The Dowry Bride (19 page)

Megha pressed her arm. “Didn’t I tell you not to say such things about your sister?”

“She doesn’t have one nice thing to say about me.”

Changing the subject, Megha said, “I’ll go help your mother with the food.”

Megha couldn’t help feeling sorry for Mala. The girl needed companionship and looked to her for support. Mala loved fashion magazines and movie-star gossip, the latest in clothes and American music. She had nobody to talk to although she had a sister nearer her age than Megha. Mala didn’t seem to have any close friends either. Megha was the only one in the family who showed any interest in any of her favorite subjects. The two of them got along well. Somehow, at all the crazy family parties and frequent get-togethers, they gravitated towards each other. Kiran would join them when their talk turned to sports and movies. The three of them made a good team. Too bad they weren’t all siblings.

As Megha assisted Devayani in setting up the table, she saw movement at the front door from the corner of her eye, and looked up to see Kiran striding in. He was very late. In fact, he was probably the last guest to arrive. As always, he looked striking in well-pressed tan slacks and a tobacco-brown, open-neck shirt. He stood on the threshold and let his eyes sweep over the crowded room until they fell on Megha. A smile touched his face. She nodded and looked away.

Dinner was elaborate. Several varieties of vegetable curries, rice, breads, pickles, salads and desserts graced the table. A long line formed at the buffet. Devayani beamed at all the guests. “Everybody, eat well and come back for seconds and thirds, okay?” she urged, in keeping with old-fashioned Hindu hospitality.

The ice cream cake was brought out last, a huge rectangle with thirteen pink candles and one white one for good luck. Devayani dragged a scowling Mala toward the cake and the guests formed a circle around her. After the birthday song and the candle-blowing were over, Devayani clapped her hands to silence the chattering crowd. “Thank you, all, for coming today. It is a very special and significant day for the Rao family. It is very sad that my mother-in-law, Mala’s grandmother, is still in the nursing home and cannot join us in the celebration. Our little Mala is not only thirteen today but she is now officially a young lady. Please enjoy the party and the cake will be served as soon as we cut it up.”

Mala’s hand trembled and her face turned an angry red. Abruptly bursting into tears, she pushed through the crowd and scrambled up the stairs.

The guests fell silent and gaped, watching Mala’s back as she raced up the steps and disappeared over the landing. Nobody spoke for a full second. Devayani broke into a taut smile. “Mala’s a bit nervous, no? Everybody, come on, have some cake before it melts.”

The anxious looks and strained clearing of throats stopped. The folks went back to their original places and the party continued on.

Megha quietly slipped away upstairs. She knocked on Mala’s door and found it unlocked. “Mala, are you okay?” she whispered. There was no response. She knew Mala wasn’t asleep—the sound of sniffling said so. So she proceeded inside and shut the door, then sat on the edge of the bed where Mala lay on her stomach, her face buried in a pillow. “Mala, it’s okay. Everyone has forgotten about it already. They’re all eating and socializing like it never happened.”

Mala’s round body slowly turned over and she lay on her back, facing Megha. Her tear-stained face looked puffy. “I don’t want to go back there.”

Megha’s heart ached to see this young girl crying because the world knew her secret. Some customs were so humiliating and unnecessary. “I’m sure they’ll understand if you don’t return.” Megha smiled conspiratorially. “You know what?”

“What?”

She pushed the damp hair off Mala’s face. “One good thing about this is that they’ll expect you to behave a bit strangely. Hormonal changes in a woman are an excellent excuse for any kind of odd behavior.”

She was relieved when Mala, instead of pouting, snorted a laugh. “That’s good then. Tell them I’m tired and I want to sleep.”

Megha rose from the bed. “I’ll tell your mother that. Do you want me to get you anything before I go downstairs? Do you have any cramps or anything?”

“Not anymore. I had them earlier and I took some pills.”

“Maybe you can come visit us sometime this week. Remember, you had asked if I could help you with your essay on India’s democratic election process?”

Mala nodded. “After school on Thursday? I still need help.”

When Megha went back downstairs, a frowning Devayani cornered her. “Megha, did you talk to her?” When Megha nodded, she asked, “Is she okay?”

