She doubted if anyone believed that ridiculous story, but her parents were convinced it had worked. Maybe it had. But the result was that she was permanently branded as a cancer patient. On the rare occasions that she was surrounded by family, she had to put up with the pitying looks and the clucking from aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins. She was referred to as bicharee Vini. Poor Vini.
In some ways, the arrangement had worked for her, though. She had graduated at the top of her class from a large and reputable university. And now she was working as an actuary at an insurance company. She’d been promoted lately, too. She had a nice career going for herself, something she might not have had if she’d returned to Shivraj College. A year or two more and she would have enough money saved to move into her own flat. She could almost taste the tangy sweetness of that independence she’d craved for so long.
Getting off the bus at her usual stop, she took a deep breath. It had been stifling inside that bus, the air filled with the mingled odors of sweat, attar or perfume, cigarette smoke, and diesel fumes.
She walked carefully along the footpath to avoid the street hawkers selling their gaudy shirts, footwear, plastic knickknacks, and kitchenware before reaching the building where she and Vishal lived. Exiting the lift on the fifth floor, she pulled out her key and approached their flat, located halfway down the long corridor.
Hearing voices coming from inside the flat, she stopped to listen. It sounded like Vishal had arrived home before her. And he had company. This was most unusual. He generally worked much later than she. She always came home to an empty flat.
Curious, she tried the doorknob, and it turned. She let herself in. And stopped short.
“Mummy!” Vinita stood still. Apparently she’d interrupted a conversation between Vishal and her mother. Vishal was in mid-sentence when she’d walked in.
Vinita hadn’t seen her mother in several months. But now here she was, sitting on the maroon sofa in their small flat, holding a teacup like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Sarla’s pink-and-blue print nylon sari was neatly draped over her lap and her hair looked like it had been recently combed and pulled back in its usual bun. The coat of powder on her face and the red dot on her forehead looked fresh, too. It all pointed to the fact that she’d been here a while—long enough to freshen up—and brew a pot of tea.
“What are you doing here?” Vinita asked bluntly, her gaze bouncing between her mother and Vishal.
Vishal sat in the chair across from the sofa, serenely sipping his tea. “Mummy’s come for a visit, Vini.”
Obviously. But why hadn’t Vinita been told about it? Their mother had never before arrived here unexpectedly. In the rare event that she came to attend a family wedding or something of that nature, Vinita usually knew about the visit weeks in advance.
“It was unexpected,” explained her mother. She didn’t rise to hug Vinita or anything. Instead she patted the seat beside her, as if this was a daily routine for them. “Come, sit, Vini. Have some tea. I made a cup for you.” There was an empty cup beside the teapot on the wooden tray sitting on the coffee table.
Despite her mother’s obvious attempts at making it seem cozy and relaxed, Vinita could sense the mild undercurrent of tension in the room. This wasn’t a casual visit. Her mother was here for a reason. And Vishal knew about it. He had clearly left work early and fetched their mother from the airport. He was still in his office attire—white shirt, tie, and black dress pants.
The vibrations of conspiracy were palpable between those two.
Nonetheless, Vinita discarded her sandals near the door and walked barefoot to the sofa, pretending indifference. “You didn’t answer my question, Mummy,” she reminded gently.
It was over five years since the day her mother had discovered Vinita’s pregnancy, and yet the aloofness between the two of them lingered. Her mother had dutifully come down to Bombay and seen Vinita through childbirth. She’d waited on Vinita with unexpected tenderness during her convalescence, encouraging her to stay in bed, seeing to her every need.
But the minute Vinita had begun to recover, her mother had hastened back to Palgaum. Although the two of them had been cooped up together in the small flat for three weeks following Vinita’s delivery, they’d never had any meaningful conversations. It wasn’t all her mother’s fault, though. Vinita had been so depressed, she’d shut everyone out of her life—especially her mother.
