by Anju Gattani
“Sheetal will be there.” Rakesh balanced the cigar on an ashtray. “I have a business meeting in Delhi that day.”
An awkward silence filled the receiver. Rakesh waited for Dr. Chaturvedi to speak.
“So, I um...assume you want to talk about Yash? Yes?” Dr. Chaturvedi stretched the vowels. “He’s doing well in school.”
“I’m sure you’re aware of that unfortunate accident over the holidays.”
A pause followed by the sound of heavy breathing. “Why, yes...yes. Perhaps um...he still needs a little time to adjust and settle in—”
“Do we need to come?”
“Oh no, no, no. Not at all,” Dr. Chaturvedi said. “I’m sure everything will be fine. If um...there are any concerns, you understand, we notify the parents immediately.”
“Of course.” Rakesh reached for the cigar and raised it to his lips. He chewed on the end, savoring the deep tobacco flavor.
“I am um...assuming this is not about Yash, then?”
“No. It’s about a Mr. Chopra.”
“Yash’s House Master?”
“Yes.”
“What about him?” Dr. Chaturvedi’s voice tightened.
“Tell me everything about this Mr. Chopra.”
“B-but that’s confidential. I’m um...not at liberty to discuss—”
“We’re not discussing him. I just want some information.”
“I’m...I’m sorry. It’s against the rules.”
“Oh come, doctor, bending the rules a little won’t hurt anyone.”
“It would be a breach of trust, sir.”
Rakesh uncrossed his legs and stretched them. “I heard you’re having trouble keeping up with rising costs.” Dr. Chaturvedi held a reputation for perpetually seeking “kind donations.”
Dr. Chaturvedi coughed. The rattle of phlegm in his throat followed by heavy breathing oozed through the pores of the speaker. “The problem um...sir, is that—”
“I’ll have fifty thousand wired to you by tomorrow morning.” He glanced at his watch. He still had to go home, shower, dress, and arrive at the Singhal’s party fashionably late.
“Oh...aah...well, you see....”
“Sixty-five. Better?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Let’s start with the name. His first name.”
“Arvind.”
Rakesh tensed. Couldn’t be. Had to be someone else. “Where is he from?”
The sound of papers being ruffled filled the receiver. “Raigun. He’s a graduate from New Delhi.”
Rakesh crushed the cigar in the ashtray. The fire in his chest burned.
# # #
Rakesh staggered upstairs and paused at the landing. The floor and passageway spun and tilted. He shot a hand to the wall and shuffled down the corridor.
Arvind—eh? After all these years, he comes back.
He focused on the third door. Big mouth Naina must have told Sheetal something and turned her against him.
He turned the knob, swung open the door, and stared into the roiling darkness. “Wake up.” Saliva dribbled down the corner of his mouth. “Come on, bitch. Let’s make your new year happy. Up!” He attempted to brush a sleeve across his chin but brushed air instead.
The room flooded with light and Rakesh raised an arm to shield his eyes. Naina was talking, but the words blurred as much as the dark green of her nighty. Two? How could there be two of her? Rakesh blinked and shook his head. He leaned against the doorframe for support, but the room tilted anyway.
“Out! Get out! ...my room,” she yelled.
Her voice echoed around and through his head. He covered his ears to block her screams, but she was getting closer. Her face, a mass of contorted brown wrinkles, swung left and right and she somehow slipped into the corridor and beyond reach. He opened his mouth. Stop moving! he wanted to shout but the words locked in his throat.
“I’ll call....”
“What did you tell my wife? You told her about Kartik, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t. Promise. I—”
Rakesh pounced, but Naina leapt out of reach. He reeled forward, stopped by a horizontal rod of marble that struck his hip. He grabbed it and leaned over the edge as bile sizzled up his throat. “D’you even know what shit I’m in? My wife hates me ‘cause of you.” He maneuvered himself to face her, but three Nainas appeared and each one raised a hand to cover her nose. “Three hundred and fifty million!” He let go of the railing. “Where’s it all gonna come from? Can you count that high, bitch?”
