by Anju Gattani
“Dr. Kishore called while you were away.” She hesitated. One more step within Rakesh’s radius would be equivalent to invading his privacy. “He wants to see you. He asked to schedule an appointment.”
“Look, I just got back from a six-hour flight. I’m fizzed.” He let the suitcase lid flop down, apparently oblivious to a white shirt dangling on the edge of the bed. “Let’s talk later.”
Rakesh had suffered bouts of fatigue for several months. Before he left for Hong Kong, she suggested that he visit the family doctor. Rakesh said he didn’t have time to schedule an appointment.
She narrowed the distance between them, pressed Rakesh’s shoulder, and firmed her grip. “I scheduled an appointment for Wednesday, next week, at five-thirty.”
He flicked the white shirt onto the floor. The fabric crumpled.
“You may not need to go through testing. You may just need a checkup.”
He said nothing.
Was he afraid? No. Rakesh didn’t fear anything. He just didn’t like being told what to do. “Who knows? I could be concerned over nothing.” She faked a laugh to ease the tension and shifted closer. “This could be one big mistake.”
He brushed her hand off his shoulder.
“Be reasonable, Rakesh.”
“I am.” He turned and narrowed his gaze. “He’ll say the usual. Stop drinking. Stop smoking. Kick the habit. I’m not going to. So, there’s no point. Ditto?” “Ditto” meant a forced agreement.
The weight of his stare pressed down on her. “What about us?”
“Us?” He unbuttoned his shirt.
“Yash is only eight.” Sheetal placed a hand on her hip and leaned against the edge of the bed for support.
“He’s away at boarding school.”
“For a reason. We put him there to—”
“Not ‘we.’ You.”
Sheetal had never wanted their only child to live away from them, but she couldn’t keep him here, either. With a tyrannical stepmother-in-law, Pushpa, whom she referred to as Mummyji, and a thirty-year-old, clinically depressed, divorced sister-in-law, Naina, all living under the same roof, Sheetal didn’t want Yash growing up in a dysfunctional family the way Rakesh had. So, when Yash turned five, Sheetal convinced Rakesh the best alternative was to enroll Yash at a boys’ boarding school in the northern foothills of the Himalayas. “I enrolled Yash at Stonewall for his own good.”
“He needs you. Me. A family for his own good.”
She stepped away from the bed. Their mansion, with sixty feet tall ceilings, separate living quarters for the help, an infinity pool that overlooked a lake, and a grand view of a mountain range, offered luxury but not safety. “He needs stability, and that’s something we can’t give him here. You know that.” Sheetal slid her hand down her thigh and the bangles on her wrist clinked. “What if your aches and fatigue are serious?”
“Aren’t you overreacting? It’s not like I’m dying. Why do you always get Yash involved? Have some wine. Champagne. Something to lighten up. Everyone drinks nowadays. Except you, of course.”
She didn’t drink alcohol because good Indian women from good Indian families didn’t. Rakesh had forced Sheetal to indulge in his whims during the initial years of marriage, but when Sheetal declared it went against her values, he surrendered. “You know I don’t agree with—”
“Anything I want.” He narrowed his eyes.
Their arranged marriage had forced them together under one roof and into one bed, but Yash, the only proof of intimacy between them, was about all they shared. Sheetal fidgeted with her ten-carat diamond engagement ring.
The debt had to be eating at him. “What if we sell my ring? I’m sure it would fetch a decent amount, and the bank—”
“Are you out of your mind?”
Sheetal cringed. So what if love didn’t exist between them? The ring must mean something to him. How could she be so stupid?
“I don’t need your ring to bail me out. I can handle this on my own.”
“I meant that we—”
“This isn’t a family event, God dammit, where everyone has a say. No one else needs to know. My problem. I’ll fix it.”
Everything was still “I,” not “we.” Eight years ago, he had promised to work at their marriage. However, the decline in business and the mounting tension of the debt had increased the friction between them. “I have so much dowry jewelry that I hardly wear, and it’s all just sitting in the bank locker. I can take it to Diamond Pearl and find out its current worth.” She followed him to the fading peach-colored sofa arrangement, its back to a mirror wall. “You are not alone. We’re in this together. You are in our lives as we are a part of yours.”