“She’s all right.”

“What did she say?” Devayani still looked anxious.

“She’s a bit tired from the excitement and a little overwhelmed by all this.” Megha gestured to indicate the drawing room. “She said to tell you she wants to sleep and doesn’t want to come downstairs.”

Devayani bit her lower lip for a second, her brows drawn in contemplation. Then she turned around and went back to the drawing room.

Megha watched her make her way toward Amma and Kamala. The three women huddled to whisper. As Megha looked on, she felt that familiar, eerie feeling creep up her neck. The women took turns taking covert peeks at her and went back to whispering. They were talking about her again. It hurt so much when they did that—alienated her and whispered about her, right there where she could see them. For some reason she had never fitted in with the family. After spending a year in their midst, she still felt it was her against them. Or was it them against her, the oddity that didn’t belong?

Feeling a deep need for some fresh air, Megha made her way to the kitchen, slipped out the back door and into the garden. The atmosphere in the house was stifling. The lingering food odors and the heat and noise from so many bodies crammed into a limited space were beginning to bring on a headache. Her stomach seemed to be a bit on the rebellious side, too. She walked around the side of the house to the flower garden in the front.

The night air felt refreshing and fragrant with the scent of Devayani’s roses,
champak
and jasmine. The nearby streetlight cast a cool glow on the tiny, white, night-blooming jasmine clusters. But Megha felt worn-out. She was always tired lately. By the middle of the afternoon she felt like every ounce of strength was drained. The evenings seem to drag and at night she collapsed into bed from exhaustion.

Strolling up to the wrought iron fence, she crossed her arms over the rail. It felt slightly damp from the ever-present fog. Inhaling the cool, scented air made her nausea recede a bit. There was a slight breeze and the
champak
tree’s leaves rustled. She gazed at the moon, which looked pale tonight. There was a hazy ring around it, lending it a mysterious air. It was not a night for loneliness and sighing over silly wishes. It was a perfect night for lovers—to link arms, to laugh and moon-gaze together. But then, she was always a hopeless romantic. Appa was probably right—her brain was influenced by too many sentimental movies and novels.

Suresh would probably snort in contempt at her silly notions if she ever suggested anything remotely romantic like a walk in the moonlight. They’d never even had a honeymoon. They had gone to Tirupati for two days immediately after the wedding, but that was mainly to pray for Lord Balaji’s blessings at the famous Tirupati Temple.

Naturally Amma, Appaji and Shanti had tagged along. It was the old-fashioned way—the family accompanying the newlyweds. The only privacy Suresh and she had been accorded during those two days was a private room in the hotel where they had stayed. Thank goodness, at least Amma hadn’t invaded their nights. If she had, Megha would most likely still be a virgin.

“Hello, Megha.” The voice came from behind her.

Jolted out of her reverie, Megha stifled a cry of alarm and pivoted around.

It was Kiran. “You needed to get away from that madhouse, huh?” he said.

She swallowed in relief. “Kiran, y-you scared me to death!”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Have you been standing there long?” He stood a few feet away, beside the burly trunk of the
champak
tree, hands in his pockets. The dense shadow cast by the branches made him nearly invisible. No wonder she hadn’t noticed him earlier.

“Only about a minute. I was on my way out to my car and noticed you gazing at the moon. You looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to disturb you right away.”

“That’s okay.”

“I’m not in the habit of watching women on the sly, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Of course not! I was a little startled, that’s all.”

“Are you all right?” His voice took on a concerned note. “You look a little…tired.”

“I have a headache and needed some fresh air.”

“Would you like me to get you a painkiller from the house? For the headache, I mean.”

She shook her head. “No thanks. I’m feeling better already.” He was so kind and thoughtful, it amazed her. Suresh had never made her such an offer.

Apparently satisfied with her answer, Kiran moved on to another subject. “Poor Mala looked mortified.”

Megha shrugged. “Antiquated Hindu customs…you know. They can be crude at times.”

“I wonder why people continue to follow such ridiculous traditions.”

