‘Shh… Rinu, don’t cry. You’re not yourself today. What’s the matter?’
‘Headache,’ Reena sniffed. Coward.
‘Here darling, I’ll tuck you into bed, get you a glass of warm milk and a crocin. You’ll feel better after you’ve had a rest.’
She gave in gratefully to her mother’s ministrations, the crocin making her drowsy, so she did not have to think, to give in to the thoughts crowding her head, demanding attention. She slept fitfully, on and off, blissful dreamless sleep, and woke in the late afternoon, mellow marigold rays dancing rose patterns on the milky walls, the smell of cooking: chicken sautéing in yogurt and spices, onions frying, basmati rice browning in ghee wafting in through the barely open door, with her mother’s voice clear in her head: her mother standing beside her in front of the mirror in Aunt Anita’s room, ‘Look at you. Our special miracle.’
A possible explanation for latest development based on last letter: doctors often get it wrong. This detective has reached the conclusion (based on solid evidence: her mother’s words) that she was a miracle baby, the one who confounded expectations, who arrived against all odds, who left the doctors speechless. This detective concludes that she is, therefore, destined for greatness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Mrs. Vaz
‘The Richardsons are moving. They’ve put their house up for sale. Three-hundred-thousand-pound asking price. Not bad, eh?’ Vinod said. ‘They bought theirs around the same time as us, didn’t they?’
‘They moved in at Christmas,’ Shirin called from the kitchen where she was washing the dishes, yellow gloves flecked with sudsy bubbles. She looked out the kitchen window over at the Richardsons’ garden where laundry in various shades of white flapped in late October wind, cherry trees devoid of blossom stark against a dull charcoal sky.
It had been October when she and Vinod had moved in, and she’d spent hours standing at this very window, staring at the garden bereft of flowers, hardly able to believe that this was all hers. This house. This garden. To do with what she liked...
The spring after their first winter in England when, like the sprouting buds, Shirin had walked her way into a tentative new persona through the icy pavements of Harrow, Vinod, who’d noticed the change in her but had not said anything, showing it instead in the spring in his step, the slight relaxing of the worry lines around his eyes, had said, ‘Shall we look for a house?’
‘Why?’ She’d asked without thinking.
Vinod had lost it then, banging the wall in frustration, earning a yell from the neighbours, American students: ‘Hey, watch it man!’
‘Shonu, we’re not going back. This is home now,’ he’d said, guilt sprouting, anger spent.
She’d smiled, even though she knew he knew it was fake. ‘Yes, let’s look for a house.’
And then, when the estate agent showed them the house and with it dangled the promise of a family...
Their first proper home together. Children. Noise. Laughter...
The first thing Shirin had bought for the new house was a cot for the nursery. She had gone into town for some groceries and was walking past Mothercare when she saw it. It was a sturdy wooden cot, not fancy; in fact quite practical—but it caught her eye. She could see her baby lying in it, blinking up at her, and then when it was older, holding on to the bars and pulling itself up to standing. The fledgling hope that had taken root in her heart when the estate agent first showed her the house had sprouted wings when they moved in. She had been determined to fill the void in her heart with the sound of her children’s laughter...
Shirin sighed as she dried the dishes, put them away. She wondered where the cot was. Vinod must have discreetly disposed of it. Or perhaps it was still in the loft. Why was she thinking of it now? How had musing about the Richardsons led to this?
Rob and Helen had moved in at Christmas, a toddler and a baby in tow. The baby’s wails had reverberated through the thin walls, kept Shirin awake all night, reminding her of another baby, no longer hers. She’d waited impatiently for Vinod to wake. ‘Let’s make a baby, now,’ she’d said when his eyes fluttered open. ‘Are you sure?’ Vinod had asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. ‘Yes.’ She’d held his gaze. He’d reached up with his hand, tried to cup her face. She’d flinched, moved away. ‘But, Shonu,’ he’d said, the hurt stark in his eyes, ‘you don’t like to be touched. By me.’ And there it was: the crux of the problem—which even a year and a bit of counselling had been unable to solve.
