‘You’d like to stay in touch with her though, wouldn’t you?’ Arif’s query was spoken in a gentle voice.
Neha nodded, feeling the darkness in the room swirl and wrap itself around her as though it were there to stay. ‘I have no hope,’ she said, ‘but, yes, Arif, I think I would like that very much,’ she said simply.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Hours after she had left the Chaturvedi house in such a hurry, Sonya’s ears were still ringing with the words Neha had used to her husband. ‘Sonya is my daughter’. Words that Sonya had heard a million times before from her mum and dad back in Orpington but never with such a wealth of significance and meaning attached. It was ownership, it was belonging … pride, even.
And her own feelings? Sonya was astonished at how much she had needed to hear those words come from this distant person who was, by such a strange quirk of circumstances, her biological mother. It was puzzling, given that Mum and Dad could not have been nicer parents. But Sonya had learnt that even the love of the most adoring adoptive parents could not make up for the rejection of a real one.
She looked out of the window of the taxi that was taking her and Estella back to the Mahajan house. Delhi’s citizens were going about their business, people in cars, on buses and motorcycles. It looked anarchic and the blare of horns rent the air. This really was a chaotic, messy old place, Sonya thought, but her experiences in this city had taught her a lot – and made her grow up a lot. She turned and smiled at Estella, grateful for the solidity of her presence.
‘Penny for them?’ Estella asked.
‘I was just thinking, Stel, of how chuffed I am to have you here with me. Couldn’t have asked for a nicer travelling companion. Truly.’
‘Hmm, so you unceremoniously drag me away from supping a rather delish tea in a grand library. Just as I was not-so-delicately placing a morsel of fruit cake in my mouth too,’ Estella said.
‘Speed was of the essence, you understand.’
‘That it sure was! Like a pair of bats out of hell, weren’t we, scarpering out of there,’ Estella agreed. After a pause she added, ‘That Mr Chaturvedi, I can’t help feeling sorry for him. He’s been a mere pawn in this whole saga.’
‘I was thinking exactly that. I don’t doubt that the revelation of my existence will have a massive impact on their marriage. Do you think they’ll split up over this?’
Sonya sounded troubled and so Estella put out a hand to comfort her. ‘Don’t worry, marriages can be really elastic, I’ve found.’ Estella’s voice turned sober, ‘Remember that ghastly time my parents went through?’
Sonya nodded. She remembered a distraught Estella confiding in her when they were in seventh grade about her father finding out that her mother had been having an affair. The rows in the Wentworth home had been terrible that summer and Estella had been convinced that her parents were about to split up before somehow, miraculously, the crisis had simply blown over.
Estella took a deep breath and Sonya felt sorry that she had inadvertently reminded her friend of what was perhaps the worst time in her life. But Estella’s expression was back to its normal cheery state now. ‘I wager the Chaturvedis will ride over this,’ she said. ‘It’s a big one, though, admittedly.’
‘Do you think I should call Neha and ask if all is well? Not right now but say, tomorrow?’ Sonya asked.
Estella thought for a moment before replying. ‘It may be too soon. I’d say we give it a couple of days before calling, whatsay?’
Sonya nodded. ‘You’re right. Crikey, what am I going to do without you at Oxford?’
‘What you’ll probably do is have half the college, male and female, in love with you by the end of the first term so you can pick the finest specimen of carer to take over from where I leave off,’ Estella responded airily. ‘But what say you we stop off now at an ISD booth to call our folks back home? Twenty-four hours is about my mum’s limit!’
‘Twice my mum’s!’
Estella tapped the cab driver on his shoulder. She knew the jargon now. ‘ISD phone booth, bhai,’ she said, like a practised Hindi speaker, and the driver nodded, beaming, before slowing down his vehicle to scan the shops they were passing
In a few minutes, both girls were standing in a minuscule phone booth set amidst a row of higgledy-piggledy shops, making calls to both their homes. Having conferred with Estella on how much to reveal to her parents about the visit to the Chaturvedi house, Sonya broached the subject to her father soon after the initial enquiries were done. There was no point beating about the bush and, fortunately, Laura was out doing the weekly shop.
