A Scandalous Secret

by Jaishree Misra

  Sonya danced her way to the photograph that hung above the writing bureau, taken on her sixth birthday. She looked at her six-year-old self, standing before a Smarties-encrusted chocolate cake, flanked by her parents, both of whom were wearing silly paper hats. They looked so happy. As though that smiling threesome, caught in the camera lens, was the only thing of any importance in the whole wide world. Sonya’s heart did another guilty flip. She hated the thought of causing her parents distress. She had been quite shocked when she had overheard Mum remark to Dad that what they were going through was about the most painful thing that had happened to her since the string of miscarriages she had endured in her twenties.

  It was an instantly sobering thought and Sonya stopped dancing to return to the window seat. After another last glance at the photocopied letter, she slipped it back under the mattress. She had also kept a copy, imagining – perhaps dramatically – the kind of events it could set off; legal proceedings even! If that was the case, she certainly didn’t want to be caught out, unable to remember what she had written. Not that she was frightened or anything – after all UK laws did actively encourage people to rediscover the details of their birth. But in the end, the final draft had been secretly photocopied on Dad’s scanner in his den before she had stuffed it into an envelope. She had sealed it before she could stop herself and then cycled like the clappers down to the post office on the High Street to make sure she did not change her mind. But, although it had been sent in haste, Sonya knew – hand on heart – that she had thought long and hard about the possible consequences of taking this step of contacting her birth mother. It was quite honestly the most difficult decision she had ever made in her life but Sonya had eventually made it, comforted by the sheer numbers of other adoptees who had done the same thing. All the information on the internet (and there was lots of it) had strengthened her, and left her with a strange sense of entitlement. There were so many blogs and websites that told her it was her right to know what had happened in her past. That past was hers and no one else’s but, at the moment, all she had was a great gaping hole in her head and in her heart. When she was small, Mum and Dad had tried to tell her everything they knew about her adoption, but everything they knew was in fact pitifully little. They had, for instance, told her that she had an Indian mother but had no idea why she had given her up, or what had happened to her since. They knew that her father was white, English or Scottish, but there was absolutely no more information on him, not even a name. There were times when Sonya had wanted to scream in frustration and other times when, rather dramatically, she wondered if perhaps Mum and Dad were deliberately covering up her story because it was either really sordid or really exciting. And then, sometime around the age of thirteen, Sonya had simply stopped asking. All her questions had ended at the same old cipher and so there was little point. Especially when there were so many other things to focus her mind on at the time: bodily changes and intense crushes, a whole host of new areas to feel messed up about!

  Now that Sonya was eighteen, however, and given more right by law to investigate her past, everyone else simply had to understand that this trip to India was something she had no choice about. She had to discover the circumstances of her birth and it was now almost as though forces stronger than her had taken over, compelling her to embark on this treacherous path.

  Chapter Three

  By midnight, Neha was so exhausted by her hostess duties that she could feel her legs begin to buckle under her. Yet, she managed to keep smiling as she bid goodbye to Kitty Singhania, an erstwhile beauty queen who had gone on to found a hugely successful cosmetics empire.

  ‘Sorry I have to leave early, darling. But don’t you go forgetting my lunch at the Taj next week!’ Kitty instructed, in that admonishing tone that was her trademark.

  ‘Have I ever forgotten your birthday, Kitty darling?’ Neha purred as she hugged her guest lightly and kissed the air on either side of her face.

  Kitty acknowledged her rejoinder with a laugh. ‘I must admit, you never do, darling Neha. Always the first to call on the day. Well, thank you again for a fabulous party. You and Sharat really do know how to throw a bash. Oh, and thank you for introducing me to André – it really would be wonderful to break into the French market. I hope it works!’

  After Kitty’s white Audi had swept out of the gates, Neha nodded at the security guards who were swiftly and diligently closing the large black exit gates that led on to Prithviraj Road. The Chaturvedi household’s security normally subsisted on the presence of just one elderly Gurkha at the entrance but extra guards and police personnel were always drafted in on party nights to ensure the safety of the many VIPs who would attend. It was one of Neha’s worst nightmares that something unfortun ate would happen when her house was full of celebrities and millionaires and it was not for nothing that the Inspector General of Delhi’s police force was always a valued guest at her parties too.

  Tonight, however, all that was the last thing on Neha’s mind. It was as if the letter hidden in her cupboard upstairs had taken on some kind of ghostly form that had been floating about all night, creeping up on her at unexpected moments to mock and taunt her as she tried to engage with her guests. Neha stopped with one foot on the broad marble step that led up to the veranda, taking in great gulps of the heady scent of the creeper that hung abundantly over the roof. The fragrance of jasmine was meant to have a calming effect, according to her yoga instructor who sometimes held her sessions out here on the veranda, but nothing short of a strong tranquillizer would work today.