“In the olden days, it was more or less an announcement to the world that a certain young girl was healthy and normal, and ready to take on the responsibilities of marriage and motherhood, an invitation of sorts to the families of eligible young men to come bride-hunting. But in this day and age it’s unnecessary.”

“I agree. And how do
you
know so much about such things, Megha?”

“One of my subjects in college was sociology. I like to know what different societies around the world do and why. Many other cultures celebrate this coming-of-age milestone, especially tribal cultures.”

Kiran smiled. “I see you have a curious mind.” He inclined his head at the house. “Is Mala still upset?”

“She seems okay now. I checked on her before I stepped out.”

Kiran came to stand beside Megha. “You’re a kind girl, Megha. I’m sure you were the only one who offered her support.” His eyes traveled boldly over her for a second. “By the way, you look very pretty this evening.”

She was surprised by her own sharp intake of breath. “Th-thank you, Kiran…but—”

“But what?”

“You shouldn’t say things like that. I’m your cousin’s wife—your sister-in-law in essence.”

He laughed. “My cousin’s wife happens to be a beautiful woman and I’m merely stating a fact. Anything wrong with that?”

She fidgeted with her bangles. “Maybe in America such things are acceptable, but it’s not right. It…it’s not really wrong, I suppose, but it’s just that other people won’t think of it like that. If Amma heard you, I’d be dead.”

He chuckled again. “Why?”

“She won’t chastise you for making a forward statement. She’ll automatically think I’m encouraging you to say things like that.”

Kiran dismissed her comment with an exasperated wave of a hand. “Forget Amma, will you? Who cares what she thinks?”

“I do, Kiran. I have to. She’s my mother-in-law. If I make her unhappy, I have to pay the price.” Her eyes darted about, brimming with nervous apprehension. “I better go back inside before they notice we’re both missing. Those sharp female eyes and ears are likely to draw the wrong conclusion. They’re already busy gossiping about me.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You mean my aunts and my mother?”

“Exactly.”

“Did you get a chance to hear what they were saying?”

“No. If they’re talking about me they’re not likely to do it when I’m within hearing distance, are they?”

“You’re sure they were talking about you?”

“Very sure. They kept throwing quick glances at me every now and then while they whispered. You know what I mean, Kiran. You can tell when someone’s talking about you.”

“So, the old ladies are at it again.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What do you mean
again?
You know something about it then?”

He shook his head. “Not really. If I did, I’d tell you.”

She shot him a wary look before turning to go back inside the house. “I better go in before Amma comes outside looking for me. Goodnight, Kiran.”

“Megha, wait a second.” He stretched his arm and plucked a
champak
flower off one of the lower branches of the tree—a pale yellow blossom with long, tapered petals. “Here, smell this. It has the most amazing scent.” When she didn’t make a move he picked up her hand and placed the flower in it.

A faint gasp escaped her throat once again. “Oh…I can’t accept flowers from you, Kiran!”

“Stop fretting, Megha. It’s not a gift or anything. No need to panic.”

She stared at her palm for a second, looking undecided. Then she turned on her heel and ran all the way back inside the house, conscious of Kiran’s eyes following her.

Setting aside her memories of their unplanned but interesting conversation on that moonlit night, Megha stole a glance at Kiran as he drove her home from her emotional meeting with Harini. Did today’s flowers remind him of that scene in his uncle’s garden? Was that why he had bought them for her? She couldn’t tell because his eyes remained on the crowded road ahead.

She sent him a grateful smile. “I appreciate the flowers. Where did you get them?”

“I bought them from the young man who sells them on the corner.”

“The blind boy who sits outside the tailor shop, you mean? I often bought flowers for Amma’s
puja
from him. His name is Shashank.” What a coincidence, Megha thought. Or was it deliberate on Kiran’s part? Shashank meant moon, and she knew Kiran was aware of the fact. Was he trying to send her some sort of message?

“Shashank, huh?” Kiran turned his head briefly to glance at Megha. “Interesting, isn’t it?” And the expression in his eyes said he remembered their encounter in the moonlit garden all too well.