‘I met her again, Dad,’ Sonya said, knowing it would be the subject topmost in Richard’s mind too.
Richard briefly pretended not to have grasped whom she was referring to before swiftly correcting himself. ‘Who …? Ah, you mean Neha Chaturvedi, I take it. Was it better this time, darling?’
‘Yes, Dad, very much better. Cordial even.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, she was a lot more receptive on this occasion and explained the circumstances that led to her giving me up.’
‘Why the initial brushoff then?’
‘She’s never told her husband about me and was terrified of him finding out.’
‘And now he knows?’
‘Yes, he does.’
‘And their children?’
‘They don’t have any, Dad.’
Richard was silent for a few seconds and Sonya imagined the troubled direction his thoughts would take. She spoke again, rushing to reassure him, ‘I don’t think they’re desperate to become parents overnight, though. Certainly not to an eighteen-year-old penniless tourist in India. So no fears on that score!’
Richard fell in with Sonya’s droll manner. ‘So Mum and I are well and truly stuck with you and your penniless ways, I take it?’ he laughed.
‘’fraid so!’ Sonya giggled.
‘And we wouldn’t have it any other way,’ he said firmly. ‘So onwards and upwards. Agra tomorrow?’
‘Is my itinerary etched on your heart then, World’s Best Dad?’ Sonya asked.
‘No such luck. But it’s in bold letters, on the sheet stuck on the fridge, under that metal plaque that says, “Bigger snacks means bigger slacks”. Think you bought that magnet for Mum when she was on one of her extreme diets.’
‘I know the one. We bought it at that car boot sale in Penge years ago. She keeps everything, bit like me, I guess … or is it me who’s like her? Oh, I don’t know! For now, would you just be your usual kindly self and explain all this to Mum when she gets back, please? You’d do it a lot better than I can …’
‘Explain to her about extreme diets?’
‘No! Oh don’t be difficult, Dad.’
‘Me? Difficult?’ Richard echoed indignantly.
‘Well, deliberately obtuse then. Dad, listen, I need you to explain to Mum about … y’know … about me meeting Neha and laying those ghosts to rest. It was something I needed to do but I really do want Mum to know that there’s no one more special in the world to me than the two of you.’
Richard was silent and Sonya wondered for a moment if she had lost the line. When he spoke, his voice was gruff. ‘I’m pretty sure she knows that already, darling,’ he said, adding in his more characteristic manner, ‘Just remember to provide us with an occasional reminder whenever you can, eh?’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Sharat walked into the elegant lobby of the Windsor Manor hotel in Bangalore. It had been years since he’d visited the city and the truth was that he had no work at all here, nor anyone to meet. But the first available flight from Delhi Airport had been an Air India one to Bangalore, and it suddenly seemed hugely advantageous to be in a place where hardly anyone would know or recognize him. At this point in time, all Sharat wanted was to crawl into a quiet corner and lick his not inconsiderable emotional wounds. It was bad enough to think that Neha had lied to him but it would seem she had been lying consistently, throughout the years of the
ir marriage. How could that not make their whole relationship seem like a sham now?
Sharat followed a smartly-clad hotel employee down to the Towers section of the hotel where he was taken to what his pleasant young escort was describing as ‘our very sought-after Lancelot Chambers’. He was only half-listening to the man’s practised patter, but caught the phrase ‘room that leads to a courtyard garden’. He liked the sound of that because, unusually, Sharat envisaged spending more time in this room than out of it. Normally he was in and out of the various plush hotel rooms that he frequented when travelling on business, and somewhere along the way they had all started looking the same to him.
He now looked around the spacious room he was being shown into and smiled as the hotel employee showed him the controls for the most enormous television set he had ever seen. Perhaps if everything between Neha and him had been fine, and she had been here, they would have watched a late-night movie together; but Sharat could hardly imagine himself watching a film by himself. He had, in fact, grown unused to doing most things by himself.
