Lethal Secrets

by Anju Gattani

  Must be the bai, Rakesh assumed, a nanny to take care of his new baby sister, Megha.

  “She’s your new mother,” Papa told him shortly afterward.

  Rakesh’s mother, Rashmi, a gorgeous woman with fine features and a silky fair complexion, had given birth to Megha one month before. Rakesh had visited Mumma at the hospital and hugged her tight. Mumma wrapped him in her arms and rained kisses on his face. Then he never saw her again.

  She died from complications, Papa explained—problems the doctors couldn’t fix—but Rakesh refused to believe Papa. So many of his friends had younger siblings, but their Mummas hadn’t died. Why me? he asked the Hindu gods and goddesses in the temple at home, decorated in all their finery, but they watched in silence.

  The funeral rites and prayers for Mumma went on for thirteen days, but Rakesh didn’t pray. You took Mumma away from me, he accused the idols, his heart turning to stone. Why pray for her journey to heaven when she should be here with Megha and me?

  Desperate to find a little of Mumma’s love and caring in Pushpa, and for Megha’s sake, Rakesh tried to please Pushpa but quickly learned this buffalo of a woman could not be pleased. He watched Pushpa fuss over her daughter, Naina, while Megha’s care was left to the servants, and his heart boiled with anger. If Rakesh jumped out of his seat at the dinner table to attend to Megha’s crying in the upstairs nursery, Pushpa grabbed his arm, sat him down with a stern warning, and declared she’d have a bai attend to Megha later.

  Then Pushpa ordered the servants to remove every photo and trace of Mumma’s existence, and Rakesh couldn’t bear Pushpa’s presence in their home any longer. “I hate her,” he told Papa two weeks later.

  “You will love and respect your new mother,” Papa commanded. “Naina is your sister. My blood,” he added. “So, learn to love her, too, and adjust.”

  Your blood? How? Rakesh wanted to ask but the discussion ended. He was labeled a rebel and whisked off to boarding school with the admonition that he would truly learn the value of family in its absence. Instead, he ended up learning who he really was.

  Rakesh picked up the glass, swirled its contents, and ice clinked against the sides. He carried the drink to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city of Raigun, broadened his shoulders, and flattened one palm against the sheet of glass. Cool. Just the way he liked it. He narrowed his attention on the people who crawled like ants beside and between the looping traffic. So tiny. So helpless. Like he and Megha had been under Pushpa’s authority. Rakesh leaned forward and touched his forehead to the glass. He pointed the toe of his leather shoe above their minute heads, pushed down hard, and crushed them while gray smoke puffed from the chimneys of distant factories. He breathed the same air, lived on the same land, but towered above them all like God. He curled the fingers of his free hand into a fist. God! He almost laughed aloud.

  God dammit! Where were all the gods when Mumma lay dying? When Pushpa stormed into their lives and wreaked havoc? Weren’t the gods supposed to block obstacles in his and Megha’s lives? Why did Papa make him “work his way up in the company” but handed Pushpa all the controls? He pressed a palm against his forehead and tried to suppress the throbbing pain. Would injustice ever end?

  Tomorrow, married Hindu women worldwide would fast all day long to appease the gods, then at moonrise, drink seven sips of water from their husband’s hands to break the fast. And Sheetal? She would dress up like a bride and fast and pray. For what? Bile burned his throat and he almost gagged. Me! Even though this isn’t the real me.

  A good Indian man studied hard, married in accordance with the family’s wishes, had children, and provided for the family. Society condemned anyone who deviated from that norm. Trapped, Rakesh had married Sheetal and proved to investors, board members, and other CEOs that he could lead a normal, happy married life. Yet, months into his marriage, despite Sheetal’s stunning looks and curvaceous figure, he felt no excitement when he touched her, no rush of adrenaline in their love making, no feeling of coming alive after they were spent. Some damages couldn’t be repaired. But when Sheetal became pregnant, there was no turning back. He was stuck in the inertia of a stagnant marriage. No one asked what he wanted, they simply took from him in the name of love.

  Fuck love!