P
anic swept over Megha as she heard footsteps approaching the front door. She had been living in Kiran’s flat in relative safety for a few weeks and she had just now begun to relax. Life had fallen into a semi-comfortable pattern. Kiran was away at work most of the day and came home quite late on most evenings. She cooked, cleaned and dusted the flat, and did the dishwashing and laundry. To keep his parents from suspecting anything, Kiran religiously continued with his weekly visits to their home and also to the nursing home to visit his grandmother.

Megha had learned to recognize the footsteps of the people who lived upstairs, the postman who delivered the mail to each individual flat in the afternoons, the milkman who left the bottles outside the door every morning, and the servants who worked for various residents of the building. Kiran had informed his own servant that he didn’t need his services until further notice. He wanted Megha to feel safe. Besides, Megha had insisted on doing all the housework in return for his kindness. He had not wanted her to do anything other than the cooking, but she’d been adamant, so he had conceded.

She paused in the midst of her chores to listen closely to the footfalls. Hoping it was one of the neighbors, she held her breath. When the sound came close enough for her to be convinced that it was not someone going to the neighboring flat, she shut off the gas burner and without thinking picked up the pan of milk heating on the stove. She nearly screamed in pain and dropped the hot pan back on the stove with a thud. The milk sloshed dangerously in the pan, spilling a small amount on the stove.

Meanwhile, the ominous sound of a bunch of keys being fished out of somewhere became clearly audible outside the door.

Could it be Kiran, she wondered? No, those were not his footsteps, and he always called her ahead of time to warn her that he was on his way, just so he wouldn’t frighten her. It was also too early for him to come home. This was someone else. Who else had a key? She had no idea. She began to shake. Hastily using the edge of her sari to pick up the hot pan once again, she shoved it inside one of the kitchen cabinets, shut the door, and raced to the bedroom.

She needed a place to hide. Her desperate eyes swept over the bedroom. The armoires were too small for her to fit in. The bathroom! But, what if this person coming in the door needed to use the bathroom? Dear God in heaven, where could she hide?

The front door opened and someone walked in. The door’s click and squeak were unmistakable.

Realizing the only place she could possibly remain hidden was under the bed, Megha hit the floor and crawled underneath it. There were two large empty suitcases stored there, leaving very little room for her. Frantic to keep herself hidden, she scrunched her body into a tight little ball and slid as far back from the doorway as possible. Her elbow bumped into the hard surface of a suitcase and she bit her tongue to keep herself from groaning.

The edges of the bedspread did not quite make it to the floor, allowing a view of what was underneath, if one wanted to look for something there. Megha’s heart thumped in alarm. The sound of her own heartbeat echoing in her ears was so loud, she was afraid the person now entering the flat could hear it, too. Her knees were pressed close to her chest and her cheek butted against the edge of one suitcase as she lay in a fetal position, her sari pulled tightly around her so its bright blue color wouldn’t show.

Closing her eyes for a split second, she prayed.
God, please…let it not be Amma…

She heard the front door shut and then the footsteps headed toward the kitchen. It definitely wasn’t Kiran. He always called out her name as soon as he came in the door. Besides, there was a gentler sound to this person’s movements. The footsteps were confident, yet soft, very soft, not like Kiran’s purposeful, masculine tread.

Her mouth turned dry. Amma! But the gentle, silky steps couldn’t be Amma’s.

A burglar then! What was she going to do if he found her there? He was bound to look under the bed. Wasn’t that where a lot of people hid their valuables? He would surely kill her. Her heartbeat went up another notch. But then, the person had used keys to get in. A burglar wouldn’t have keys to the house. It had to be someone who had free access to the flat. But who? The blood continued to pound away in her head.

Megha’s eyes turned wide with alarm when the person’s feet went towards the stove and stopped at the exact spot where she had been standing moments ago. What she saw was even more shocking: the hem of a pale gray sari and a pair of expensive and elegant mid-heeled sandals peeking out from under it.

