The Mothers' Group (36 page)

The reception was held in one of the university's original buildings, a two-storey sandstone edifice with gabled windows and a manicured rose garden. The garden was off-limits to students, accessible only by a staircase descending from a marble balcony on the second floor. But Cara could remember scaling that six-foot hedge with Ravi one evening after a trivia competition, several months after they'd first met. They'd tumbled down the other side, breaking a bottle of cheap champagne they'd intended to drink among the roses. Covered in sticky pink alcohol, they'd cackled in the darkness until a surly security officer shone a torch in their faces and told them to bugger off. Later that same night, they came dangerously close to kissing at Redfern station. Ravi leaned towards her, his breath warm with alcohol and a faint hint of spice.

‘Cara, you're beautiful,' he whispered, his lips centimetres from hers.

‘Ravi, you're drunk,' she replied.

And then her train arrived, a wall of air billowing from the tunnel at the platform's end. Brakes squealed, automatic doors hissed open and shut. She sat in an empty carriage, smiling out at Ravi through the window. He stood on the platform as the train lurched forward, a curious expression on his face.

It was the same expression he would wear years later, when gazing at his new bride.

They'd met in a cultural studies class called ‘Women, Madness and Medicine'. Cara was in the first semester of a graduate diploma in media studies, full of zeal to change the world. Ravi was in his second year of a Masters of Public Health, on a federal government scholarship for talented postgraduates from emerging economies.

It was the third week of first semester, and Cara was delivering a stinging critique of psychiatry's intervention in the lives of female patients.

‘And in conclusion,' she declared to the tutorial group, ‘biological psychiatry is a totalising epistemological paradigm that offers one-pill solutions for women, failing to recognise the systemic social issues that inform female mental health.'

She shuffled her papers, self-conscious, while her fellow students offered up a polite round of applause. Glancing around the room, she noticed an exotic-looking male at the rear, clapping with gusto. She looked away, but her eyes were drawn back to him. As her gaze met his, he did an outrageous thing: he
winked
at her. She lifted her chin and avoided further eye contact.

The tutor, a mousy-looking postgraduate, stood to address the class.

‘Wonderful presentation, Cara,' she said. ‘Questions, anyone?'

She nodded towards the rear of the room. Cara knew exactly where it would lead.

Mr Exotic smiled. ‘It was a magnificent presentation,' he said, with a delicious British Indian accent. ‘The parallels between patriarchy and psychiatry are interesting. But, Cara, do you honestly believe that there is
no
biological basis for mental health issues like schizophrenia in females? That these conditions are exclusively a product of women's societal context?'

Cara reddened. Her name had rolled off his tongue so naturally. His accent was distracting.

‘Well, no, I don't agree. I mean, not entirely,' she fumbled. ‘But I'm no expert on schizophrenia.' She thumbed her tutorial paper. ‘Are you?'

‘No expert at all.' He smiled. ‘But my medical studies suggest that most mental illnesses have a biological component. Not every sickness of the mind is sociological.' He paused. ‘But, then, perhaps I am complicit in a patriarchal medical system that sees the normal human being as male.'

Several students sniggered. Cara couldn't tell if he was ridiculing her. She stared at the back wall, wishing the tutorial would end.

Eventually, it did. Students streamed out the door, chatting and laughing. As Cara slid her presentation back into its plastic sheath, she sensed his presence. She looked up only when he cleared his throat.

‘The way you constructed your arguments was impressive,' he said. ‘I'd like to hear more of your thoughts on the medical system.' His formality was disarming.

‘Oh?' She wanted him to flounder.

‘But only if you are prepared to share them,' he added. ‘I think doctors can learn a lot from the humanities and social sciences.'

‘I'm sure that's true.' She zipped up her satchel and walked towards the door.

‘Wait.' He jogged to catch up with her. ‘I'm Ravi.' He thrust a hand towards her. ‘I was captivated by your paper, Cara. We surgeons are notorious for our bluntness.'

Cara stopped. He'd used her name again, in the same sentence as the word ‘captivated'. And had he just said he was a surgeon? She turned to face him and couldn't help but smile. She wasn't good at pretending.