She’d visited the Richardsons bearing gifts for the children, wine, a poinsettia and a card bearing the legend ‘New Home’ for Rob and Helen. She’d held the baby, looked into his rheumy blue eyes and ached for another baby: huge brown eyes, wispy hair. She had ruffled the toddler’s hair, said to Helen, ‘We’re going to start a family.’ How liberating it had felt, to put her ache, her deepest wish into words, to have Helen nod in agreement. ‘They’ll grow up together while we sit and chat over cups of tea.’ As if it was that easy; as if it would happen and soon; as if, by the very act of putting her wish into words, she had set it in motion. She’d returned home determined.
The actual creating the children part, however, was not easy. She flinched whenever Vinod touched her and it hurt to see how much that hurt him. ‘I don’t want to do this if you are not comfortable with it, Shonu,’ he said, repeatedly. ‘I want to do it,’ she insisted, willing her mind to focus on babies: on whisper-soft cheeks; grubby faces; dimpled, toothless grins. But her body froze instinctively every time he tried to touch her, however much she wished it otherwise. ‘Open your eyes,’ Vinod said softly. ‘Look at me.’ And that first time, he talked her through it in his soft, soothing voice, telling her again and again that he loved her, holding her gaze, making sure she knew it was him. It got easier after that, and as long as she looked into his eyes, it was all right. There were times when his eyes were superseded by the empty ones of her nightmare and she screamed and screamed. Those times, Vinod held her in his arms. He whispered in her ear, ‘Shh... It’s over... It’s all right.’
It got better with time. And it got worse every month when, like clockwork, her period arrived. After three long years, they consulted fertility experts who found nothing wrong with either of them; no reason as to why they couldn’t conceive. ‘Keep trying,’ they urged cheerily. And so, armed with new ways of calculating ovulation dates, and a new sliver of hope, Shirin and Vinod tried again. And again. They went back and paid for treatments. ‘There is no reason why you cannot conceive,’ was all the experts would say.
Vinod mentioned adoption once. She’d looked at him wordlessly then. They both knew that they couldn’t afford to have their past put under scrutiny. It was best left behind. Put to bed along with any hopes of having children. ‘Why do you stay with me?’ She’d asked him. The question that she’d always wanted to ask but had not dared to as she was too afraid of his answer. There was a loud crash. She had looked up startled. The remains of dinner lay scattered on the carpet, interspersed with the shattered remains of Vinod’s plate. He had looked at her, eyes wild. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Shonu. When will you stop beating yourself up for what happened? If anyone is to blame, it is me. If only I’d come earlier that day... I promised in my wedding vows to honour and protect you. I failed...’ She had wanted so much to comfort him, ease away his anger, his pain. She knew he wished more than anything for her to touch him of her own accord, hold him in her arms. It was the one thing she couldn’t do. ‘I love you, Shonu. That is why I stay with you. Not out of duty, as you seem to think. Not because I have to. I love you regardless of whether we have children or not. So don’t ask me this question again. Don’t insult me.’ Shirin had nodded, unable to speak or look away.
The Richardsons’ toddler, James, was a strapping thirteen now—headphones an extension of his ears. The baby, Reece, was ten. Shirin had kept her distance when the family she’d longed fo
r never happened, embarrassed at having opened herself up to Helen. She told herself she was busy with the software course and soon after, her job. She saw Helen and the kids in the garden sometimes, in the summer. She waved, busied herself with tasks she hadn’t noticed she had to do. Like the family she’d wanted, the chats over cups of tea did not materialise.
Thinking of James and Reece made her think of Reena—Reena grilling Anita about her, of her reply to Anita’s email, sent last thing before she left work for the weekend.
Dearest Anu,
Thank you for your lovely email. I know how you hate writing letters. I wasn’t expecting a reply and your email—it was a gift.
Anu, I have so much to say I don’t know where to begin. I miss our chats. Remember how we used to sit chatting on the veranda at twilight with Rex the Third running circles around our legs, scents of dinner wafting from the kitchen and Madhu nagging for us to come in? I miss seeing your face light up as you describe something, your chin resting on your knees. Do you still do that?
Anu, about Uttam, if he doesn’t call, why don’t you call him, seeing as how you feel?