After the hotel employee had left, Sharat unlatched the French windows at the bottom of the room. They led to an enclosed garden complete with a white stone arbour and pretty park benches. The garden was empty and Sharat walked across to the western balustrade in order to watch the sun set beyond Bangalore’s famed lush tree cover. It was a pretty sight but he recognized how everything would from now on be robbed of the total and unstinting pleasure he was used to experiencing.
Feeling his phone buzz in his pocket, Sharat pulled it out, hoping it would not be Neha. He really did need some quiet time to reassess his marriage and his life before he could deal with the supplications of people like Neha, or his parents for that matter. Sharat imagined the pain his parents would go through if he and Neha broke up. They were fond of her and, even if they wanted to stand by his decision, broken marriages did not belong anywhere in their orderly and conservative world.
Sharat’s phone was flashing an unfamiliar number at him and he answered it with some trepidation. The voice that spoke to him was American and, in an instant, Sharat recognized it as being the same man he had got on Neha’s phone yesterday.
‘Yes?’ he asked, his tone cautious.
‘Is that Sharat, Neha’s husband?’
‘Yes,’ Sharat repeated, trying to quell a strange feeling of dread that was rising within him, setting off a sour taste in his mouth.
‘You don’t know me, Mr Chaturvedi, and I must apologize for taking the liberty, but I’ve just had a conversation with Neha. I called her to ask if I could drop by and visit but found that the situation at your house is not good.’
‘What’s it to you? And who are you anyway?’ Sharat asked harshly.
‘It matters to me only on humanitarian grounds, sir, for I am a stranger to you and a near stranger to your wife. If I may explain … I met Neha at Ananda, and found her – like so many of the Indians I’ve met on these travels – to be kind and generous and dignified. But there was an air of sadness to her that I could not help being curious and concerned about. Neha finally came out with the story of her student days in Oxford. It was one she had told no one of until that point and I can only think that it was only because it was easier for her to reveal such painful details to a total stranger whom she was unlikely to ever meet again. Anyway, to cut a long story short, Neha was grateful for my support and had invited me around to meet you on my return to Delhi – I fly back to Los Angeles tomorrow – but, when I called her to arrange a time, she told me of how events had overtaken both of you. She said you had left the house in a most upset state of mind. It may be none of my business, sir, but – as perhaps the only other person who is even aware of these events – I would like to help if I can.’
‘No one can help,’ Sharat said shortly, suddenly afraid he might break down.
‘Forgive my quibbling, sir, but I’ve worked in mediation for many years, being a very old man, and I feel quite confident of being able to assist in some humble way. Please.’
‘What can you do to help, tell me?’ Sharat asked after a pause.
‘Not much, I grant, other than to remind you gently of how none of us can claim to have never made mistakes. In my experience, what sets one mistake apart from another is merely its consequences. I agree that, in Neha’s case, these consequences are huge, and no doubt difficult for someone in your position to accept. But it was, after all, one mistake and one that was made when she was very young. It would be tragic to see two good lives ruined by it now, so many years down the line.’
Sharat was silent, trying to gulp down the horribly large lump that had formed in his throat. And, while he was still considering how to respond, the caller suddenly hung up. Sharat stood looking foolishly at the phone, wondering whether he had got cut off and whether he should call back. But Sharat did not even know the name of the caller and he guessed that the man had hung up as abruptly as he had because he’d said as much as he wanted to.
At least he now knew who the mysterious American on the phone had been. Sharat slipped the phone back into his pocket, feeling a little less miserable than before. He knew he ought to feel guilty at suspecting Neha of having an affair but, given that much bigger lies had been spun, he was not yet ready for sympathy. He sighed. Perhaps he should shower and change before going down to the hotel’s bar for a quiet drink. He needed to think about how much to say to his friend, Ashok Mitra, who, as Inspector General of Delhi police, should be his first port of call in dealing with the blackmailer. It was best to be economical with his information and Ashok would be far too discreet to ask many questions.
