Lethal Secrets

by Anju Gattani

  “I need half your company shares. The two of you.”

  Sheetal exhaled. “The two of you” referred to Megha and Naina. She didn’t own a share of the company, which was fine because she was sole heiress to Papa’s shares of Induslink Corporation.

  Before his death, Ashok Dhanraj had divided the shares of Dhanraj & Son among Rakesh, Naina, and Megha. Megha and Naina owned fifteen percent each and Rakesh owned seventy percent along with commercial real estate in Raigun. Mummyji owned the Dhanraj mansion and estate, valued at seven-hundred-and-fifty-million rupees. However, the caveat that she remain a widow and manage the family, mansion, and estate locked her into the role of a caretaker. If she neglected her duties in any way, she risked losing her entire inheritance.

  Mummyji clapped in excitement. “Are you going to certify a profit? An increase in earnings for you, I tell you? Hai Ishwar! Just the thing we need with so much remodeling to be done. The kitchen, dining room, and sofas are so old, I tell you.” Her eyes widened with greed until her eyebrows almost touched the strands of white hair crowning her forehead. She lifted another forkful of food to her mouth.

  “There’s something you need to know,” Rakesh said. “I mortgaged the mansion, estate, and some of our other properties to finance Naina’s wedding. I’m having trouble paying the interest and I’m running short of cash. I default any longer and the bank will take over.”

  “Ai-ee!” Mummyji gasped. “Hai Ishwar! What does that mean?”

  “We might be out on the streets if we don’t sell our shares. Look, I did what I could to tide us over, and now you two need to sell.”

  “Sell her shares?” Mummyji’s jaw dropped and a ball of mashed food almost rolled off her tongue.

  “Tashukomo Electronics is ready to buy a stake in Dhanraj & Son. It’ll mean a fifty-fifty partnership. If you both sell at least half your shares and I do the same, I can meet them at the halfway mark.”

  “But the shares are all Naina has,” Mummyji said. “You can’t expect her to give them up. Hai Ishwar! Why, you already mortgaged my inheritance. I’ll have nothing left.”

  Because Naina was Ashok and Pushpa’s love child, Mummyji lived with the assumption that she was entitled to Naina’s fifteen percent.

  “What do you think I’m stuck and struggling with? A three-hundred-and-fifty-million debt.”

  “I told you so many times to pay attention to the business. But no. Always more interested in wasting time at parties and clubs. How could you let this happen? How do you expect us”—she glanced at Naina—"to survive with nothing?”

  “If we pool our shares, we can live as we do now and still have a comfortable life.”

  “Why my shares?” Naina interrupted. “Find some other way.”

  Mummyji narrowed her eyes at a spot three feet above Sheetal’s head. “Pool all the shares and you and your wife will have full control. How will we know what is going on behind our backs, I tell you? You already mortgaged my property without telling me. What else will I and my Naina have left but our jewelry and clothes? Or will the bank take that too?”

  “You make it sound like I’m throwing you on the streets,” Rakesh said. “We’re in this mess because of Naina and because I spent so much on her wedding.”

  “Who told you to spend?” Mummyji crossed her arms. “I certainly didn’t. I told you to forget that Black Pagoda idea because of all the bad luck it brings. Look what it did to my daughter. Returned nine months later, divorced and homeless. Hai Ishwar! I told you, but did you listen? No.”

  “I never asked for an expensive wedding.” Naina tore a piece of chapati, scooped some gravy, and dangled the food above her mouth like bait.

  “I don’t care what you did or didn’t ask for. We’ve got to pool together,” Rakesh insisted.

  “Your idea. Your problem. Your shares, not mine.” Naina dropped the food into her mouth.

  “Of course not,” Rakesh’s tone calmed. “Why should you give your shares away? How could you? If I remember correctly, you were busy reeling in your wedding dowry while I was putting together a fucking wedding for you.”