I want to come home, Anu. I want to see Reena and you and Madhu, darling Madhu—has she changed much?—and Deepak and Da and Ma. But Ma, does she want to see me?
And about telling Reena; I’d like to wait until I know for sure about Ma.
Love and kisses to Reena (does she like to be hugged and kissed or is she too old for that now? Oh, I have so many questions).
She had written, ‘I envy you your access to Reena.’ And deleted the line. Kate had agreed, ‘Yeah, babe. I think you should. Delete it.’ She had ended the email there.
Vinod came into the kitchen as she was putting the last dish away and started rummaging in the cupboards. ‘There’s nothing to eat in this house.’
‘There’s nothing you want you mean. There’s plenty of fruit.’
‘Oh, fruit,’ Vinod pulled a face, ‘I feel like crisps, or Bombay mix, perhaps.’
‘Chuda. Remember our engagement, when that whole pack of chuda exploded on Uncle Bathu’s face?’
Vinod turned to her, eyes lighting up. ‘I remember.’
‘You should have seen Madhu’s face. How annoyed she was. “Useless drunk,” she kept muttering furiously as she cleaned up. She didn’t want anyone hijacking my day.’ She paused, watching Vinod open a bag of yogurt-coated raisins and pop one into his mouth. ‘We haven’t talked about any of this, have we?’
‘No. You didn’t want to...’ Vinod chewed, made a face. ‘What are these?’
‘Healthy snacks,’ Shirin giggled. ‘I do want to talk about it now. I want to remember everything.’
‘Good. The healing process.’ He flashed a cheeky smile.
‘Oh, will you stop... By the way, I saw the counsellor today. She said what is holding me back is fear of rejection.’ The counsellor’s gentle face; her watery-blue gaze like the reflection of sky on sea on a clear day: ‘You are ready emotionally, Shirin, but the little girl in you still wants to please her mother.’
‘Well, of course. I could have told you that for free.’
She laughed. ‘I thought you liked her.’
‘I do.’ His voice hollow from where he was rummaging inside the cupboards. ‘So, I was thinking, asking price of two hundred and seventy-five thousand. The Richardsons have a garage. We don’t. So…’
‘Hang on, Vinod. What’s this about?’
‘Us moving back. We are, aren’t we?’
His head framed by the cupboards. His eyes on hers.
‘Ma... She hasn’t forgiven me.’
Bang. Vinod brought his hand down on the kitchen counter making the plates jump. ‘My parents haven’t forgiven me either. For walking away. With you. My new bride. For turning my back on them. In their time of need.’ His eyes, burning vessels of pain. ‘You say you are tired of living like this. So am I. So am I!’
She went up to him. He moved away. She stopped, shocked. She was always the one who moved away, the one who flinched from his touch. For the first time she understood how it was for him, how it had always been. Since...
‘I have waited, Shonu. Patiently. But even I have my limits...’
‘We’ve built this life out of nothing...’ she began, ‘and if we give it up before we’re sure... What if it’s not what we think it is? We’ve been away eleven years, Vinod. Things have changed.’
He would not look at her. His words reverberated in her head. ‘You say you are tired of living like this. So am I.’
He cleared his throat. ‘Before all this... you were saying?’
‘Huh?’
‘Our engagement?’
And they were back on safe ground. Doing what they did best. The golden rules governing their relationship: Avoid talking about things that cause friction. Pretend nothing happened. Change the topic. She closed her eyes, not wanting to look at Vinod’s face, see the hurt still swimming in his eyes. Her mind helpfully supplied the memory. Her engagement. The excitement. The nervousness. The fear. ‘I couldn’t sleep for days preceding it. And the day before, I couldn’t keep still, imagining the worst. What if your bus got stuck in the ghats and you were late? What if you had an accident? What if...’
She had paced the front courtyard, getting in the way of the men putting up the marquee: ‘Left a bit. No. Right. Hold it up, Vincy, it’s falling. Out of the way, Shirin.’ Up and down she’d paced, with Rex the Third providing her company, tongue wagging, thinking this was a special kind of game. Up and down. So nervous. Trying to escape the thoughts crowding her head: What if Vinod thinks I look too fat in my engagement sari? What if he changes his mind, does not want to go ahead with the wedding? What will Ma do? The disgrace…
‘Stop that; you’re giving me a headache,’ Madhu had shouted from the kitchen. ‘If you want something to do, go to Nagappa’s and bring me the chicken stored in their freezer. Oh, and the coconut.’
