A Scandalous Secret

by Jaishree Misra

  ‘Can’t complain!’ Estella said, looking around in delight.

  ‘I think we’ve done all right with the accommodation at least,’ Sonya replied after the boy had departed the room.

  ‘All right? I think you’ve hit the jackpot with this one, girl,’ Estella said in her typical jolly-voiced hyperbolic style, before throwing herself onto the bed with a loud groan.

  Sonya smiled with pride, continuing to potter around the room, lifting up interesting knick-knacks to examine and looking at the pictures on the wall, all of which seemed to be old lithographs of Indian temples and monuments. Finding this place had taken days of research until one of her teachers had suggested googling ‘Homestays in India’. As soon as Sonya had done so, she had realized that she and Estella would be a lot better off staying with an Indian family, rather than in some seedy backpackers’ hotel in the old part of the city. Much more reassuring for both sets of parents too. Which reminded her, she ought to call or text them to say they had reached their B&B in Delhi with no trouble.

  Sonya sat down on the edge of the bed, pleased with Estella’s reaction to the room. ‘Too right, Stel. I think I can now safely pat myself on the back for finding this place. And there I was so unnecessarily worrying my head off back in England. That lady – Mrs Mahajan – she seems nice too, I guess, despite the garrulousness.’

  ‘Yeah, I wondered if you were uncomfortable with all that “You look like an Indian” stuff. But she meant well and seems nice and mumsy. Just what we need so far from home, I guess,’ Estella replied. She stretched and turned onto her side to face her friend. ‘So what’s the agenda then?’ she asked. ‘I’ll bet you have it all chalked out and printed off and filed away somewhere safe! When did you want to get going with your plans? We only have five days in Delhi before we travel on, remember? Be nice to try to get a bit of extra time in Agra, if we can manage it, and take a good old gander at the old Taj Mahal. It does seem beautiful in the pictures. What a testament of love; can you imagine if someone built a palace in your honour …’

  Sonya was suddenly silent, not hearing any of Estella’s prattle. Yes, she had started off with a plan, and a mission. But, now that she was on the threshold of making the biggest discovery of her life, she felt unnerved and not keen at all to upset her neat little applecart. Perhaps she ought to postpone things a bit. At least until they had got used to Delhi itself. ‘Hmmm, yes. Let’s get rested first and then check with the Mahajans about local transport and all that,’ she said rather vaguely, remembering too that she hadn’t yet told Estella about the letter she had shot off to Neha Chaturvedi.

  ‘Are we thinking of going up to the Chaturvedi house to sort of lurk around a bit?’ Estella asked. ‘We can’t get arrested for lurking, can we?’

  Sonya laughed. ‘Think we’re okay on that score,’ she said. ‘But it may be wise to wait till it’s a bit cooler in the evening to … er, lurk comfortably, I guess.’

  ‘I hope it’s not miles away. Have you any idea?’ Estella asked, turning her head to look out of the window at the blazing sunshine.

  ‘I looked up the street on Google Earth. It’s in central Delhi apparently, rather a prosperous leafy area from what I could tell.’

  ‘I know I sound like my mum, but isn’t technology amazing?’ Estella said as she got up to open her suitcase and start unpacking her things into a small wooden chest of drawers by her bedside. ‘On the subject of addresses, I’ve been meaning to ask how you managed to trace it in the first place?’

  ‘Cloak and dagger to be honest,’ Sonya replied, looking a little shamefaced. Estella was looking enquiringly at her and so she ploughed on. ‘Well, the Delhi address I got from the adoption report was one that I guessed was Neha Chaturvedi’s parents’ home. So I wrote a letter to that address, pretending to be an old Oxford classmate of hers looking to surprise her with a Christmas card. I’d created a new email address especially and – what do you know – a week later, her father emailed back with her current postal address. A pleasant one-liner, saying how glad he was that someone who knew Neha back at Oxford was trying to make contact. He was quite happy to maintain the secrecy so she would get a nice surprise. So, you see, it’s all as easy as pie when you put your mind to a bit of machinating.’

  ‘Cool,’ Estella said, admiringly.

  ‘Well, it was a bit sneaky, I guess. And you know me. I hate beating about the bush when there’s a job to be done. But I didn’t think the direct approach was appropriate in this instance.’

  ‘Sure,’ Estella nodded in agreement, returning to stacking her clothes in the chest of drawers.

