A Scandalous Secret (15 page)

Later that evening, back in her room at Ananda, Neha stood looking out at the dusk falling on the valley as the phone behind her rang and rang. She knew it was Arif, calling to check on her welfare after the trek, but she simply did not have the heart to respond. It had been partially to avoid his questions that Neha had climbed into the front seat of the vehicle that had come to pick them up from the hilltop temple and she had spent most of the rest of the day in her room, pleading illness. She cancelled both the body scrub and the yoga session that had been booked earlier and, when the light headache she had nursed all day started to worsen, she ordered a salad lunch in her room. Off and on, the phone had rung and Neha guessed it was poor Arif, worrying about her. While Neha longed to talk to someone about her dilemma, she didn't think an American tourist, in India for the very first time, would either understand or be able to help in any way. Nevertheless, it would be sweet relief to be able to unload some of her burden. And so much easier to talk to someone she was very unlikely to ever meet again. Arif was, after all, a Vedanta enthusiast and in possession of a wise and philosophical bent of mind …

Neha finally lunged at the telephone to stop its incessant ringing. ‘Hello,' she said softly.

‘Heyyyy, are you okay? I've been worrying about you!' Arif's voice was friendly and cheerful.

Neha sank on the edge of her bed, wondering how to respond to such an innocent question. And one to which the answer was so very complicated. After a pause, she said, ‘It's really sweet of you to be enquiring, Arif, and I'm sorry I've been so aloof.'

‘That doesn't answer my question,' Arif insisted in his inimitable style.

Neha took a deep breath before replying, ‘Well, the honest answer is no, I'm not okay, Arif. But I'm not telling you what the problem is simply because there's nothing you – or anyone else for that matter – can do.'

‘Try me,' Arif said. When Neha remained silent, he added, ‘It was that phone call while we were on the trek, wasn't it?'

Tears started coursing down Neha's face and she tried stemming them by balling up a face towel to press over her eyes. She was sure Arif could hear her crying and she made another attempt to gather herself together. Finally she spoke, her voice shaking. ‘No, … it wasn't the phone call, Arif. That was from my husband, who also knows nothing about this problem of mine …' she trailed off and took a deep breath. ‘It's something that goes back much further … it's … what shall I say … it's a secret … a scandalous secret from my past …'

‘Neha, I'm coming to your room,' Arif said in a firm voice. ‘Whatever it is, you must know that I'm not going to judge you. But you need to talk. Something is eating you up and it's not right that you should be carrying this burden on your own. Can I come?' he asked.

Neha accepted his request, feeling immeasurable relief suddenly course through her body. She thought of the foolishness of unburdening her eighteen-year-old secret on someone she had barely met, but suddenly she knew that she had no other option if she wanted to keep from going mad.

In a few minutes, Arif was knocking at her door. Neha opened it and stood aside to let him in. He took the armchair in the corner of the room while Neha seated herself on the sofa opposite him. Outside, the valley had darkened to complete blackness and the lights of the village were starting to come on, one by one. Neha glanced hesitantly at Arif's face and saw nothing but his usual open and curious expression. Unusually, however, he was silent, giving her the opportunity to speak.

‘You won't judge me?' she asked.

Arif's eyes were sympathetic. ‘You know I won't,' he promised firmly.

Neha looked down at her hands, suddenly unable to meet such a clear and direct gaze. Playing with the rings Sharat had given her, she started to tell her story.

It was 1992, my eighteenth birthday party – the last time I was happy in a totally, absolutely unqualified way. We had a double celebration that night, marking not just my birthday but the admission offer from Oxford University too. The whole Chaturvedi clan had gathered – thirty-six of us – in the Blue Room of the Delhi Gymkhana and we ate and drank far too much, even Mama – normally so collected, so much in control – was tipsy on two glasses of wine, openly telling Satish Mama of how proud she was of me, much to my surprise. And the very next day, with my stomach still full of reshmi kebabs and chilli fish, I was taken to IGI airport to board my flight for England.

