“I learned classical dance,” said Monisha, thinking back to Mrs Bhatia’s classes. What was the answer he’d like to hear? She hesitated.
“And I cook.”
Shailesh Kulkarni raised his eyebrows, in disbelief.
“What? No parties or nightclubs?”
Her heart began thumping rapidly. He must think she was a complete prude.
“Been to one or two,” she said. Scenes flashed through her mind of girls keeled over in doorways, vomiting.
“They start off fun, and then somebody gets their drink spiked and ends up in the emergency room.”
Shailesh Kulkarni began laughing.
“Sounds like quite an adventure… so you were the good Indian girl: staying at home and rolling chapattis, then?”
Monisha huffed, loudly. All those dinner parties, just to preserve herself for someone like Shailesh Kulkarni and now she was being ridiculed.
“Yes, I stayed in on Saturday nights… and avoided date rape.”
Suddenly a dark shadow crept over him. The smile left his face. A waiter brought over a pint of Guinness and passed it towards him. Shailesh skimmed the foam off the top and began licking it off the sides.
“I’m only teasing. I prefer it that way. Have you ever… had a boyfriend?”
She breathed a sigh of relief.
“No. Have you ever—”
He cut her off before she could finish. Noticing her shandy glass was empty, he called the waiter back.
“Nothing serious, I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
As they waited, Shailesh Kulkarni eyed her up a little more closely. He observed that her organza scarf was trailing along the floor and picked it up. Monisha thanked him. Now it smelled of cigarette ash and was covered in flecks of sawdust.
“You did well to get into Boston. What do you want to do eventually?”
“Oncology,” said Monisha, brushing the dirt away. Somehow it didn’t sound quite enough on its own. “Research as well,” she added. Even though she had no clue how she’d squeeze that in between marriage and kids, and medical board exams.
He nodded, but seemed less than impressed.
“I’ll be doing research in New York, with Professor Sawhney. He was from my med school… made it big. The pancreas is his thing.”
It all sounded very exciting, but there was one burning question. Monisha leaned forward. Why hadn’t he applied for surgical residency?
Shailesh Kulkarni stopped for a minute and stared down at the table.
“My scores were good: high 230s. But I wanted a break…” He looked into her eyes. “It’s been so crazy, with surgical training, charity work, Indian exams and US exams. Now starting up the practice.”
He pulled his chair closer towards her.
“I really want to spend time on other things now.”
She felt him. Close. The beer on his breath. His new leather shoes. Thoughts catapulted through her mind: seeing Times Square and Central Park together and slurping on clam chowder.
Oh! She crossed her legs. Squeezed them tight.
The fan wobbled clumsily above them. Lost in her thoughts, it was some time, before Monisha noticed that he’d began speaking again.
“My father died when I was in medical school. Cancer.”
His eyes glazed over as the scenes came charging back, one by one. He shook his head; the soft waves of hair were now moistened with sweat and clinging to his head. Monisha sat up, straight as a tack.
“Everything changed overnight. The hospital bills were huge. My mother took up work in a factory… sewing.”
He continued shaking his head from side to side, as if he were shaking the memories out.
Suddenly his face broke into an impulsive smile and he began to nod thoughtfully. “Finally, things are looking up!” he said, with his eyes shining. “My practice is expanding… I was accepted in New York.” He paused and stared straight at her. “And now I’ve met you.”
Monisha blushed and smiled back. Her heart flew into a wild flutter. He was the one for her, she knew it. Oh God, he felt the same! And here they were, amongst a sea of Dutch hippies, sitting at this cracked wooden table, breathing in the stench of beer and unwashed clothing, with sawdust and cigarette ash on the floor beneath them. Two people who realised they were perfect for each other. What a strange and wonderful place it was, the Leatherhead Café!