‘And you don’t start,’ Madhu had yelled at Rex the Third who’d started barking. She was frantically grinding rice and lentils for the dosas and idlis to be served at breakfast to Shirin’s in-laws-to-be.
Rex the Third ignored Madhu, went up to the tamarind tree and stood guard, growling. Baby’s head bobbed into view as she climbed up the hill: sweat beading greying hair, lips sucked in, dimples peeking. Rex barked louder. ‘Shh, Rex, it’s only Baby,’ Shirin said, scratching the itchy spot under his neck, soothing him.
Baby, despite her name, was in her thirties. She was Jacinta’s favourite fisherwoman and always made sure she gave Jacinta a couple more fish for her money. She had helped out at the house a couple of times: once when Madhu was ill, and again the summer Jacinta’s mango trees had surprised her with a windfall, each branch weighed down with the fruit. Jacinta must have asked her to come and help Madhu with the preparations and cooking for the morrow, Shirin surmised.
‘Did I hear you say Baby?’ Madhu screamed from the kitchen.
Baby grinned at Shirin, ‘So, ma’am, getting engaged are you? Do you remember when you decided to teach me English?’ She pronounced it ‘Hinglish’. Shirin blushed, recalling how she had chased Baby round the fields with a stick for refusing to learn the alphabet beyond ‘A,B,C’, how when Jacinta caught wind of this, Baby had lied, covering for her.
‘What is Baby doing here? Rex, shoo her away. Good dog,’ Madhu bellowed. She viewed Baby as a competitor, vying for a place in Jacinta’s family and in her affections.
Undaunted, Baby headed for the kitchen. Shirin followed, glad for this respite from her thoughts. ‘You need any help?’ Baby asked Madhu, while vigorously chewing paan.
Madhu tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and wiped the sweat off her brow with the pallu of her sari. ‘Shirin, tell her no.’
‘Well, I’m here if you need me.’ Baby squatted down on
the step outside the kitchen door and patted Rex the Third who had stopped barking and come up to her, tail wagging, tongue hanging out.
‘That dog is useless. If a burglar came to steal chickens, he would go and lick his face instead of barking,’ Madhu muttered, furiously grinding the rice into a paste. ‘Since you’re just sitting there doing nothing, you might as well help me. Spit the paan out first.’
Baby stayed over, both she and Madhu working late into the night finishing the pork and chicken curries, adjusting the salt in the boti, making tendli bhaji with fresh cashew nuts (kindly donated by Lenny Bai) and honey-sweet tender coconut flesh. And the next morning they stood side by side in the kitchen, busily frying dosas, having formed an uneasy alliance.
‘They’re here,’ Nagappa’s son announced, hopping on one foot, waiting eagerly to see how many rupees Jacinta would press into his open palms. He grinned with delight when he saw the three ten-rupee notes and skipped away, pleased with himself.
Vinod looked different in his suit and tie. Formal. His hair was slicked down, flattened in a side parting. Shirin almost fell off the stool in her room, where she was standing looking out of the window as before, when she tried to get a closer look. As Vinod passed under the window, he looked straight up at her, as if he had been expecting her all along, and smiled. Her heart stopped beating for a full minute.
‘You were looking for me, weren’t you?’ she asked Vinod now, lightly teasing, testing the waters.
‘No. I was looking at the sky, checking for rain.’ Vinod met her gaze, smiled. Apologetic. ‘And I saw this heavenly pair of eyes peeking through window bars right at me.’
Eyes. Prem.
Vinod’s brother, Prem, had walked in behind him. He caught Vinod’s smile and looked up too. Shirin jumped off the stool in fright. In Bangalore, Prem had avoided looking at her and at Jacinta. Now she knew why. Vinod’s brother had dark, empty eyes, devoid of all emotion. He scared her.
‘I didn’t know,’ Vinod said. ‘You should have told me.’
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