She stood inches away, all three of her faces covered in ropes of stringy black hair.
“All fucked up because of you. My son, bitch! Nearly died ‘cause of you.”
“It was an accident,” she screamed. “But you made me kill our father. ...over for you. I live with the guilt every day.”
Rakesh struggled to make sense, but she kept shifting out of view.
“You stood behind the curtains, watching. Making sure I gave Papa that tea. How did I know it was poisoned? I was seventeen...threatened. You trapped me.” She approached. “I’m going to tell everyone what you made me do.”
He cocked his head back and laughed.
“Mummy!” Naina screamed.
Rakesh lunged and clamped her mouth shut with a palm. “Shut up!” He pressed hard, desperate to crush the words in her mouth. He tilted her head back, farther, harder, until her eyes bulged and her black pupils shrank to the back of her head. Her chest heaved as she struggled for breath. Adrenaline surged through his body. Squeeze. Suck every rupee out. All three hundred and fifty million. Her skull would snap any second. “Give my money back!”
A burn spread across his cheek. The corridor spun. He reeled away and lost balance. The balcony railings, pillars, and doors revolved. The walls and floor of the mansion tilted. Blood rushed to his head and he slammed against cold marble tile.
“Leave her!”
Pushpa?
Crunch. His mouth warmed.
Everything blurred.
Everything black.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rust
Sheetal returned from Mama’s and the servants immediately whisked her into the Marquette Dining Room where Mummyji and Naina ate breakfast. “You are here at last!” Mummji jumped to her feet, and the chair reeled back. “He almost choked my Naina early this morning. Six servants, I tell you, had to drag him from the corridor to the room. They refused to help him change into fresh clothes. What a way, I tell you, to start the new year.”
Naina raised a hand and touched her throat. “He tried to strangle me.”
What a shame he didn’t. Sheetal bit her lip. Naina’s throat had no bruise. Mummyji overdramatized everything that concerned Naina.
The buffet breakfast’s sterling silver chafing dishes graced the length of a hutch. Sheetal’s stomach growled and she lifted the lids one by one. However, the grilled tomato-chutney sandwiches, steaming fluffy white idlis, light green coconut chutney, and poha—flattened and spiced rice flakes sautéed with mixed vegetables—didn’t whet her appetite. Instead, the thick scent of citrus detergent overwhelmed her. Mummyji must have rung in the new year with a wholesome round of cleaning.
“What am I to do?” Mummyji pumped both hands on her hips. “You leave your husband, a drunk, I tell you, to....”
Sheetal nicked a corner of the triangular-sliced sandwich and popped it in her mouth but tasted nothing. She helped herself to some poha and took a seat.
Mummyji sat down again. “You don’t think before spending the night at your parent’s home just to put up some painting.”
“It’s not some painting. It was my mother’s portrait.”
“It’s Him, I tell you. This sick husband of yours who is alive and breathing who you should be taking care of. Your responsibility lies here with him and this family. You think I am sitting around here for fun? Ashok put me in charge of the whole mansion and estate in that will, I tell you, for a reason. Can you imagine the responsibility I must c
arry forward because he is no longer alive? I must live that responsibility every day.”
“My mother still lives in my heart.” Sheetal shoved a spoonful of poha in her mouth and chewed, but the yellow rice flakes tasted bland. The spoon fell from her grip and clanked on the plate.
Laal Bahadur, the chef, peeked out of the kitchen door. “Food is not good, Choti Sahiba?”
Mummyji’s expression darkened. “You ask her, Laal Bahadur, but you don’t ask me if the food is to my satisfaction?”
“It’s fine.” Sheetal smiled. “But I think I burnt my tongue last night, so I can’t taste much.” She turned to Mummyji. “I’ve been struggling for ten years to live with Rakesh, but he’s—”
“And obvious—no? How successful you are. Or your marriage wouldn’t be in a mess.”
