Lethal Secrets

by Anju Gattani

  “You think you could sustain the life I lead?”

  “That’s not for you to decide.”

  “If I didn’t care, perhaps. But I do. Arvind could never have given you a fraction of what you’re used to. Just look at me.” She held out her wrists, scarred by burn marks. “My gold medal for slaving over a hot stove every night cooking chapati after chapati for the last ten years, where we lose electricity most times and running water is still rationed. Thank god, we’re finally moving to a better place. After ten shitty years.”

  Sheetal swallowed a lump in her throat and slipped the envelope into her handbag. “It could have been different for us.”

  “Different? How?” Kavita’s tone iced. “Maybe Arvind could have earned fifty-thousand rupees more than Gaurav after his PhD, but that buys peanuts in today’s world. And why the regrets when you’re at peace and life is rolling perfectly for you?”

  “Who says I’m at peace?”

  “Whenever we talk, you assure me you’re happy and thrilled that things are running the way they should.”

  She’d said that because Kavita had always acted on her best interest, had always wanted the best for her, like sisters did, and the last thing she wanted was to burden Kavita with the guilt of a supposedly privileged life she’d never have. “So, why return the letter now, after all these years?”

  “I found it when cleaning out my desk and figured I owed you the truth.”

  The truth of what? Heartache? Pain? Betrayal? Regret welled up her chest and she ached. Is this what real friends did for one another? Stab them in the back when you trusted them most?

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Sheetal slid the zipper of the handbag. “Chapter closed.”

  On the drive to the Prasad’s, Sheetal sat beside Mama in the back seat of the car.

  “So, tell me, how is Rakeshji?” Mama really meant to ask how things were between her and Rakesh.

  Sheetal fidgeted with the princess-cut diamond ring. During the last chemotherapy session, Sheetal had confided how she felt that something wasn’t quite right between her and Rakesh, that a distance had crept between them. Mama had been quick to shoulder the blame and suggest Sheetal dedicate more time to her husband and family and let Anjali take over her treatment. However, Sheetal didn’t trust anyone else with Mama’s care, least of all, Vikram and Anjali. There were times when Papa accompanied Mama for treatment, but Sheetal still made it a point to attend.

  “Focus more on your family and husband. Take some time together for a holiday, away from me and all the pressures here.”

  Passing headlights glared in the evening gloom.

  “You’re not a pressure, Mama. Besides, I tried.” Sheetal leaned against the leather seat’s backrest. “I planned for us to spend a week in Mansali before Yash’s Diwali break, but Rakesh has work.”

  “He’s a hardworking man, and he suffered a rough childhood. Losing his mother when he was only thirteen and Meghaji was a newborn. Imagine how they would have grown up without a mother if it wasn’t for Pushpaji.”

  Sheetal raised her eyebrows. They would have been better off!

  The vehicle braked before a traffic light.

  From what Rakesh had told her, soon after Rashmi’s death, Mummyji, Ashok, and a few witnesses held a quick wedding at a nearby temple, then Mummyji had stormed into their home with three-year-old Naina and taken over as mother to Megha and Rakesh.

  “Growing up in boarding school,” Mama continued, “is so difficult for a little boy.” She stopped and pursed her lips as if she’d realized she’d said something she shouldn’t have.

  The Prasads had never agreed with Sheetal’s decision to send Yash to boarding school. Despite Mummyji’s dictator-like temperament, they rationalized that Mummyji would mellow with age, and Naina would eventually get better. But after ten years of marriage, Sheetal had no such illusion.

  “Financial pressures, problems at the office and at home can easily affect the relationship between a husband and wife.”

  No point in sharing details about how the debt burdened their marriage. If Mama were to accidentally share that information with anyone, gossip would mar the Dhanraj reputation.

  “You just get better, Mama. We’ll fight this together.” Some medical breakthrough would occur and a clear course of treatment would follow that would cure Mama for good.

  “You’re not listening, Sheetal. I have perhaps a few months left. But you have your whole life ahead, and Yash’s future.”

