Lethal Secrets

by Anju Gattani

  “Go on, take it. The extra will help you.”

  “Twenty for one suitcase?” The taxi driver turned to look from the coolie to Sheetal and back. “So, now your coolie union is starting some money-ripping scheme? Fifteen rupees, Brother. All you deserve.” He turned to Sheetal. “Fifteen is what you should pay him, Madame.”

  Should? Sheetal firmed her jaw. What right did this stranger have to dictate what she should do? She turned to the coolie. “Take fifty, please. If it weren’t for you, I would have missed my stop.”

  The coolie shook his head. “Twenty is enough, Behenji.”

  “The money will help your family. You were so courageous, jumping off that train with such a heavy suitcase.”

  “Only doing my duty, Behenji.”

  What duty required someone to put their life at risk for another?

  The coolie pointed to a shabbily dressed boy, about ten years old, who led a blind woman in a tattered sari away from the sweltering crowd toward a broken strip of pavement on an empty corner. Flies swarmed around their heads and arms as the boy helped the woman sit down. The old woman scoured the fume-filled air with her hands, as if in search of something, and then lowered them to her lap.

  Sheetal turned away. How could people survive on broken chips of pavement? “Do you know them?”

  “That one-leg coolie I am telling you? She is the wife. And that boy, one of his children. This mother and son beg here every day like some miracle will change their fortune. That, Behenji, is courage. Hope.”

  “Look,” she deepened her tone, “don’t argue. Just take the fifty, please. If you don’t want it, give it to them.”

  The coolie took the note and headed toward the mother and son.

  ***

  An hour later, the blue Ambassador droned up the steep road, its wheels crunching over forest debris and detritus that littered the winding mountain road. Broken white lines separated the two lanes. Oncoming traffic passed on the right, sometimes whizzing a fraction too close around sharp curves. The taxi driver kept full control of the vehicle around the sharp turns and the Ambassador, a rough-and-tough, ancient model, solid to the core, needed no frills to survive the mammoth mountains carved by Indian gods. Rakesh and his Lamborghini would have stuck out like misfits here.

  An oncoming lorry headed directly for them and Sheetal stiffened. The taxi driver blared his horn and the lorry swerved back into its lane.

  “You coming before, Madame?” The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror.

  “Yes, my son studies here.” Sheetal sank into the seat to recover from that near-death scare.

  “Ah, acchha!” He nodded, and threads of his frayed turban jiggled. “He is at boarding school?”

  “At Stonewall.”

  “Very good school.” He rolled and crisped the “r.” “Very good boys from very good families studying there. Now Diwali holidays is coming,” he persisted in broken English, probably so she wouldn’t think him illiterate.

  “Hanh,” Sheetal switched to Hindi. “I’m here to take my son back home.” She looked at her watch. Three more hours until she would see Yash.

  “Very good. If you are needing taxi to go down again tomorrow—”

  “I’m here for a few days.”

  “I am good tour guide. I take you see Shivji, Parvatiji’s famous temple, Echo Point, Hot Spring Point where hot water coming naturally from ground, and....”

  “I really don’t need a tour but thank you,” Sheetal cut short the string of services countless taxi drivers offered in an effort to secure their next payment. She would love to spend time in the mountains sightseeing, but certainly not with a chatterbox. Mummyji and Naina’s incessant complaints provided more than enough chatter.

  A wall of lush greenery surrendered to a majestic view of the valley and snow-capped mountains beyond. Sheetal had hardly noticed the fine details of the panoramic view on previous ascents because Rakesh’s presence distracted her from the beauty of the mountains.

  Rakesh spent the duration of their previous journeys on his laptop, tracking the stock market, and calling his broker. When he lost internet connection, he read proposals that needed his attention and documents that needed his approval. If he worked in a calm and patient manner, she’d have had opportunities to sightsee, but Rakesh initiated conversations about Sheetal’s paintings, her income from a recent sale, or some family matter, and if Sheetal didn’t say what he wanted to hear, he lost his temper.

