He began to sob. His face and body shook awkwardly. Leela Bastikar placed an arm on his shoulder. A nurse knocked, opened the door and then closed it again.
“And I would really like a child… I just needed a proper job.”
Monisha glanced up at Shailesh, then looked round the room. On one side of the bed lay an overnight bag stuffed with clothes. In the cabinet next to her were Tupperware boxes filled with samosas and coriander chutney. Her mother must have worked through the night.
She breathed a heavy sigh and forced herself to stand. Right now, there was nothing left to do but get in the car.
26
As August drew to a close, the bedrooms of the Bastikar’s Burlington home emptied one by one. First Swanker left, for exam retakes. Then Monisha was summoned back to St Anthony’s. Shortly afterwards, the Bastikars shot off to Mumbai, with Shailesh.
Monisha hoped he might have joined her to go house hunting. But it was the tenth anniversary of his father’s death. There were sacred rites to perform. Mrs Kulkarni had booked a priest and a temple. So, who could argue?
She’d kept herself busy by form filling. Rejecting a three-year oncology placement in Vermont. Accepting a training position in Boston, even if she hated the place. Just to be closer to her husband. So that one day, hope to God, fingers crossed, legs crossed, arms crossed, they could start a family.
After her bereavement leave, Monisha was made to work Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year. If she wanted a holiday, the others would cover her, if she took it right away. And there was only one place in the world she could just turn up without booking. With better weather and instant company.
Mumbai.
The city had been transformed by cell phones. From the camel keeper to the street sweeper, everybody had one pinned to their ear. Car horns and bicycle bells were now drowned out by the Nokia ringtone. Monisha stepped out of the airport and into a maze of advertisements for handsets, call providers and contracts.
Shailesh waved from the taxi rank. Phone-less, he seemed out of place. He grabbed her suitcase and pulled her into a waiting car. She took a deep breath. Soon they’d all be there. Mrs Kulkarni, Ayesha and Seema, swanning round Shailesh. Crammed into that cluttered flat.
The cab bumped and ground towards Andheri East. Monisha bounced upwards and landed with a jolt.
“I can’t believe he can speak on the phone and drive. With one hand!”
“They’ve always driven one handed,” said Shailesh. The dusty green-and-gold lettering of Madhav’s flashed ahead. He pointed.
“Should we stop?”
Monisha nodded effusively. Anything to delay the inevitable.
The plastic tables were oily and coffee stained. But that didn’t matter. She ordered their specials: pav bhaaji and carrot halwa. Moments later, the spicy vegetable curry soaked its way through the buttery bread and onto her taste buds. And the delicious helpings of creamy, sugary carrot helped her forget anything unpleasant that lay ahead.
The Kulkarni’s flat had been refurbished. In front of the kitchen stood four smart leather chairs and a brand-new dining table. Mrs Kulkarni leaned in front of it, smiling, dressed in her usual white cotton sari. Chemjong had bought it for them. Apparently, he’d turned out to be an excellent son-in-law after all.
Seema burst out of a bedroom. Tall and lady like, at three years old. Ayesha, all bosom and belly now, sauntered behind her.
“Aunty, Aunty, we went to the jungle!”
“There were lots of mosquitos,” said Ayesha, lifting up her arm to display a solitary bite. “I understand why you didn’t want to come.”
Monisha’s forehead crinkled into a frown. She had no idea what they were talking about.
Seema fluttered excitedly round her mother. “You missed it, Aunty. Uncle Shailesh took us. My daddy was there and Grandma. We went on a boat, saw tigers… and we stayed in a lodge!”
Shailesh had disappeared into a bedroom. Monisha found him, curled up on the bed, with the remote control. She shot him an icy glance.
“You didn’t just come here for the death anniversary.”
He looked up briefly.
“You’d booked a trip… without me.”
He opened his mouth to reply. But she’d already hoicked up her bags and began running. Out of the bedroom, past the dining table, through the reception room. This time she wasn’t going to wait for her sandals.
