Where the Secret Lies (9 page)

‘Please,
think about it. Where are we going to find somewhere to live as well as this?’

Anjali
tried the door – it was unlocked. She was not surprised to see newspapers
littering the ground and the garden in mayhem. If the outside looked this way,
what must the interior be like? Anjali shivered at the thought.

‘We
are lucky to find a splendid haveli,’ Mohan continued with his hands on his
hips. He gazed up in admiration. ‘There's even space for Chameli.’

He
pointed to the back of the haveli. Anjali saw no shelter for the poor animal.
Mohan seemed to read her thoughts.

‘We
will build a shelter for her in time. She will be happy.’

‘I’m
not sure...’ began Anjali.

‘Anjali
ji...we can do this – together. We can make this our home. Will you join me?’
Mohan held out a hand. Anjali reluctantly took it.

Anjali and Mohan arrived in
Lucknow a few hours ago, searching for a dwelling to call home. A few abandoned
they saw but Mohan refused to settle. He wanted something else – something
special. He was positive they would find the right one.

The
city of Lucknow resembled a ghost town as they travelled through, not a soul
seen. The smell of acrid smoke lingered everywhere and the extent of damage
devastating – a black spot that ripped families apart. Closed shops and offices,
singed shutters and broken glass completed the shocking picture.

Anjali’s
stomach rumbled and she unpacked the food they brought from the camp. She ate
sparingly, making sure she left some for Mohan. They came to a man who was
cooking corn and nuts on an open fire. The smell made Anjali’s mouth water and
she asked Mohan to stop.

 
 
‘Bhaiya
(brother), please give us two corn sticks and some channa (roasted nuts),’ said
Mohan.

The
man served them.

‘Thank
you,’ said Mohan.

‘You
are not from here,’ the man observed.

 
‘No we have come from afar...we are looking
for a place for a large family...can you help?’

Large
family? But it was just her and Mohan...did he have family he wanted to bring?
Anjali listened intently as her heart fluttered in fear.

‘There
is a haveli not far from here,’ replied the man. ‘The last owners fled during
the partition riots and the building is badly damaged.’

‘Did
you say it was a haveli?’ asked Mohan. ‘Can you tell me where it is?’

Anjali walked into the gloom and
saw the wreckage. A room once used for entertainment now lay in a mess. Upturned
tables and chairs, ornaments scattered, and thick layers of dust coated the
once red rug and furnishings.

She
walked from room to room and discovered the disturbance mainly downstairs. The
upstairs rooms, although full of dust were in immaculate condition. Anjali smiled
bitterly at the irony; she was to be the Memsahib of a haveli but after much
devastation and pain...

‘Anjali
ji...oh!’

Anjali
wiped her tears. Mohan embraced her and kissed her forehead. She cried into his
shirt feeling foolish. She should not find all this surprising or upsetting.
Nothing could change the past, however horrible.

‘I’m sorry,’
Anjali blinked back more tears.

‘You
keep saying that, yet you still cry?’ Mohan lifted her chin. ‘I know it is hard
but we have to come to terms with what happened here. Now listen to me, we will
build this haveli together, and it will be home – our home.’

Anjali
managed a small smile. ‘We need to buy groceries first. What will we eat?’

A loud
clang startled Anjali bringing her back from her reverie. She dismissed the thoughts;
Mohan will tell her about his past in his own time.

Taking
the cloth, she began to dust the chest of drawers she found hidden in one of
the rooms. A unique piece, she had not seen anything like it. She let

her fingers slide over the
intricate finish; she fell in love. This would be one of her favourite.

Weeks passed and the haveli began
to resemble a home. The structure still needed a lot of work but inside, Anjali
made it beautiful.

Rugs
dusted, floors swept, silverware and brassware polished, Anjali made a home.
She planted beautiful flowers in the garden and inside and hung pictures of the
sea and earth on the walls. The busy schedule left hardly any time for rest and
both Mohan and Anjali fell asleep every night, exhausted in their beds.

Anjali
worked alone in the mornings when Mohan looked for work. She tended to the house
and its needs... sometimes she let her emotions flow free and cried thinking of
her family she had lost.

Neha was
older by a few years. Her marriage to Sunil was young by a few weeks when their
father passed away leaving her completely alone, but Sunil took her into his
house and home. She gained another family who loved her – Meera, a sister and a
mother. She missed them all terribly. She wanted to write, to let them know she
was safe but something stopped her, was she scared? Perhaps but Anjali did not know
what she was afraid of.

Photographs of a Muslim family
hung on the walls. Anjali hated looking at them – they made her uneasy...as if
they blamed and accused her of taking over their home. Anjali kept her thoughts
secret from Mohan and one day took all the photographs down and stored them in
a box, shutting them away forever. She felt a release and she could begin to breathe.

Anjali did not realise when her
relationship with Mohan became close. When did she begin to love him? She had
liked him but now it was something more and

she became conscious that she
would not be able to live without him.

‘Anjali
ji!’

Anjali
looked out from the balcony; Mohan was coming up the road. She rushed
downstairs to help him with the bags.

 
‘Here you are,’ he said, putting the bags on
the kitchen table. ‘All the ripe fruit and vegetables you wanted.’

‘Mohan
ji, you didn’t have to buy them all at once,’ said Anjali, looking into the
bags.

The
aroma of coriander floated towards her.

‘What
would you like for dinner tonight?’ she asked.

‘Anything
but aubergines.’

The country was just getting back
onto its feet; food and jobs were again available. A few families had moved
into the area; Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims. Acceptance now replaced hatred; all
faiths joined hands and looked forward to a better India.

