The Midnight Rose

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘But we’re swimming against an impossible current,’ said Samina. ‘The young do as they wish these days, and make their own decisions.’ Wishing to change the subject, she glanced across to Anahita. ‘Your mother seems to be enjoying the day,’ she commented to Muna. ‘She really is a miracle, a wonder of nature.’

  ‘Yes,’ Muna sighed, ‘but I do worry about her up here in the hills with only Keva to care for her. It gets so cold in the winter and it can’t be good for her old bones. I’ve asked her many times to come and live with us in Guhagar so that we can watch over her. But, of course, she refuses. She says she feels closer to her spirits up here and, of course, her past too.’

  ‘Her mysterious past.’ Vivek raised an eyebrow. ‘Ma, do you think you’ll ever persuade her to tell you who your father was? I know he died before you were born, but the details have always seemed sketchy to me.’

  ‘It mattered when I was growing up, and I remember plaguing her with questions, but now,’ Muna shrugged, ‘if she wants to keep her secrets, she can. She could not have been a more loving parent to me and I don’t wish to upset her.’ As Muna glanced over and looked at her mother fondly, Anahita caught her eye and beckoned her daughter towards her.

  ‘Yes, Maaji, what is it?’ Muna asked as she joined her mother.

  ‘I’m a little tired now.’ Anahita stifled a yawn. ‘I wish to rest. And in one hour I want you to bring my great-grandson, Ari, to see me.’

  ‘Of course.’ Muna helped her mother to stand, and walked her through her relations. Keva, as ever hovering close by her mistress, stepped forward. ‘My mother wishes to have a rest, Keva. Can you take her and settle her?’

  ‘Of course, it has been a long day.’

  Muna watched them leave the room and went back to join Vivek and his wife. ‘She’s taking a rest, but she’s asked me if Ari will go and see her in one hour.’

  ‘Really?’ Vivek frowned. ‘I wonder why.’

  ‘Who knows the workings of my mother’s mind?’ Muna said, sighing.

  ‘Well, I’d better tell him, I know he was talking about leaving soon. He has some business meeting in Mumbai first thing tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Well, just for once, his family will come first,’ said Samina firmly. ‘I will go and find him.’

  When Ari was told by his mother that his great-grandmother wished an audience with him in an hour’s time, he was, as his father had predicted, not happy at all.

  ‘I can’t miss that plane,’ he explained. ‘You must understand, Ma, that I have a business to run.’

  ‘Then I will ask your father to go and tell his grandmother that on her hundredth birthday, her eldest great-grandchild could not spare the time to speak with her as she had requested.’

  ‘But, Ma—’ Ari saw his mother’s grim expression and sighed. ‘Okay,’ he nodded. ‘I will stay. Excuse me, I must try and find a signal somewhere in this place to make a call and postpone the meeting.’

  Samina watched her son as he walked away from her, staring intently at his cellphone. He’d been a determined child from the day he was born, and there was no doubt that she had indulged her firstborn, as any mother did. He’d always been special, from the moment he’d opened his eyes and she’d stared at the blueness of them in shock. Vivek had teased her endlessly about them, questioning his wife’s fidelity. Until they’d visited Anahita and she’d announced that Muna’s dead father had also been the owner of eyes of a similar colour.

  Ari’s skin was lighter than that of the rest of his siblings, and his startling looks had always attracted attention. With the amount of it he had received over his twenty-five years, there was no doubt he had an arrogance about him. But his saving grace had always been his sweetness of character. Out of all her children, Ari had always been the most loving towards her, at her side in an instant if there was a problem. Up until the time he’d taken off for Mumbai, announcing he was starting his own business . . .

  Nowadays, the Ari who visited his family seemed harder, self-absorbed, and if she were being frank, Samina found she liked him less and less. Walking back towards her husband, she prayed it was a stage that would pass.

  ‘My great-grandson may come in now,’ Anahita announced, as Keva sat her up in bed and fluffed the pillows behind her head.

  ‘Yes, Madam. I will get him.’

  ‘And I do not wish for us to be disturbed.’