How dare she! “All this time, you’ve treated me like I don’t exist and I’m invisible. Now, suddenly when things go wrong, you hold me responsible?”
“Like every married woman, you are responsible for your husband and the state of this family.”
“As Rakesh’s mother, even if you are his stepmother, perhaps you should claim responsibility, too. After all, this is your family and your responsibility, isn’t it?”
Mummyji scrunched her face.
When Sheetal entered her bedroom, the thick, heavy stench of liquor and urine caused her to mask her nose with a hand. Rakesh lay on his back in the middle of their bed dressed in last night’s tuxedo. Sunlight spilled through open curtains and illuminated the truth. The rust of the Dhanraj label had finally tarnished him. Bluish-gray bruises circled his eyes and his sallow skin clung to his temples, nose and eyes while sagging near his ears. If only the media could see the flamboyant, titanium knight in all his glory. Sheetal inched closer. Saliva drooled from the corner of his mouth and hung off the curve of his blood-crusted chin. His jacket lay in folds as if a size too big. Had he lost more weight along with his mind?
Since none of the male servants had wanted to help Rakesh out of his soiled clothes, Sheetal left him in his filthy attire and made a mental note to have their bed sheets stripped and burned.
Anything proved easier than dealing with Rakesh Dhanraj. She had done more than her share of caretaking for one lifetime.
***
A month later, Sheetal worked on the seventh in a series of twenty desert paintings for the Solange Art Gallery and signed each work “Sheetal” without the Dhanraj label.
Roshni wheeled in the evening coffee and handed her an envelope from Stonewall Preparatory School. She had instructed Janvi to serve her evening coffee upstairs because she didn’t want to waste any more time holding one-way conversations.
Sheetal dropped three cubes of sugar into the cup, added warm milk, and stirred. She sipped, set down the cup, and peeled open the envelope. The invitation for the annual spring concert on April fifth requested parents to make their reservations in advance.
Six more weeks until she saw Yash. At least, he answered her questions with monosyllables now. He must be busy studying for mid-terms, which explained why he ended their phone conversations quickly.
She went to the Japanese garden to give Rakesh the letter and found him and Megha sipping tea. “This came in today’s mail from Stonewall.” She offered the invitation to Rakesh but he didn’t bother to look at her or it.
Megha sipped chai in silence and didn’t acknowledge her presence either.
“The concert is six weeks away. We should make reservations. I can stay on until Yash’s finals are over and bring him home.” Sheetal resolved to complete as many paintings as possible before leaving for Mansali and then complete the remainder after her return.
“I won’t be going,” he said. “I have to be in Delhi for a meeting with Tashukomo Electronics that day.”
Sheetal caught herself before she exhaled in relief. She drew her hand back and fidgeted with the invitation. She’d get alone time with Yash. “You promised Yash you’d go. He’s—”
“I don’t have time. Anyway, you’re happier on your own.”
***
Three days later, Sheetal was working on a desert painting when the landline phone rang. She waited for someone to answer the call, but after six rings, she marched to the sofa and grabbed the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hallo?” a woman said. “Hallo? Calling from Mansali, Stonewall Preparatory School, for—” Static crackled.
“Yash?”
Sheetal’s heart flipped. “Hello? Yash, Beta. Is that you?”
“Sheetal?”
“Arvind?” She tightened her grip on the receiver and prayed no one else picked up the downstairs extension. “Is Yash—?”
“That’s why I’m calling. I tried calling your mobile but you didn’t pick up.”
Sheetal patted her waist for the sari pouch. “I-I must have left it in the room. What’s wrong? Is Yash all right?”
“He’s...he’s having trouble.”
“What trouble?” She crossed to the window.
“He can’t focus so he’s falling behind in class.”
Impossible. She scanned the driveway then glanced at her watch. Six forty-five. Rakesh would be home soon. “Maybe the rehearsals and practice are too much for him.”
“What rehearsals?”
“The spring concert. I received the invitation. There’s only six weeks left before the show, plus the children are studying for midterms right now.”