More recently, Vinita and Vishal had gone home to Palgaum together for Diwali, the holy festival of lights. The visit had felt wooden and uncomfortable, and she’d had very little conversation with her parents. Vishal, on the other hand, had managed to keep the conversation going, pretending everything was as it should be. He was a good talker. And a diplomat when necessary. Someday he’d make an outstanding businessman.
After all these years, well after Vinita had picked up the pieces of her life and settled into a good career, the disappointment and condescension in her mother’s eyes remained to some extent. Even now, it was as if an invisible wall stood between the two of them, a wall crumbling in places, but never torn down and discarded. Both of them seemed to stumble over the fragments, not quite able to touch each other.
Her mother stared at the floor for a second before replying. “I had to come because there is a marriage proposal for you. It came up rather suddenly.”
Vinita sat down on the sofa and smoothed the pleats on her sari. She needed a second to absorb the information. “I see,” she said. That explained why Mummy was here. Vinita glanced at her brother. “You knew about this?”
“Only since yesterday, when the boy’s family confirmed that he wanted to meet you,” he admitted. “Like Mummy said, it was unexpected. Mummy was lucky she could get a seat on the plane at the last minute.”
“Why isn’t Papa here, then?”
“One of his major clients is being audited by the revenue fellows tomorrow,” her mother offered. “Tax problems.”
“Ah.” She knew all about the dreaded income-tax authorities and their audits. But that didn’t matter. At the moment, she wanted to know more about this bride viewing her mother had made the journey to Bombay for. “Who’s the chap coming to view me this time?” She arched a cynical eyebrow. “Is he blind, lame, or an ex-convict?” Or worse, a tired old man with no job, no libido, and no teeth.
“None of those,” answered Vishal, sounding annoyed.
“Then he probably has very little education and works in the rice fields somewhere?” She couldn’t help the bitterness in her voice. Every time her family found her a match, he was considered suitable for “a girl like her.” She was tired of hearing it. She could very well be wearing a sign across her chest announcing her “non-virgin and sullied” status.
Her relatives, who allegedly didn’t know about her pregnancy and thought she was a cancer survivor, also considered her not very marriageable material. So they, too, suggested the most undesirable men for her—the discards. A sickly and pathetic woman like her, a bicharee, had to be grateful to have a husband. Any kind of husband.
“No,” answered Vishal to her caustic query. “He lives in America. He’s a mechanical engineer with a good job.”
Vinita’s eyes went wide for an instant. She waited, watching her mother pour tea into the empty cup. There had to be a catch. Educated male engineers with good careers were prized in their society, and even more so if they lived in the U.S. When no other information came forth, she looked at Vishal. “So what’s wrong with this fellow?”
“Nothing. He’s a respectable chap, according to Kedar-mama,” he said, referring to their mother’s brother, who lived in Baroda.
Vinita nearly smiled. Respectable was a neat little term that encompassed any number of perceived virtues, but also covered up a lot of flaws. At least three respectable men had been proposed for her in the past eighteen months. All three men had had serious handicaps. One was a recovering alcoholic; another had a degenerative eye disorder that was slowl
y making him blind; the third was a widower with a Down syndrome child who needed a nursemaid-cum-mother.
But it was ironic that all three men had considered themselves highly eligible. After Vinita had talked frankly to them about her past, they’d disappeared—never to be heard from again.
Not that she cared all that much. She was glad to be rid of those men. Besides, she was content with her single status—for now. Unlike many women her age, she was becoming financially self-sufficient. She didn’t need a husband.
She accepted her cup of tea and took a sip. It was tepid. “So when do I get to meet this respectable man?”
“Soon.” Vishal pointed a warning finger at her. “And don’t you spoil it this time.”
She blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Why do you insist on telling every eligible man you meet about your…episode in college?”
“I prefer to be honest.” She quickly gulped the remaining tea and put her cup down. “Don’t want any complications later.”
“They don’t need to know all that,” her mother piped in. “If you keep telling them such things, nobody will marry you.”
Vinita shrugged. “Then I guess I’ll have to remain single.”
“Stop talking such nonsense,” scolded her mother. “What kind of woman wants to be a spinster all her life?”