  ‘No, Madam.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Nani,’ said Ari as he walked briskly into the room a few seconds later. ‘I hope you are feeling more rested now?’

  ‘Yes.’ Anahita indicated the chair. ‘Please, Ari, sit down. And I apologise for disrupting your business plans tomorrow.’

  ‘Really,’ Ari felt the blood rushing to his cheeks for the second time that day, ‘it’s no problem at all.’ He watched as she gazed at him with her penetrating eyes, and wondered how she seemed to be able to read his mind.

  ‘Your father tells me you’re living in Mumbai and that you now run a successful business.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t describe it as successful right now,’ Ari said. ‘But I’m working very hard to make it so in the future.’

  ‘I can see that you’re an ambitious young man. And I’m sure that one day your business will bear fruit as you hope it will.’

  ‘Thank you, Nani.’

  Ari watched as his great-grandmother gave the ghost of a smile. ‘Of course, it may not bring you the contentment you believe it will. There’s more to life than work and riches. Still, that’s for you to discover,’ she added. ‘Now, Ari, I have something I wish to give you. Please, open the writing bureau with this key, and take out the pile of paper you’ll find inside it.’

  Ari took the key from his great-grandmother’s fingers, twisted it in the lock and removed an ageing manuscript from inside it.

  ‘What is this?’ he asked her.

  ‘It is the story of your great-grandmother’s life. I wrote it to keep a record for my lost son. Sadly, I’ve never found him.’

  Ari watched as Anahita’s eyes became watery. He’d heard some talk from his father years ago about the son who had died in infancy in England when his great-grandmother had been over there during the Great War. If his memory served him right, he thought she’d had to leave him behind when she returned to India. Apparently, Anahita had refused to believe that her son was dead.

  ‘But I thought—’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you’ve been told I have his death certificate. And I’m simply a sad and perhaps mad mother who is unable to accept her beloved son’s passing.’

  Ari shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I have heard of the story,’ he admitted.

  ‘I know what my family think, and what you almost certainly think too,’ Anahita stated firmly. ‘But believe me, there are more things in heaven and earth than can be explained in a man-made document. There is a mother’s heart, and her soul, which tells her things that cannot be ignored. And I will tell you now that my son is not dead.’

  ‘Nani, I believe you.’

  ‘I understand that you do not.’ Anahita shrugged. ‘But I don’t mind. However, it’s partly my fault that my family don’t believe me. I’ve never explained to them what happened all those years ago.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because . . .’ Anahita gazed out of the window to her beloved mountains. She gave a slight shake of her head. ‘It isn’t right for me to tell you now. It’s all in there.’ She pointed a finger at the pages in Ari’s hands. ‘When the moment is right for you – and you will know when that is – perhaps you will read my story. And then, you will decide for yourself whether to investigate it.’

  ‘I see,’ said Ari, but he didn’t.

  ‘All I ask of you is that you share its contents with no one in our family until I die. It is my life I entrust to you, Ari. As you know –’ Anahita paused – ‘sadly, my time on this earth is running out.’

  Ari stared at her, confused as to what his great-grandmother wished him to do. ‘You wan
t me to read this and then make investigations as to the whereabouts of your son?’ he clarified.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But where would I start?’

  ‘In England, of course.’ Anahita stared at him. ‘You would retrace my footsteps. Everything you need to know you now hold in the palms of your hands. And besides, your father tells me you run some kind of computer company. You, of all people, have the webbing at your disposal.’

  ‘You mean the “web”?’ Ari held back a chuckle.

  ‘Yes, so I’m sure it would only take you a few seconds to find the place where it all began,’ Anahita concluded.

  Ari followed his great-grandmother’s eye-line out to the mountains beyond the window. ‘It’s a beautiful view,’ he said, for want of something better to say.

  ‘Yes, and it’s why I stay here, even though my daughter disapproves. One day soon, I’ll travel upwards, way beyond those peaks, and I’ll be happy for it. I will see many people there whom I’ve mourned in my life. But of course, as it stands –’ Anahita’s gaze landed on her great-grandson once more – ‘not the one I wish to see most of all.’

