by Anju Gattani
Naina snorted. “Values are changing here, too. Only, now the truths of so many marriages are coming out in the open—na? Half the marriages here, they’re lies. Ask me. I know, na. Because—”
“Every marriage goes stale,” Megha cut her short, “sometime after the honeymoon phase. But you don’t give up. You keep trying. Besides”—she shrugged—“love is the same in every culture. It speaks a language of—”
“Language?” Naina smirked. “I needed the truth. What did Mummy tell Ajay’s family about me? What did she hide? So many lies, na. If I had known, my life wouldn’t be a mess.”
Sheetal’s chest tightened. So many secrets in her own marriage.
“Anything built on lies,” Naina raised her voice, “crumbles and dies.”
Sheetal turned and left.
The chauffeur eased the Mercedes through the gates’ widening gap, turned onto Barrotta Hill Road, and headed toward Raigun city. Sunlight dappled between overhanging leaves and cast playful shadows along the length of Sheetal’s arm. She rolled down the window and watched the white mansion grow smaller until it sparkled atop the hill like the diamond crowning her ring. She flexed the fingers of her left hand and inhaled the scent of eucalyptus. As the car picked up speed, she closed her eyes and imagined the brush of her shoulder-length hair against her cheek to be Arvind’s caresses.
Arvind.
She tucked a whipping lock of loose hair behind her ear but the strand broke free and struck the corner of her mouth. Wasn’t it only yesterday that they’d planned to spend their lives together?
Powerless against Mama and Papa’s wishes that she marry Rakesh, she’d managed to meet Arvind one last time. He’d kissed her goodbye. She ran her tongue over her lower lip. Ten years later, the flavor of his mocha breath still aroused a tingling within.
The car braked at a four-way intersection, then merged into a flow of trucks, private cars, autorickshaws, black and yellow, beetle-shaped taxis, and pedestrians.
The odor of gasoline, sweat, and the day’s heat flooded the Mercedes. Sheetal rolled up the window, withdrew a packet of wet tissues from her purse, opened the sleeve, and the fragrance of vanilla permeated the air. She wiped her hand and arms, then settled back against the smooth leather seat.
Her phone chimed.
She fished it from her handbag, flipped it open, and pressed the speaker to her ear.
“Hey, it’s Kavita. How far away are you? I got here just now.”
“On my way. I’m meeting Mama in the lobby.” She glanced at her watch. She’d escort Mama to the chemo room, get her settled, then find a way to slip out and meet Kavita.
“I can meet you there, too, and say hi to Aunty.”
“You know what happens when Mama sees you. She’ll say things I’ll regret. How about I meet you in the parking lot at the back entrance? I’ll get Mama settled and then meet you at around four?” The vehicle picked up speed. “You really can’t tell me on the phone?”
“We’ll talk when we meet.” Kavita hung up.
The Mercedes turned off the main road and cruised along a roundabout near Raigun Public Gardens.
Better. Sheetal rolled down the window again and the scent of floral fragrances reminded her of days when Rakesh came home from work on time and took her and Yash out to the Raigun Cricket Club, the zoo, or brought them here. Yash, two at the time, occasionally napped while Rakesh pushed his pram and Sheetal strolled alongside, her fingers curled around Rakesh’s arm.
The Mercedes braked at a red light and a wave of human traffic rushed across the street. A vendor in her mid-thirties, dressed in a faded red and white salwar kameez, squatted beside two-by-three-feet canvases displayed on paint-splattered easels. "Hello, Sir. Madame. How much you pay?" She tapped the canvas and fanned her hands over several oil paintings positioned at the pavement's edge and angled for drivers to see: a vase of flowers, a bowl of fruit, a farm horse, villagers working in fields, and a scenic mountain range. No one paid her attention.
Sheetal imagined the paintings surrounded by the imported bronze, metal leaf, and twenty-three carat gold frames that held her works on display at the Raigun Sports Club. Her throat tightened. The woman’s work was excellent. Full of depth. Passion. Sheetal caught her lower lip between her teeth. Almost—she gulped—as good as mine.