All twenty aunties and uncles didn't come to the airport, of course – it was a Saturday and businesses and offices had to be attended. But my gang of twelve cousins and a whole lot of friends and classmates turned up, overwhelmed with excitement as I was the first amongst us all to be going abroad to study. There was such a celebratory atmosphere at the airport but, as the time for my flight approached, Papa's excitement seemed to deflate a bit. Compared to the bright, blown-up exhilaration of the previous evening, he looked all shrivelled up and old and very, very anxious about letting me go. Mama kept him in check, even though
she too was not in best form. As for me, whatever anxiety I had felt throughout the process of preparing and packing for Oxford was quite suddenly gone, vanished into thin air. Maybe it was because Papa and Mama were doing all the worrying, but suddenly I was on top of the world. I felt so lucky, so blessed. Oxford University only happened to the luckiest of people, and I was one of them. I thought nothing or nobody could touch me.

Despite her distracted state, Mama still managed to corner me at the airport for some last-minute advice before I checked in: ‘Boys,' she said, ‘boys will chase you for one thing and one thing alone. So be careful, okay Neha?' I nodded. That was easy. Boys had never interested me that much anyway.

I made a friend on the flight. An Englishwoman who had been to a naturopathy centre in Gurgaon and was going back to start up something similar in Surrey. She gave me her address and said I was to visit if I was in the area, which was so sweet. It felt like a good omen that the first English person I had met was so nice. I was never really the chatty type but, so excited was I at the thought of flying to England, I talked to dozens of people on that flight, all the flight attendants, the people queuing up outside the toilet, everyone. And then, there we were, nine hours later, about to arrive in England! The place I had been reading about since I was five! Truly Blake's green and pleasant land, I thought as we circled Heathrow and I saw squares of green patched together in a soft swelling blanket.

A distant relative had been pressed into picking me up from Heathrow. Mummy and Papa had insisted, even though I had begged to be allowed to take a taxi or a coach, as instructed by the university literature sent to overseas students. Mahinder Tau-ji, Papa's elderly cousin, was standing at arrivals with a placard that had my name on it, and my
photograph that Papa had sent earlier to be quite sure he would not miss me. As Tau-ji and his son took me to their car with my suitcase, I could tell soon enough that they were a bit put out by having had to accommodate my arrival and, typically, Papa had not bothered to check that it was in fact quite a long journey they'd had to undertake to pick me up. So I insisted that they take me only as far as the gates of Wadham College and this seemed to please everyone.

‘You're sure you don't need us to come in and help sort your paperwork and rooms and all those things out?' Tinnu, the son, asked half-heartedly when we pulled into Oxford. He had already slipped into the conversation the fact that he was missing a local cricket match, so I shook my head vehemently.

‘No, no, it's fine, really. Mama and Papa were just worrying about me needlessly when they asked you to come. The university people have been great, they've already sent me all the information I need. And my suitcase has wheels so even that's not a problem. I'll be fine, really.'

It suited me fine. I really did want to be by myself when I walked into that quadrangle for the first time anyway. Who in their right mind would want to be accompanied by a dour old man and his surly son while stepping into the most golden moment of their life?

For me, it was like reliving scenes from all the many old films I'd pored over – like the race scene in
Chariots of Fire.
I'd watched that sequence so many times over, savouring not the excitement of the race so much, but the setting: the rectangular clipped green lawns, the college quad, the ancient ivy-clad walls, the students – all floppy-haired and fresh-faced, wearing stripey blazers and boaters – as they stood around the contestants, cheering. Back in India, while preparing for the UCAS application, I'd taken to watching
films set in Oxford and Cambridge and seeing myself in them, at first with a kind of pained uncertainty and then, since the arrival of the confirmation letter, with overwhelming excitement at the idea that I was finally on my way to being there myself. Of course, the scene in that film depicted Trinity College in Cambridge and I was going to Oxford but that was immaterial. I'd known all along that I would get to either Oxford or Cambridge and, beyond that, nothing else mattered at all. It went all the way back, in fact, to when I was six and my father first showed me a black-and-white picture of Oxford to ask if I'd like to study there someday. The picture of spires rising through dense tree cover made it seem like some heavenly paradise. But it was only as I grew that I realized its true significance. ‘Neha Chaturvedi, MA Oxon': I saw the words embossed in gold on the visiting card I would one day have. Letters that, my father said, would open up all kinds of doors in India when I returned with my degree.