“A woman like me?” Vinita couldn’t help needling her mother. Mummy could be so annoyingly self-righteous sometimes.
“Vini!” Vishal fumed. “We’re sick and tired of your defeatist attitude. You’re a perfectly intelligent girl, but you insist on ruining your chances every time you’re introduced to an eligible man.”
“I can’t help my past,” Vinita said, raising both her hands in a helpless gesture. But she sometimes wondered if she did indeed do it unconsciously to punish herself for her sins. “Besides, tell me exactly which one of those three men you picked for me was eligible.”
Vishal had the decency to avert his eyes. “I didn’t know much about those men. They were recommended by my friends and colleagues.”
“Yeah, men perfectly suited for a girl like me,” she threw back at him.
“I’m sorry. But seriously, can’t you keep your past to yourself? It’s between us—family.”
“Everyone in Palgaum knows about my affair and my pregn—”
“No, they don’t.” Her mother cut her off. The word pregnancy still seemed to stick in Sarla’s throat. The term was not used in genteel circles. “Everybody thinks you had a serious health condition and now you’re…cured.”
“It’s a lie.”
Vishal slammed a big fist into the arm of his chair. “That’s enough! When you meet this man tomorrow, you had better be on your best behavior. You are not to tell him anything beyond your education and your job, you hear?”
She glared at him. “Is that an order, Mr. Shelke?”
He sighed, long and loud.
“Okay, I’ll try,” she conceded grudgingly. So she was to meet the man tomorrow. It wasn’t much advance notice. “But what if he’s looking for a pretty girl?” This fellow was an engineer from America, probably full of himself and convinced that he was a great catch in the marriage market.
“Put on some makeup. Go to a beauty salon or something.” Vishal waved away her feminine concerns with the typical nonchalance of a man.
As if it were that simple. A trip to the beauty salon could only do so much for an average woman. Only a miracle would make her pretty.
“And I brought a nice turquoise bandhani sari for you to wear when you meet him. Blue is a good color for you.” Her mother was already on her feet, heading for the bedroom, probably to retrieve the sari from her suitcase. She most likely had a matching blouse and petticoat made by their tailor, too.
Vinita watched her mother’s back disappear into the bedroom. Some things never changed. A bride viewing, even in Vinita’s case, had to be treated with the care and respect it deserved. Protocol demanded a quality silk sari with appropriate accessories, just enough makeup for attractiveness without garishness, and proper demeanor with subdued voice and downcast eyes.
Seeing no way to escape the plan that was already in motion, Vinita sank back against the sofa cushion and folded her arms across her chest. Different day. Different man. Different attire. Same damn agenda.
As always, her parents and brother had decided what she should do. When and how, too.
Now more than ever they were desperate to get her married, or settled as they preferred to call it. If her baby had been born alive, there would have been no question of marriage. But since there wasn’t a child to worry about, they wanted her to forget her past and get on with her life. That way they could forget it, too, and get on with their own lives.
Besides, as long as she hung like a stale garland of wilted flowers around their necks, it would be hard to find a good wife for Vishal.
A single dark deed was akin to a deadly virus. It ended up contaminating the whole family, especially the sinner’s unmarried siblings and cousins. And she didn’t want to ruin Vishal’s life along with her own. Another thing to remember was that despite her bitter feelings toward them at times, her family meant well. They cared about her. That much she knew for sure.
Well, she’d met three men in recent months. So what was one more? “Should I assume this fellow and his parents are coming to our flat tomorrow?” she asked Vishal. It was always like that—entire families arriving to see the girl put on display. They’d all gawk at her and ask silly questions.
“No parents this time. They live in Baroda,” Vishal replied. “His older sister and he are coming here tomorrow evening to have tea with us. She and her husband are local Bombayites.”
Something still bothered Vinita. “You still haven’t told me anything about him. What’s his name?”
“Girish Patil.”