Out of habit, Sheetal raised a hand to her earlobe and touched the diamond solitaire earring. A man on a scooter turned to look through the window and Sheetal lowered her hand to her lap, wishing she had kept still and not drawn attention. The woman made eye contact, turned one of the paintings toward her, nodded, and gestured for Sheetal to buy one, but Sheetal shuddered and turned away.
Five minutes later, she arrived at the Raigun Cancer Centre.
***
A nurse in a white uniform hung a bag of clear liquid on an IV pole, connected it to an IV tube that fed into Mama’s elbow, and tapped the drip chamber to adjust the speed of the liquid that fed the IV tube. She looked at her watch. “You are feeling fine, Ma’am?”
Mama’s nod appeared to exert a toll on her. She nestled deeper into the padded concave of the cushioned chair and covered her head with her pink sari pallu. The fabric outlined her face like a halo. Most women from previous generations covered their heads as a sign of respect to their elders. Despite the death of Mama’s mother-in-law last year and her elevated status as the oldest Prasad woman, Mama continued to cover her head, this time to hide the loss of her hair as a result of chemotherapy.
“Ten minutes and I will come to check again,” the nurse said. “If you need anything, push on the red button.” She pointed to a red “panic” button located on a wall an arm’s length away and left.
Mama closed her eyes and her chest heaved gently. Her forehead wrinkled and the corner of her lip quivered.
Sheetal rested a hand on her mother’s shoulder. “What happened?”
Mama opened her eyes. Tears welled but didn’t spill. “Feeling sick,” she rasped. “Very sick. Like I need to vomit.”
Sheetal settled into the chair beside Mama’s. Almost every chemotherapy session sickened Mama. Lately, she’d started feeling ill before the hour passed. “Stop covering your head, Mama.” Sheetal pulled the pallu off Mama’s head but stopped at the sight of more milky white patches of skin. Mama had lost more hair over the last two weeks.
“The more I hide, the better.” She panted. “You must be so tired, Beti, braving all that traffic for me.”
“Really, Mama. I just sit in the car and here I am.”
“You make it sound easy, but I know how hard it’s been since Maji died.” She referred to Asha, her late mother-in-law, who Sheetal referred to as Dadi. She fell silent. For thirty-four years of her marriage, Mama had lived under Dadi’s iron-fisted reign. Now, she appeared lost without the woman and confused by the simplest things, including herself.
It’s the cancer, Sheetal reasoned. The doctor had advised the family to keep an eye out for signs of anxiety and depression, common side effects that patients experienced over the course of treatment. The doctor suggested they keep Mama’s morale high, but from Mama’s haggard expression and raspy voice, the chance for success seemed highly unlikely.
“Your father is so confused all the time. He doesn’t remember anything nowadays. I think Maji’s death has affected his memory.”
Was Mama losing her mind, too? Papa had a penchant for precision and never missed the fine details of any transaction or event. “You need to get on with your life and not let the past get to you.”
“Promise me you’ll take care of your father after I’m gone.”
“Mama—”
“Promise me.”
Sheetal nodded. So many people survived cancer. Mama would, too. She just had to believe in life. “Why do you start with all these depressing—”
“It’s the truth. I’m not strong like you.”
Strong? Sheetal looked past Mama to a vase of flowers on a corner table. If only Mama knew. “You think too much of m
e.”
“I’m your mother. I know everything about you. Where do you think all my strength—”
The nurse entered and checked the liquid in the bag and the drip chamber. “Are you feeling all right, Ma’am?”
“Tired. Weak. I’ll feel better when all this is over.”
At that moment, Mama’s cell phone rang, and the nurse took her leave. Sheetal reached into a velvet green sari pouch on Mama’s lap, pulled out the phone, and looked at the caller ID. “Anjali.”
“Tell her I’ll call back later.”