I stood that day in the quadrangle of Wadham College, feeling ready to faint. I was finally there. There was a churning feeling in my stomach because I'd fantasized about that moment for so long, it was almost as though I was still dreaming. And then, in the middle of that strange and magical moment, I met Simon.

His voice came from behind me, a hesitant hello. I turned to see one of those floppy-haired boys from the movies, only without a boater and a blazer. Like me, he was in jeans, carried a suitcase in one hand and wore a lost expression on his face. ‘I'm looking for the college office,' he said.

‘I think this is it,' I replied, waving one hand at the building before us, even though I suspected that his opening line was only an excuse to talk to me as, unlike me, most other new pupils would have been to the college at least once before.

‘Oh, is it? What luck,' he replied, breaking into a suddenly impish expression and looking, I was sure, more closely at me than at the college building. ‘You're new here too?' he asked.

I had a sudden thought: I'd been solemnly promising my mother at the airport that I'd steer clear of English boys and, here I was, my very first afternoon in Oxford, allowing a boy to openly lie to me and run blue-green eyes up and down my person in a clearly appreciative manner. He seemed nice, though, and I decided to follow my hunch that he wasn't about to leap on me as Mummy seemed to fear would be the intention of all the boys I was going to meet in England. Completely ignoring her terse last-minute airport advice, I fell into step next to Simon as he pointed to a temporary sign around the quadrangle that was marked ‘Porter's Lodge'.

He told me his name was Simon Atkinson and that he was a fresher too, reading Chemistry. We walked together, the wheels of our suitcases clattering on the uneven paving as we went towards the office to enquire about our halls. That was the other thing Mummy had been anxious about: mixed halls, or what at Wadham appeared to be called ‘staircases', which is where the students lived. (‘What, girls and boys are not separated?' my mother had enquired when the college brochure first came, her forehead creased with worry.) Papa had been more blasé, his delight at my getting admission to Oxford University overwhelming all other concerns.

We got chatting, Simon and I, while awaiting our turn in the queue.

‘Delhi!? What brought an Indian lass all the way out here? Not Wadham's liberal credentials, surely?' he asked.

I wasn't sure what he meant but I told him about the Big
Oxford Dream my father had passed on to me. ‘It was always going to be either Oxford or Cambridge,' I explained to Simon, ‘my father's plan being to propel me towards the Indian Foreign Service, to become a diplomat, you see.'

I didn't go on to elaborate that my father was in the Indian Administrative Service and always considered it a lowlier profession, especially as two of his wealthier school-mates who went on to Oxford had made it to the Indian Foreign Service. Somewhere along the way, Papa's dreams for himself simply became his dreams for me. If I hadn't been an only child, perhaps that expectation would have lain on a brother but my mother had suffered from secondary infertility and, as their only child, I became the repository of all the hopes and dreams that my father might have reserved for a son.

‘Gosh, that's pretty focused,' Simon said. ‘I'm not at all sure of what I'll do after graduating. I certainly have no career plan right now!'

‘Really?' I asked him, not quite believing his nonchalant attitude. He must have been pretty clever to make it to Oxford so his casual statement surprised me.

‘Yeah,' he replied, however, with apparent sincerity, ‘all I know at the moment is that I'm at uni to have a bloody good time. Which is why I didn't want to do something like Economics. It would only make me sensible about money and prevent me being able to fully enjoy my college days. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to acquire a degree in BGT.'

‘BGT?' I asked, puzzled.

‘I told you: Bloody Good Time.'