Down the stairs she scurried, her bare feet gathering dust on the concrete steps. Panting. Waddling. Ayesha followed. She was due in a month.
“Monisha! I thought he’d asked you!”
Ayesha’s voice trailed off into the air. She ran even faster. Like the wind, she soared. Adrenaline spurting. Bags bouncing. Her bare feet on the main road now. Stones. Gravel. Stabbing. Aargh! What did she have in her handbag? Flight socks.
That would do it.
A taxi driver stopped when he saw her outstretched hand.
“Has someone stolen your shoes, ma’am?”
She was bent double now. Shaking her head. Gasping.
“Sitara Road,” she said.
The driver lifted her case into the boot.
27
The festival of Raksha-Bandhan was an annual event at the Sitara Road house, but Leela Bastikar hadn’t tied the threads of sisterly love on her brothers since childhood; the ceremony always clashed with the start of school. This year, she’d been determined to host the function. After all the drama, it provided a perfect opportunity to escape to her holiday home.
When the doorbell rang, Mrs Bastikar jumped up. The Dases were in Mumbai, so she was expecting a visit. Instead, she saw Monisha on the monitor, holding a familiar Samsonite suitcase. As the door creaked open, she noticed her dishevelled hair and flight socks.
“What happened, beti?”
Monisha stared blankly and plonked her suitcase onto the swirly marble floor. Apart from a fresh coat of paint, the sitting room and dining room were unchanged. Everything seemed so comfortable, so familiar: The kettle boiling in the background. Cricket on TV. The aroma of cardamom tea. Her father and two uncles at the mahogany dining table, heads buried in the Hindustan Times. Week-old Rakshi threads on their wrists.
How could she tell them?
All along the whitewashed hallway were pictures from her wedding. In a trance-like state she walked past them, stopping for a moment in front of a giant one, encased in an exquisite frame, of her and Shailesh walking around the holy fire.
Seven times for seven lives.
Her mother must have spent ages in the shop. Sorting through the stills, selecting the frame. Then hanging it there especially.
Suddenly a choking feeling. Tight on her rib cage, her throat. Her mother knew about the lies. To her, the marriage was bigger.
That’s why she’d had it framed in gold.
Mrs Bastikar paced up and down beside the Samsonite suitcase, frowning. Her brothers lifted their heads from the newspaper. Professor Bastikar raised his eyebrows, but it was Uncle Shyam who spoke.
“Where’s Shailesh? Didn’t he fetch you from the airport?”
Monisha looked at him. He was digging, digging. He knew something was up.
She should try and keep them happy.
Monisha told them that Shailesh had picked her up from the airport, that they’d stopped at Madhav’s and that she’d just come from the Kulkarni’s flat.
Mrs Bastikar breathed a huge sigh of relief.
Professor Bastikar chuckled. “Ah! So you just wanted to come and see us.”
Monisha pulled out a heavy mahogany chair and sat down next to him. The helper placed a cup of cardamom tea and a plate of coconut biscuits in front of her. She selected a large biscuit and dunked it in. But the sweetness wouldn’t take away the bitterness.
All of a sudden, the waves came crashing back.
H
ate. Sorrow. Hate. Sorrow.
And the catalogue of lies, in time and date order. Beginning with the made up exam scores and ending with his trip to the jungle.
Monisha buried her face in her hands.
Was this how it was going to be? Lies, lies, lies?
After a few hasty sips, she got up and walked to the staircase. Everyone was staring now. She sprinted up the steps. In flight socks, her feet made no noise.
Mrs Bastikar tossed the half-eaten coconut biscuit out the window. Two crows arrived and broke the silence.
“Is everything okay?” asked Uncle Rohit.
Leela Bastikar shrugged her shoulders.
“She’s probably just tired.”
Monisha reached her bedroom. On the walls there were family photographs. Mostly black and white. Her grandparents’ wedding. Her own mother and father’s wedding, and Aunt Romila’s. There were no wedding photos of Uncle Rohit or Uncle Shyam though; her mother didn’t like their wives.
Everyone was married, not necessarily happily.
