by Simi K. Rao
The Accidental Wife copyright © 2015 by Simi K. Rao.
Copyright © 2015 by Kando Books.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual places or businesses, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher, Kando Books.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Editing: Brittiany Koren/Written Dreams
Cover art design/Layout: Ed Vincent/ENC Graphic Design
Cover photographs © Shutterstock
Category: Mainstream Fiction/Romance
Dear Reader,
Namaste! I hope you enjoy reading The Accidental Wife. I certainly enjoyed writing it for you. It’s a story that stems from listening to personal accounts of my friends living in India and abroad, as well as my own experiences as a physician. I use some words and phrases from Hindi and other languages, so I thought a glossary might be helpful. You’ll find the glossary in the back of the book. Please feel free to post a review of this book, and to check out my first book, Inconvenient Relations which was released in 2014. Feel free to contact me on my Facebook group page at this link: https://www.facebook.com/groups/simikraoreadersandfriends
Thank you,
Simi K. Rao
Dedication
For my mother. I am what I am because of you.
Prologue
“Another beer to calm the nerves?” A distant cousin who Rihaan had never the pleasure of meeting before, suggested with a knowing smirk.
This was followed by a loud burst of laughter. It was close to midnight, but the party had just begun at the usually serene Mehta abode in South Delhi. “Rihaan doesn’t need anything to cool him down. He’s going to be a full-on man tonight! Can’t afford to disappoint bhabhi, right?” This was promptly followed by another outburst of mirth.
Rihaan submitted to several friendly thumps on his back, returning them with the obligatory wry smile that could be interpreted any which way they desired. He didn’t care about their opinions.
It was true, he hadn’t let a single drop of alcohol pass through his lips. Not because he was anxious to perform well on his wedding night and impress his new wife. On the contrary, he wanted to keep all his faculties intact so he could confirm the suspicion that had been gnawing at his brain ever since the wedding ceremony. And with each moment that passed, his unease had grown steadily.
Unable to bide his time any longer, he stood up and went toward his room paying no heed to the numerous whistles and catcalls that followed in his wake.
Thrusting the door wide open he strode toward the marital bed. It was bare except for his bride’s wedding finery that lay in a neat pile in one corner. His heart now thudding at a frantic pace inside his chest, he scanned the vicinity, fervently hoping his concerns were for nothing.
He approached the wide open balcony door, and his pulse slowed down slightly. Perhaps he’d just been imagining it all?
A girl stood there leaning against the railing, her face upturned toward the full moon. On hearing him approach, she turned around. “Finally! I’ve been waiting like forever!”
He frowned, straining to decipher her features obscured by deep shadow. “Deepika?”
“Naa…, not Deepika.” She stepped forward into the light, a bright smile illuminating her strikingly graceful features.
His heart sank. Not Deepika.
“I am Naina—the girl you married. Goodbye, Rihaan.”
Wishes and Demands
New York City, two months ago
Rihaan Mehta was a confirmed bachelor, at least he had been determined to be one. Until now.
He had several reasons why—the most significant being his independence. To not have a girl nagging him day and night asking about his whereabouts or harrying him to present himself at home at 6 p.m. sharp was a convenience he treasured. He pitied his dad who was probably so accustomed to being henpecked, he wouldn’t know what to do if he was left alone for a day. Rihaan enjoyed the freedom to do what he wanted when he wanted to.
He was also urged toward bachelorhood because he’d never really appreciated an inclination toward the fairer sex. No girl had ever been able to bowl him over with her charms, though not for the lack of trying; many had. He just hadn’t been adequately stimulated by what he called superficial accoutrements. Nor had he felt the need for feminine company, except on rare occasions when he’d been obligated to have a date on his arm. His work provided him with all the company he desired and he couldn’t be happier; he loved what he did.
Six months ago, after graduating summa cum laude from the very demanding and rigorous neurosurgical residency program at Mass General/Harvard Medical School, Rihaan had joined as the youngest associate at one of the busiest neurosurgical practices in New York City. And he had distinguished himself so well that today his chief had offered to make him partner. Partner? He was delighted and would have been flying on cloud nine, ten, or maybe even eleven, if it hadn’t been for the untimely demands of his mother.
His parents, Shashank and Shobha Mehta of the ‘famed’ Mehta clan of New Delhi, along with their two children Rima and Rihaan had immigrated to the United States more than twenty years ago, defying the expectations of the elders. His father was ambitious. He had undertaken to spread the Mehta business beyond the desi shores by establishing one of the biggest and finest jewelry chains abroad. And where best to commence such a venture but the Big Apple? Shashank had kept his word, accomplishing what he said he would, thus making the entire family proud.
But Rihaan, instead of joining his father and continuing with the family business tradition, had opted for medical school to become a dimaag ka doctor (head doctor). No, not a doctor who deals with mad people, but one who wields a chaku and a churi (knife and scalpel) to fix them. Everyone, including his favorite uncle, Rajbir, had shook their heads in disapproval.
“We don’t care for such mumbo jumbo,” Uncle Rajbir had said. “Business mein kya kharaabi hai?” (What’s wrong with business?)
