Monsoon Memories (10 page)

Shirin looked at the pudgy, dark-skinned girl staring back at her and wished she could see what Madhu obviously saw.

‘Anita’s is better,’ she had whispered.

‘Anita is fair,’ Madhu had said in a tone which brooked no argument, ‘but she doesn’t have your flawless complexion.’

Something of hers better than Anita’s! Even though Shirin didn’t quite believe Madhu—Madhu was inclined to be partial to her—when she looked back at her reflection, she found that the girl in the mirror really
did
glow.

Shirin shook her head to clear the bathroom mirror of the reflections of her childhood self and of Madhu; sweet Madhu. She wished she could rid her heart of the ache as easily, the longing to have Madhu wrap her in her arms, to whisper in her ears that everything would be all right.

This last week had been an emotional rollercoaster, the days leading up to this one taking their toll on her. Revisiting memories, like reuniting with old, much-loved friends ignited in her a yearning, a hunger which only Madhu’s cooking, the feel of Madhu’s arms, Jacinta’s forgiving smile, seeing Reena, would satiate.

And the googling. Her brother. So close she could touch him. Why had she done that? Perhaps Vinod was right. Perhaps after all these years she was ready. To go back. But was it right? Would she be doing the right thing by
her
?
Reena…
Shirin sat down, suddenly weary. She rested her head against the door, closed her eyes. The faint tang of vomit mixed in with Mr Muscle tickled her nostrils, made her want to sneeze. Pungent. Brittle. Like…
No
… The sound of chappals hitting feet as they approached. Slap. Slap. Slappety-slap.
No. Please, no.
They reared up at her, mocking. The Eyes...

She used to see them so often in the beginning. She had fled halfway round the world, away from everything she knew, all that was familiar, and they had followed right along. The first few months in the UK, she had sprayed the apartment with tubes and tubes of Glade, to rid it of the smell that seemed to haunt her. She stopped going to bed, choosing instead to stay in the living room and watch mind-numbing television reruns, volume turned up loud to drown out the sound of chappals: thwack, thwack, thwack; the hoarse, noisy breaths: harsh, incessant; and the visions of eyes that followed her everywhere. There had been nights when Vinod had stayed up with her, and others when he had awakened in the early hours of the morning to try and persuade her to come to bed, only to find her fast asleep on the sofa, the TV chattering away in the background. He had started carrying her to their bedroom. (She still wondered how he’d managed that; even if she was then the thinnest she had ever been.) She’d got used to waking up in her own bed, even though she’d fallen asleep on the sofa, and gradually the nightmare had retreated, though it had never gone away completely. Moving to this house had helped.

She remembered when they first came to view it. It was a new construction, a three-bedroom house, ‘Perfect for a young couple looking to start a family,’ the estate agent had said. Shirin had walked through the rooms, sparkling new and fresh. ‘And this room is just the right size for the nursery,’ the estate agent had announced, and for a split second, Shirin had gazed into a future filled with children and love and laughter, instead of dwelling on the past and all that had gone before. She had looked up at Vinod then, seen his face break into a joyous smile. He’d crossed the room in three long strides and enveloped her in a bear hug.

‘What?’ she’d asked, feeling claustrophobic and pushing against his chest.

‘You smiled. A proper, genuine, smile,’ he’d replied, releasing her, beaming.

‘So, what do you think?’ the estate agent had asked.

Vinod had looked at her, waiting. And she had nodded slowly, standing in the room she already thought of as the nursery and realising with wonder that the sudden light feeling in her chest was hope.

Hope. One small word that fooled you into believing you could make dreams that you had no business wanting come true, that one day your home would reverberate with laughter, noise and children’s harmless mischief, that somehow you would not be punished for your mistakes, that you would escape unscathed...

That’s enough
. There was no point dwelling on things she couldn’t change. Her stomach rumbled loudly reminding her that she needed some sustenance and making her glad she was at home, alone where nobody could hear it. Resolutely she walked past the closed doors of the two empty bedrooms, down the stairs and into her big, airy, deafeningly silent kitchen and put the kettle on.

* * *

Clutching the mug—Christmas present from Kate:
You will always be my friend; you know too much
—in one hand, the receiver in the other, she dialled Kate’s number. ‘Are you free to talk?’