“Yes, apart.” He turned away from her. “I don’t have time to waste with all this drama-baazi.”
Thirteen years ago, shortly after Rakesh turned twenty-seven, his father, Ashok Dhanraj, died of a heart attack and in less than twenty-four hours, Rakesh took over Dhanraj and Son. Rakesh, meaning “Lord of the Night” in Hindi, proved he was just as bold and powerful in every waking hour and didn’t need anyone in his life. Others needed and wanted to be with him.
“My problem, I’ll deal with it.”
He flicked the white shirt off his shoulders, revealing titanium contours and sparsely scattered black hair. The graying roots were the only sign of Rakesh maturing into his forties.
Her attention wandered to this month’s October issue of Vogue magazine lying faceup on a sofa cushion as Rakesh paced the room. The cover article, “Jump-Start His Engine,” glared at her from the upper right corner in bold red letters.
Could she really seduce Rakesh in the open when couples in her generation didn’t even hold hands in public? Marriage was a means to procreate, to carry on the man’s family name, and to establish the woman’s duty to her husband and his family.
Don’t wait. Grab him in the nude and tell him you have to have him. Now. The advice circled her head. Sheetal gulped and headed toward him.
Rakesh raised a hand to his forehead, stretched the palm across his eyes, and massaged his temples as he so often did when he had a headache.
Before she reached him, Rakesh headed for the bathroom door. She followed the lure of his minty fragrance but stopped short at the huge pile of filthy laundry. She bent to gather the clothes; trapped the cuffs and collars of Rakesh’s shirts and the hems and waistbands of his trousers between her chest and arms. Stained socks and handkerchiefs she struggled to capture in her grip. She tripped and almost lost balance, but quickly regained her composure. Another scent came from somewhere. A lemony disinfectant type that Rakesh didn’t wear. She turned and regarded the bedroom behind. Her attention paused on the chipped wood and paint of the closet door to her left. No...not from there. She lowered her head to the clothes pressed against her chest and sniffed. She’d found the source. She loosened her grip and followed Rakesh, determined to ask if he’d picked up a new fragrance in Hong Kong.
She peered right and down at the bathroom floor. She walked in measured steps, ever so carefully, between the clearly defined outlines of each tile, ensuring each step fell within the limits of Rakesh’s boundaries. Then she dropped the clothes into a hamper, parted her lips to speak, but let the question go. Rakesh hated being questioned.
He stood next to the glass shower box, his back turned to her. He loosened the black trousers hugging his waist and let go of the waistband. The fabric slid down his legs and pooled into two conjoined heaps around his feet.
A decade ago, Sheetal, like many Indian women, would have blushed and turned away in embarrassment at the sight of her husband’s nudity. Now, she stood mesmerized and watched.
Light green veins branched wild and unrestricted up Rakesh’s pale calves and thighs to a pair of kidney-shaped mounds tucked tight behind a pair of black G-string Jockeys. He slipped both thumbs between the strips of fabric clinging to his hips and rolled the underwear off, causing the fabric to tumble down to his feet.
A sigh escaped
her lips. May, June, July, August, September, October...six months since they last made love.
Rakesh pulled open the glass shower box, stepped into the five-by-seven-foot enclosure and turned the knob to the right. Streams of water pounded his chest, waist, and hips, and snaked down the fine contours of his buttocks.
A rise-sink feeling clenched her stomach. Oh, how she ached to press her body to his.
Rakesh flexed his arms and stretched. Muscles across his shoulder blades rippled and tightened.
Her breathing quickened and she bit her lip, unsure where to look and what to do with herself. She tapped her thighs as Rakesh turned the knob further to the right, stepped aside, grabbed a blue bottle from a niche, and shampooed his hair.
Her attention darted to the hamper’s tilted lid. She turned toward the hamper while watching Rakesh from the corner of her eye.
He pumped soap from a dispenser, lathered himself, and resumed his position under the spray. Suds melted down his frame, pooled near his feet, and clouds of vapor rose with her yearning to press her body to his. She aligned the rattan on the hamper’s rim and sealed the lid tight.