A woman! Damn it! What was a woman doing in Kiran’s flat? Did he have a girlfriend and had conveniently forgotten to mention the fact to Megha? In spite of the nearly paralyzing fear, Megha felt a vaguely familiar twinge go through her. Jealousy—the same bitter, corrosive kind she’d felt when the salesgirl at the store had flirted with Kiran. The woman standing at the stove certainly had a key, and the way she’d confidently marched in indicated that she knew her way about the flat very well.

So who the hell was she? Girlfriend, that’s who she was! She had to be. Damn!

Megha nearly passed out when she heard the woman exclaim to herself. “Oh dear! This boy has spilled milk on the stove.”

She knew that voice. Kamala! Kiran’s mother was in the kitchen!

Megha’s heart did a terrified flip. Kamala had obviously discovered the milk Megha had spilled in her frantic efforts to hide the partially heated pot. Was the milk still warm, and would the hot stove give her presence away? In a tight frenzy, her brain hunted for a way to explain her presence to Kamala if she were to discover her under the bed.

And she realized there was no explanation. There was no way in the world to justify a young, married, female relative’s presence under Kiran’s bed. Megha was supposed to be missing, no less. Amma had spread the word around that Megha had disappeared. Kamala was Amma’s sister-in-law, friend and sympathizer. Put the two together and it spelled disaster.

What was Kiran’s mother doing here, anyhow? Megha could have sworn that Kiran had told her only one or two other people had keys to his flat. Well, how was Megha to know that his mother was one of them? She prayed again that Kamala would not enter the bedroom. But knowing what a devoted mother Kamala was, Megha knew it was wishful thinking. The bedroom door was ajar and Kamala was bound to come in to check on her precious son’s room.

Megha’s dread increased when she noticed one of the armoires in the bedroom was partly open. Kiran must have left it like that after he had got dressed for work that morning. Although she was crouching on the floor, Megha could still see the edges of her new outfits hanging in the armoire, side-by-side with Kiran’s suits and formal jackets. She recalled the time Kiran had insisted that she hang them there. Their combined clothes in close proximity to each other in the confined space were a bit too intimate for Megha’s comfort. But Kiran had convinced her that her lovely new outfits would be crushed and ruined if she folded them into tight bundles and shoved them into the chest of drawers.

Now Kamala was here, going through her son’s house, and she was sure to find the colorful, feminine outfits. Megha’s world would come to an end. Kamala was an astute woman and would surely guess about Megha’s presence in the flat. The police would come and drag her back to Amma’s house, so Amma could finally derive her pleasure from watching Megha’s skin singe and scorch and hiss, one tiny millimeter at a time.

At the grisly thought, Megha trembled. No, she couldn’t allow that to happen. She wouldn’t allow it! If it meant standing up to Kiran’s mother, she would do it.

She watched Kamala’s movements in silence. Her soft, well-preserved feet in their expensive sandals went back and forth in the kitchen as she cleaned the milky mess on the stove. Or at least, that’s what Megha assumed, since she couldn’t see anything higher than Kamala’s ankles, and the kitchen tap was turned on and off a few times. Her breath painfully trapped inside her throat, in the next second she noticed Kamala’s feet coming directly towards her. They came to stand by the bed, right before Megha’s petrified eyes.

Kiran’s mother stood there for what seemed like eons. What was she doing there, where Megha could literally see the color of her nail polish and count the number of gold threads in the fine border of the sari?

Megha held her breath taut until her chest hurt from the pressure. And still the older woman did not move. All at once, Kamala turned on her heel and walked out of the room. The gray hem and heels disappeared into the dining area.

Gradually Megha exhaled all that oxygen she had held inside herself for so long. It didn’t appear that Kamala had noticed the partly open armoire. But the woman was still in the flat—she still posed a serious threat. Megha was trapped under the bed, praying that Kamala would go away quickly.

What would she do if Kamala decided to stay until Kiran got home?

Finally, just when she thought she was about ready to come out screaming from under the bed and beg Kamala to end the torture of waiting and call the police, she heard the footsteps fading away and the front door being opened and then a moment later being shut. Another familiar squeak and click sounded. Still powerless to believe she was all alone again Megha let a few tense moments go by before she found the courage to crawl out from under the bed.