  He swigged from the glass. The cool liquid glided down his throat. A few muscles relaxed. He looked at the glass. Half-empty again. He had promised Sheetal to sober up and become a better father for Yash’s sake, but according to her standards. nothing he did was good enough. She demanded that he find a permanent solution for Naina so they could keep Yash at home.

  Rakesh tightened his grip on the glass. Boarding school was no place for a child. How much did Sheetal know about what really went on there?

  Saliva lodged in his throat. He swallowed. He knew because he’d been cursed.

  His pale complexion, narrow features, paper-thin skin, long lashes, skinny frame, and overly expressive hands worked against him. He hated everything about himself. At Harvard, he blended in with the white foreigners and no one cared, but in India, he was scrutinized and surveilled by the media. Their articles reminded him of the other boys at boarding school who picked on him for looking like a girl and made him a sexual target of bullies. Mostly, he remembered the loneliness.

  The attraction he felt toward bigger boys with ripped muscles, towering frames, and tanned skin were clear signs that he had grown into somebody different. Society condemned that difference even though the attractions felt right. So right. So, he hid his love from the world, because if Papa ever found out, Papa would have been furious, hated him more, disowned him, and taken away his inheritance.

  Rakesh returned to his chair and listened to footsteps in the corridor grow louder. He tucked the letter back into the envelope, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. He would do everything in his power to keep the Japanese happy and make sure they didn’t back out.

  He was trapped.

  Chapter Eight

  Karva Chauth

  Every year on Karva Chauth, thousands of married Hindu women across the world fasted all day and, before sunset, prayed to Goddess Parvati for the longevity of their husbands and their marriages. Sheetal didn’t just plan to fast and pray, she intended to beg for a miracle cure.

  Most Indian women assumed that by the age of thirty, they would be happily married with children and a bustling household. However, at thirty-one, divorced, and alone, Naina didn’t merit a position in society, which is why she spent Karva Chauth isolated in her room. Sheetal didn’t wish Naina ill, but she didn’t need the shadow of a divorcee’s failed marriage to fall on hers. Logic ordained that she take precautions. So, while heading upstairs to dress for the evening puja, she opened Naina’s bedroom door a crack, saw her asleep on the bed, and headed down the north wing toward her bedroom.

  With Naina out the way, she had to make sure Mummyji kept her distance from today’s celebration, because if the shadow of a widow fell on any married woman during such an auspicious occasion, bad luck followed.

  As the wealthiest among her group of friends, Mummyji maintained her dignity by hosting the married members of the Royal Society Ladies Group and their daughters-in-law for the annual evening prayers at the Dhanraj mansion. However, during prayer time, she maintained physical distance from the celebrations by waiting behind the dining room’s curtained, sliding patio doors. After the prayers, Mummyji rejoined the group to socialize and bid the women goodbye before they returned home to their husbands. Because Megha celebrated this year’s Karva Chauth at the Dhanraj’s, her husband, Raj, would be dropping in later that evening to celebrate Karva Chauth with the family.

  “Were you spying on me?” Naina called down the hall.

  Sheetal lengthened her stride, entered her bedroom, and closed the door. She paused a moment to make certain Naina didn’t follow, then pulled a heavy embroidered magenta and silver sari off a hanger, an extravagant sari she’d asked Mama to have custom made for her in accordance with tr
adition where the woman’s family paid for the clothes and jewels she wore on Karva Chauth. Though Sheetal carefully managed her expenses and bore guilt for the expense Mama and Papa had incurred for this year's attire, the conviction that tonight's puja would change life for the better presented a huge consolation.

  Sheetal covered the crescent of her lips with magenta, applied glittery pink blush-on, and slid rungs of matching pink-and-diamond bangles along her wrists. She pressed a mango-shaped bindi, half the size of her index nail, between her eyebrows and frowned at her reflection in the mirror. Too small. She peeled off the glittery sticker and replaced it with another, double the size, with elaborate diamond work outlining the edge. Better. And makeup? She sighed at her dull complexion, applied another coat of lipstick, and darkened the blush-on to give the impression her marriage held strong. She sprayed her bun and bangs.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “Bhabhi?” Megha called.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m ready. Do you want to go down?”