Underneath the wedding photos was a lovely picture of herself and Riya, pouring a bucket of water over Swanker. He couldn’t have been more than three years old.
Family. Children! Too much to lose!
Shortly afterwards, Mrs Bastikar appeared. She drew the curtains, tiptoed up to the bed and sat down.
After a protracted silence, Monisha let the words trickle out. She told her mother about the latest lie: the family trip to the jungle, without her.
“But husbands will always do something that upsets you, Monisha…”
And where was the love that was supposed to have grown little by little? It hadn’t yet shown itself.
Leela Bastikar screwed up her face.
“Love? That’s what Americans chase after! Look in the magazines… everyone is in love, and it lasts for two minutes!”
She pointed a knobbly finger at the framed photographs lining the walls.
“But sacrifice… duty… family… these last for a lifetime.”
Monisha folded her arms and sighed. When Shailesh rang later, that evening, she forced herself to take his call.
28
The first time Mrs Kulkarni rang to check up on her daughter-in-law, her voice was filled with concern. Had she reached home safely? Had anybody said anything to upset her? Was she ill?
The next evening, when she rang again, her words carried a hint of annoyance. Was the party at Highgate Golf Club still going ahead? Ayesha had gone to great lengths to arrange it, even though she was almost due. Unfortunately, only a Tuesday was available. Chemjong’s client had loaned them the function room and the biryani from Dhiraj Cabin had already been paid for!
“So, sister, shall we carry on… or is Monisha still unwell?” she enquired.
Mrs Bastikar apologised profusely. She’d forgotten about the celebration party for Shailesh. Her daughter was suffering from, how could she put it? Mental exhaustion. A couple of days at home and a visit to the beauty salon would put things right.
“We’ll bring her to the party,” promised Mrs Bastikar. “With her suitcase, of course.”
Monisha grimaced. What were they celebrating exactly? Shailesh was a surgeon, his exam scores weren’t good enough to get him a surgical job. And he’d lied.
Mrs Bastikar ignored her daughter’s whining and asked the helper to bring down the box of new saris from the attic. The young man arrived with a ladder from the garden, trailed dirt across the marble floor and received a scolding.
When the box was finally down, Monisha flicked through the collection. Mrs Bastikar picked up a royal blue silk with a black floral border and handed it over to her daughter, along with a sapphire set to match.
Monisha held it up to the light. Spools of silvery thread sparkled, bringing a smile to her face. Perhaps, she thought, unhappy marriages were easier to tolerate in India. With the pollution and the traffic, people were too busy trying to breathe and get to places. Who had time to worry about what their spouses did? And every few days a party or a festival. Nothing like a plate of biryani and a new sari to take the pain away!
The next day, the Bastikars arrived at Highgate Golf Club. The function room was decadent. Orange-and-gold striped curtains lined its enormous bay windows. On the walls hung a gigantic, sideways-glancing Queen Victoria and portraits of past presidents. Children ran along the polished wood floor, between Chesterfield suites. It was a scene Monisha had dreamed of; without the lying husband, of course.
She scanned the room for the Kulkarnis. In the corner, near the bar, stood Shailesh. His greying hair had been trimmed and dyed jet black. His belly was hidden beneath a sculpted navy suit. As he sauntered over with a glass of lime water, grinning from ear to ear, her heart began racing, but in a jumpy and unpleasant way.
“It’s good to see you,” he said, as if nothing had happened.
Before she could reply, Shailesh turned towards the Bastikars and hugged them. He greeted Aunt Romila with a namaskar and shook Uncle Rohit’s hand firmly. As Mr and Mrs Das arrived, there were more hugs and handshakes. Uncle Rohit flashed a smile.
“Congratulations Shailesh! But family medicine? Whatever happened to surgery?”
Monisha looked down at the floor, Shailesh seemed undaunted.
“I’ll still do minor ops,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. A waiter came around with a tray of serviettes, toothpicks and cutlets. Shailesh grabbed a plate and passed it to Monisha.