“Hmm.” A nice, wholesome name with a solid ring to it. Leaning forward, she fixed her eyes on Vishal. “What’s the catch? And don’t tell me he’s respectable. Mummy and Papa and you don’t think I’m worthy of a truly respectable man. Everyone you’ve brought to my attention has had some problem or other. I want to know everything about this Patil fellow.”
Vishal’s gaze wavered. “He’s divorced.”
“Aha!” That explained it. Some of it, anyway.
“He was married to an American woman. They were divorced two years ago.”
The truth was slowly coming out. “Why?”
“How should I know?” Vishal gave a shrug and rose to his feet. He stacked the empty cups and teapot on the tray. “All I know is what our uncle told Mummy and Papa. Girish Patil is the nephew of Kedar-mama’s insurance agent.”
“Hmm,” she grunted again. One of those complicated threads that ran through the fabric of their vast matrimonial network. It also meant Patil was an unknown—a man who lived halfway across the globe. He could be a wife beater…or an alcoholic…just about anything. Her eyes followed her brother to the kitchen. “Does he have children?”
“No,” he replied. She heard the sound of the cups and teapot being placed in the sink.
“Thank goodness,” she murmured to herself.
Other than the divorce, the man sounded like a better prospect than the others she’d met so far. Much better.
So why were her feminine instincts whispering that her mother and brother were hiding something from her?
Chapter 13
Girish Patil was not perfect. Far from it. She could clearly see now what it was her family had been keeping from her.
Fidgeting with the tassels on the edge of her pallu, the long end of the sari that swept over the left shoulder and draped over the back, Vinita managed to steal a few hasty peeks at the man who was here for the bride viewing.
He had a longish face, with high cheekbones. He wasn’t bad looking, but he could have used a few more strands of hair along the receding hairline. He was dressed conservatively in neat gray trousers and a blue and white checked shirt. B
ehind his gold-rimmed glasses he had dark, intelligent eyes.
What startled her was his right hand, which he extended to Vishal for a handshake. The index and middle fingers were missing. Not entirely missing; they were short stumps.
She glanced at Vishal. He didn’t seem surprised at all. So Vishal knew about it. And he’d chosen not to mention it to her. She brushed aside the brief flash of anger for the moment. She’d confront Vishal later.
Then Girish Patil pressed his hands together to wish Vinita and her mother a respectful namaste. Vinita returned the gesture, but her eyes remained glued to his hand. When he caught her staring, she looked away quickly, hot embarrassment rising into her face.
Things weren’t going all that well, despite her family’s efforts to make the occasion pleasant. Her mother had slogged away in the kitchen making kheema samosas—deep-fried turnovers stuffed with spicy minced meat. They had come out perfect—plump and crunchy and golden.
Vishal had brought home a variety of colorful mithai—sweet-meats. The usual Hindu hospitality was on full display—the ingratiating, bride-viewing kind. Laughing at the guests’ jokes, attempting to impress them with the best china cups and teapot, and pressing food and drink on them were mandatory on such occasions.
Patil’s sister, Mrs. Rohini Sitole, dressed in an elegant Venkatgiri sari, was trying her best to smile a lot and not ask too many questions. Her husband, Kishore Sitole, was a general surgeon, and a man of few words. He seemed disinterested in Vinita and the purpose of their visit, but appeared to be captivated by the samosas and tea, which of course thrilled her mother.
In spite of the camaraderie, the occasion felt forced and unnatural. Vishal and her mother were trying too hard to please.
But then, this was hardly a standard bride viewing with a never-married man coming to meet a blushing virgin. He was a divorced man and she was…a used item. He had two missing fingers, a fact she couldn’t ignore. She was allegedly a cancer survivor, something he couldn’t ignore.
She had to admit Girish Patil seemed like a civilized man, much more polite and well-spoken than the other chaps she’d met. He seemed at ease in their home, too. Of course, underneath that veneer a nasty personality could be lurking, but the overall image was that of a gentleman. He apologized profusely for arriving late, a mere five minutes, and later thanked her mother for serving what he called superb Indian tea.
The Unexpected Son Page 11