“Try to get drunk, the first time will really hurt.”
She peeked round the room. No alcohol. None whatsoever.
He leant over to kiss her. Betel nut and onions on his breath. Ugh! She pulled away and buried her face in the petals on her pillow.
“What’s wrong?”
After a brief silence, she closed her eyes, held her breath and relented. His belly rolled over her, flattening her like dough. Then he charged into her like a crazed bull. Tearing her insides to shreds. She prayed for the torture to end.
“Oh, dear Lord!” she screamed when it was over.
Soon the royal bridal room reverberated with his deafening snores. Her mind flashed back to the wintry evening in Café Uno. And Tina’s interrogation.
“Don’t you want to know what he’s like in bed?”
Well, now she knew.
17
The Kulkarni’s flat looked more shabby than chic. Golden paper chains and jasmine garlands had been slung on just about anything, from photographs to furniture. Sticks of incense lined the hallway. Red vermillion symbols were splashed across the walls. The landlords had been very understanding; it was, after all, for a wedding.
Monisha’s foot tipped over the clay pot filled with rice, scattering grains across the reception room; the new bride would bring abundance and prosperity. Shailesh clop-clopped along beside her, in ugly, buckled sandals, his shawl knotted tightly into her sari. Cameras clicked in their faces while Mrs Kulkarni plied them with sickly sweets.
It was all beginning to drive her crazy.
After a sore and sleepless night, she’d been shaken out of bed by the makeup lady’s relentless knocking. For the lunch reception, her ‘look’ had to complement the purple-and-green ‘football team’ sari. All morning, her hair was pulled and crimped, and every shade of lipstick and rouge tested in hope.
By the time Monisha had made it down to eat, the biryani was ice cold. In the most humiliating fashion, she’d started choking on a cube of lamb and had to be Heimliched by Saurav Das, in front of the wedding guests. How would she ever live that down?
When the drama was over, she was packed into the bridal car and dispatched to Sitara Road for the official farewell. There she’d walked through the courtyard, throwing fistfuls of rice over her shoulder, while her mother and father sobbed. Each foot had felt like lead; the sound of their tears had ripped her heart in two.
“Don’t look back, Monisha,” Aunt Romila had said. “You are part of the Kulkarni family now.”
Ouch! That stung. Was it so simple? Some prayers in front of a fire, a judge’s signature and you defected to the other side?
“I’m still Monisha Bastikar,” she’d protested before Shailesh shot her a fearsome glare. He’d wanted her to change her name to ‘Kulkarni’, but she’d made excuses. Everything she’d achieved so far, was as a Bastikar. From her driving licence to her medical licence. She couldn’t possibly change it now.
As the crowd of guests slowly dispersed, Monisha stumbled in to Shailesh’s bedroom, dizzy from the smell of incense. Everything in it was brand new, the bed, the dresser and the pine wardrobes. She rubbed her hands against the glossy wood. All of it was gifted by her parents, and so much more tasteful and elegant than what was there before.
Shailesh ignored her show of approval and announced that he was taking his mother to the temple. Monisha felt like a caged bird being set free. As the front door banged shut, she curled up on the bridal bed, pulled the dazzling red-gold blanket over herself and shut her eyes.
The sound of Ayesha’s voice made her jump.
“I can’t wait until Shailesh lives with you in America.”
Monisha closed her eyes again and turned over.
“Things will be so different when I marry Chemjong.”
Chemjong? Had she heard that correctly? What an exotic sounding name! Surely her sister-in-law wasn’t getting married. She wasn’t even divorced! Now Monisha couldn’t sleep, even if she wanted to. She had to ask. Who on earth was Chemjong?
Ayesha picked up a cloth and began dusting the window ledges. Just as she’d finished one, the road dirt stealthily crept back in. Chemjong was a Nepalese Christian. His family owned a tailoring business. And, as to be expected, her mother didn’t approve of him.
For a second, her sister-in-law’s usually expressionless face lit up. But soon she swung her head back round, leaving only her rope-like plait in view.
