The Unexpected Son (8 page)

H
er world was quickly crumbling around her. She'd never be able to find all the pieces, let alone glue them back together. It was precisely seven weeks since Vinita had walked out of Som Kori's life.

She sat with her hands in her lap now, facing her family like a traitorous soldier at a court-martial. Remorse and fear battled inside her, and nausea threatened to drive her to the bathroom any second.

She'd brought such anguish to her family. She'd have to be reincarnated several times over to do penance for the havoc she'd wreaked on her parents and brother—all the people who'd given her so much. She was indeed a traitor.

Her brother looked as if he was ready to explode from holding all his emotions inside. Vishal was an outgoing and out-spoken man, and yet he sat with his lips compressed. The poor chap had hopped on a plane as hastily as he could after he'd been given The News.

A day's growth of stubble on his dark cheeks and chin and his rumpled clothes made him look like a thug. His mustache quivered every now and then, a sure sign of suppressed emotion. His disheveled hair looked like he'd been raking his fingers through it. His normally intelligent eyes had a somewhat dazed look.

“I'm sorry,” she murmured once again to no one in particular. “Sorry.”

All her contrite words didn't matter. No one seemed to hear her. Vishal and her parents remained silent as they sat in their respective seats and stared at whatever object each one had picked to focus on.

Vishal had his gaze fixed outside the partly open front door, where the noon sun was burning with blistering intensity, the heat rising in shimmering waves. The rains were finally over, bringing Vinita the warmth she'd been craving for weeks. She had stopped shivering. However, her problem had ballooned. Literally.

Traffic sped along the street as usual, reminding her that despite the dead atmosphere in their home, there was still a world out there, teeming with life.

Her father's balding head was thrown back on the sofa's headrest so he could stare at the rotating ceiling fan, as if it was the most riveting thing he'd seen in a while. Her mother sat beside him like a stone carving, her tear ducts wrung dry from hours of crying. Her swollen eyes were fastened on the family photograph hanging on the wall—as if trying to recall the moment when the sweet, domestic image of a young couple and their two small children was captured on film.

No one had slept the previous night, since Vinita had informed them about her condition right after dinner. After pondering and discarding all the alternatives she could think of: leaving home—she had no place to go; committing suicide—she was too much of a coward to attempt that; having a dangerous second-trimester abortion—her conscience wouldn't let her kill her unborn child—she'd sprung it on her mother as her last resort.

Her belly was already beginning to show in spite of her lack of appetite and the loose
kameezes
she wore and the
chunnis
she draped over them. She had been getting odd, speculative looks from her friends and fellow students in the past few weeks. Notwithstanding their silence, she knew they smelled a rat. They weren't imbeciles. They were aware of her affair with Som.

Nevertheless she'd told them a bald-faced lie—that she was simply gaining weight and needed to go on a diet. Time was running out and she had no one to turn to. Her only option was to confess her sins to her parents and accept their punishment.

Her mother had been eyeing her suspiciously for weeks, grilling her about her lack of appetite, the dark shadows around her eyes, and her midnight trips to the bathroom. Of course Mummy had suspected a serious illness. Apparently she'd even thought of stomach or ovarian cancer, but not this. Never
this
. A decent woman like Sarla Shelke wouldn't dream of it.

Her poor mother's delicate nerves had gone to pieces when Vinita had quietly informed her about her condition. “
Arré Deva!”
she'd gasped. Oh God! “What are you saying?”

Vinita had just stared at the floor. Repeating herself was unnecessary. Her mother had clearly heard every word.

After the shocked intake of breath and a moment of silence, her mother had dragged her husband into the room and made him hear it from Vinita's mouth. It appeared that her mother couldn't believe her own ears and had to have someone else corroborate the facts. “You had better hear this for yourself,” Mummy had said to Vinita's father. “I can't make any sense out of it. Maybe you can.”