  ‘How do you know he’s still alive?’

  Anahita’s eyes reverted to the skyline, then she closed them wearily. ‘As I said, it’s all in my story.’

  ‘Of course.’ Ari knew he was dismissed. ‘So, I’ll let you rest, Nani.’

  Anahita nodded. Ari stood up, made a pranaam, then kissed his great-grandmother on each cheek.

  ‘Goodbye, and I’m sure I’ll see you soon,’ he commented as he walked towards the door.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she answered.

  As Ari made to leave the room, he turned back suddenly on instinct. ‘Nani, why me? Why not give this story to your daughter, or my father?’

  Anahita stared at him. ‘Because, Ari, the story you hold in your hands might be my past, but it is also your future.’

  Ari left the room feeling drained. Walking through the bungalow, he made for the coat rack by the front door, underneath which his briefcase sat. Stowing the yellowing pages inside it, he continued into the drawing room. His grandmother, Muna, approached him immediately.

  ‘Why did she want to see you?’ she asked him.

  ‘Oh,’ Ari replied airily, ‘she doesn’t believe her son is dead and wants me to go and investigate in England.’ He rolled his eyes for full effect.

  ‘Not again!’ Muna rolled her own eyes equally dramatically. ‘Listen, I can show you the death certificate. Her son died when he was about three. Please, Ari,’ Muna laid a hand on her grandson’s shoulder, ‘take no notice. She’s been going on about this for years. Sadly, it’s an old woman’s fantasy, and certainly not worth wasting your precious time with. Take my word for it. I’ve listened to it for much longer than you. Now,’ his grandmother smiled, ‘come and have a last glass of champagne with your family.’

  Ari sat on the last plane from Bagdogra back to Mumbai. He tried to concentrate on the figures in front of him, but Anahita’s face kept floating into his vision. Surely his grandmother was right when she’d told him Anahita was deluded? And yet, there were things his great-grandmother had said when they were alone – things she couldn’t have known about him, which had unsettled him. Perhaps there was something in her story . . . maybe he would take the time to glance through the manuscript when he arrived back home.

  At Mumbai airport, even though it was past midnight, Bambi, his current girlfriend, was there at Arrivals to greet him. The rest of the night was spent pleasantly in his apartment overlooking the Arabian Sea, enjoying her slim young body.

  The following morning, he was already late for his meeting, and as he packed his briefcase with the documents he needed, he removed the papers Anahita had given him.

  One day I will have time to read it, he thought, as he shoved the manuscript into the bottom drawer of his desk and hurriedly left his apartment.

  One year later

  . . . I remember. In the still of the night, the merest hint of a breeze was a blessed relief from the interminable dry heat of Jaipur. Often, the other ladies and children of the zenana and I climb up to the rooftops of the Moon Palace, and make our beds there.

  And as I lie there gazing up at the stars, I hear the sweet, pure sound of the singing. And I know then that someone I love is being taken from the earth and gently cradled upwards . . .

  I awake with a start, and find myself in my bedroom in Darjeeling, not on the palace rooftops in Jaipur. It was a dream, I try to comfort myself, disoriented, for the singing still continues in my ears. Yet I know for certain I am conscious.

  I try to recover my senses and realise what this means: if I’m in the present, someone I love is dying at this moment. As my heart-rate increases, I close my eyes and scan my family, knowing that my second sight will tell me who it is.

  For once, I come up with a blank. It is strange, I think, as the gods have never been wrong before.

  But who . . . ?

  I close my eyes and breathe deeply, calmly, listening intently.

  And then I know. I know for certain what I’m being told.

  My son . . . my beloved son. I know it is he who is finally being taken upwards.

  My eyes fill with tears and I gaze out of my window, looking up to the heavens for comfort. But it’s night and beyond my window is only blackness.

  There’s a gentle knock at my door and Keva enters, concern on her face.

  ‘Madam. I heard you weeping. Are you ill?’ she asks as she crosses the room and stares down at me, taking my pulse at the same time.