  After that, he complained that the weather was too hot or too cold or too windy. He advised the taxi wallah to slow down and complained that he drove too fast or too carelessly or too cautiously, and when Rakesh couldn’t take the boredom of the ride anymore, he yelled at the driver to go back to driving school. By journey’s end, Sheetal was on edge and the driver was a nervous wreck, which is why they never reached Upper Mansali on time.

  For the first time in months, Sheetal breathed and her lungs didn’t constrict.

  Forest gave way to clear terrain, and she gripped the half-open window. The crisp breeze caressed her skin, and she felt alive in a way she’d never felt before.

  “All reservations confirmed, Madame?”

  “Thanks for reminding me.” Sheetal called the hotel.

  “Thank you for calling Holiday Inn, Mansali,” a male voice greeted. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m calling to confirm my reservation,” Sheetal said.

  “Please hold while I transfer you to the reservations desk.” A click sounded and instrumental music played.

  “This is reservations at the—”

  Trees ahead would soon engulf the car. Sheetal cut him short before she lost connection. “I want to confirm my reservation. Sheetal Dhanraj.”

  “Please hold while I check.” Instrumental music resumed. “I’m sorry, Madame. Can you repeat the name, please?”

  “Sheetal Dhanraj. D-h-a-n-r-a-j.”

  ”Dhanraj.” He paused. “I’m sorry, Madame. I don’t see a reservation in this name.”

  “That’s impossible.” Sheetal huffed. “My husband made the reservation over a month ago and—”

  “Madame,” the taxi driver interrupted. “I am having guest house. Jatinder Singh, my good name. I am taking you there?”

  She covered the microphone with her free hand and glared at the driver in the rearview mirror. “Please. I’m on the phone.” She removed her hand as trees blocked the sun. “Can you please check the reservations and call for the manager. It’s for a suite. Booked in—” The line went dead.

  “Very good one, Madame, my guest house. Spiceality. Offering all kinds of vegetarian, non-vegetarian food, with single, double rooms. Also....”

  She didn’t need a double room at his guest house. She needed him to park at a location with few trees and a clear cell reception so she could confirm the booking. She searched through the windshield for a possible parking space and her heart skipped a beat at the hundred feet drop skirting the road’s edge. Still no fence, no railing, nothing to divide them from certain death in the abyss below except the driver’s control on the steering coupled with good timing and good luck. Better stay put, she decided as Jatinder Singh prattled on. His jovial chatter wafted on the rush of cool mountain air. “How much longer?” She glanced at her watch.

  He accelerated and the car groaned. Then he jerked his wrist as if to glance at his watch but didn’t, much to Sheetal’s relief. “Two hours more, Madame. Now we are two thousand feet above sea level.”

  “How do you know these mountains so well?”

  “My home. I am growing up here and know every turn, every inch of this place. I am going up and down all my life. I am even driving with my eyes closed. Like this, Madame.”

  “No!” Sheetal grabbed the backrest as branches of deodar cedars drummed the car’s chassis, flaking the windows with snow. “I hope your car is sturdy.”

  “American car, Madame,” he pressed on in English. “Long lasting. My Chamkeeli is strong.”

  “C
hamkeeli?”

  “Name of car, Madame. She is shining, always, like a star. Dal and roti for my family,” he referred to the vehicle as the soup-and-bread source of income for his family.

  The ascent grew steeper. Snow lined the road and sugar-coated the mountains. Sheetal’s nerves tensed but she calmed herself with the rationale that she couldn’t have been in better hands considering this was her first solo travel. She’d made it so far on her own; only this last leg of the journey remained. Soon, she’d have Yash all to herself.

  Chapter Ten

  Double Shot

  Shit! Four-fifteen already. Rakesh threw aside the quilt, bolted upright in bed, and looked over his shoulder at the rumpled sheets and Kartik’s sleeping frame. He should have been in the office an hour ago. Not only had he missed the three o’clock teleconference, he was late for the four o’clock board meeting. He sifted through the pile of mixed clothing and dressed quickly, tightening the tie around his neck. How much longer could he sustain this double-life, living in two places at once?