There was a thin layer of dust gathered on top of the suitcases and her sari was coated with it in places. She brushed it off. The dust flew about her, the particles dancing in the sunlight and making her sneeze. She was lucky that sneeze hadn’t erupted earlier. She ran to the bedroom window, hid behind the curtain and peeked outside. Kamala was climbing into the back seat of the Raos’ car. A second later the chauffeured vehicle drove away.

Megha’s body went limp with relief. She slumped against the window frame and then slid down to the floor. She wondered if this was how it felt to be near death and come back to earth. She had lived through this one ordeal. How many more were there to come? How long could she continue to stay in Kiran’s flat undetected?

Once again she sneezed. Being a superstitious sort, she took it to be a bad omen. She was sure to be discovered. It was only a matter of time. Pondering the thought, she let her head rest on her raised knees for a while.

Exactly what had Kamala been checking out in this room? Curious to find out, Megha returned to the bed and positioned herself exactly where Kamala had stood a few minutes before and looked around the room. The armoire door was at an angle, where anyone standing in this precise location would not be able to see the clothes hanging inside, at least not the female garments. Megha had managed to escape detection by a mere inch or so.

“Thank you, Lord,” she whispered.

Turning toward the kitchen, she found that Kamala had indeed cleaned up the spill. Then she noticed a plastic bag sitting on the dining table and opened it. Inside the bag was a round stainless steel container. A note was attached to it. Kiran, the cook made your favorite almond halwa today. Give us a ring when you get home. Love, Mummy. So, this was Kamala’s reason for intruding on Kiran’s privacy unexpectedly. She had to bring her darling son his favorite sweet, the rich and sticky ground almond and sugar squares flavored with cardamom. And why had Kiran never mentioned to Megha what his favorite dessert was?

Oh well, ironically, while she’d been rationalizing that Kamala was the intruder, it had completely escaped her mind that she herself was the intruder here. Kamala belonged in her son’s home, while she didn’t. And why should Megha expect Kiran to share his likes and dislikes with her?

Now that Kamala had come and gone, what was she to do? She paced the drawing room floor while she debated calling Kiran. Any minute she expected the front door to open once again and for Kamala to walk in—accompanied by Amma. Megha’s hands still shook and the tension in her nerves refused to subside.

Should she tell Kiran that his mother had come by? Or would it be best to leave the matter alone? In the end she decided it would be prudent to inform him. If Kamala was in the habit of making unanticipated stops like today, then she and Kiran had to plan a strategy on how to prepare for them in the future. Besides, the sweets sat in the bag with its little maternal note:
Love, Mummy.

When Kiran heard Megha’s hesitant voice over the phone, his own seemed to become tight with concern. She’d never called him at work before. “Megha, is everything okay? Are you all right?”

“I…I’m okay, Kiran. I…we had a visitor today.” She wasn’t sure how to introduce the subject and wasn’t at all certain of his reaction, either.

“Who?” His tone clearly held alarm now.

Fearing that she had caused him unnecessary anguish, she at once decided to subdue her own voice. “Oh, nobody came to actually visit me. Your mother came by.”

“Mummy?” After a moment of silence he said, “So she saw you there?”

“I don’t think she saw me. I hid under your bed when I heard her come into the flat.”

“Are you sure she didn’t see you?”

“Quite sure.”

“Damn! I completely forgot that my parents have a key to my flat.”

“Oh dear.” That explained how Kamala had turned up there.

“I just realized this is going to be a problem, Megha. I have a meeting to go to in a minute. Let’s discuss this when I come home, okay?”

“Okay.” She wondered if she should have waited until he came home to spring this kind of unpleasant surprise on him. He was a busy man with a department to run. “Kiran, I’m sorry I interrupted your work.”

“Don’t be sorry. You did the right thing. It was my fault for not remembering that my mother has a key.” Since Megha didn’t respond, he said, “Stop worrying about it. We’ll think of some way to avoid this sort of thing from happening again. Now just enjoy your afternoon. Watch some TV. Read a magazine. Relax. I’ll see you later.”

Hanging up the phone, Megha sank onto the sofa. “Relax? Enjoy? Easier said than done,” she murmured to herself.