  Having unpacked, the girls went downstairs in search of Mrs Mahajan. They found her in the kitchen, supervising two boys in the preparation of what looked like a chicken curry.

  ‘I have to help them. They are not good at European-style cooking, you see,’ she said, beaming.

  The aromas emanating from the pot did not smell particularly European to either of the two girls. ‘Oh don’t bother if it’s for us,’ Estella said. ‘We both adore Indian food, don’t we, Sonya?’

  Sonya nodded obediently, even though very spicy Indian food sometimes upset her stomach. Mum had asked her not to overdo it on the first day but she had to take the plunge at some point.

  Mrs Mahajan looked pleased. ‘If you like Indian food, I will make Indian food, no problem. Today I am already making chicken roast and pasta bake but tomorrow I will do butter chicken, okay?’

  Estella peered into the pot, examining with doubt Mrs Mahajan’s version of roast chicken which was bubbling away in a creamy brown gravy but Sonya – aware that food was one of Estella’s favourite subjects – hastily put paid to any further culinary discourse by saying, ‘Mrs Mahajan, we need your advice, please. What’s the public transport like to get around Delhi? Buses?’

  Mrs Mahajan handed the ladle to one of her many minions with instructions in Hindi before turning to Sonya. ‘There is no such thing as good public transport in Delhi,’ she said, shaking her head gloomily. ‘There is a metro now in most parts of Delhi but there is no stop that is very close to this side yet. And the buses are not good for girls like you. Too crowded and with too many dirty men. But I can do something for you …’ The two girls looked at Mrs Mahajan expectantly as she glanced at her watch. ‘Oho, he will still be in his classes now.’ She looked up. ‘I am talking about Keshav. I will ask Keshav who never says no to me. He is the son of my driver and I have looked after him like my own son. We paid for his schooling and now he is studying history in Sri Ram College. Very bright boy. He can drive also so we will ask him to take you around for your sightseeing and shopping. He is a good boy, always calls me Didi – you know, “sister”. Today he may be busy but the weekend is coming and he will definitely be free then.’

  Sonya and Estella smiled at each other in delight. This was a major problem solved. ‘We’re getting good at this adventure lark, ain’t we, girl?’ Estella said before turning to their landlady to say, ‘Oh yes please, Mrs Mahajan. Keshav sounds just the perfect escort, thank you!’

  ‘When do you want to go out? Now?’ Mrs Mahajan asked.

  Estella looked at Sonya and nodded. ‘Yeah, I guess,’ Sonya said doubtfully.

  ‘Well, Keshav will be in college now but, depending on where you are going, I could arrange a taxi or an auto-rickshaw just for this afternoon. Where would you like to go? If it is for sightseeing, I suggest you wait till tomorrow when Keshav does not have classes,’ Mrs Mahajan said.

  ‘Sightseeing can wait till tomorrow for sure. This is just a visit,’ Estella said. She turned to Sonya, ‘Do you remember the address of the place we need to get to?’

  Sonya knew it well. ‘Prithviraj Road,’ she replied, stumbling a bit on the pronunciation.

  ‘Oh very nice area – friends of yours?’ Mrs Mahajan asked, looking impressed and a bit curious. Sonya nodded, careful not to give anything away with her expression. Luckily, Mrs Mahajan took the hint. ‘Prithviraj Road is in central Delhi,’ she c
ontinued, ‘No problem getting there at all. Leave it with me until you freshen up. Would you like some lunch before going? Maybe have some lunch first, rest a little bit and then, when the sun has cooled down, you can go, yes?’

  ‘Oh yes please, lunch sounds fab,’ Estella said brightly, although Sonya’s stomach was roiling with nervousness, not helped by the smell of Mrs Mahajan’s gravy.

  Sonya made an excuse and escaped to their room while Estella stayed helping Mrs Mahajan to lay the table. She ran up the stairs, feeling breathless. It was incredible to think that the moment had come upon her so soon. All those weeks of planning what she would say to her birth mother when she saw her were finally culminating in the visit they would make this evening. In just a couple of hours’ time. Would she have the courage? Would she lose her tongue? Sonya stumbled into the room and stood near her bed, trying to calm her breathing. But her head was spinning so fast she had to sit down. She had wanted to take things slowly but events had sort of run away with her back there in the kitchen. Dear Estella meant well and had probably assumed that she was in a hurry to get going with the real reason for which they had come to Delhi but Sonya was suddenly very unsure of the wisdom of this move. She was now so close – the moment she had dreamt of for days now – she almost couldn’t bear the thought. It was too late to turn around. Not after having dragged Estella all this way out to India anyway. And she still hadn’t told her about the letter she had sent! Sonya took a few deep breaths, sternly instructing herself to remain composed, before returning to the main house for lunch.