  Sheetal opened the door and took a step back. Megha was stunning. She’d dusted her whole-wheat complexion with a shade of natural taupe foundation, applied a neutral eye shadow, and dark red lipstick. Rubies, emeralds, and diamonds glittered along the Jaipur Kundan necklace Sheetal had purchased from Diamond Pearl. Red and green enamel pools embedded in the chunky gold necklace swirled into one another as precious stones dotted their banks. Chandelier earrings dangled above the gold temple border of Megha’s sari.

  Because of her pregnancy, Sheetal had tried several times to talk Megha out of fasting. Although Megha had insisted that the ritual validated her happy marriage to Raj, she’d conceded to Sheetal’s wishes with a light lunch of fruits and milk.

  Jealousy roiled Sheetal’s heart. She owned one extra Karva Chauth to her credit. How could Megha be happier? Maybe she could share in or rub off some of Megha’s marital bliss. “I need some more time. Why don’t you come in?” She swung the door wide with the hope Megha would enter and flood the sterility of her bedroom with some of her wedded bliss.

  “Thanks, but I’ll wait outside.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the women made their way down to the Japanese garden. Sheetal couldn’t believe the cobweb of miniature lights that adorned bonsai trees and threaded from one Japanese maple to another. Mummyji had managed to outnumber the leaves with light bulbs. In her apparent quest to outdo last year’s decorations, Mummyji had imported fluorescent, waterproof lights from Japan that now outlined the bottom of the koi pond. When Mali Kaka, the gardener, heard what Mummyji had ordered, he declared the fish would boil before moonrise.

  Last year. five servants had decorated the garden. How many had Mummyji involved this year? Eight? Ten? Would Mummyji ever forego these show-and-tell displays that unraveled Sheetal’s attempts to save money?

  Multi-colored dhurries had been arranged around an open square where colorful rangoli powders formed intricate henna-like designs. A decorated red, green, and gold chowki, centered in the square, provided an ornate seat for the Goddess Parvati.

  Mummyji rushed from the dining room and hurried toward them. “Hai Ishwar!” Her white sari billowed. “So much time you take, I tell you. How will I get any work done at this rate? No value for—”

  “No one’s even here yet,” Megha cut in.

  “Well, obviously not.” Mummyji frowned. “I just wanted all of us ready ahead of time since we’re hosting the event. Now stay here, I tell you.” She whirled and marched off.

  “We always host the event.” Sheetal leaned against a tree.

  “Nothing’s changed, huh?” Megha muttered. “She just gets worse every year.”

  Speaking ill of any family member, especially the in-laws, would work against her, so Sheetal kept quiet.

  “You’ve changed, Bhabhi.”

  So much about Megha had changed too.

  Megha tapped Sheetal’s shoulder. “Are you ignoring me?”

  Sheetal waved a hand toward a table that held gold-brushed and silver plates ladened with numerous religious objects, including mounds of rice, grains, and colorful powders. “Our puja thalis are ready.” A diya—an earthenware crucible—containing a cotton wick and filled with oil graced each thali, as did a small metal karva, an urn of water that held a fresh flower, one coin, one cardamom pod, and one clove. The karva’s mouths were sealed with a red cloth tied at the neck by a yellow-and-red thread. Each thali also held the folded sari each married woman would offer her mother-in-law at the conclusion of the prayers. Tiny gold bells spaced at five-millimeter intervals dangled from the edge of Sheetal’s thali, whereas Megha’s thali bore silver bells.

  Fifteen minutes later, twenty-two women dressed in glamorous pink, orange, and maroon saris entered the garden carrying their thalis. Their pallus swayed to their sashaying gait, and red sindoor powder marked the part in each woman’s hair. As the women added their thalis to the table, rungs of glittering bangles tinkled up and down their wrists. Intricate mehndi designs that incorporated leaves, tendrils, and petals adorned their hands.

  Sheetal sighed. She’d forgotten to call the henna girl to decorate hers and Megha’s hands. She’d been distracted by Mama’s chemo, her commissioned paintings, and planning for Megha’s baby. Well, she’d have to do a better job next year and remember ahead of time.

  Some of the married women her age, plump and out of shape, tried to hide the width of their bodies with sari pleats fanned across their chests. Sheetal’s regime of cardio-fitness, Pilates, and a healthy diet controlled her weight, although she still hid dollops of post pregnancy flab and stretch marks behind her petticoat.