Shailesh sipped the rest of his Guinness quietly. The waiter arrived with a lemonade for her. In a flash, his expression changed and his voice seethed with bitterness. “They do some kind of personal check now, dig up the dirt; you know, speak to professors… ex-girlfriends.” He rolled his eyebrows and began tapping the table with each of his fingers, making an odd unsynchronised noise. “One of your uncles is probably on the phone to my medical college right now.”
It was almost lunch time, and city workers were slowly drifting in. The crowd was beginning to swell, so Shailesh Kulkarni had to shout to get himself heard.
“Then there’s the bogus astrological consultation. The man tells you what you want to hear and sends you a large bill!”
“Really?” she enquired. “I don’t know much about these things.”
He frowned and looked at his watch; there were a couple of hernias waiting. Would she mind assisting? They could grab some food at another place, in a couple of hours or so. Monisha nodded. She had nothing better to do. But he was adamant. She would have to ask permission from her family first.
“I don’t want to be accused of stealing you away.”
Leela Bastikar was delighted when she heard. So much so that she completely forgot that her daughter would be straddled on a motorbike, behind a man she’d only just met. And if Uncle Shyam saw them, there’d be trouble.
“Of course, Monisha!” she screeched at the top of her lungs.
“Of course, you must go.”
8
Sitara Road was at its calmest at six in the morning. Without the din of traffic, there were only gentle sounds. Crows cawing lazily. Rickshaws squeezing their rubber tyres along the path. The shuffle of slippers on gravel, as helpers arrived for work. Soon the noises would come from inside. A trickle of water from the tap. A tinkle when it filled the kettle.
As Monisha lay in bed waiting for the helper to bring in her tea, pleasant thoughts flitted round her head. With every passing day, her feelings for Shailesh Kulkarni were becoming stronger. Her family had unanimously agreed to cancel the final suitor. Now even they could see that there was no better match.
Things had started off awkwardly at the café. She hadn’t appreciated his joke about the chapattis. And he’d seemed uncomfortable and embittered about the whole ‘marriage’ thing. But once he’d entered the hospital, Shailesh Kulkarni came to life.
Unlike the brash senior doctors, he treated nurses with respect. When the lift operator showed him a lump on his arm, he’d removed it that afternoon, free of charge. He’d performed the hernia repairs deftly, while she assisted.
“Everybody worships him,” the theatre sister had whispered in her ear.
Later, she’d met some of his boisterous juniors. They shared their stories over pav bhaaji and masala tea: hilarious tales of mishaps and blunders. Dr Kulkarni was forever bailing them out of trouble. She noticed him blush.
Sipping cappuccinos, they’d discussed their favourite books and films. He loved Steve Mc Queen and To Kill a Mockingbird. So did she. He wanted children, but, with careers like theirs, he thought two were quite enough.
“A boy and a girl would be nice,” she’d said.
“After we finish our training,” was his reply.
He was just what she needed. Practical, sensible and caring. A tall, dark handsome surgeon, with a job lined up in New York. Monisha hugged the blankets tightly. A thrill shot through her body. She grinned from ear to ear. He was the one!
And she couldn’t wait to tell Tina.
She wouldn’t rub her nose in it or say something like ‘I told you so’. She’d just present the facts, neatly and simply. Out of ‘millions of strangers’, her mother had shortlisted eight suitors. And, after some false starts, in the presence of her extended family, she had met her perfect match. Using precisely the same process that had been going on for thousands of years.
Three days later, in the courtyard of the Palamo Restaurant, their families came together. Eight of them, sandwiched underneath a giant umbrella. Aunt Romila, Uncle Shyam, Uncle Rohit, her mother and herself on one side; the Kulkarnis on the other. Laughing and chatting, slurping and clinking glasses of mango lassi. Tucking into plates of kebabs.
Monisha met her future sister-in-law, Ayesha, who was pale skinned and pretty, and the widowed Mrs Kulkarni, frail and bespectacled, dressed in traditional white. When they called her over to their side, to balance the table, everyone giggled at the meaning.
The excitement sent her rushing off to the toilet. Uncle Shyam followed her and gently took hold of her arm.