  With just a few patches of hair left on her head and a mere ounce of energy in her body, Mama still expressed concerned for Sheetal’s welfare and future. Sheetal’s concern, however, lay in Mama’s happiness and the time she had left.

  “You don’t feel respected by your family. Is that it?”

  Over the years, Sheetal had given Mama the impression she was running the Dhanraj household so Mama wouldn’t think Sheetal was living under Mummyji’s authority the way Mama had under Dadi’s. “It’s not that.”

  “Just having money means nothing without respect. Money is what everyone naturally yearns for. But true wealth comes from giving and sharing what you have. Let go of other people’s negative traits and narrow-mindedness and move forward.”

  Sheetal rolled down the window for some fresh air, ran the fingers of both hands through her hair, and pressed the palms against her closed eyelids. Her head pounded.

  “Perhaps all this talk is too much for you to handle right now but you will understand in your own time.”

  How could Sheetal forget that her and Rakesh’s bedroom alone equated to double the size of the dingy flat that Mama and Papa rented in Nariyal Ka Rasta, the poorer northern side of Raigun?

  “With God’s blessing, we have more now, so much more. And because we have more, we have more to lose. Always.”

  Garden floodlights lit the stone wall that separated Rosewood Street and Raigun city from the Prasad’s home. As the Prasad’s blue Maruti Zen entered the main gates and rolled through the quiet darkness toward the double-story mansion, the calming fragrance of jasmine rushed in the open window. Two double-story, rectangular wings branched left and right off a central domed tower in a vee that reached toward Rosewood Street like a pair of open arms. A light on the tower’s second floor, in Sheetal’s bedroom, directed her, like a lighthouse, to safety and she relaxed in the comfort of being home.

  Half an hour later, Sheetal opened a glass balcony door in her bedroom and stepped out. Garden lights glittered like jewels across the back lawn and the balcony’s stone mosaic floor cooled her feet. A breeze billowed the curtains behind her.

  Arvind had climbed to this balcony on the day of her wedding and begged her to elope. She wrapped her fingers around her right wrist, exactly where he had tightened his grip and proposed to her on one knee. If Arvind had read the letter, he would have stayed in Raigun, not left abruptly, and they could have married. She leaned against the wall and sighed. She should be fasting for Arvind on Karva Chauth and praying to the moon for his long life and their happy marriage instead of Rakesh.

  The fatigue of living with past regrets tightened a lump in her chest. She headed for her handbag lying on the queen-size comforter and removed Arvind’s letter. She was about to rip the sheets to shreds but stopped. The letter was all she had left of Arvind. Was it so wrong to keep one last memory?

  She crossed to her cupboard, reached to the back of a drawer, and tucked the envelope between her clothes. Then she turned the key in the lock and shut the cupboard.

  After dinner, Papa entered the living room dressed in a night suit of vertical blue and brown stripes, took his place on a corner sofa seat, and straightened his posture. He ran his fingers along the finely trimmed edge of his graying moustache, quietly coughed, and then aligned an arm along the armrest. Children’s laughter drifted in from the next room.

  Sheetal’s heart ached with yearning. Oh, how she missed Yash. Two more weeks and he’d be
home.

  Papa removed his eyeglasses and placed them on the corner table sunken behind the arm rests of two sofas positioned at right angles to one another. “Just think, if Yash were here, you’d be with him right now.”

  At fifty-six, with numerous accomplishments and a successful business to his credit, Papa’s posture and harsh tone reflected an affirmation that he was always right about every decision, from having forced Sheetal to marry Rakesh and inviting the Choudharys to live with them, to sharing confidential business matters with Vikram. Not only had Papa grown overbearing, highly opinionated, and stubborn with age, whenever Sheetal sat down to talk with him, their discussions inevitably ended in arguments.

  No disagreements today. With Mama facing two more months of chemo, Sheetal would focus tonight’s discussion on the doctor’s treatment recommendations.

  “So, how are you?” Papa asked.

  “Fine.” She leaned toward the coffee table, picked up the remote, and switched on the TV to fill bouts of anticipated silence in their conversation.

  “Meghaji?”