  Lunch done, the girls retired to their room, suddenly exhausted by the strange and slightly greasy ‘roast’ and Mrs Mahajan’s endless chatter. But, at five o’clock, the Mahajans’ gardener interrupted the girls’ afternoon slumber by appearing at their door to tell them that he had summoned an auto-rickshaw for them as requested. ‘It is waiting. Waiting charge one hour hundred rupee,’ he said.

  ‘Better get our skates on,’ Estella said blearily, getting out of bed. She had worked off her flight fatigue by falling into a deep slumber while Sonya had lain awake, listening to the unfamiliar sound of the air conditioner hum at their window. It effectively blanked out all the sounds that Sonya generally associated with warm afternoons back home: bird-song and lawnmowers and the screams of children playing in the park across the road. Here there was only this low throbbing hum which should have soothed her to sleep as it had done Estella. Instead the sound had permeated Sonya’s head, going around and around in her brain, setting her already chaotic thoughts off on a crazy merry-go-round.

  They got ready hastily, Sonya changing her shorts and tee-shirt for a pair of jeans and a cotton shirt which she felt made her look older, more in charge. She certainly didn’t want to turn up looking like a ditzy teenager, she thought, looking soberly at herself in the bathroom mirror as she brushed her hair and fastened it back with a white butterfly clip.

  At the gates, they clambered into the waiting auto-rickshaw with Mrs Mahajan looking on in concern. ‘Hold tight, don’t fall out, sometimes the bumps can be quite bad,’ she instructed, adding, ‘I thought it would be fun for you girls to try travelling in one of our auto-rickshaws but now suddenly I am not so sure!’ She was still talking as the driver started up his engine noisily and took off down the road.

  They weaved their way through what was presumably Delhi’s commuter traffic, making slow progress down choked and potholed streets. The noise around them was at an incredible level: car horns and cycle bells and the blare of buses. And no windows that could be rolled up to cocoon them as, except for a thin canvas roof, the auto-rickshaw was completely open to the elements. The stench too was unbearable; Sonya had never ‘smelt’ traffic before – a most unpalatable mix of diesel and petrol and smoke and rubber. Mrs Mahajan had been right about the bumps as well but Estella seemed to be enjoying herself, looking out at all the unfamiliar sights with shining eyes. Sonya, however, felt sicker and sicker as they went along, clutching in her hand the slip of paper on which she had scribbled the name and address: Neha Chaturvedi. 54 Prithviraj Road, New Delhi 110001.

  What would it be like meeting her after all this anticipation? And how would she react?

  The auto-rickshaw slowed down as it turned onto a wide and leafy road. ‘Prithviraj Road,’ the driver said, half turning in his seat to look at the two girls. It looked like another world around here – so very different to the Delhi they had just driven through. Suddenly the traffic had thinned out and the noisy chaos had abated to a distant hum.

  ‘What’s the number again, Sonya?’ Estella asked, reaching out for the bit of paper in Sonya’s hand.

  ‘Fifty-four,’ Sonya croaked, by now barely able to speak for her nerves. They coasted along for another couple of minutes before the driver pulled up outside a set of tall metal gates. A wall covered with profusely flowering bougainvillea revealed only glimpses of the house beyond, but they could see enough and it was Estella who summed up what they were both thinking when she clutched Sonya’s arm and breathed in awe, ‘Bloody hell, Sonya, it’s a fucking palace!’

  Chapter Fifteen

  At Delhi’s domestic terminal, Sharat walked past baggage collection and hurried towards the exit doors. He had no suitcases to collect and his phone call to Ram Singh had confirmed that a driver would be waiting for him as he emerged from the airport building. He almost never travelled with luggage when he went to Lucknow, not merely because his mother maintained a whole wardrobe of expensive clothes for him back in his childhood bedroom, but also because of the time he saved by not having to wait for the baggage carousel to start moving.