‘Do you drink coffee?' he asked.

‘No,' she replied. ‘I mean, I don't like the taste. But I drink other things. Chai, tea, you know . . .' She blushed, fearing she sounded desperate.

‘Do you want to go to Holme?' The building had a café and was within easy walking distance.

‘Great,' she said. ‘But my next class starts in thirty minutes.'

‘Don't worry,' he assured her. ‘This won't take long.'

And he was right. It hadn't taken more than half an hour for Cara to begin to fall for Ravi.

Over their first cup of chai, she'd learned something of his background. At twenty-eight, he had already completed a medical degree and surgical training in India. Intending to return to his home village to practise, he'd been surprised by the offer of a postgraduate scholarship in Australia.

‘Fortune smiled on me that day,' he said.

Cara doubted it had anything to do with luck. ‘Don't you miss your family?'

He nodded. ‘Yes. But my mother and sister are very strong women, Cara. My country is not like Australia. Have you ever been to India?'

She shook her head. ‘I'd like to.'

‘It's very basic in Gudda, my village. It's unusual for someone like me to end up here. They were all amazed when I went to university in Delhi. They didn't think Australia would be next.' He laughed aloud. ‘My family is very proud.'

She couldn't imagine how hard he must have worked to find himself here, drinking chai in a student café at the University of Sydney. By comparison, she was impossibly mediocre. From an average middle-class family, with two white Anglo-Saxon parents and a wayward younger brother. She'd grown up in the white-picket-fence suburb of Seaforth and attended an Anglican private school. And her world might have been limited to that, had she not won a Rotary scholarship in Year Eleven that took her to Papua New Guinea. That six-month stay had changed her forever. She'd been shocked by the poverty, the lack of education, the level of preventable disease. And she'd returned from the experience determined to help improve the standard of living in the world's poorest nations. After school, she'd completed an honours degree in international development. Then she'd started on a graduate diploma of media studies, in the hope of becoming a social justice journalist.

‘Journalism is a noble calling,' said Ravi when she shared her ambition. ‘The free press is the only true basis for civil society.'

Encouraged by his interest, she asked if she might interview him about his experience as a ‘new arrival' in Australia for
Honi Soit
, the campus newspaper. They'd swapped telephone numbers—he shared a flat in Glebe with an engineering student—and arranged to meet again after the following week's cultural studies class.

Cara hadn't known it at the time, but that first cup of chai was the beginning of a ten-year friendship.

‘Good evening, all.' A disembodied voice came over the PA system. ‘My name is Michael Hughes. Not only am I the lovely bride's brother, but it's my great pleasure to be your master of ceremonies this evening.'

Cara shifted in her seat, straining to see the source of the voice. A thirty-something man was standing behind a rostrum near the bridal table. He had the same waif-like quality as Tess, but it wasn't nearly as attractive in a man.

She leaned back in her chair, steeling herself for the predictable catalogue of announcements and speeches to follow. What was I thinking, she wondered, attending this reception at all? The ladies' room beckoned. She pushed back her chair and struggled upright.

‘Excuse me,' she muttered to no one in particular.

It felt as though two hundred pairs of eyes were trained upon her as she picked her way between the tables in the semi-darkness. The MC was waxing lyrical about the bride and groom. Suddenly a waiter serving entrees veered into her path, balancing a stack of plates.

‘
Sheeet
,' he muttered, trying to dodge her. His evasive action was too late; the plates slid from his grip and crashed to the floor, splintering into tiny pieces.

‘
Sheeeeeeet
,' the waiter groaned again, glaring at Cara.

The MC stopped mid-sentence, and the bridal party turned to stare. Cara dropped to the floor and began to pick at the shards, desperately hoping Ravi hadn't seen her.

‘Don't,' said a voice nearby. A smooth white hand reached across hers. Cara looked up into kind eyes. ‘Don't,' he repeated. ‘I'm sure he can clean it up himself. Here . . .' He passed her a napkin. ‘You've got some sauce down your front.' She looked down and gasped. A giant streak of brown was smeared across her cleavage, dripping onto her dress.

‘Oh God.' She sponged desperately at the mark.