  “She’s at the mansion and will be celebrating Karva Chauth with us tomorrow.”

  “Nainaji?”

  Sheetal imagined Papa mentally ticking off a premeditated list with an invisible pen. “Naina’s fine,” she lied. Thank God no one discussed Naina’s health issues anymore.

  Naina’s divorce had headlined The Raigun Herald, depicting the extent a family lied to secure a girl’s future. Yet Mama claimed that what the Dhanrajs did was their business and refused to discuss the topic.

  “Rakeshji?”

  “At work, as usual.” Sheetal glanced at her watch. Nine-thirty. She should call Rakesh to check how his doctor’s appointment went.

  “Your work?” He referred to her paintings.

  “I have a series of Himalayan mountains and waterfalls due for—”

  “And how much will they pay you this time?”

  “Whatever they are worth,” she hedged, seeking to avoid another comparison to the Dhanraj’s net worth and how, instead of producing artwork to grace the wall of some club, she should better use her time in raising Yash who, like Rakesh, was destined to earn millions in the future. Sheetal didn’t blame Papa for his money mindedness. He had worked hard to break free of the lower-middle class. Perseverance and determination coupled with good luck and good business timing had elevated him to society’s elite class, but why did he have to be so hard on her?

  “Yash?”

  “I’m picking him up next week for the Diwali holidays.”

  “What is it with you younger women nowadays? Sending your children away and abandoning family for careers? What will you do with a career when your son needs you more? Working is an obligation for the lower and middle class who can’t make ends meet.”

  Like Kavita and Gaurav who struggled and somehow managed to make ends meet, unlike Vikram and Anjali who took shelter under Papa? Sheetal sank against the backrest. Papa was so glued to his conventional ideas of a woman’s place in society that any explanation of happiness that couldn’t be measured by currency or corporate success was useless.

  “People who struggle”—they were struggling—“who work to put food on the table....”

  Food perpetually graced the Marquette Dining table, but Rakesh rarely joined them.

  “You have everything!” Papa threw his hands into the air. “Why work when you have a comfortable, happy home?”

  Comfortable? Happy? Home? Sheetal lowered her hand and let the remote rest on her lap. Would the “off” button work on Papa and others who believed such nonsense?

  “Why not keep Yash with you?”

  “It’s the trend with so many families nowadays,” Sheetal lied. The ways of the wealthy worked in her favor with Mama and Papa. “Everyone wants the best for their children. Yash will take over the business someday so he should get the best education.”

  “Fine! Fine! Doesn’t just mean you pack up and ship off your child like one of your paintings. New generation. New ideals. What economics is this, of running life in some new balance?” He crossed one leg over the other. “You will achieve nothing by keeping your child away from you except breaking up what you have.”

  Sheetal tightened. “I wanted to talk to you about Mama’s treatment. There are two more months of chemo and—”

  Just then, Vikram sauntered in carrying several sheets of paper. “Uncle— Oh.” He looked at Sheetal. “I didn’t know you were here. I presume you’ve come to spend the weekend with us?”

  “I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

  “Good that you’re here.” Vikram handed the papers to Papa, took an adjacent seat, and propped his left elbow on the corner table. “Please sign these, Uncle.”

  Papa patted Vikram on the arm. “You work too hard.” He held up the papers. “Now then, what do we have here?”

  “Papers from Brown and Polson.”

  “I...I thought I signed those yesterday. All of them. Didn’t I? I’m sure—”

  “No, Uncle, you didn’t.” Vikram laced his fingers together, leaned forward, and rested both elbows on his knees.

  “I remember you brought them over to my office yesterday afternoon,” Papa said. “I know, I—”

  “You’re confusing this document with something else again.” Vikram leaned back against the cushions. “You did see the doctor, didn’t you?”

  “But I remember—”

  “Did you remember to take an appointment, Uncle? You promised me last week you would.”

  “Too busy. Too much work.” Papa waved a hand and placed the papers on the table.

  Vikram pulled a pen from the front pocket of his shirt and handed it to Papa. He leaned forward and waited. “Well, if you can’t, then I’ll have to take the appointment for you.”