Anjali, Vikram Choudhary’s wife, was the daughter-in-law of Hemlata Choudhary, Papa’s younger sister. Eight years ago, Vikram and Anjali relocated to Raigun because Vikram couldn’t secure a job in Vilaspur. A strong believer that “family must help family,” Papa had employed Vikram in his telecommunications company, Induslink Corporation, and arranged for the couple to live with them at Prasad Bhavan. Vikram and Anjali, who had two children, took over three bedrooms at the Prasad’s residence, and Vikram now helped support operations in India while Papa’s younger brother, Uncle Ashwin, ran U.S. operations in New Jersey.
The telephone’s ringing stopped. Sheetal slipped the phone back in the pouch.
“You still don’t like them.” Mama pinched closed the mouth of the phone pouch.
“Who?”
“Anjali and Vikram.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then why didn’t you take the call?”
“I don’t trust them.” Papa had been too quick to trust Vikram and share business matters with him. However, what really hurt was the way the Choudharys dominated the Prasads and treated Mama and Papa like caretakers for their children.
The creases at the corners of Mama’s eyes tightened. “You think I give in to them every time. There’s no choice, Beti. If I don’t, they’ll spread rumors.”
What rumors could Vikram and Anjali possibly spread? Mama and Papa never said anything to hurt them, and the Choudharys clearly didn’t have the means to afford the luxuries Mama and Papa provided them.
“Being comfortable”—Mama was too modest to use the word ‘wealthy’—“and coming from a good family is your good fortune. But not everyone is lucky to be blessed with such comforts. And to think, at one point, you were ready to throw it all away. I don’t know what you were thinking at the time.”
Sheetal winced. She’d loved Arvind. So what if it she was twenty-two at the time, a final year student at Raigun University’s Master’s program, and Arvind, twenty-four, had been studying for his PhD in Sciences? They had been going steady for eight months.
“I knew when we met Rakeshji at the party”—Mama added “ji” after her son-in-law’s name as a sign of respect—“he was the right choice for you. So well mannered, well spoken, refined....”
Arvind had been outgoing, caring, friendly, and warm-hearted. Sheetal remembered the rough warmth of Arvind’s fingers on hers the first time they’d touched and locked eyes.
Arvind had sprinted out of the library to return a textbook she’d left at the check-out counter. She thanked him, and when she took the book, their fingers touched. A warm tingle had surged through her hand. Sheetal didn’t want to leave. She offered to buy Arvind coffee from the barista on campus after the day’s final lectures to thank him, and their friendship budded into romance.
“I’m sure you now look back and see how irresponsible you were.” Mama sighed. “And how, in the end, you left us no choice.”
“If you’d listened—”
“To what? Living a poor life full of struggle and hardships?” She shook her head. “Anyway, you’re a grown, mature woman now and responsible....”
Sheetal crossed her arms. First honor, then duty, then prestige, and now responsibility. “Really, Mama.”
“All a part of life. So easy to hold on to what you have, but the difficulty is in letting go. When you give, you rise in the other’s eyes, and that’s when reputation builds.”
“Letting go of everything you work so hard for makes no sense.” She’d let go of Arvind, and what did she end up with? Rakesh.
“The more you let go, the more you grow. Trust and respect are two things you earn not with hands and mind, but by winning the hearts of others. Start by giving your heart without expecting anything in return.”
“You can’t just—”
“If I say anything to Vikram or Anjali, they will create a fuss, speak ill of us, and spread gossip.”
A throbbing pulsed at Sheetal’s temples. Unhealthy gossip and rumors spread with the speed of Raigun’s breeze. When fortunes and business empires grew to accommodate fifteen- and twenty-two-bedroom mansions, word of mouth ruined reputations.
Anger welled and Sheetal rose to leave.
“Where are you going?” Mama asked.
“Out for some fresh air. I’m not feeling too good.” She headed for the door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Something I say hurt you?”
When she’d wanted to marry Arvind, Mama and Papa had put family on the line and held her accountable for any calamity that might befall them. When Megha married outside their caste for love, Mama refused to discuss the affair, claimed the Dhanrajs could do as they pleased, and what they did was their business. Sheetal turned the doorknob and firmed her grip. She’d been the victim of double standards. What more could Mama say to deepen her pain? Mama had taught her the art of selective listening. “You take rest, Mama.” She swung open the door, stepped outside, closed it softly, and headed for the lift.