Ayesha dropped her cloth and spoke to the street.
“I haven’t told Shailesh anything. He won’t be happy.”
She began dusting again, vigorously. Her mother had apparently told her to forget Chemjong and take up yoga instead. Monisha stared at her blankly.
“You know… the exercises that… block your desires.” Ayesha began giggling, though it wasn’t remotely funny.
“Anyway, she’ll be living with you, in America.”
There it was, the bitter truth. Her aunts had warned her. The only son. Completely expected of him. Monisha began to feel queasy. Mrs Kulkarni with her seven cloves of garlic, in the tiny Northend flat. Spewing betel nut everywhere.
“But what about you and Seema?”
Ayesha stared dreamily out the window. Apparently Chemjong loved Seema. And she loved him. They were almost a family.
It was late evening when Shailesh returned with his mother, leaving time for only a quiet supper in the flat. Mrs Kulkarni had prepared something simple. Soft, warm chapattis and mixed vegetable curry.
“After all that heavy wedding food.”
Monisha ate in silence. Not long now and they’d be on the train to Goa. Just the two of them, in the first-class, air-conditioned carriage. On a well-deserved holiday, with no in-laws butting their noses in.
“Ayesha will pack your suitcase,” said Mrs Kulkarni. “She’s an expert.”
The old lady had hijacked her thoughts. She was determined to destroy them.
Monisha shook her head and headed towards her bedroom. She’d rather do it herself, she told her. Ayesha slithered in behind her.
“Why don’t you let her pack it?” called Shailesh. “She knows my stuff. I’ll never find it otherwise.”
Ayesha beamed from ear to ear.
“No!” cried Monisha, before lowering her voice. “I mean, Ayesha is busy enough. And if you packed your own things Shailesh, you’d find them.”
Suddenly, a deathly silence descended upon the flat. The smile rapidly disappeared from Ayesha’s face. Mrs Kulkarni glowered, and a red-hot frown flickered across her forehead. Shailesh looked perplexed.
There they stood in the doorway, ganged up like in a Bollywood film. The scowling mother-in-law, her feckless son and the divorcee daughter with a double life.
Monisha turned her back to them as gently as she could and began arranging her underwear into neat little bundles. When she picked up the racy, red silk chemise chosen by Riya, the Kulkarnis scattered sharply.
It was another hour before the taxi arrived. Monisha almost tripped over herself in her rush to get away.
18
As the doors to the Juliet balcony flew open, Anjuna Beach shimmered into view. Miles of turquoise water and white sand. Here, there were only gentle sounds: The tide rolling in. A child’s laughter. Seagulls. No deafening car horns or trumpeting rickshaws.
Goa was magical, healing. Just what she needed.
Every morning, Monisha sauntered along the terrace to catch some sun. Ooh, its tingling warmth! Darker skin wasn’t a problem now that she was married.
Flouncing around in flared skirts, beside her husband, she discovered the bliss of couple-dom. Strolling on the beach hand in hand. Nibbling on fried corn and pakoras. Curling up in bed to watch Bollywood films. And the ultimate luxury, a jacuzzi.
But, after a few days of their cosy routine, a nagging question burned inside. When were
they ever going to start their life together?
Shailesh had spoken about all the patients waiting for operations when he got back and finding a good nursery for Seema. He was looking into courses for Ayesha, to help her with her sewing business. He hadn’t mentioned coming to the States once.
Rage simmered away inside her, but Monisha kept it hidden. When he rambled on about his family, she feigned interest, nodded and agreed. Even though she knew Ayesha wanted nothing more than to marry Chemjong and sew in his shop. And that Seema wouldn’t need a nursery until she was three. Why should she upset the apple cart? She would only ruin blissful memories. Spoil the tranquillity around her.
By the fifth day, she was ready to explode. When she found Shailesh laying on a sun lounger, with his nose buried deep in the latest Wilbur Smith, she fired off. Like a cannonball.
“So, when do you start in Wichita?”
“Whenever I want,” replied Shailesh with his head firmly in the book.