The pale eyes smiled at her. She began to back away.

‘Um . . . sorry. And, thank you,' she said, obscuring her chest with her handbag.

She bolted back to the table and sank into her chair. Grateful for the darkness, she joined the crowd in applauding the matron of honour, who proceeded to regale the crowd with tales of Tess's schoolgirl antics on the hockey field. It all sounded very banal.

Then suddenly Ravi was at the microphone, adjusting its position to accommodate his height. He pulled a sheaf of speaking notes from his pocket and grinned at the audience with trademark casualness.

‘The first time I met Tess . . .' he began.

The room seemed to contract around Cara. The walls leaned inwards, threatening to collapse. The audible thud of her heart overrode Ravi's words. She could hear voices gibbering in the distance, but couldn't decipher them.

After their exchange on the railway platform, her friendship with Ravi had deepened amid tutorials, trivia nights and work on the campus newspaper. But they'd remained friends and no more. Cara had replayed that night over and over in her mind, recalling Ravi's declaration. Had she offended him by her dismissal? Whatever the reason, Ravi had never again strayed into romantic territory, and they spoke no further about it.

All that changed, however, on the night of Ravi's graduation.

They'd been friends for nine months and Ravi had surprised her with an invitation to his graduation ceremony.

‘My flatmate's coming along, but I wondered . . .' He paused. Cara thought she detected a flush of pink creeping across his olive cheeks. ‘Would you do me the honour of attending my graduation ceremony?'

‘I'd love to.'

On the afternoon of Ravi's graduation, she paid special attention to her appearance. ‘He's got no family in Australia,' she reasoned, applying an extra coat of mascara. ‘There's no one else to invite.'

The Masters in Public Health was a relatively new course and Ravi was one of just twenty students to graduate. Cara had sat proudly in the third row of the Great Hall, amid parents, siblings and spouses, her camera poised. As he'd tipped his mortarboard at the vice-chancellor and turned to leave the stage, his gaze had zeroed in on Cara. Flustered, she failed to take a photograph at all and, instead, rose to her feet and clapped. She sat down almost as quickly as she'd stood up, embarrassed.

‘He looks lovely,' whispered a matronly woman seated to her right. ‘You must be very proud.'

‘Yes, I am,' she said, blushing. It was only then, talking about Ravi to a complete stranger, that she realised she was in love with him.

The graduation was followed by refreshments in the quadrangle under a billowing white marquee. Cara nibbled at a chicken sandwich, but only managed a few mouthfuls. As she sipped her second glass of champagne, Ravi waved at her from the other side of the marquee.

‘Cara,' Ravi called. He gestured towards a dishevelled-looking young man at his side. ‘This is my flatmate, Paul.'

‘Hello,' said Cara.

‘Hi,' Paul replied.

Ravi nodded towards the lawn. ‘There's my photo call. I won't be a moment.'

Paul was a subdued character and conversation was a challenge. Her attempts at polite chit-chat were met with monosyllabic responses, but she persisted out of courtesy. Eventually, when Paul went to the bar, Cara drifted over to the other side of the marquee where the graduates were posing for photographs. Some threw their caps in the air, some kissed their lovers, others linked arms with friends and cheered at the camera.

‘Hello,' said a soft voice in her ear.

She turned and smiled at Ravi. ‘Congratulations, Doctor.'

‘Do you want to get going?'

‘Yes, please.'

He took her hand and they waved goodbye to Paul, who was still loitering near the bar.

‘He's not a very forthcoming person,' Ravi said, apologetically. ‘But he's been a good flatmate.'

They'd walked quickly to Ravi's terrace on Glebe Point Road. Inside, a gloomy hallway led to a set of creaking stairs. At the top, Ravi turned and, with a hint of self-consciousness in his voice, asked, ‘Um, would you like a cup of chai?'

‘No thanks,' she said quickly.

He opened his bedroom door and turned on a bedside lamp. He clearly hadn't planned a seduction. The bed was unmade, clothes were stacked in uneven piles along one wall and medical textbooks were strewn across the floor. A balcony lay beyond the window, several towels strung across its cast-iron balustrade.