Chapter Thirty-Six
As their taxi pulled into Fatehpur Sikri, Sonya and Estella jumped with fright when a whole variety of touts gathered around the car to thump on the bonnet and windows. In order to shake them off, the driver ignored the red light, narrowly missing a rickshaw in the process. Sonya looked out of her window at one boy who was pursuing the car with a few others, clearly desperate for her business. He looked no more than twelve and was weaving maniacally through the town’s traffic as he tried to keep up with them. Sonya wondered if she should warn the driver of the possibility of one of their wheels going over the lad’s foot but thought better of it. When they drew up outside the fort, Sonya almost did not want to get out of the safety of the locked car and eyed with trepidation the army of brown faces that were surrounding the vehicle again.
‘This is crazy, we can’t keep sitting here,’ Estella said, reaching for the door handle. ‘Ready? Shall we go for it?’ she asked.
Sonya nodded and, as they got out, the driver emerged from his seat, yelling what sounded like Hindi’s choicest abuse to send the touts scattering. Some of them ran off, laughing, but a few persisted.
‘Five hundred rupee only, I will be guide,’ one wheedled while another jostled him, flicking a packet of postcards showing the sights of Agra and Fatehpur Sikri. ‘Buy, madam, hundred rupees only, whole pack, only for you.’
‘No guide, no postcards,’ Estella said loudly, waving her guide book. ‘We have book, see? No needing guides.’
‘I thought we’d promised each other we wouldn’t slip into pidgin English,’ Sonya panted, trying to keep up with her friend who was striding in a determined fashion up a steep set of steps in an effort to lose the touts. Sonya looked over her shoulder as they climbed. Most of the men had fallen by the wayside, although one pair of boys remained in hot pursuit.
‘Please, madam, take me as your guide, I know everything, I show you all the historic things,’ the smaller one whined as he caught Sonya’s eye.
‘You can’t know everything, you look about ten! I’ll bet I know more Indian history than you do,’ Sonya admonished.
‘No, no, madam, you ask me any question, I will answer,’ came the confident response. Then the boy added, more helpfully, ‘You have to take shoes off over here. Inside is mosque.’
Sonya slipped off her sandals, hoping she would not return t
o find them missing. Following Estella, she stepped in through a massive archway to find a courtyard bustling with tourists and worshippers. They followed the crowd, who seemed to be gravitating to a small marble mosque situated at the centre of the courtyard, still tailed by the two boys bearing grubby satchels full of postcards and maps.
‘You must cover head,’ the smaller one advised, ‘is like mosque. Salim Chishti’s dargah. Salim Chishti was Sufisaint. Emperor Akbar prayed to him for a son and, when he got son, he name his son Salim and also build this dargah for Salim Chishti. Caalabrooney also came to pray for son.’
Sonya smiled, amused not just by the practised patter but also the breezy pronunciation of Carla Bruni’s name. Estella, following directions from her well-thumbed copy of the Lonely Planet, was already fumbling around in her bag to come up with a pair of scarves, one of which she handed to Sonya before tying the other around her own head. Suitably clad, they stepped into the darkened interior of the mausoleum. An old man in Muslim garb was fanning a tombstone that was covered in flowers with a horsehair whisk, while another stood taking squares of glittering cloth off the queuing worshippers to place them on the tomb. The cloth squares all had tinsel borders and appeared to be some kind of offering. Sonya wished she had thought of bringing one along too. Instead she took a small piece of red thread that another man was handing out and, following the lead set by others in the mausoleum, she tied it alongside thousands of other little threads that were knotted onto a marble trellised wall.
She jumped as a sibilant whisper emerged from the vicinity of her elbow, ‘Make wish!’ Turning, she saw that the ten-year-old guide had followed her indoors. Though tempted to tell him off for startling her, Sonya closed her eyes in order to concentrate. If it had worked for the Emperor Akbar, it was certainly worth a try. What should she ask for, she wondered, her mind going blank for a minute before she suddenly thought of it. ‘Please make Keshav see sense and stop blackmailing us. Please don’t let what I have done ruin anyone’s life. Whoever you are, Mr Chishti.’
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