“He can hardly talk clearly,” Arvind’s voice crackled through the static. “Can barely manage full sentences and—”
“What do you mean?”
“He was pulled out of the concert weeks ago.”
“He must have been nervous from stage fright.” Or perverts? Her mind raced. Were older boys hurting him?
“The organizing committee gave him several chances, but Yash refused to—” Static interfered. “I know because I’m one of the organizers. I saw him, Sheetal. He wouldn’t open his mouth. He refuses to talk.”
“Perhaps he can’t take the pressure after the overdose incident.”
“This has nothing to do with the pressures of concert or schoolwork.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s about you.”
“I know. I broke my promise to him. I told him I’d let him stay home and enroll him in school here. You shouldn’t call me.” She looked over her shoulder, relieved to be alone. “I’ll be in so much trouble if anyone finds out.”
“How much more trouble, Sheetal?” his voice stormed through the static. “I know what He does to you.”
“Who?” The breath tightened in her throat. “Who does what to me?”
“Rakesh.”
Sheetal’s attention flew down to the black iron gates, still closed. They would swing open any second to admit Rakesh.
“I know what he does to you.”
Static crackled.
“I...I can’t talk. Don’t call again.”
“I know everything.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She lowered her hand. Ruby bangles tinkled down her wrist, reminding her of the blood that had covered her wrists months ago.
“Rakesh hit you.”
Sheetal pressed the bindi on her forehead.
“You can’t live like this, Sheetal. It’s wrong.”
“I—”
“He’s insane.”
“The business. He’s— There’s too much pressure in the office.”
“He’ll kill you one day. That’s what he’ll do next.”
“He’s sick.”
“You need to leave. Get away from him.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Listen to me, Sheetal,” he bellowed. “Find a way. Any way, and leave him.”
“I can’t.” Her head throbbed. “I’m married.”
“Can’t you see what he’s doing?” Arvind’s voice hardened. “He will kill you next time.”
“I—”
“I know ev
erything, Sheetal. Yash told me.”
She numbed.
“He was there, Sheetal. He saw Rakesh—” Static crackled.
“How could he when he was sleeping?”
“...whip...belt...blood...from your bedroom, open doorway...saw him beat....” Arvind’s words exploded with static.
Sheetal tightened her grip and closed her eyes. What did Yash see? How much did he— It didn’t make sense. “Why didn’t he say something? I’ve been calling him every weekend.”
“Say what? To whom?” Static crackled and Arvind paused. “Sheetal? Are you there?”
“Yes. I—”
The iron gates swung apart. Rakesh’s black Lamborghini entered and rolled around the curve of the driveway.
“I have to go.”
“He’s petrified. He stammers when he does talk and fidgets all the time. He’s nervous and shaken up. If there’s no improvement, you’ll be called to take him home.”
No.
“You have to find a way out of this mess.”
A plan. She needed a plan. But first, she had to establish herself enough to stand on her own feet and become independent. She needed time.
“Leave Rakesh and come with me.”
He was out of his mind. “I can’t. I-I have to go. Rakesh will be here any second.” A click sounded followed by static. She hung up, rushed out the door, and peered over the balcony just as Rakesh entered.
Naina, seated comfortably on the Bradford Browns beside the telephone, glided her fingers back and forth over the hump of the receiver.
Rakesh looked up at Sheetal, grunted, and walked off.
***
That evening, the family had started eating dinner when Rakesh stormed into the Marquette Dining room carrying a black vinyl folder and headed straight for Sheetal.
Goosebumps puckered her arms. An account of Arvind’s phone calls? A file for divorce? Custody papers for Yash?
Megha on her right, and Naina and Mummyji seated across the table, stiffened in their seats.
Rakesh rounded the table’s corner and halted behind her. “I need some papers signed.”
He was going to take custody of Yash.
Mummyji tore off a piece of chapati, folded it into a shovel, used it to scoop vegetable gravy from one of the mounds on her plate, and shoved the food into her mouth. “What now?” she asked and chewed.