  “Mummy!” Naina turned to Mummyji. “Did you hear what he said? Remember how he tried to strangle me? I nearly died!” Tears rolled from the corners of her eyes. “You almost—”

  “Stop crying!” Rakesh shouted. “That’s all you women are good for. Turning on the water works when things don’t go your way. It’s what you spent your whole fucking life doing and got away with.”

  “That’s no way to talk to her,” Mummyji raised her voice. “It’s not her fault you can’t manage your anger issues. The expense of the wedding was your decision entirely, I tell you.”

  “I did it for you. For her. And what did I get left with? A huge debt. Did either of you ask for a simpler wedding or something less extravagant? You didn’t even make your marriage work. Nine months is all it lasted. One hundred million for each fucking month of married life.”

  “Such language!” Mummyji yelled. “Not her fault she couldn’t adjust. She’s been brought up as a Dhanraj, with all its privileges.”

  “Then she should have got used to theirs, privilege or not. She married into their family, not the other way around.”

  “It’s over and done with,” Mummyji said. “Who cares now, anyway?”

  “Nobody,” Rakesh answered. “Life moves on. Look at Ajay. He remarried and had two children.” He pointed to Megha. “Megha is expecting her first baby. She accepted the family she married into. Only Naina’s been rotting for ten years because she can’t do anything with her life.”

  “Nothing wrong with my Naina. She’s as good as any woman to have children.”

  “Really?” Rakesh’s voice lightened. “How? By cloning herself? I don’t see anyone marrying her.”

  “Mummy!” Naina turned to Mummyji. “Just look—”

  “Brat.” Rakesh grunted. “All I want are these papers signed by tomorrow.” He dropped the folder on the dining table and threw a pen across. “Ditto?”

  “I have nothing to do with this and Naina doesn’t either,” Mummyji said.

  “Those shares will be useless if we don’t pay back the debt,” Rakesh warned. “You’ll be left with scraps of paper.”

  Megha wiped her fingers on a napkin, signed the papers, and handed them back to Rakesh.

  Raj’s government-level income might be Megha’s back up, but clearly her security lay in Rakesh’s hands.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Ruins

  When a knock sounded on the office door, Rakesh stopped pacing and turned as the door opened. Vipul Sahib peeked inside. “It’s seven, Rakesh. You should go home.”

  “I don’t know what to do, Uncle.” Rakesh headed toward his desk. “Selling the family shares was my last choice, and Naina refuses to sign over her shares.” He sank onto his chair. Not only did that bastard Arvind find Yash, he tracked Sheetal down, too. “Maybe this is how it’s supposed to end. An empire crushed by the very family that built it.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that way.”

  “There’s no choice.”

  “If there’s one thing I know, you’re a survivor. A fighter. You’ll figure a way out.” Vipul Sahib smiled.

  He’d figure out a way to deal with Arvind. “I hope so. But you shouldn’t have stayed back so late.”

  “And leave you alone?”

  “I’m used to it. Anyway, I’ve been meaning to ask, what happened to Girish’s sister?”

  “We loaned him the money, just like you said, and it’s done wonders for us. News spread within a week. Girish speaks of nothing but your good nature, your understanding, and his loyalty shot through the roof. But we’ve had more employees approach us with their wish list and now I don’t know who to turn away and how.”

  “Help the weakest first, like someone with a sick child or an ill mother. We don’t have an open account, so you’ll have to think through each case.”

  “Just as I feared.”

  “Did
our attrition rate go down?”

  “Substantially. Everyone believes in you and the company again.”

  Rakesh nodded. “That’s a start.”

  “Girish wants to meet and thank you for—”

  Fear frayed his nerves. “No. I don’t need to get involved.”

  “But—”

  “I need to be alone, Uncle.”

  Vipul Sahib nodded and sighed. “Sheetal must be waiting. Go home. Being alone never helps.” He left and shut the door.

  For the fourth time in an hour, Rakesh made his way to the matching side cabinets, added another ice cube to his crystal tumbler, and watched the ice shrink as he poured in scotch. What did Vipul Sahib say about Girish and employee loyalty? Rakesh pressed a palm against the back of his head, trying to push the thought forward, but the white buzz only got louder. What did Dr. Kishore say?