I found his lackadaisical attitude startling but also rather refreshing. My own preparation for Oxford had taken all my life! Not just all my life but much of my parents' lives
too. We'd been lucky that the UCAS information, the essays and exams and even the final telephone interview had all been conducted under the careful guidance of Papa's two school friends who had been to Oxford. I couldn't have asked for finer mentors – Tippy Uncle called me every week from South Africa, where he was in the Indian mission, and Suri Uncle was in the Ministry of External Affairs in Delhi, always available at the end of a phone line. My coaching could not have been more personalized and intensive and, by the time I'd had the letter requesting a telephone interview with the tutors, both Tippy Uncle and Suri Uncle were already patting me on the back and congratulating what they called ‘The Team'. My family's combined three-way ambition was going to be achieved, finally.

I told Simon about some of that while we were queuing and, by the time we'd both been assigned our rooms, we were friends. He said he would ‘swing by' my staircase later on in the evening so we could explore ‘Oxford's watering holes'. Again, I only had a vague idea of what he meant but it felt really good to have someone I could consider a friend so early on in my college life.

Despite a bit of home-sickness (especially for the food), that first week at Wadham was actually great fun. Classes weren't going to start for a week and all everyone seemed interested in was what was called the ‘Freshers' Bop' which I realised as we went along was what we in India would have called a dance party. Music and food and drink and what the English seemed to love doing: fancy dress. I was a naturally shy person but Oxford life was bringing out new qualities and confidence in me. I also befriended a really lovely pair of girls called Clare and Nicki, who shared the room next door to mine. The college had given me a tiny single room but placed them together – they thought
probably because they were both from Suffolk, Nicki saying, ‘To most of these Oxford dons, that's a foreign land'. They were very sweet and protective about me, taking me under their wing because I knew so little about life in England. We became a threesome on our staircase and Simon kind of tagged along. His digs were in the Bowra Building, at the back of the college, but he turned up on our staircase at what Nicki (who was the funny one) called ‘the drop of a boater'. We didn't mind. Simon was the gregarious type and through him we met all sorts of wild and interesting people. But, even though Simon had so many friends, I was a bit flattered that he spent all evening at the Freshers' Bop attached to my side and supplying Clare, Nicki and me with drinks throughout the night.

Once classes began, it started to get quite busy. I enrolled in all kinds of societies and clubs but never lost sight of how important it was to do well academically. So much effort had gone into my being at Oxford, I couldn't mess around. Simon, on the other hand, was clearly applying himself to the business he had come to Oxford for, his degree in BGT. He started asking me out on dates – innocent enough, movies and picnics – but I resisted, telling him quite honestly about how it would upset and worry my family back home in India if they thought I was neglecting my studies in order to go steady with someone. He seemed to understand, apparently contented enough to hang around me whenever he could. Nicki and Clare joined the water-polo team. I didn't because I'd never been the sporty type and Simon was clearly delighted because it left us together as a twosome a lot of the time. I had my first kiss at this time, six weeks into term; Simon and I had spent the afternoon reading in my room and, quite suddenly, he reached out and kissed me on the lips. I wasn't especially shocked or anything. I mean, it had
definitely been brewing for some time so I half expected it. But, when he started to wriggle his tongue into my mouth and run his hand over my breasts, I pulled away and told him I wasn't enjoying it. He was hurt, I think, but took it with good grace and, after less than an hour's awkwardness, we were friends again and off on a long cycle ride around Oxford. He was like that, Simon, so puppy-like in his adoration and so eager to please. Looking back, I ask myself why I wasn't more tempted by the idea of him as a boyfriend, but then he wasn't the only distraction. In fact, it was amazing how much diversion was on offer all the time; a fancy dress party or ball almost every weekend, crazy drinking sessions in the bars and pubs around the college (I stuck to the OJ, with an occasional glass of wine) but most of the students were bright enough and focused enough to carry on with their research and their studies alongside all the socialising. Certainly Simon kept getting decent enough grades despite hanging around our staircase so much, don't ask me how. It might sound arrogant but I suppose we were the crème de la crème, those of us who'd got into Oxford. Even now I remember that feeling – so blind and so very foolish – of being young and smart and clever and so on top of the world that no one and nothing could ever topple us …