Anjali
and Mohan approached the families, offering food and a warm welcome. The wives
and daughters liked Anjali and the men called her Bhabhi-ji, meaning
Sister-in-law. The families did not question their relationship, assuming they
were husband and wife. Anjali and Mohan wanted to believe it but knew it was
wrong, to live together without marriage was a sin, and would not be tolerated
in any faith or community.

Another night arrived. Anjali
picked up her candle and bade Mohan a good night.

‘You are going to bed so soon?’
Mohan took Anjali’s free hand.

‘I am
tired Mohan ji, perhaps you should sleep, it is late.’

Mohan
patted the empty seat beside him. ‘Please, come and sit with me.’

‘What
is it Mohan ji?’ Anjali put the candle down.

He
took both her hands in his and looked down at their joined fingers.

‘I’m
sorry to keep you. You should be with your family.’

‘Why
are you speaking like this? Are you alright?’ asked Anjali, concerned.

Anjali
broke the silence when Mohan did not speak.

‘I am
not kept by you. It was my choice to stay.’

 
‘I love you Anjali ji. From the first day, I
saw you; I have been unable to take my eyes off you. I think about you all the
time. You are so beautiful.’

Anjali
kissed his palms. ‘You are beautiful too, in your heart and out.’

‘Tomorrow
we shall get married Anjali ji. We will have our first night and we shall be
husband and wife. Will you marry me?’

Anjali
gasped. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I
can’t imagine my life without you in it. Will you be my wife?’

‘Yes, I
will be your wife,’ Anjali cried.

Mohan and Anjali married in an isolated
temple. There was no priest to cite the rituals, only a statue of a god and
goddess to bless them and that is all they needed.

Mohan
brought a small box of vermillion – a red powder added to the bride’s parting, a
garland each and a mangal sutra – an Indian necklace of black and gold

 
beads, all needed for a Hindu marriage and closing
two souls as one.

Anjali
dressed in a red and white sari and wore red and green bangles, a tradition
that followed Gujarati

marriage customs. She had no
jewellery of her own and neither did she borrow the ones left behind at the
haveli. Mohan dressed in an ivory Indian suit and Anjali felt her heart stop
for a moment.

The
two bowed to the god and goddess and adorned each other with the garlands.
Mohan led Anjali around the fire, taking her hand. On the fourth round, Anjali
stepped ahead of Mohan, signifying an oath that if death came first, she would
take his place. The last ritual was adorning Anjali with the mangal sutra and
the vermillion. Mohan and Anjali were now married.

TWELVE

‘Memsahib,’ the maid addressed
Anjali at the door of her bedroom.

‘Yes
Namrata?’ Anjali finished weaving her hair into a plait and picked up her
powder pack.

‘Saab
would like to speak to you.’

‘Tell
Saab he may come.’

‘Yes
Memsahib.’

Anjali
began to powder her face when the maid left. She applied dark kohl under her
eyes and added a little lipstick to her lips.

Why
did Mohan send a message to her through the maid? It was very unlike him. Just
as she finished putting on her make-up, Mohan knocked on the open door.

‘Mohan
ji, since when did you start sending messages through Namrata?’ Anjali stood up
from her chair and gave Mohan a mock annoyed expression, hands on her slim
hips. Mohan laughed.

‘I
wanted you to feel like a Memsahib, my dearest.’

‘You succeeded.’

Mohan
came in and wrapped his arms around his wife’s waist, kissing her neck. ‘I have
a surprise for you.’

‘Are
you going to give me a clue?’ Anjali asked, smiling through the mirror at her
husband.

‘Wear
the lovely pink and silver sari and pack a few clothes for us. We are going on
a trip and we will be staying for a while.’

 
‘Where are we going and when are we leaving?’

‘Tonight
we leave and you will find out where very soon,’ Mohan replied, smiling.

The thought of travelling in India
after a long time awakened Anjali’s desires to see the new country in a new
light, without any threats of abduction, rape, or murder. The thought of a new
adventure with Mohan excited her.

Dressed
in the sari he gifted her, she added matching bangles, a bindi, and her mangal
sutra. Last of all, she added red vermillion powder to her parting. Anjali
touched her earrings and stared at her reflection in the mirror – indeed, she
did look like a Memsahib.

Anjali
had longed for a big wedding since she was thirteen. She dreamt like every girl
but for her, it was not to be. She wished her family could see her now with
Mohan, who was kind and attentive. He cared and loved her.

‘Anjali,’
Mohan sighed for the umpteenth time.

Mohan did
not call her Anjali ji anymore and she preferred this new calling. It was not
appropriate for a husband to call his wife
ji
.

‘I’m
ready,’ she said turning towards him. ‘How do I look?’

‘Stunning...as
always,’ he kissed her forehead. ‘Now, let’s hurry before we miss our train.’

‘Mohan
ji, you still haven’t told me where we are going.’

‘I
haven’t, have I?’ he teased.

Mohan made Anjali close her eyes
as they boarded the train, one hand on her eyes and one hand guiding her.
Anjali sensed Mohan was enjoying the surprise more than she was and she played
along.

‘Mohan
ji, I will fall,’ she complained.

‘I’m
here, I’m with you,’ he whispered into her ear and she shivered in delight.

 
The stationmaster blew the whistle as they
reached their compartment.

Mohan
released his hand from her eyes. Anjali blinked...

‘Mohan
ji!’ she could not believe what she was seeing – this could not be real.

Displayed
in front of her was a bed scattered with pink and white roses. A curtain window
separated them from the platform and a lamp cast romanticism around the room. Mohan
had booked a first class compartment.