Monisha removed her sunglasses so he could see her frown. But he took no notice and continued reading. Her voice rose to a shrill pitch, like her mother’s did, in front of a disobedient Swanker.
“What kind of job has no start date?”
He told her it was an observership. Monisha cringed.
“What’s the stipend?”
Suddenly, Shailesh banged his book shut and looked up at her.
“There is none.”
A child’s ice cream tumbled onto the sand. First came loud, whiny tears, then the screeching of gulls. All fell silent when one swooped down and snatched it. Monisha shook out a towel and flung it over the sunlounger beside Shailesh. After giving him the frostiest of stares, she plonked herself down. The wood rattled under her thighs. Awkwardly.
“Why have you taken a job that won’t pay?”
It was a foot in the door, he told her, to make contacts and to get a local referee. But it was all very confusing. Wasn’t Professor Sawhney his local referee?
Shailesh sat up, tucked his book under his arm and eased his feet into his sandals.
“He’s never seen me work,” he said shrugging his shoulders. “I’m going to get ice cream.”
His face glistened red and black with sweat. Wet stubble sprouted along his chin. A mound of fat had collected on his belly and etched below were the elastic markings from his shorts. This was not the smooth, sophisticated Shailesh from their first meeting. This was Shailesh, the fattened-up, oily-haired liar. Fumbling his explanations, dancing round the truth. About to scarper.
He got up and began walking. Quicker and quicker. Monisha shot off behind him. Bare feet burning on hot sand.
“So, you expect me to support you? “
“Nonsense! Why do you think I want to stay back?”
He said it would be for a few months. A year. To get the rent in order. Once Ayesha started up her business properly, they’d be fine.
A year.
The fluttering began again. Another twelve months in Northend. Alone. Oh God! Unless you counted Miss Never There and Mr Don’t Wake Me. Sundays wasted, traipsing round: ghost–like. Through the Mall. Into the Laundromat. Onto the tin stool. Waiting for the last spin. Waiting for her husband.
Oh God! Her mother’s ghastly newsflashes: ‘Verma daughter-in-law expecting. Ravi Sinha has a brand-new house. Essex Junction. Six bedrooms. Nanny-room as well. With en suite!’
Shailesh held out an ice cream and waved it in front of her. She folded her arms tightly and shook her head. He insisted. The vendor was getting irate. A queue had formed.
She took it. Licked it with reluctance. It was sickly strawberry, like cough syrup. Ugh! Being made to down this, along with everything else.
But why was Shailesh abandoning his wife to stay with his family, when they didn’t need him anymore?
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he growled when he heard the question.
Monisha edged closer towards him. Her hands, flat and upright. “It means, we should be thinking about us. Not Ayesha. She has her own life now… and she won’t be needing any courses!”
Then it all spilled out, like a giant tidal wave. Ayesha dreamy eyed, dusting. Secretly in love with Chemjong, the Nepalese Christian with a tailoring business. Sewing together. Raising Seema. Mrs Kulkarni telling her daughter to do yoga. How ridiculous!
“Not as ridiculous as what I’ve just heard,” said Shailesh. His voice rose to a thundering boom. “That girl is going to finish me off completely!”
He tossed his half-eaten ice cream into the bin. Monisha followed suit. Heart pounding loudly. Poor Ayesha. Had her sister in-law told her about Chemjong in confidence? Or because she wanted her brother to find out?
And whose side was she supposed to be on now? She took a deep breath, like when facing Professor Folstein. She told him that it was all good news. Ayesha had found someone decent to support her and help raise her child. Someone financially secure. But Shailesh grabbed his towel and began walking towards the hotel.
Back turned he shouted.
“How do you know he’s decent? And what about Seema? Running around a tailoring shop, and being raised by a bunch of…” He checked that there were no Goans within earshot. “Christians!”
“But Shailesh…”
He continued walking. Ignoring her. Like she was a beggar child. A hanger-on. She sprinted up beside him and grabbed his arm.