Kate’s voice, sounding rushed: ‘Give me five minutes.’

She called back in exactly five minutes. ‘I’m in the smokers’ corner. It stinks. Are you all right? Anne told me you weren’t feeling well. Was it seeing Jenny?’ Kate asked, without pausing to take a breath.

Shirin heard bursts of laughter, a distant shout. She pictured Kate, sitting on the bench furthest from the door, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, phone pressed to her ear, her brows puckered in concern. ‘Partly.’ And, in a rush, ‘Kate... I cannot live like this any longer. I want to go home.’

‘You’re serious?’

‘Yes,’ Shirin whispered.

A pause and then Kate, sounding tentative, ‘You said you’re not welcome...’

‘I did. I’m not welcome.’

‘Are you sure? Perhaps it’s all water under the bridge now.’

Sweet Kate. Always looking for the silver lining. ‘None of them have made contact, Kate.’

‘Well, then.’ Snatches of someone whistling as she waited for Kate to speak, ‘Do you really think it is a good idea, Shirin? You are happy now, very different from the girl I knew once, afraid of her own shadow. The memories are coming back and
you
own
them
rather than the other way round. Why go back, destroy what you have built, the person you have become?’

* * *

‘Jenny returned to work today. She brought pictures of her baby. A little girl. Mia. Very cute,’ Shirin said.

They were sitting side by side on the sofa watching television. Not touching.

Vinod turned to look at her. She stared resolutely at the screen.

‘That must have been hard,’ Vinod said.

‘Twelve people were killed when a car bomb exploded in Kandahar,’ the news presenter announced, his face expressionless, his voice a monotone.

‘Worse things happen all the time,’ Shirin wanted to say. ‘I left the office at lunch time. I was sick with longing. Literally,’ she wanted to say. But she couldn’t find the words.

Vinod extended a hand towards her, wanting to touch her, to offer comfort the only way he knew how.

Don’t,
she thought.
Please don’t.

He heard her unspoken words. His hand dropped to his side, palm bunched into a fist. The pain in his eyes mirrored hers. She suddenly, desperately wanted to make him smile.

‘Did you have those blue-green soda bottles with marble stoppers in Bangalore when you were growing up?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Why?’ He turned, stared at her. ‘Have you been remembering...?’

She nodded. ‘All the time now. Anything sets me off. Even the picture of a Stella Artois bottle.’

Vinod smiled. It made him look years younger. ‘It reminded you of the soda bottles?’

‘Uh-huh. What would the nuns have to say about that?’

Vinod chuckled; a joyous gurgling sound from deep within him, like the rainwater stream in Ananthanna’s field when it pushed against the makeshift dam she, Deepak and Anita had made with stones and sticks and mud.

‘I... I googled them up today.’

Vinod’s hand snaked along the sofa. ‘Who?’

‘I found Deepak. Well, not really. Three lines about him. Senior Software Engineer, Hewlett Packard, Hosur Road.’

Vinod looked at her, held her gaze. ‘The healing process is working its magic,’ he said softly.

A watery smile. ‘Do you think they will have forgiven me, Vinod?’

Vinod, sounding impatient, ‘You did nothing wrong.’

He had repeated that sentence to her so many times over the years. Why couldn’t she believe him? The Eyes loomed large. Accusing.

‘The past cannot stay hidden forever, Shonu.’ Vinod said, softly, ‘Reena will find out one day, ask questions.’

Reena.
Shirin wanted to reach out, protect her from the truth.

‘Did you get an email address for Deepak?’ Vinod asked.

‘No.’

‘Maybe you should. Contact him.’

‘They may not...’
want anything to do with me
. ‘Nothing has changed.’

‘Time. It works its magic, Shonu.’ Vinod smiled softly. ‘Look at us. Last year, hell, even last month, we wouldn’t have been discussing this...’

She hadn’t been able to talk about the past with Vinod, despite extensive counselling, and it had lain between them. A gulf as wide as the distance between India and the UK.

‘Even a mention of India on TV, and you would change the channel... Before, you definitely wouldn’t have googled them...’

No.

‘You are ready. Find out if they are.’

‘Kate thinks I should leave it.’