  His fingers trembled as he reached for the drink. The cool glass filled the width of his palm and he curled his fingers around its curve. “Like you, Dad. I want to be just like you.” Is that what Arvind said? No. Vipul Sahib? Couldn’t be. Girish? Did Girish want to be like him? He shook his head so the buzz would stop. Yash wanted to be like him. Yes, that’s right. Or did Yash want to be like Arvind?

  Rakesh let go of the drink. The stuff would kill him one day, and he couldn’t afford to lose control.

  ***

  On his way home, Rakesh stopped at a coffee shop and ordered black coffee.

  At home, he popped into Sheetal’s studio and found her at work on another painting. One of the rejected Himalayan Mountains covered the broken window he should have had fixed. “I came to remind you of the charity dinner at seven on Thursday. Don’t embarrass me again by running off to your father’s.”

  Sheetal glanced at him and resumed her work.

  “How is your father, by the way?”

  “He’s lonely with no one to talk to and finds it difficult without Mama.”

  Rakesh leaned against the doorframe. “If something happened to me, would you miss me?”

  “I fast every year on Karva Chauth. Nothing will happen to you.”

  He entered, circled to the back of the canvas, and faced her. “We can’t prevent or predict the future even if we don’t want something to happen. Like how, despite knowing your mother had cancer, there was nothing you could do to prevent it.”

  Sheetal’s jaw dropped. “How can you even say something like that?”

  “It’s a fact. Anyway, you’re going for Yash’s concert?”

  She gave him that stare again, like he didn’t make sense. “We’ve talked about this before. It’s the same day you have the meeting with the Japanese in Delhi. Of course, I’m going. Are you sure you can’t make it?”

  “I made your booking at the Plaza Royale this time. I didn’t forget. But sounds like you don’t want me to go.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Which way did you?

  “I was just asking.”

  “Checking, Sheetal. You were checking.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Falling

  With fourteen paintings completed and six to go, Sheetal brimmed with confidence that all twenty paintings would be completed, framed, and delivered to the Solange Art Gallery on time. Her new signature, “Sheetal,” stood out on the bottom right-hand corner of each work in liquid gold, free from the “Dhanraj” label.

  Roshni wheeled in the evening coffee and handed her an envelope. Sheetal ripped it open and started to read the letter when her cell phone rang. “Hello?”

  “Madame Sheetal, Patel calling from Taj Resort, Calcutta. I am taking a look at your work in Raigun Cricket Club and other places and I talked to Mr. Bhattacharya at Sheraton and Mr. Kannada at Renaissance Hotel. I am also hearing you are taking part in Solange Art Gallery. And your work is very good.”

  “Thank you. I’m actually working on the Solange collection right now.” Sheetal grabbed a pen, flipped the empty envelope on its back, and sat on the sofa, ready to jot notes.

  “Then it will be even more of a privilege to have your work on display in our hotel’s new wing. I was thinking perhaps you could....”

  She scribbled as Mr. Patel detailed a series of seven paintings on twenty-four-by-thirty-inch canvases with the theme of earth and water, needed by May fifteenth. Considering she was ahead of schedule, Sheetal calculated she could complete the requirements for Solange and the Taj Resort.

  “We can pay seven lakhs total,” hesitation crept into his voice. “Is this good for you?”

  A hundred thousand rupees per painting? She’d never been paid that much for a single piece so far. She took a deep breath to control her excitement. Her reputation had begun to spread. “It’s fine. Totally fine. Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Patel. I’m sure—”

  “What’s this I’m hearing, I tell you?” Mummyji called from the doorway.

  Sheetal covered the handset’s microphone and turned. “I’m on a business call.”

  “I don’t care about your business. This is important, I tell you.”

  Sheetal noted Mr. Patel’s contact information, promised to call him soon, and ended the call.

  “The ladies from the Royal Society Ladies Group seem to have sent you something.”

  Sheetal reopened the letter from Mummyji’s club and skimmed the print.