  He slipped on a gray blazer and straightened the collar. If he hurried, he could make it to the office in fifteen minutes and say a stubborn client held him up after an extra-long lunch meeting or—

  His mobile rang.

  He grabbed the beeping instrument and glanced at Kartik as he pressed the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

  “Dr. Kishore, here. Good to know you’re back, my son.”

  Son?

  “I left several messages for you over the last few weeks. Did you get them?”

  “No,” he lied, lowering his tone so as not to wake Kartik. “I’ve been traveling, working and—”

  “You missed your appointment last week. It’s important I see you,” Dr. Kishore’s voice tightened. “Can you be here in an hour?”

  Rakesh glanced at his watch. Four-twenty. He had to get to the meeting immediately.

  He slid a foot in a black leather Bally and the room tilted right. He caught the wall for support.

  “Hello? Are you there?” Dr. Kishore asked. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m—” He closed his eyes and gulped. “I’ll be there.”

  ***

  Dr. Kishore, a man in his late fifties, rose from behind a brown desk, reached out to shake Rakesh’s hand, then gestured for him to sit in a chair facing the desk.

  Folders and loose papers formed a neat stack to Dr. Kishore’s left. Atop a long, wooden cabinet behind him, photographs of a woman in a blue sari and a teenage boy smiled from silver photo frames. Medical texts filled open bookshelves above. On the remaining walls hung detailed charts of the human body, certificates, and plaques honoring the doctor’s achievements.

  “I shouldn’t have missed the appointment.” Rakesh pulled back a chair and sat down.

  “I agree, Dhanrajji.” Dr. Kishore flipped open a folder.

  “Call me Rakesh, please.” Manners were important.

  “How are you feeling, Rakesh?”

  “Tired. Fed up.” He left out the dizziness and recent chest pain.

  “Are you eating well?”

  He looked past the doctor to a teenage boy’s photograph.

  “Have you cut down on drinking alcohol, like we discussed last time?”

  “Yes,” Rakesh lied.

  Dr. Kishore raised an eyebrow. “And the fatigue is still there?”

  “All this pressure at work.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear this. Based on results from recent bloodwork, you have to take care of your health first.” Dr. Kishore reached for a pen and poised the tip over the open file’s topmost sheet.

  Rakesh noticed a list of about thirty items boxed in a table and leaned forward as Dr. Kishore circled “CT Scan,” “MRI,” “Blood,” “Liver,” “Abdominal,” and “Rectal.”

  “I’d like you to get these tests done as soon as you can.” He slid the paper to Rakesh. “Once I get the results, I’ll have my office call you and schedule an appointment.”

  “I don’t have time for all this. I’ll be fine. I’ll just take a vacation or—”

  “The kind of pressure you’re dealing with can damage your health in the long run. You have to understand....” Dr. Kishore droned on, like Papa did when he reneged on his promise that Rakesh would take over Dhanraj & Son after Rakesh graduated from Harvard.

  Rakesh’s head throbbed.

  “I don’t want you to wait until it’s too late to....”

  After Rakesh kept his end of the promise, Papa declared that he intended to go public with the company, which meant Rakesh would lose any chance of keeping full control of the company. The public offering never happened. Three years later, Rakesh married Sheetal. A year later, he paid for Naina’s over-the-top wedding, and the avalanche of bills drowned him in debt. The sensation was like the walls that were now closing in on him. Rakesh pressed a palm against his forehead, attempting to muffle Papa’s droning voice.

  “You must take this seriously.”

  Papa had been serious when he insisted that Rakesh work his way up while, the whole time, Papa planned for the company’s “public” future. Rakesh almost retched at the thought. Why work his way up when Papa had promised Dhanraj and Son would be his as long as he kept his end of the deal?

  “I’m afraid, if you don’t stop drinking....”

  Fear. Fear chilled like the ice-cold glass of scotch in his hand when he stumbled out from behind the curtain for a clearer view. He could still hear the clatter of ice cubes striking the glass.

  Papa thumped a hand on his chest and gasped for air as seventeen-year-old Naina staggered back and screamed.