‘She means well, but she doesn’t realise just how much you miss them, miss her… Reena.’ And softly, ‘She has the right to know you, Shonu.’

Her heart jumped. Panic? Hope? ‘I just want to see her, is all. I don’t want her to know...’

Vinod banged the table with his fist. ‘It wasn’t your fault. You did nothing wrong. That’s the truth. Tell her the truth. It’s about time they all accepted it.’

I left her. I came here. How do I explain to an eleven-year-old why I did what I did?
She stared at the TV. Dust. Desert. Devastation.

‘I’m sorry...’ Vinod’s voice. Soft. Abashed.

She looked up at him, at his greying hair, his eyes ringed with tiredness. ‘No. I am.’

‘Stop blaming yourself, Shonu.’

I left her.
No amount of counselling had rid her of the guilt. She nodded. ‘Yes.’

Vinod flexed the hand that rested casually on the sofa behind her. The tips of his fingers rested lightly on the nape of her neck, raising goosebumps. ‘Come to bed,’ he said.

CHAPTER TEN

Maggi Noodles and Bournvita

OCTOBER

P
lan C: Find Aunt Anita and ask her about Aunt Shirin.

Progress so far: Found Aunt Anita’s number in the phone book. Tried calling but it’s either been engaged or busy or gone unanswered. Will keep trying. Hitch: The only time this detective can use the phone undisturbed is when parents are not around, which amounts to a very tiny window of time when Mum is gossiping with neighbour.

Other avenues explored: This is how Aunt Shirin might look now. Sketch drawn based on the photograph and taking into account the time that has passed between then and now. Hitch: This detective is skilled at detection but not as skilled at drawing, hence the picture is not very realistic. This detective imagines subject to be a cross between Kareena Kapoor and Aishwarya Rai, her two favourite Bollywood leading ladies. Golden Rule: DO NOT get emotionally involved with the subject. Hitch: Detective already emotionally involved. Subject is her hitherto unknown aunt.

Aunt Anita called just after Reena had got home from school. Reena, having tried calling Aunt Anita while surreptitiously checking that her mum was still outside chatting, was having her usual snack of Maggi Noodles and Bournvita while musing over the lack of progress in her first proper case as Detective Reena Diaz, Super Sleuth.

She worried every time she called Aunt Anita’s number as to what she would say if she actually answered the phone. ‘Um, ah, I was wondering, where is your sister? Why don’t any of you mention her? What has she done?’ Aunt Anita was fun, approachable—more like a glamorous older sister than an aunt. Even so… how would she react if Reena suddenly questioned her about an aunt she wasn’t supposed to know existed, whom they had all wiped so completely from their lives? And then, Reena chastised herself, would a
real
detective worry so? A
real
detective would have marched straight to Deepak with the evidence of his lie—the picture—and demanded to know the truth. The problem with this mystery was that it was too close for comfort. She couldn’t imagine Nancy Drew or for that matter, even Poirot or Miss Marple—now that she was eleven, she had permission to read Agatha Christie, ‘As long as the books don’t give you nightmares,’—landing such a complicated case: The case of the Mystery Aunt (she had since changed the name from the rather long initial one) as their debut. She would have been better off solving a safe, neat murder mystery that didn’t involve any of her family even remotely. She wouldn’t have been worried then, felt that worm of unease uncoil in her stomach when she heard Aunt Anita’s number ring. She would have just marched right on, interrogating suspects, examining clues, honing in on the murderer.

She was having a second helping of masala Maggi noodles to cheer up and chase away dark thoughts of never finding her aunt Shirin—her mother had cooked the noodles just the way she liked, with plenty of potatoes, capsicum, peas and tomato chilli sauce—while simultaneously drinking her Bournvita in great big gulps, when the phone rang.

She managed a ‘Hello,’ while swallowing a mouthful of hot chocolate, burning her tongue and throat in the process.

‘Reena? Is that you? You sound so grown-up!’

Aunt Anita! The worm of unease became a serpent.

‘Um… ah…’
Super Sleuths are never lost for words. What is wrong with you?

‘Where’s your mum?’ Aunt Anita sounded odd.

Ask her about Aunt Shirin.
‘She’s outside gossiping with Mrs. Gupta as usual. Are you returning my call?’

‘Your call? Princess, I really need to talk to your mum…’