Rakesh abruptly turned off the water, stepped aside, and water sloshed. Wetness condensed between her thighs as the mist between them evaporated. Did women abroad find him attractive? Was he drawn to them in the same way? Her throat ached.
Be forthright, demanding, the article had said. He wants to know you want him.
The tap-tap of the leaking showerhead pattered to the rhythm of her heart.
Rakesh pushed open the shower door, grabbed a towel from a wall rod, and wrapped the fabric around his slim waist as the fragrance of mint soap and whiffs of herbal shampoo rose with the lacy curtain of steam. He ran his fingers through strands of peppered-gray hair, and she inched toward his towering frame, a swelling, pulsating sensation throbbing within.
“You’re hurting me, Sheetal. Let go.” He grabbed her wrist and flicked open her fingers, which curved round the pendulum of his organ.
“Please.” She pressed her mouth against his nape and nuzzled, oblivious to what she’d just done.
He pushed away her hand, let go, and bangles collided and clumped along her wrist. “I’m tired.” Rakesh marched up the three marble steps, swung open the bathroom door, and left her standing alone.
Chapter Four
Lost & Found
The next morning, Sheetal opened the studio windows that overlooked the front lawn, then crossed to her worktable in the center of the room, mounted a four-by-five-foot canvas on the easel, and began priming the canvas. This was one of the ten paintings due on December fifteenth, the second in a series of Himalayan scenes destined for the Renaissance Hotel’s renovated west wing. The two-month deadline provided ample time to paint, dry, pack, and deliver the lot.
She finished readying the canvas, then squeezed phthalo blue, sap green, titanium white, and burnt umber paints onto a palette, grabbed a two-inch-wide brush, swept the bristles through blue, then repeatedly smacked the paint-filled bristles against the palette to even the distribution of paint. Finally satisfied, she used crisscrossed strokes on the upper half of the canvas, leaving white patches untouched. Before she could begin work on the clouds, however, the home phone rang.
When the ringing continued, she tossed the brush on her worktable, marched to the sectional sofa, and grabbed the receiver off the corner table. “Hello?”
“Hanh! Helloji! Bhattacharya calling from Delhi.”
“Hello, Bhattacharyaji.”
“Please wait, Madame, another incoming call.”
Static crackled through the silence.
A couple weeks ago, the series of orchids she’d delivered to Mr. Bhattacharya, the Sheraton Hotel’s PR manager in New Delhi, reached him two days late because, on an impulse, Mummyji went on a week-long cruise and left thirty-one-year-old Naina in Sheetal’s care. Sheetal had called to follow up on the delivery of her paintings, worth three-hundred-and-fifty-thousand rupees, and Mr. Bhattacharya had assured her that corporate would not hold the delay against her. Sheetal assumed that he called now to confirm the remaining ninety percent balance due.
She studied her incomplete painting. She had a long way to go to reach the heights of international acclaim achieved by Indian artists Husain and Tagore. Such renown required years of commitment, dedication, and focus, but she was determined to achieve that dream. Few people could turn their passion into a career.
Although painting meant exposing her heart on canvas, it gave her a visual voice, and allowed her to dive into worlds of color, shades, and hues. With careful brushstrokes, she could raise mountains and forests, or create lakes that reflected the life around them. With the right combinations of lights and darks, she could preserve perishable objects in still lifes.
“Yes, hello,” Mr. Bhattacharya returned to the line. “Hanhji.”
“I trust all is good?”
“That’s...uh...why I’m calling. We...uh...the paintings, you know. They arrived two days late. So, I...uh...am having them delivered back to you.”
Sheetal tensed. “Surely, Bhattacharyaji, we spoke about this and—”
“I know uh...how disappointing all this is. But please be assured it was not...uh, my decision. Corporate didn’t get your paintings on time and purchased another artist’s collection. They only told me—”
“Didn’t you explain the situation? We talked last week, and you said—”
“Big people, Madame. Inauguration of new hotel wing. Corporate wanted everything in order.”
“You can’t just send them back. Surely you’ll pay—”
“No, no, Madame. We will not take back the ten percent deposit. It will be an insult if we ask money back from a Dhanraj. But we cannot pay you more.”