  “What appointment?” Sheetal intervened. “What’s wrong with Papa?”

  “Nothing.” Vikram’s attention fixed on Papa’s pen, still poised in the air.

  “He thinks I’m losing my mind,” Papa said. “So what if I forget a few things here and there? I’m not in my twenties or thirties anymore. Little slips are allowed with age.”

  Didn’t Mama mention the same thing this afternoon?

  “Not losing your mind, Uncle, it’s your memory you’re losing.”

  “Mind. Memory. All the same thing.” Papa waved a hand. “Finally, it’s all in your head. Now,” he searched left, then right. “My glasses. Where did I put them?”

  “What glasses?” Vikram frowned.

  Papa reached to the corner table and tapped the surface. “I put them here just now when I sat down to...to....”

  Vikram leaned left. “There’s nothing.”

  Sheetal pointed to the corner table. “I saw Papa put them there.”

  Vikram brushed a hand across the surface and turned to look at her. “Nothing here. See for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

  Sheetal stood and tightened the fingers of her right hand into a fist. How dare Vikram speak to her in such a harsh tone? “I’m not saying I don’t believe you. But I saw Papa put his glasses there.”

  “Never mind, Uncle. We’ll do it next time.” Vikram stood and grabbed the documents, but Papa gestured for him to sit down.

  “It’s fine. Just tell me where to sign.”

  Vikram pointed to a line running beneath layers of fine print. “There.”

  Papa signed.

  “And there”—Vikram pointed to another line—“and—”

  “Shouldn’t you read the document first?” Sheetal interrupted.

  Vikram glared at her.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Papa said. “I trust him.”

  All his life, Papa read and checked everything he signed, not once but twice. How could he have blind trust in Vikram?

  Sheetal lunged forward and was about to grab the sheets when Vikram snatched the lot from Papa.

  “Sheetal!” Papa grabbed her wrist and forced her to sit down as Vikram headed for the door. “I d
on’t know what you’re all upset about. They’re just a bunch of office papers that are not your business.”

  “Then why did he grab them so quickly? What is Vikram trying to hide?”

  Papa glanced from Sheetal to Vikram and back. “You didn’t need to—”

  “Checking, Papa.” Sheetal raised her voice to make sure Vikram heard as he left, “Just checking.”

  “Oh, come now. I can still....”

  Sheetal turned and her heart skipped a beat. Papa’s eyeglasses lay on the corner table, but Papa didn’t appear to notice. Were the eyeglasses accidentally hidden from view or purposefully hidden?

  Chapter Seven

  God and Debt

  On the forty-fifth floor of Dhanraj & Son Towers, Rakesh swiveled in his chair as sweat beaded the side of his face. On the teak table before him lay a legal-size envelope beside a glass of scotch and a half-full bottle of Blue Label.

  After the bank refused to lower its interest rate, Rakesh had wined and dined seven CEO’s in Raigun’s finest restaurants, unfolded his request for an unsecure loan over dinner, and ensured the meals ended with dessert, sweet-talk, and a promise to pay back the full amount in ten years.

  Back-ups were mandatory in case negotiations with the Japanese didn’t go as planned. What if Prime Capital, his last hope, said no?

  He grabbed a letter opener, slit the envelope, and removed the single sheet. His heart raced as he unfolded the letter.

  He skimmed the salutation and narrowed his attention on the second paragraph.

  “We regret to inform you that your request for a loan in the amount of three-hundred and fifty million has been declined.”

  Fuck! Rakesh swigged the scotch.

  This was all Pushpa’s fault. If Papa hadn’t given in to Naina’s whims and fancies and allowed Pushpa to spoil her, he wouldn’t be in this mess. A mess because of a fucking wedding he had to throw Naina because Mumma died.

  He remembered returning home after playing a game of cricket with friends and heading up to his room when the doorbell rang. A servant opened the double doors, and the odor of rotting potatoes and raw onions flooded the entrance hall. A fat, dark-skinned woman with a pock-marked face barged in with a suitcase and a three-year-old girl who clutched her sari pallu.