  “You know, little Sasha took her first step yesterday,” a shrill voice broke through the surrounding chatter.

  “Why, how lovely!” Prerna squealed. “You guys should come over for dinner sometime so we can meet up.”

  “Oh, and you won’t believe this,” someone said, “but ever since that awful stock market crash, Dinesh refuses to go anywhere. He comes home from work, eats, sleeps, and acts as if sticking to a routine will reclaim the loss. You think that’ll really do the trick, Sheetal?”

  Rakesh had been living in debt for eight years but showed no desire to mend his habits. Sheetal smiled. Anything she said held the potential to make tomorrow’s headlines. She wove between groups scattered about the garden, her heart heavy with regret. She should have invited Kavita. At least, she would have had a friend, even though Kavita had betrayed her, too. A hand caught her shoulder and pulled her aside.

  “Surely, you’ll understand my dilemma.” Vinita pouted. “I just don’t know how to keep Ronit away from video games. He’s going to fall behind in class. You have an eight year old, too. How do you handle the technology craze?”

  A knot fisted her heart. “Yash is usually on holidays when he’s here, and Stonewall has strict rules against video games.”

  “Oh yes, I forgot.” Vinita waved a hand in the air. “He’s at boarding school. Must be so lonely without him, no?”

  Sheetal swallowed.

  “Will you see him soon?”

  “I’m going to Mansali next week to bring him home for Diwali.”

  “Alone?” Vinita raised her eyebrows and four other women turned to look.

  “Rakesh doesn’t have time.”

  “Well, have him make time,” another woman remarked. “You certainly can’t travel alone.”

  “One of the servants will accompany me.”

  “Tch, tch, tch.” Vinita shook her head. “You’re asking for trouble travelling to Mansali without a man. The number of thefts I hear about, and so much instability in Dholakpur. Anything can happen.” She leaned close and whispered, “So much violence. So many cases of rape.”

  Sheetal turned away. Her attention drifted to the clearing at the far back where her sari had caught on fire.

  “Now then, I tell you.” Mummyji pulled Sheetal away from the group and turned to Prerna. “Your mother-in-law’s not here?”

&n
bsp; “She’s at home sick with a cold,” Prerna said.

  “Why, that’s terrible, I tell you.” Mummyji shook her head. “She’s the only other person who knows the prayer by heart. How on earth are you all going to do the puja?”

  “Who else knows the prayer and stories?” Vinita asked.

  “Why, me, of course.” Mummyji smiled.

  A debate ensued and the women agreed that Mummyji should recite the prayers as long as she stood well out of sight behind the curtained patio door. Mummyji agreed and headed toward the dining room as Janvi brought out an idol of Goddess Parvati and positioned her on the chowki.

  The women collected their puja thalis, lit the diyas, and formed a circle around the goddess. As one, they settled into lotus positions, and Mummyji began narrating the centuries-old story of Karva Chauth. The women passed their thalis, sparkling with lit diyas, to the right while Mummyji described how seven brothers tricked their queen-sister, Veeravati, into praying and breaking her fast by creating an illusionary moon on Karva Chauth. As a result, Veeravati’s husband, the king, died. In an attempt to appease the goddess and win back her husband, the young widow fasted and prayed to the moon every month on Chauth, the fourth day after the full moon. Pleased with the queen’s devotion, Goddess Parvati revived the dead king.

  Story after story unfolded over the next forty-five minutes, revealing the significance of Karva Chauth and Lord Ganesh, the remover of obstacles. Hope and warmth flickered with the sway of the thalis passed from woman to woman. Sheetal took care to rotate the burning diyas away lest the flame come too close, then held her breath, closed her eyes for two seconds, and prayed that the blessings of the thali in her hand enter her marriage before she passed it right. She delayed the queue, but desperation drove her to persist.

  After a day of swallowing saliva to keep her throat moist, she yearned for water. A promise of my husband’s food and protection. She passed a thali right. A promise my husband will be faithful. She shuddered and took another breath, but the stagnant lake of her marriage throttled her. Let the light of this person’s happiness shine into my life. She gulped and passed a thali right.