  Spotting Nek Chand, his tall and turbaned driver, Sharat walked swiftly in his direction. Nek Chand bowed before taking his valise and Sharat followed him through the car park. He sank into the back seat of his roomy Mercedes and slipped out his phone from his pocket. Neha’s number persisted in being out of reach. It was most annoying. The signals at Ananda were usually bad but this time they really did take the biscuit! Perhaps it was something to do with all the rains they’d been having this monsoon, unusually heavy for North India.

  With a click of irritation, Sharat replaced his mobile phone in his pocket. He had not been able to speak to Neha once since she had left Delhi two days ago, which was not how he liked it at all. He never minded admitting how much he had come to depend on his wonderful wife over the years – it was a well-known fact that he was a devoted husband – but then Neha gave him good reason to be so devoted, as he didn’t mind admitting sometimes! In particular, it was the manner in which she had handled the growing sorrow of their childlessness that Sharat admired. Many other women would have been filled with self-pity but – apart from the very rare occasions on which Neha seemed to retreat into a kind of silent shell – she had always maintained an air of calm and dignified acceptance, focusing on her charity work, specifically fundraising for Nirmalya orphanages and the street theatre group she had founded for slum children a few years ago. She was indeed the most perfect wife that a man could ask for. And when pushing his political ambitions, Neha was a publicist’s dream.

  ‘Memsahib ka koi khabar hai?’ he asked Nek Chand. But, as he should have guessed, the driver knew nothing of Neha’s whereabouts and shook his head apologetically. Perhaps Ram Singh back at the house would have a better idea.

  Sharat’s silver car traversed the evening traffic smoothly, arriving at the Prithviraj Road house while there was still plenty of light in the sky. Time enough for a relaxing sundowner on the lawn as the sun set over the garden. Perhaps that would bring some uplift, even though Sharat would have chosen Neha’s company to a stiff whisky any day! The guard swung the gates open and Sharat noted with pleasure how green and immaculate everything was, thanks to the recent rainfall. The flowerbeds were forming neat colourful borders to the lawn that was now covered in lengthening shadows cast by the surrounding trees.

  He got out of the car and looked up in surprise as he walked up the stairs to the veranda. A
pair of foreigners – two young girls wearing jeans and tee-shirts – were sitting on the wicker sofas. Ram Singh was hovering nearby with an anxious look on his face. He rushed forward on spotting Sharat, blaming the guard for having let the girls in without permission. ‘What could I do, sahib, but make them sit here on the veranda?’ he said in Hindi, his expression contrite.

  Sharat waved him away. They were only a pair of girls, obviously not conmen or burglars come to steal something away! ‘Hello? Can I help you?’ he asked them.

  ‘Ah, well …’ the dark-haired one spoke up. ‘We’re here to meet Neha Chaturvedi actually …’ she trailed off.

  English accent, Sharat noted. She had mangled his and Neha’s surname to incomprehensibility, but that was forgivable.

  ‘I’m afraid Neha isn’t here,’ Sharat said. ‘Can I help? I’m her husband …’

  ‘When will she be back?’ It was the same girl speaking again. She was very pretty, large eyes startlingly blue against dark hair and golden skin. Her manner, however, was a bit rude and abrupt, Sharat thought.

  ‘Sorry, I’m not at liberty to say when Neha will be back,’ he replied. Realizing that this time it was he who sounded discourteous, Sharat added with a smile, ‘Not for any other reason than that I never know myself when my wife comes and goes!’ He laughed but noticed that neither girl smiled. This was getting curiouser by the minute. Who was this humourless pair in search of Neha? He persisted. ‘Do you need assistance with anything? Perhaps I …’

  But the dark-haired girl, who was obviously chief spokesperson for them, got up suddenly. ‘Best we go, Stel,’ she said, ‘No point hanging around.’ With this, the plumper blonde girl got up too and picked up their bags. The blonde shot Sharat a semi-apologetic look but the dark-haired girl continued to wear a tough expression on her face, not making eye contact with Sharat as they swiftly exited the veranda down the front stairs. Sharat watched them walk down the drive to the gates. It was very odd. The dark-haired girl looked vaguely familiar but Sharat was sure he would have remembered if he had met her before. They might merely be part of Neha’s theatre group that sometimes invited young volunteers from abroad. Occasionally Sharat was dragged along to performances but the faces ended up looking the same to him under all that make-up.