a wild animal? Or a twelve-year-old boy wrestling a Hyena? Or a nun doling out birth control? Or a baby surviving birth in a jungle?”

  Shyla shrugged. “People often confuse improbable and impossible.”

  “You make a point.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and kissed her forehead. “The story is good, Shyla. It’s emotionally compelling.” He’d struggled with those chapters. She had, too. On the recorder, her usual composed voice had cracked several times dotted with abrupt pauses where she’d turned off the device.

  “You really think so?”

  “I do.”

  She traced the area where his tattoo was.

  “Shyla, does it bother you we’re so different? That we come from such dissimilar backgrounds, religion, and ethnicities?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think of it that way. Emotion is the same no matter what language you write it in. In the end, we are not so much the sum of our experiences but the journey of our souls. And you can’t measure that.”

  “You’re quite philosophical today.”

  “I should write fortune cookies.”

  “Seriously, though, you put a lot of credence into this palm thing right? And the stars aligning and all that?” He regretted bringing up the topic again when sh
e frowned.

  “I never said our palms didn’t match, Nick. I think all paths lead to one place or another. It all comes down to who you are in your life and how you treat people.” She ran her fingertips down his jaw. “I have no doubt that both of us are in the good column.”

  He clasped her wrist and kissed the underside. “You’re in the great column. C’mon, I owe you another iced coffee.” He jerked his head toward the crowded street. “Should we go?”

  “Shyla, is that you?” A voice called as soon as Nick stood.

  It was the bubbly girl Shyla worked with. Nick smiled at her and the woman who appeared to be her mother. He did his best not to scowl at Adesh who followed behind them.

  The giddy girl enveloped Shyla as if they hadn’t seen each other in years. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just shopping. You remember Nick?”

  “Hi, Mr. 15C Bleecker Street,” the girl said, reaching out her hand. “I’m Geet.”

  “Hello, Geet,” he replied, clasping her hand.

  Shyla made the other introductions.

  “Are you shopping?” Mrs. Dhillon asked.

  “A little,” Shyla answered.

  “So how long have you been friends?” Mrs. Dhillon prodded, staring pointedly at Nick for the answer. Clearly, the lady didn’t approve. Nick opened his mouth to reply, but Shyla answered first.

  “For a few months. Actually, Nick is my boyfriend.”

  He smiled, squeezing her hand. “Yes, I am.”

  They made awkward small talk for a few minutes, avoiding any cultural clashes with observations about the climate.

  “I’m picking up my wedding sari. You have to come with us to the shop. I want you to see it,” Geet said, holding Shyla’s hand.

  Shyla turned to Nick.

  “It’s okay, go on. I’ll wait here.” Nick had no interest in going to a dress shop unless Shyla planned to try on some outfits for him.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “I’ll keep him company,” Adesh said, clapping Nick on the back.

  “Great,” Nick said through gritted teeth.

  Funny how things remained the same regardless of culture. The men were left holding all the bags while the women headed for the sari shop. Nick leaned against the brick façade of a building.