Her father's reaction had stunned Vinita more than her mother's. When she'd braced herself for his wrath, the lectures, and the outraged order to get out of his sight and never darken his door again, she'd received a pained groan and a shake of his head.

All he'd said was, “You got involved with a Kannada boy?” She could read the rest of the question in his eyes:
If you had to disgrace the family, couldn't you at least find some decent Marathi chap who could probably marry you?

Her father was a staunch Marathi man and had nothing but contempt for Kannada people. Although he had several of them for clients as a show of tolerance, deep down the resentment that was ingrained from the time of his grandfather and father festered. It was a chronic illness that never left the body or the mind, despite all the token lectures and slogans from the politicians.

With the battles between the two cultural blocs escalating with every passing year, her father's sentiments had turned more bitter. But the worst affront was closer to home. Many of the skirmishes had left his accounting office in town vandalized by the Kannada side. Broken windowpanes, graffiti on the walls, and smashed roof tiles had corroded his trust in the Kannada folks.

The delinquent behavior wasn't one-sided, though. Both groups targeted one another's businesses to vent their bigoted rage and frustrations. But her parents saw only what they wanted to see.

After having expressed his sentiments about her condition, her father's shoulders had slumped, tearing at her heart. What kind of monster was she to do this to him?

Then he'd walked out of her room, picked up the phone, and called Vishal. Their murmured long-distance conversation hadn't lasted more than a minute.

Later, both her parents had settled themselves in the drawing room to wait for Vishal to arrive. He was their source of strength, their future caregiver and decision-maker. He would come to their rescue, come up with a viable solution, tell them how to handle something this incomprehensible. Without him they were helpless.

This was typical behavior on their part. The males in the house would put their heads together and handle it somehow. The women would be expected to go along. Vinita, as the daughter, would have to hang her head and wait for the verdict to be handed down.

She had seated herself in the chair across from the sofa her parents had occupied. During the night, as the three of them had waited in the gloomy semidarkness of the drawing room, it had felt like someone near and dear had died—a house of mourning.

After a while, Vinita had left her brooding parents and retired to her room to rest. But she hadn't slept—not one wink. Their silent, all-night vigil in the drawing room had wrapped itself like a shroud around her.

The need to go to them and talk it out, ask for forgiveness, had almost had her getting out of bed and approaching them a couple of times—but something had stopped her. What could she have said? All the remorse in the world couldn't obliterate the kind of burden she'd placed on them.

And now, Vishal was finally here.

It was broad daylight, and the harshness of it was blinding. What was going through her mother's mind at the moment? she wondered. That it had been a mistake giving birth to a daughter who had brought them so much grief? That she should have thanked her lucky karma for giving her one perfect son like Vishal, and then stopped having children altogether? From her frozen expression it was hard to guess what her mother might be thinking.

The four of them sat in that manner for a while, each one conscious of, and yet oblivious to the others' presence.

Then Vishal rose from his chair. “I'm going to take a bath,” he announced, and headed for the bathroom.

His movements seemed to stir Vinita's parents into action—like the buzzer of an alarm clock. Her mother hastened to the kitchen to prepare lunch while her father decided to finally change out of his pajamas.

They ignored Vinita. For all the trouble she'd stirred up, she could very well have been one of those tiny house lizards clinging to the wall. And being ignored hurt more than getting scolded—more than the occasional spanking she'd received as a little girl.

She went to her room and lay down. Rest was impossible for her brain, but at least her tired body could use some help. Despite the hunger pangs, the smell of her mother's
masala bhaath
—spicy vegetable rice—and the favorite accompaniment of buttermilk
kadhi
wafting up the stairs made her get up and close her bedroom door. Even pleasant odors nauseated her lately. And
kadhi
was one of her favorite things—a soup-like dish made of chickpea flour blended with buttermilk, then cooked and seasoned with mustard, chilies, cumin, and curry leaves.

A little later there was a knock on the door. “Vini. Lunch,” announced her mother.