“Monisha, we usually make some checks before we go ahead.”
She nodded hastily.
“University professors, colleagues…”
She sped towards the neon sign.
“Would you like us to—”
She cut him off when they reached the ladies’ room.
“That won’t be necessary, Uncle, but thanks anyway.”
Uncle Shyam raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth as if to ask a question, but then stopped himself. His niece was an educated woman, she knew what she wanted. They were both doctors. What was the point of prying?
“I suppose… All we have to do now is fix a date.”
She beamed.
The night before she flew back to Boston, Monisha Bastikar was engaged to Shailesh Kulkarni. The ceremony took place at the house in Sitara Road. Prayers were made at the family shrine. The couple exchanged rings and fed each other sweet vermicelli rice pudding in front of the gods. Confetti-filled balloons were burst open. Fire crackers zoomed and whirred above their heads.
And the smile she’d woken up with that morning never left her face for one moment. She’d found him at last, the husband she’d waited for all her life.
9
The alarm awoke Monisha with a jolt. It was half past five in the morning. The smell of garbage wafted in. Where was she? Not Sitara Road, not Adam Court. This was her flat in Northend, just across the road from that cruel, labyrinthine workhouse, St Anthony’s. A sickly dread heaved through her. Twenty minutes to shower and eat. Fifteen if she didn’t move now. Soon enough, Professor Folstein would be limping round the ER and firing off impossible questions.
She was three months in. Every day, the same grizzly cycle. Wake at half past five. Start seeing patients at six. Then, for the next fifteen hours, get buzzed, beeped, air-paged and quick-dialled. Each time, a different frantic voice: “Report to the nurse’s station”. “Report to the ER”. “Report to the radiology department”.
Report. Report. Report.
She was perpetually running in and out of the gloomy, grey maze of buildings. Through vast, crowded walkways or eerily empty corridors. Down fire-escapes. Up lifts. Running to where the jobs lay waiting.
“Sign this… Take a look at him… Insert that… Write up those pills…”
When she’d finish one task, a snarling nurse would have her straight onto the next.
By nine o’clock in the evening she was back in the flat, completely drained. Wolfing down lukewarm, leftover takeaway. Flicking through the channels; news, comedy and drama, all blurring into one giant mishmash of words and pictures.
At around ten o’clock, she’d scan through the latest copy of the physician’s bible: The New England Journal. A short while later, she’d be sprawled out on top of a drool-stained page, snoring. She’d shake herself awake, brush her teeth and start reading again. Then she’d sleep until the alarm rang.
All day she was surrounded by a monotonous bunch who only talked work. They lived it, breathed it and injected it into every sentence. Eating and sleeping were distractions that got in the way. Except for the odd Red Sox game or a rare night on the town, the residents mostly wandered round St Anthony’s, shadowing their seniors and rote learning facts.
She shared the flat with a Mr Anaesthesiology and Miss OB-GYN. They were both unfriendly folks, who said hello and rushed to their rooms. Miss OB-GYN only used the place for storage because she stayed at her boyfriend’s house. Mr Anaesthesiology barely spoke. Who could blame him? Seven nights on, then seven long days, back to back. When she heard the toilet flushing, it meant he was in.
After a while, the loneliness became intense; it hung over her like a black cloud. Only a letter or a phone call from Shailesh could kill the misery. When his sombre voice came through the crackly line or when she smelled the diesel fumes in his dusty letters, Monisha came alive.
There had been a letter each month, packed with news. Ayesha had moved in with her baby girl Seema, now eleven weeks old. Mrs Kulkarni was a doting grandmother. His practice was picking up speed. Several big operations had come his way.
But he never mentioned a date for the wedding or moving to New York. After the initial thrill of hearing his voice subsided, she would pin him down and ask him leading questions. His answers were sketchy. He hoped to get married ‘at some point’. His research fellowship could start ‘any time he wanted it to’. But when she pressed him further, he said he was busy and ended the call, leaving her plans full of gaping holes.