  Sounds of merrymaking still filtered through the doorways as Neha’s raw silk curtains drifted in the breeze: chatter and laughter and the clink of china and cutlery as guests helped themselves at the lavish buffet tables in the dining room. From the pergola at the far end of the eastern garden, the Divakar Brothers’ live performance was just audible: thin strains of the sitar playing a melancholy raga over the more robust notes of a harmonium.

  ‘Please, please help me stay strong and calm,’ Neha thought in desperation, imagining what all the people who were currently enjoying her hospitality would think if they read that letter right now. Not having any children of their own, the scandal of a secret child would rock Neha and Sharat’s world and destroy Sharat’s political ambitions and, surely, their marriage too. It was too terrifying to bear thinking about.

  Neha looked up at the moon, large and heavy, rising through the gulmohar trees. Such a perfect night. Delhi had seen off the last of the monsoon rains and was now starting to cool in readiness for the winter. But Neha could not derive any of her customary pleasure from the soothing breezes that were carrying in lush smells from her garden. Instead, for the hundredth time since the letter came, she imagined the emergence in her near-flawless world of the secret that she had managed to hold on to for eighteen years. Public knowledge that she’d not only had a child before marrying Sharat, but had gone on to abandon it, would tear their lives apart on so many different levels. Not merely because everyone would discover what a hypocrite she really was, but also because Sharat would no longer be able to present their marriage in the manner he loved: a gracious young couple who were pillars of the establishment and could always be relied on to help all their friends and acquaintances progress with their own hopes and ambitions.

  Neha clutched her stomach as it twisted in a painful spasm again. It had been doing that all evening – it could be due either to hunger or anxiety, she couldn’t tell. She usually ate a bowl of daal with a chapatti before any of her parties; a bit of useful ‘hostessing’ advice that Jasmeet had imparted years ago. Today the letter had caused her to forget this useful ritual. She tried to massage the pain away and, with one hand still resting on her flat stomach, Neha considered the painful question of her childless marriage suddenly: a thought she had not dwelt on for some time now. Of course, she remembered it off and on but not with the kind of anguish that was assailing her right now …

  Standing in the shadows of the flower-
bedecked pillars, Neha bent over and let out a long, low moan. She had not felt sadder in a long, long time than she did tonight. Although Sharat seemed to have come to terms with their childlessness in his own way over the past few years, for Neha it had remained the biggest irony of her life. For one, he knew nothing of the child she had already had. But Neha had lived with that anomaly mocking her all these years: how, indeed, could it be anything but fair that Neha should be punished with a childless marriage for having given away the baby that had been born to her all those years ago?

  She saw again the untidy handwriting in the letter, the girlish signature that ended in a flamboyantly curling loop. ‘Sonya’…

  Stumbling on the steps leading up to the veranda, Neha gripped the back of one of her wicker chairs, trying to steady herself. Another burst of laughter emerged through the French windows and, for one horrible moment, Neha felt as though everyone at the party was laughing at her. She had to sit down for a moment; clear her head before going back in there with a smile on her face …

  Sinking onto the chair, Neha tried to contain her runaway thoughts. The baby … the baby she had given away had not even had a name.

  ‘It’s best you don’t go choosing a name, my dear. Because, you see, harsh as it sounds, it’s crucial you don’t bond with the child. Now that the decision’s been made to give her up, you see. Naming her will only create a bond. So will breast-feeding. I’ll fetch you a pump and you can expel your milk into that. We’ll give it to her in a bottle. Your decision has been made; it’s best to let her go …’ The room had swum around, causing the hospital counsellor’s face to disappear for a few seconds into the grey murk …

  Was that why Neha had never been able to see her baby as having any human potential at all? She had followed all those instructions to the tee, refusing to bond with the child who would never be hers. And, later, she had quite deliberately never thought of its welfare, or kept track of its age and possible circumstances. That was the only way to survive the experience. Only she knew the reasons for which she had taken that decision. It was not one she would make today but, at that tender age, she had been a different person. Except, who would believe her if she said that now? Certainly not the child she had given away …

  Another burst of laughter made Neha sit up straight and square her shoulders. She needed to get back to her guests before her absence was noticed. If someone came in search of her, what would they think to see her sitting by herself on the veranda while her party was in full swing? She needed to ensure everyone had eaten, that the dessert tables were elegantly laid out. Rose petals! Had they remembered the rose petals? Neha had this afternoon asked her chef to ensure that pink rose petals were scattered over the pile of kesar kulfi that should by now be melting to a delicious creaminess. The timing had to be just right, the kulfis removed from their metal moulds exactly fifteen minutes before they were served in order to maximize their texture and flavour. But, suddenly, it all seemed so inconsequential, this ridiculous bid for perfection. What had been the point of all this? These famed parties, this stunning mansion, the dream life that she and Sharat seemingly had … perhaps she had been trying to make things look so perfect because she knew that they were not perfect at all …

  Neha looked around herself in a panic, feeling a terrible surging in her stomach, recalling old terrors she had thought were over. For so many years the fear that she would get found out had followed Neha around, infecting everything she had done. It had even caused her to do deliberately badly in the Foreign Service entrance exams, despite her father’s continuing ambitions on her behalf. She had never been able to tell him, but the truth was that she was terrified of finding herself in the kind of job that would have propelled her into the public eye, thus exposing her to someone who may know her secret. All she had wanted then was to to burrow herself into a hole and disappear from public view. What if she was recognized? What if everyone found out what she had done? It was too horrible to even contemplate. But, slowly, as the years had moved on and those events had receded into the distant past, Neha had almost begun to feel as though that life had belonged to a different girl. After all, she had never put a foot wrong subsequently. And then she had met Sharat and, in his shining goodness, Neha had finally found a kind of forgetfulness.