“I'm not hungry,” Vinita said, burying her face in the pillow.

“But you have to eat something.”

“I can't stand eating, Mummy…please.”

There was a long silence before she heard her mother's footsteps fade away.

As the others ate in the dining room downstairs, she heard their voices, low murmurs mixed in with the faint clunk-clunk of spoons, pots, and plates. It sounded like those three were slowly emerging from their earlier stupor, and they were discussing what to do about the elephant in their midst.

An hour later, there was another knock on her door. This time it was Vishal. “Can you come out? We need to discuss something.” His tone was clipped, authoritative—not exactly brotherly.

More than likely they had come to some sort of decision, Vinita concluded. Naturally it wasn't going to be a discussion; it would be a command. Time to face the proverbial music.

She rose from the bed with a weary sigh, used the bathroom, and then headed down to the drawing room. The hollowness in her stomach made her feel light-headed, and she stopped for a moment to regain her equilibrium before facing them. At least the nausea had receded.

They were seated in the exact same spots they'd occupied earlier. Gone was the unshaved, disheveled Vishal from this morning. He looked clean and combed. His wrinkled clothes were replaced by a neat pair of gray trousers and a blue shirt. The family's fearless lion was back in form. And he was ready to spring into action.

Her father, too, was dressed and shaved. He had his arms folded across his middle, his jaw clenched tight. The controlled expression was alarming. As for her mother, she refused to meet Vinita's eyes and kept her gaze downcast. Was she that ashamed of Vinita that she couldn't even bear to look at her anymore?

Vishal waited till Vinita sat down. “I have contacted a friend of mine in Bombay,” he said. “He's a doctor, and he has offered to take care of your…uh…pregnancy.” He was clearly having difficulty saying the word.

Vinita absorbed her brother's remarks. So, they had already begun to arrange her life for her. And her opinion didn't matter. But then, she'd known that all along, hadn't she?

“You and I will be leaving for Bombay tomorrow,” Vishal informed her.

She looked at him, her heartbeat picking up momentum. He appeared a bit too calm—in control. “What's going to happen to me in Bombay, Vishal?”

“I just told you.”

“You said your doctor friend can see me through this ordeal, but what happens afterwards?”

His color drained a bit. He obviously hadn't expected her to question his decision. He'd probably assumed he and their father would find a solution and she'd bow to them—like she'd usually done in the past. But that was then. This was now. Her life had changed. She was no longer a girl. Although still a teenager, she was a woman—a woman with a problem. A small, helpless human being now depended on her.

He cleared his throat. “My friend has contacts. We'll find the child a good home.”

Vinita blinked. “You mean…give my child away…adoption?”

Her shocked query met with complete silence.

She glanced at her parents for their reaction. There was total agreement in their expressions. It looked like the morning's grim silence had been replaced by this take-charge resolve.

Whenever her father was faced with a business problem, he drew up a point-by-point plan, and decided exactly how it would be executed. Now the two men were using the same methodical approach to solve her problem. For some reason the realization brought her a sliver of relief. This was more normal behavior. Last night, when her parents had sat motionless, like glass-eyed dummies in a wax museum, she'd been afraid that one or both of them were going to have a stroke or something.

Nonetheless, this reversal in behavior didn't mean she was happy about it. The first rumblings of anger started to stir inside her. How dare they push her around like a vermin-infested sack of grain!

“But…you never even asked me,” she fumed. “You just assumed I'd agree to adoption?”

Her father jumped in then, talking to her for the first time in hours. “Your opinion has nothing to do with it. This is a matter of our family's
aabroo
—our honor. We have to do whatever is required to protect it.”

Her mother nodded like a windup doll. “Papa is right. The quickest way to settle this is a discreet confinement, then find the child a decent home.”

Rage slammed into Vinita like a boxer's fist. “What about
me?
Isn't it
my
body and
my
child?”