She filled the emptiness with pipe dreams. Together they walked arm in arm on manicured lawns, wearing couture, like the Kennedys. Shailesh, the dashing surgeon, and she with perfect hair and glossed lips. Two chocolate-skinned children skipped behind them clutching candy floss.
One evening, a phone call from her mother brought her swiftly back to reality. The sugary voice had disappeared. Now her words came through, stern and hard.
“I think the Kulkarnis want to delay things. They haven’t mentioned this, but Ayesha and her husband have separated. That’s why she is living with them. Has Shailesh told you?”
“No.”
Monisha let out a heavy sigh. She was tired. Tired of work. Tired of takeaway and textbooks. Too tired to talk about this now.
“He hasn’t?”
Her mother was digging. She should have been an archaeologist: she had such a knack for digging out stuff from the past and analysing it.
“I have to go, Mom. Promise I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Thwack! She was gone. But she’d left a trail of nagging thoughts whirring round her head. Now it was impossible to eat or read or sleep. How did she find out about Ayesha? What were the Kulkarnis playing at? If something terrible had happened, why weren’t they telling her? She was going to be part of their family, wasn’t she?
She got up, washed her face and picked up The New England Journal. It was no use. The same thoughts came back to haunt her. She had to ask him.
Her fingers pressed the numbers. It was half past eight in the morning in Mumbai. Monisha jumped, scared when she heard him. He seemed surprised by her call.
“Is everything okay?”
“With me it is. But what about you all?”
Her heart beat faster in anticipation.
“All fine here.” His voice was cheery and light.
“Well, I heard that… er…” She hesitated. A costly silence ensued. She eventually mustered up the courage to continue. “I heard that Ayesha and her husband have separated, and you want to delay the wedding.”
He replied with a thundering boom. “Who told you that? Has your mother been gossiping?”
Her own voice rose to a shriek. “Why can’t you just tell me the truth?”
Bam! The thought that had been sit
ting on the sidelines was out mid-field.
He let out a sigh and told her that Ayesha’s husband was in Dubai. She’d wanted her mother to help with the baby, so she’d come to stay.
“So they’re not divorcing?”
In the background she could heard a baby screaming, then it quietened.
“Is that why you rang me, Monisha, to find out about Ayesha?”
Now the crackling noises were starting up. She’d have to shout. That meant Mr Anaesthesiology would be banging on her door any second. She told him she only wanted to find out a date for the wedding and when he’d be starting in New York.
The crackling faded, and his voice came through softly.
“The job’s in Wichita now.”
‘WICHITA!’ screamed Monisha. Mr Anaesthesiology began banging on the wall.
She lowered her voice. “What happened to New York?”
Apparently, Professor Sawhney had filled all the jobs there. But it didn’t matter; he wasn’t in a rush to leave Mumbai.
Ugh! It was impossible to argue. He’d said it at their very first meeting and it had flown right over her head. But, on their dates, they’d grown closer. And he’d made her feel that he wanted to be with her and that he couldn’t wait to get married.
Now there were oceans between them. Even in Wichita he’d be miles away. She’d have to fly to Chicago first and waste hours in the layover. Her imagination ran wild. She saw planes grounded and crowds of desperate people stranded in the Thanksgiving rush. Shailesh would be one of them. It was all too much. She began to cry.
Shailesh spoke over her.
“My dear wife-to-be… we may not see each other often, but when we do we’ll make up for it. Right?”
Monisha sighed. It would be awkward. They’d hardly see each other. And, even when they did, they’d have to swap on-calls and book out leave. Somehow just slot each other in.
He sensed her unease.
“My mother is trying to set the date for November.”
Oh dear God! It was only April.
He began rambling on about timings and such. Before July was inconvenient. The flat needed repairs and the landlord was unavailable. From July to October was inauspicious, so the priests wouldn’t even consider it. It would have to be November, at the very earliest.
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