“Ayesha is responsible for her daughter! You have your own marriage to think about. And residency jobs…”
“You Americans are so naïve. You think everything works the same way here as it does over there!”
Over here. Over there. Her argument with Tina.
Tears began rolling down her cheeks.
“I just want us to be happy, Shailesh… and Ayesha.”
Brief, muffled sobs trickled through. Wasn’t that what he wanted too?
That evening a chilly wind blew hard along Anjuna Beach. Specks of sand spun through the air then into eyes and faces. The hotel’s pretty mosaic floors turned ice cold. And in the honeymoon suite there was complete silence. Broken only by the jarring buzz of the room-service bell.
19
New England winters were bleak. The sun peeped in at seven and was gone by half past three. You’d leave home and come home in pitch black. That was on good days. It was the bad days that Monisha dreaded, when the street lay buried under a blanket of snow. Anyone else could ring in with excuses – “School’s shut! Timmy and Maisie can’t be left!” – then spend the day sledging. It was the child-free who had to stay in work.
That meant huddling in with other miserable medics, and buying overpriced deodorant and toothpaste from the shop on the ground floor. Or lining up for leftovers in the canteen. Only storeroom staples now. Bean stew. Tuna and beans. Tomato and bean soup. She hated winter. Hated it. Hated it. Hated it!
And when she thought of Shailesh scoffing samosas in sunny Mumbai, she hated him too. Almost a year and still he hadn’t come.
Only the wedding video reminded her they were married, and it had been ruthlessly edited. Everything so picture perfect. None of the haughty laughter as she opened up his meagre gifts. Nor the shock on her face. Just the twanging of sitars then a still of her henna-lined hands!
And everyone dazzled in gold and silk splendour. Women fluttered their kohl-lined lids. Children raced round in oversized kurtas. Her own mother and father grinned from ear to ear, blessing their beloved son-in-law. And to think twelve hours before he’d begged for a dowry!
Long wintry nights passed by. Outside the wind and rain whooshed and spluttered. Alone in her single bed, Monisha would ask herself if it had it all really happened. In an instant, she’d leap out and switch on the video. Just to be sure.
She would fast forward it, freeze it. Yes, they had walked round the holy fire seven times. And there it was! That mucky sandalwood zi
gzag, running down his forehead. Shailesh was definitely her husband now.
The minute it hit, she’d flick to Saturday Night Live, tight throated, hoping that a comic routine would make her laugh. It didn’t. It couldn’t.
Her ‘marriage’ consisted of a couple of emails each week. Mainly Kulkarni trumpet blowing. Full operating lists in summertime. Seema heading for the best nursery in the state. Ayesha now the most magnificent seamstress in Mumbai. Of course, Chemjong never got a mention.
Then that gushing apology. Shailesh couldn’t make it over in the fall. His mother was laid up in bed with her bad back. Oh yes! The bad back that never bothered her when she stood for hours making his favourite curry or when she lifted his giant baskets of washing.
He had asked Monisha to take a trip to Mumbai. But squeeze herself into that tiny flat with the Kulkarni women? And watch them fetch and carry for him all day? No thank you! She made her excuses and fled to New York with Tina for as long as her wallet permitted: five glorious days.
They did Central Park, took in its spectacular spruces and elegant elms. Tina jogging, with red curls fluttering. Monisha walking as fast as she could. Anxiously anticipating another interrogation.
Tina bouncing. Knees, shoulders, calves and curls in rhythm. Even her words kept time.
“There’s no point asking you about your marriage. It hasn’t started yet.”
Monisha thought she’d been let off the hook, but Tina hadn’t finished. She’d ranted loudly. In front of other joggers, who weren’t wearing headphones.
“And that woman in your wedding video wasn’t you! It was a body double, wearing a nose ring and a wig, like one of those hideous queens in the Kama Sutra!”
A ripple of laughter had followed, and that stung. So hard in fact, that she’d had to bend down and take a breath. So hard, that Tina paid for dinner that night. And they’d racked up quite a bill at Angelo’s. Fortunately, free fettuccine alfredo worked wonders, so the friendship continued.
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