  ‘You and I are of the same type, Neha darling. Thank God we both enjoy people and have the same genuine urge to help humanity … together we should make a beautiful home where our friends and family and, in fact, all kinds of needy people will always find an open door … I feel so grateful that you have agreed to marry me. Not only do I love you but you are my perfect life companion …’

  Neha now closed her eyes as Sharat’s voice chose that moment to float into the veranda. From inside the room, she heard him say something indistinct and she savoured his loud familiar belly laugh as someone responded with a joke.

  Neha got up resolutely and made for the French windows. She would return to her party; pretend that all was well. And all was well for now. She ought to hang on to that, cherish every moment of what she might soon lose. It was strange to be so out of control but, in all the planning and secrecy, the one thing Neha had never considered was that the baby she had given up would grow up and become an independent young woman in her own right. One who would have a mind of her own. And, regardless of all the careful control exerted by Neha, all the covering up of her tracks, one who would set out one day in search of her.

  Chapter Four

  The eighteenth birthday party was to be held in the grounds of an old flour mill on the outskirts of Orpington. There were no houses around for at least a mile and the place had been favoured as a better party venue than both Sonya’s and Estella’s homes because, being so remote, it was the least likely to lead to neighbourly complaints. The party was going to be big too, with almost all of their classmates from Duke High invited, along with several of their boyfriends and girlfriends who went to other schools. Then, Estella’s large brood of cousins from her Italian side had also wanted to come and so, all in all, about fifty teenagers were expected to descend on the mill this weekend. Both sets of parents had been prevailed upon to stay away, a stipulation they had agreed to only on the condition that Bob, the miller who stayed in a cottage on the premises, would be around to ensure that no illegal activities took place. Estella couldn’t help feeling some relief at the thought that she wasn’t entirely in charge. Curmudgeonly old Bob would ensure no prankster got into the mill to do something stupid like scatter flour everywhere or pee into the water wheel.

  Partially to counter the quiet, rustic surroundings, the invitation had specified fancy dress. It was, after all, the last chance to meet before everyone departed for universities all over the country. Estella had decided in her usual pragmatic fashion – and in the interests of her hostessing duties – to be a British Midland air stewardess, having borrowed a uniform from a cousin who was the same size as her. Sonya’s boyfriend, Tim, was going to be Julius Caesar, complete with a plastic bag hidden on his person that would squirt fake blood if anyone attempted to assassinate him. As for Sonya, after much deliberation and wavering between ‘Indian princess’ and ‘Bollywood heroine’, she had finally decided on the former. Sonya had grown increasingly excited as she had put her costume together, borrowing a beautiful sari from Priyal that was a rich turquoise blue with thousands of tiny sequins sewn on. Priyal’s mum had shown her how to wear it, and even helped take the blouse in as Priyal was at least half a stone bigger than Sonya. Quantities of fake gold jewellery had come from a shop in Tooting and, during a practice run with the sari and jewellery, Priyal had looped a gold chain around Sonya’s head so that the large pendant hung down the middle of her forehead. Priyal had then stepped back to take in the full effect and the expression on her face had given Sonya goosebumps. It was more complimentary than any words would ever be. Priyal, who almost never used any compliment stronger than a rather desultory ‘cool’, had shaken her head and let out a low whistle before mutter
ing, ‘Awesome!’ Then, in more typical fashion, she had added, ‘You look like a bloody maharani, mate.’

  To complete the royal look, Sonya had forsaken her customary ponytail and had this evening been to a beauty parlour in town. The stylist had blow-dried her hair into a silky black curtain that hung to her bare midriff, and had also shown her how to apply eyeshadow to accentuate her dark, sweeping brows and large eyes. Back in her bedroom and now in her full regalia, Sonya examined herself in the full-length mirror. The heavy smoky grey eye make-up did indeed make her look very sophisticated, regal almost, even if she said so herself! She did a delighted little twirl, looking coquettishly at herself over her shoulder and pouting suggestively. Was the look more Bollywood heroine or Indian princess? Sonya couldn’t tell. Then her pleasure wavered momentarily as she felt a sudden clutch of nervousness at what Mum and Dad would say when she appeared downstairs looking as over-the-top ‘Indian’ as this. She never liked to rub their noses in the fact that she wasn’t their biological daughter, and choosing this outfit may well be misunderstood, given how anxious they were feeling about her India trip. It was stupid of her not to have thought of it before.