But on a bitter cold day when Mama and Papa Mehta saw their defiant son felicitated as one of the best to have passed through the hallowed grounds of the famed Harvard university, they couldn’t check the flood of joyous tears from flowing down their ruddy cheeks.
From then on, Rihaan had been given free rein. When he chose to relocate to a tiny rental in the city and give up the luxurious trappings of the family’s huge suburban villa, pleading inconvenience, his father gave his grudging assent. Then, when he opted to stay away from the many communal pujas and parties his mother threw (mostly in the hope of finding a suitable daughter-in-law for herself) Papa Mehta looked the other way. And when Rihaan pruned his visits home to one weekend every other month, often less, his parents could only hope he perceived their distress. Rihaan thus succeeded in slowly, but surely distancing himself from the crazy chaos of his massive family, except for those occasions he was required, such as his sister, Rima’s wedding and then later, the naamkaran of her child.
>
Finally he was at peace.
But this state of affairs was intolerable for Shobha. He knew his mother felt cheated. She had voiced her opinion often enough. How many years had she spent yearning for someone she could order around the house, and who would wait upon her hand and foot. How long had she hankered to be the Saas to beat all Saases.
But Rihaan wouldn’t oblige her. Despite her lining up hundreds upon hundreds of suitable girls (handpicked by her of course) he wouldn’t bow his hard head down and give in to her wishes, causing her to mutter often in his presence, ‘What a waste of a handsome face and six figure income to boot!’
One day during his last visit, she threw in her final salvo and served him the ultimatum in typical Bollywood style. “Shaadi ke liye tayyaar ho jao nahin toh tum mera mara muh dekhoge.” (Get ready to marry or you’ll see me on my death bed.)
He didn’t stay over that weekend.
“Do you think she is serious?” Rihaan asked his father while he was being shuttled to the local subway station. Rihaan hated driving, particularly in New York, where a car is considered a handicap. He preferred the subway or his faithful bicycle, which he rode every day to and from work come rain, snow or shine.
Shashank guffawed. “No son, she won’t kill herself. But she’ll certainly kill you if you don’t bring her a bahu!”
Shashank was very loud for not so large a man. Rihaan, who towered above him at more than six feet, had inherited his lanky genes from Uncle Rajbir.
Rihaan chuckled. “Guess that is one reason why I don’t wish to get hitched. Because no girl deserves to be a victim to mom’s ministrations, no matter how well intentioned they may be. I’d rather stay single.”
His father voiced his opinion sagely, “You say so now. But soon you will change your mind.”
“Why? I can see how happy you are married to Mom!”
Shashank turned to face his son. “In all seriousness, I’m as happy as I will ever be. You could be even happier.”
Rihaan eyed him skeptically. “I don’t get it.”
Shashank continued with a patient smile. “You are young. You have everything going your way—choice of education, job, respect, incredible success. But for how long? How long can you sustain this pace? Life comes with its share of unpleasant surprises.”
His expression grew somber. “I was like you once, Rihaan—young, dynamic, impatient, indestructible. I didn’t need anybody, didn’t want anybody. But then papaji coerced me into tying the knot. Now, when I think about it, I’m glad he did. Though, perhaps I’d have preferred a less forceful woman.” He erupted into a loud laugh. “Anyway, that is beside the point. I’m as happy as I ever will be.”
Shashank glanced at Rihaan. “What I mean is, that a time will come when you’ll find an empty space inside that can only be filled with love. Mark my words.” And on that cryptic note he pulled to a halt.
Rihaan adjusted the ubiquitous backpack on his shoulder. “I’ll think about it Dad,” he said, before nodding goodbye and walking away. But he didn’t intend on doing any such thing. He’d said so just to humor his father.
That night, Rihaan tossed and turned restlessly in his narrow, single bed, whereas typically, he’d have fallen fast asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. His mother’s threat along with his father’s pearls of wisdom were raising a clamor inside his mind. He’d have to do something. He knew his mother wouldn’t rest without seeing him wearing that noose called matrimony. But by no means was he willing to forsake his entire future by assenting to one of her favored picks. Those women were all unbearable—each and every one! Yet he couldn’t see a way out.
Swearing, he kicked off the sheets and swung his long legs off the bed. A shuddering chill shot straight through his spine as his feet came in contact with the cold hardwood floor. Gripping the edge of the bed to steady himself, he shot a glance at the digital clock—morning already, and the chances of sleep fading rapidly into oblivion. Might as well get a move on.
Rihaan rented a one bedroom apartment in the posh Upper East Side of Manhattan. He had secured it at a bargain as the owner who happened to be a close friend, had just got himself hitched, thereby being pressed to move to larger quarters. Rihaan loved the place, even though many would consider it slightly cramped. But for him it was perfectly convenient, located at an ideal distance from the park and a half-hour to forty-five minutes at most from work.
Pulling on a pair of worn out sweats he’d had since college, and his dependable trainers, Rihaan grabbed his bicycle and headed out toward Central park.