  “Invitation, no?” Mummyji leaned over the arm of the couch. “I am right, no?” She thrust a hand forward and spread her Kit Kat-thick fingers. “Let me have a look, I tell you.”

  Sheetal held the letter out of reach.

  “Did my club members invite you to the Tuesday lunch—no? Along with the other daughters-in-law?”

  This was her chance to get even.

  “They could have easily told me and I would have told you. Absolutely no reason to mail you an invitation when we are in the same family and share the same last name, I tell you.”

  Sheetal pretended to read the letter again. “Oh, look! They’re inviting me to join the group. And...and”—she feigned excitement—“take over as president!”

  Mummyji’s forehead wrinkled. “Ai-ee! They...they...never told me anything. I will find out who is trying to overthrow me behind my back, I tell you, when I am president of the club and I should be making decisions.” She wagged a finger in the air. “Make them answer to me, I will.”

  “I’m happy to do a joint presidentship,” Sheetal suggested. “We can run the club together. That way you won’t have to give up your position.” Perhaps Mummyji would also agree to the idea of running the Dhanraj household together. Then Sheetal could control expenses.

  “You’re thinking of joining?”

  Sheetal shrugged. “I don’t really have time for all this since I’m a working woman and I have deadlines ahead.”

  “Really? I don’t see you as a working woman.” She emphasized “working” as if it were a contagion.

  “Oh. How do you see me then?”

  “Like myself, only less capable. Without the benefit of my experience and knowledge. Your painting is more like a hobby, I tell you, to help fill up your day without Yash. And next time you think of becoming president, start your own club, I tell you, as far away from mine as possible. I worked hard to build my life and reputation, I tell you. There were days when I had to go without food or extra clothes. The rain poured so hard my tin roof drummed all night and puddles, so many puddles, formed around my bed.” A tear drop clung to the corner of her eye and she drew closer. Do you know what it’s like to sleep with nothing but a thin cotton mattress between you and the cold, hard floor?”

  “I—”

  “Do you know what it’s like to manage with just three pairs of clothes? No. How could you? That’s why I’m still here with all the madness. Ashok tied me down to this family’s welfare and if I fail in my duties, I lose it all and become penniless again. I have lived the homeless life before, but never again.”

  Sheetal knew Mummyji came from the lower class and struck
it rich by becoming Ashok’s mistress and then wife, but she had no idea that Mummyji had grown up in the slums.

  “I wasn’t born rich either,” Sheetal blurted. “We didn’t have it easy. Papa worked hard to get us where we are today.”

  “Your father, no? Not you, I tell you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your father worked to get you where you are, but what did you do?”

  “I was only nine. What could I do? But what about your family? Where are they?”

  “My parents had nine children, seven girls and two boys. I was third in line and only fifteen when I was labeled ready for marriage. But after my second sister married, Baba had no money for my dowry. Not like you, Ms. Working Woman, who waltzed in with an Italian car for Rakesh, designer after designer wear, and truckloads of gold and silver.”

  Sheetal’s heart grated with guilt. Hadn’t Mummyji built those expectations for Mama and Papa to fulfill, and Mama and Papa had done their best to meet those expectations?

  “They sold me.”

  Sheetal blinked. “What do you mean, ‘sold you’?”

  “My Baba sold me to an upper-class family as a nanny for their children. But the husband was no good and began making eyes at me. I was young but smart, and before he could get his filthy hands on me, I ran away.”

  “Where?”

  “Ah...now you want to know where so you can poke fun at me and humiliate me, I tell you.”

  “No.”

  “Enough for you to know I survived cleaning people’s filthy dishes, washing clothes, sweeping, and mopping. And then I met Ashok, a good, kindhearted man. But tell me, can you do even half of what I did? Can you endure a life of real hardship?”

  Her heart welled in her throat. She hadn’t meant to hurt Mummyji.

  “You call yourself a working woman, no? Tell me, are all these paintings really work or a fraction of hard work, I tell you? Because I worked harder, much harder than you.”

  Sheetal opened her mouth but bubbles of air lodged in her throat.