Seven huge orchid paintings, four by five feet tall. What was she going to do with them, barricade the windows of the studio? If she sold the series through a dealer, she’d be subjected to the standard fifty-fifty share on the revenue, and if she reached out to a gallery, she’d have to split the revenue sixty-forty. If she wanted to reach the heights of international acclaim achieved by Indian artists Husain and Tagore, she couldn’t risk rejected work. “Can you please talk to corporate again? My reputation is on the line.”
“Hanhji, Madame, I understand. But this is big people decision, not mine.”
“Well, can’t you convince them?”
“Not this time, Madame. Too late.”
He ended the phone call and Sheetal docked the phone in the charging station.
This was all Mummyji’s fault! A painting didn’t just happen on its own. Success required commitment, dedication, and focus, but how on earth could she focus when Mummyji and her biological daughter, Naina, demanded priority?
She selected a wide brush and scrubbed her disappointment into the blue-gray paint of her Himalayan sky. She gulped, determined not to let Mr. Bhattacharya’s rejection spoil the moment.
Sheetal’s cell phone chimed. She withdrew the phone from the velvet pouch attached to the waist of her sari and pressed it to her ear. “Hello?”
“Hey, Kavita here.”
Kavita’s singsong greeting eased Sheetal’s hurt. “How are you? It’s been so long since we caught up.”
“Oh, I know. I’ve been tied up. The whole flat is full of boxes. There’s barely any space for me and the girls to move around.”
The girls were Kavita and Gaurav’s three- and five-year-old daughters.
Kavita, Gaurav, Sheetal, and Arvind had been a foursome in college. Shortly after graduation, and against the wishes of both families, Kavita, a Punjabi from the northwestern region of India, had eloped with Gaurav, a Gujrati from the west. Ostracized by their families, Kavita and Gaurav’s meager incomes forced them to live in a rundown locale in northern Raigun.
“What’s going on?”
“We’re moving.”
Sheetal’s heart sank. Had their struggles to make ends meet forced them to move to a smaller city? “Outsid
e Raigun?”
“No way. Just to a better locale where we’ll have electricity, running water, and decent amenities compared to this dump.”
A weight lifted off her chest. She ran a thumb along the edge of the bottom canvas holder. “I’m sure you must be excited. Are you buying?”
“Are you kidding? Rent is all people like us can afford.”
Sheetal bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to offend her one true and loyal friend since high school. “I didn’t mean it that way. I was just—”
“Hey, no offense taken. I’m cool. But I wanted to meet up.”
Sheetal longed to see Kavita. They’d last met three years ago at a mall but didn’t have time to do more than exchange a quick hug before Kavita and her family rushed to make the opening of the evening show. What could be so important that Kavita was willing to endure an exhausting, sweaty ride on an overcrowded bus just to meet her? “Is it important?”
“I need to return something.”
Where could they meet? She couldn’t invite Kavita to the Prasad’s because Mama waved Kavita’s banner of dishonor as a warning to Sheetal to stay with Rakesh and avoid bad influences. For years, Sheetal had wanted to invite Kavita over for the Karva Chauth puja, but Mummyji would equate Kavita with the servant rank and insult her before their snobby, wealthy friends. “Can you tell me on the phone?”
“It’s personal.”
“Like you and Gaurav, personal?” Were they breaking up? What about their daughters? Her heart fisted at the thought of children who suffered because of their parents’ broken marriages.
“Why would I ask to meet if we could talk over the phone?”
Because Sheetal perpetually cut short their phone conversations? Guilt weighed on her. Kavita had enough to deal with without the burden of her worries. Friends helped each other, they didn’t burden each other.
“I’ll be meeting Mama at the Raigun Cancer Center this Thursday afternoon. I can meet you there at around four.”
“Sounds good. I’ll give you a buzz when I get there.”
Sheetal ended the call, returned the phone to her pouch, then squeezed some phthalo green and alizarin crimson on the palette. She grabbed an inch-wide palette knife, scooped some of each color, and blended the colors until she achieved a rich, dark brown.