  “Rakesh. Are you listening?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve been talking to you. Where are you? What’s wrong with you?”

  “Just distracted. That’s all. Work pressure.”

  “Results from all the prescribed tests will help determine the next steps. I’m sure you’ll have to make a few lifestyle changes, but I want to emphasize that you must stop drinking immediately or....”

  “It’s hard, doctor. I’ll try, but—”

  “This is serious! Rakesh....” Dr. Kishore’s voice grew louder. Too loud. He went on and on and ignored him, like Papa had ignored him when Rakesh rationalized that Papa couldn’t go back on his word and make him work his way up from the bottom.

  Rakesh pushed his chair back. An acute pain sizzled the back of his head and he clenched his jaw.

  “...all right? Rakesh? What’s wrong? Come. Sit down. Nurse!” Dr. Kishore called. “Come quickly.”

  Rakesh rose, pushed away the doctor’s hand, and left.

  ***

  Rakesh waited to cross the street to the parking deck and watched a man and boy about Yash’s age, nearly identical in appearance, approach along the opposite sidewalk. The boy, who wore navy trousers, a white shirt, a tie, and a gray school bag humped on his back, chatted to the gentleman. Probably a father picking up his son from school.

  Rakesh’s heart knotted with regret.

  Four men in business suits strolled past the two, and the gentleman put an arm around the boy’s shoulder and pulled him close.

  Rakesh ached to pick up Yash from school and have him spend an afternoon at the office like other dads and sons did. He couldn’t because Sheetal had banished their son to the mountains in the middle of nowhere to keep Yash away from him.

  So fucking overprotective!

  He crossed the road and consciously released the pressure of molar pushing on molar.

  No matter how hard he tried to give Yash the best of everything—imported toys, clothes, customized furniture—Sheetal still complained.

  The buildings on his left blurred into gray, like the finely printed words of the rejection letter he’d read and reread until his eyes grew dry. The board members had expressed shock when he informed them last week, had probably mocked his dilemma, and had scheduled today’s meeting to resolve the issue before his discussions with Tashukomo’s CEO.

  Fuck! H
e smacked his heel against the concrete. With only six months left to repay the loan, he had to do everything in his power to coax the Japanese to buy into his scheme—even if that meant kissing their asses.

  Chapter Eleven

  Yash

  Sheetal halted outside the principal’s office at Stonewall all-boys school, knocked on the door, and straightened the collar of her jacket. After a moment, she knocked again.

  The door opened and the scent of worn leather and eucalyptus oil wafted from the room.

  “Come in.” Dr. Pramod Chaturvedi, a gentleman in his sixties with strands of white, oil-slicked hair and a hunched back, used the support of a wooden cane to step back and open the door wider.

  Sheetal entered an office where thick maroon curtains covered the wall opposite. A sliver of sunlight sliced through a thin gap in the folds of fabric and bisected the carpet.

  She would have preferred to deal with the general office, but staff claimed they could authorize only three-day withdrawals from school. Longer absences had to be approved by Dr. Chaturvedi.

  Leather-spine books filled a bookcase on the far right. School trophies and plaques that should have graced a cabinet in the main entrance covered a wooden table on the left. A yellow shaded table lamp on the four feet long cherry wood desk illuminated a pen stand, paperclip holder, stacks of paper, notebooks, folders, and a glass of water covered with a porcelain saucer. Specks of dust glittered in a thin beam of sunlight that the window’s curtains failed to block.

  “So good to see you again, Mrs. Dhanraj.” Dr. Chaturvedi closed the door and shuffled to his chair on the other side of the desk, thumping his cane on the carpet with each step. He propped the hook of the cane against the table’s edge, pulled out his chair, and sat down. “Please, have a seat.” He emphasized every consonant and motioned for Sheetal to sit in one of two guest chairs. “Mr. Dhanraj didn’t come?”

  Sheetal sat down and curved a lock of hair behind her ear. Diamond bangles tinkled along her wrist and Dr. Chaturvedi’s attention shifted to her raised hand. She should have kept her hand on her lap. “Rakesh is tied up with work.”