  I shake my head silently, while she reaches for a handkerchief to dry the tears that have fallen down my face. ‘No,’ I comfort her, ‘I’m not ill.’

  ‘Then what is it? Did you have a nightmare?’

  ‘No.’ I look up at her, knowing she won’t understand. ‘My child has just died.’

  Keva stares at me in horror. ‘But how did you discover that Madam Muna is dead?’

  ‘It is not my daughter, Keva, but my son. The one I left behind in England many years ago. He was eighty-one,’ I murmur. ‘At least he enjoyed a long life.’

  Again, Keva looks at me in confusion, and puts a hand to my forehead to see if I have a fever. ‘But, Madam, your son died many years ago. I think that perhaps you were dreaming,’ she says, as much to convince herself as me.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I say kindly, not wishing to alarm her. ‘But nonetheless, I would like you to make a note of the time and the date. It’s a moment I don’t wish to forget. For, you see, my waiting is over.’ I smile weakly at her.

  She does as I request, noting the time alongside the day and date on a piece of paper and handing it to me.

  ‘I’ll be fine now, you may leave me.’

  ‘Yes, Madam,’ Keva replies, uncertainly. ‘Are you sure you’re not ill?’

  ‘I’m sure. Goodnight, Keva.’

  When she leaves the room, I take a pen from my bedside table and write a short letter to accompany the time and date of my son’s death. I also pull out his tattered death certificate from my bedside drawer. Tomorrow, I will ask Keva to put them in an envelope and address it to the solicitor who is charged with handling my affairs once I pass over. I will ask him to telephone me so I can give him instructions as to whom to send the envelope when I die.

  Closing my eyes, I wish for sleep to come now, for I suddenly feel desperately alone here on earth. I realise that I’ve been waiting for this moment. Now that my son has left me, it is finally my turn to follow him . . .

  Three days later, at the usual time in the morning, Keva knocked on her mistress’s door. Getting no initial response was normal; Madam Chavan often dozed late into the morning these days. Keva busied herself with the housekeeping for another half an hour. She returned to knock again, eliciting further silence from inside the room. Now, this was unusual, so Keva opened the door quietly and found that her mistress was still fast asleep. It was only after she had opened the curtains, chatting to her about nothing,
as was her habit, that she realised Madam Chavan was not responding.

  Ari’s cellphone rang as he was driving in the chaotic Mumbai traffic. Seeing it was his father, to whom he hadn’t spoken in weeks, he pressed the button on his phone to take the call on speaker.

  ‘Papa!’ he said brightly. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Hello, Ari, I am well, but . . .’

  Ari could hear the sombre note in his father’s voice.

  ‘Yes?’ he asked. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It is your great-grandmother, Anahita. I have to tell you that she died in the early hours of this morning.’

  ‘Oh, Papa. I’m very sorry to hear that.’

  ‘We all are. She was a wonderful woman and will be greatly missed.’

  ‘Yes. At least she lived a long life,’ Ari said in a consoling tone, as he steered quickly round a taxi that had drawn to a sudden halt right in front of him.

  ‘She did. We’re holding the funeral in four days’ time, to allow the family to gather for it. Your brother and sister are attending and everyone will be there. Including you, I hope,’ Vivek added.

  ‘Do you mean this Friday?’ enquired Ari, his heart sinking.

  ‘Yes, at midday. She’ll be cremated at the ghaat in Darjeeling with just her family in attendance. We’ll arrange a memorial service for her later, as there are many people who’ll wish to attend and celebrate her life.’

  ‘Papa,’ Ari groaned, ‘really, Friday’s impossible for me. I have a prospective client flying over from the States to talk to me about my taking over his software contract. It would take the company from loss to profit overnight. With the best will in the world, I can’t be in Darjeeling on Friday.’

  There was silence on the other end of the line. ‘Ari,’ his father said eventually, ‘even I know there are moments when business must take second place to one’s family. Your mother would never forgive you, especially as Anahita made it obvious at her birthday celebrations last year that you were special to her.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Papa,’ Ari said firmly, ‘but there’s simply nothing I can do.’