He pedaled down 5th Avenue, which at this early hour looked very unlike its jazzy self, and swung onto one of the numerous paths leading into the Park. There, after docking his bike, he took off at a brisk-paced jog. This was his daily routine. The unencumbered spaces and crisp, clean air helped keep his brain robust and operating in top gear for the rest of the day.
It was late autumn. Soon, very soon, a glittering white powder would descend from the skies and cover everything in a blanket of snow—a pristine, flawless layer of crystallized water vapor—one of the most beautiful scenes nature could offer. Rihaan contemplated, as his breath steamed in front of his face, of what the winter would bring. Passing a few other travelers like himself, he nodded to a couple of nameless yet familiar people he recognized seeing before: a young man exercising his playful boxer and an elderly gent with his wife out on a leisurely stroll, their faces serene and blissful.
He then came upon another couple voraciously making out on a bench, even in this bitter cold. They continued undeterred as he ran by. He snickered. Idiots! Wait till she springs the surprise!
Abruptly, he found his steady momentum disrupted as a memory flashed in his mind. His feet came to a jarring halt and he had to grab onto a red oak to keep from pitching flat on his face—the effect of the recollection was so great, it gave him a mini stroke every time.
The occasion was his high school prom night, and not a happy occasion at all. Cindy, the prom queen had dared him to a kiss and he’d obliged quite willingly. And then in the girls’ bathroom, in a tiny stall, his raging hormones had taken over. Egged on by a few slugs of beer, one thing led to another. Thank heavens someone had barged in at the right moment—or else.
“Phew!” Rihaan slid down onto a bed of bright red leaves.
Cindy had been pregnant and the perpetrator had dumped her, making him, Rihaan, the dumb, rich fall guy.
Ever since he’d sworn off girls. “I’ll never let that happen to me again. Ever!” He blurted out the words to no one in particular, not caring if anyone had heard him. But all he saw was the spectacular image of the skyscrapers reflected in the calm waters of the lake, where two white swans were taking a lazy turn. Bloody couples everywhere!
His pager came alive, springing him out of his reverie. It was from Lenox Hill ED. He reached for his cell phone in his back pocket, but didn’t find it there.
For a brief moment he was caught in a panic, thinking he’d omitted it in his rush to leave that morning. But then he located it deep inside his right sock, though he had no clue how it made it there. He called back.
“Hi Rihaan. This is Jasmine Walsh. A very good Monday morning to you! I think we can use your help here.”
“Hi, Jazz. Morning to you, too. What’s the matter? I thought you ER docs had everything covered,” Rihaan responded with a grin.
Jasmine Walsh was a fiery red-headed Irish woman who had attended med school with him, and he didn’t let go any opportunity to tease her. She was known for her short fuse. But not today.
“I thought we were until this fifteen-year-old rolled in with a bullet in his back,” Jasmine said. “His friend accidentally shot him while playing with his father’s gun.”
“That’s horrible. Tell me you’re joking! What the hell were they doing playing with guns so early in the morning?” Rihaan asked.
“Having a party, I guess.” Jasmine sighed. “The parents are out in Cancun celebrating their 20th anniversary or some such thing, so the boys chose to have their own bit of fun. Lot of booze, drugs and horseplay with guns. That’s all I know. Anyway, when can I expect you? I’ve already assured the hysterical mom that you are the best hope her kid has.”
“Thanks for tooting my horn, especially when I haven’t even peeked at the scans yet. Alert the OR team. I’ll be there in 40 tops.”
Rihaan could feel the adrenalin pumping in his veins as he jogged back. This was the reason why he loved his job so much. His skills could prevent someone from losing the use of his legs. In his mind, Rihaan could already visualize himself performing the delicate procedure. His hands never shook so nervousness wasn’t a problem.
***
Success!
Releasing a prolonged sigh, Rihaan sunk back into his swivel chair at the Manhattan clinic of Central Neurosurgical Associates. Four long, bloody painstaking hours to extract the bullet, but he’d done it. The blood had been evacuated and the spinal cord saved. The boy would be able to walk again.
Grudgingly, he’d accepted the praise for accomplishing one of the toughest procedures that a neurosurgeon could undertake. But it was when the boy’s father with tears in his eyes, had taken Rihaan’s hands and reverently kissed them, he knew how valued his skills were. That was enough to validate all the years of toil and hard work he’d put himself through.
But his achievement failed to make the slightest dent in his mother’s demands when he told her later that day. She screeched into the phone like a witch who’d discovered she’d slept through Halloween.
“Rihaan! Do you want me to kill myself? If so, prescribe me some poison!”
Damnit! Why can’t I be left alone for even a moment! He closed his eyes, counted slowly to five and replied. “Okay Mother. I’ll give the matter serious consideration.”
“Wow, really?” She sounded excited, her voice raising an octave. He could imagine her eyes gleaming with delight. Indeed, she’d make an awesome witch. “Then shall I start discussions with the Sharmas for their daughter, Renu? She’s supposed to be a really good cook. Or what about the Roshans? Their younger girl, Sush, is apparently very skilled in needlework.”