Saurav Das jabbed at a cutlet and cast him a mischievous stare. “You’ll have an easy life now… Be the one home first… You’ll have to do the cooking.”
Shailesh’s forehead rippled into a frown.
“No. My mother’s coming over!”
That was the first Monisha had heard of it! Chillies and lime niggled away at her stomach. Oh dear God… when?
Shailesh raced off to find his mother; they returned, arm in arm. Leela Bastikar gleefully rubbed her hands. Now there would be someone to cook and clean for her daughter. Mrs Kulkarni placed her bony arm round Monisha’s shoulders.
It felt cold and hard.
“I must go to America! My son relies on me for everything. He won’t even buy a house without me.”
Monisha winced. She’d wanted to go house hunting with Shailesh. Now Mrs Kulkarni would be tagging along. Making decisions. Ugh!
After three loud claps, there came an announcement. Chemjong was asking the guests to make their way to the lunch table. Ayesha stood beside him, love handles and pregnant belly spilling out of her sari. Marital bliss etched on her face.
“Come on everybody, there’s Peking duck as well!”
Monisha groaned softly and let out a helpless sigh. Peking duck was the last thing on earth she needed right now.
She felt a woman’s gentle grip on her arm. Amidst the clattering of plates, someone had read her thoughts. Swati Das was calling her to their table.
After lunch, the guests dispersed into the frenzied Mumbai traffic. The Bastikars squeezed themselves into Aunt Romila’s jeep. Ayesha and Seema went with Chemjong to his family home. The cab that arrived to take the Kulkarnis back seemed ludicrously small. With the gifts stuffed in the boot and the Samsonite suitcase taking up the entire front seat, Monisha clung on in the back, sandwiched between Mrs Kulkarni and Shailesh.
Thankfully, the ride to Andheri was only twenty minutes long. When they arrived, Monisha watched with dread as the same dull routine unfolded. Mrs Kulkarni handing her son a glass of iced lime water. Shailesh drinking it. Undressing to his boxers. Passing his dirty clothes to his mother. Mrs Kulkarni placing them gently in the washing machine. Pulling out a fresh towel from the cupboard and a bar of sandalwood soap, still in its wrapper. Giving them to Shailesh.
“Do you need me to do any cooking?” asked Monisha, knowing full well she didn’t.
“I’ve made
us something light,” said the old woman.
Because we’ve eaten rich today. Blah. Blah. Blah.
She wandered over to their bedroom. On the edge of the bed lay a brand-new throw, vibrant green, on the space where Shailesh had sat the day before their wedding. Before he’d flung his turban on the floor and mentioned the d-word. Before she’d run out the door and he’d followed her on his motorbike, to Sitara Road, where the marquee was almost up. And in the front room, he’d sat, at her father’s knee, crippled by debt. Begging for money. Lying about his job, his scores. If only she’d known.
If only. If only…
Shailesh poked his head in. He was going to the other room to watch TV. Did she want to join him? She looked up at his lying face and the new jet-black hair. No, she told him, but thank you. She preferred to rest.
Monisha headed for the bathroom, washed her face and changed into a cotton nightdress. Within moments she drifted off to sleep.
She was only half awake when she heard Shailesh’s voice.
“COME! See this on TV!”
She took her time. It was probably one of those dreadful comedy shows. She brushed her teeth, made the bed.
“Quick! Something’s happening in America!”
She ran to the other room. She was puzzled by the scene on the TV. Flames. Orange. Grey. Two planes crashing into two buildings. The twin towers. Toppling down. Like in a movie.
But it wasn’t a movie.
That was New York. Buried in ash. They were New Yorkers. Running away. Soot covered. They were real fire fighters. Real flames.
Terrorists did it. Two of them. They boarded at Logan International.
Her airport.
She watched. Numb. News poured in.
Breaking news: two sentence horror-filled lines.
Other attacks. Planes again. The Pentagon. Pennsylvania.
The president was there now, standing in the rubble. Talking into a megaphone. Next to a star-spangled banner.
Her president.
Then she saw a man jumping out of the North Tower.
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