Chapter Six
Letters and Loss
The lift doors rattled open on the ground floor. Sheetal stepped out, passed through several corridors, and reached the hospital’s back entrance. A pair of glass doors, emblazoned with a red cross, glided open, and she entered the sunlight that beat down upon the parking lot. She’d entered a furnace. She shielded her eyes with a hand and searched past the hoods of neatly parked cars and minivans but saw no sign of Kavita. Did Kavita tire after waiting and leave? Possibly. Guilt roiled at her heart. She couldn’t blame her.
“Hey!” a woman called behind her. “You walked right past me.”
Sheetal turned, opened her arms, and hugged Kavita tightly. The odor of sweat, stale perfume, and diesel made her pull away. “It’s been so long. How are you holding up?”
“The girls and I have been packing box after box for a whole week now. Amazing how much rubbish you collect in ten years.”
Sheetal grinned. “How can anything be rubbish when you’re living with the people you love? All treasures, yes?”
“Love or no love, yaar, life comes with baggage. It doesn’t hit until you move, how much you’ve been holding onto. All week, I’ve been feeling like the biggest fool on Earth because I didn’t get rid of so much stuff sooner. Baby toys, infant clothes, and hand-me-downs. So, I cleaned out all the crap and packed whatever was left, which boiled down to half. Moving guys should be here in three days.”
Kavita’s hair sparkled in the harsh sunlight. Had her strands turned white or were they reflecting the sun’s rays? Kavita’s leathery skin was a shade of burnt latte and, when she smiled, wrinkles formed along her cheeks. At least one person still smiled.
Kavita pressed a hand against Sheetal’s back and urged her through the sliding doors. “It’s cooler inside. We can grab those.” She gestured to a row of padded black chairs that lined the left wall.
Sheetal wanted to invite Kavita for tomorrow’s Karva Chauth puja but knew better. When Mummyji refused to invite Megha over for the festival because the Saxenas ranked rungs below the Dhanrajs, Sheetal had issued the invitation and arranged for Megha’s sari and jewelry, as Rashmi would have done had she lived. By comparison, Kavita wouldn’t qualify to live on the same planet. Mummyji would throw a fit.
“So, what’s the latest with you?” Kavita asked.
“The same as always.” Sheetal took a seat. “Rakesh is forever tied up with business and travel. Yash is settle
d and happy in boarding school, and here I am with Mama for chemo.”
“What’s the doc saying?”
“He insists that chemo is her best option even though it wears her down.”
“Can I pop in and say hi to Aunty?”
Sheetal sank against the backrest. “Mama doesn’t know I’m meeting you and I’d.... I don’t want Mama saying anything I’ll regret. But tell me. What’s so important that you couldn’t discuss it over the phone?”
Kavita reached into her handbag, withdrew an envelope, and handed it to Sheetal. The edges were a sour shade of turmeric, as if marinated by time.
Sheetal flipped the envelope from back to front. “What is this?”
“A letter.”
Sheetal opened the flap, pulled out sheets of yellowed paper, and unfolded the pages. Her handwriting in faded blue ink danced across the sheets...the letter she’d asked Kavita to give to Arvind before her marriage to Rakesh. Which could only mean one thing. “Arvind’s here?”
“I told you, I have no idea where he is.”
“Then where’d this come from?” She folded the letter and tucked it back inside the envelope.
“I-I never gave it to Arvind.”
The air thickened. “What do you mean?”
“I read the letter when I got home and thought long and hard about what to do.”
Anger surged through her. “Why did you read the letter? It was for Arvind, not you.” If Arvind had received the letter in time, he would have stayed in Raigun as she’d asked him to. “You had to do nothing more than give him this letter.”
“Which is precisely why I read it, so you didn’t end up making the mistake I did. After the shithole life I’d been living, you really think I’d let you do this to yourself? Do you know what Gaurav and I have gone through? I didn’t want that for you. I figured it best if I—”
“Who gave you the right to decide what’s best for me?”