by Simi K. Rao
Naina repeated her words, several decibels louder this time. “I said ‘I have a proposition!’”
“Really? What kind? Aren’t you satisfied enough with what you’ve done already?” he asked ruefully, examining his tattered collar.
She flushed. “I’m sorry. But this time I have a suggestion that could be mutually beneficial.”
“Go on…” His interest was piqued.
A smile bright enough to lighten his troubles lit her face. She indicated the letter she held in her hand, “My dream has finally come true. Landscape magazine is going to feature my work on Delhi’s street children as the lead story in their January issue.”
“Congratulations, that sounds wonderful,” he said, genuinely happy for her.
“…And they want me to come to New York City,” she continued. “They want me to work for them, which would give me the opportunity to intern with some of their best journalists for a period of six months!”
“Does that mean that you can…?” Rihaan held his breath.
“Yes.” She nodded. “I think I can, if you would help me with the visa and plane tickets. I can put this place up for rent,” she said looking around her apartment, “and get my leave sanctioned. I’ve been preparing for a while for this eventuality.” She smiled at him. “I hope it’s not asking a lot of you. I promise to pay you back.”
He laughed, jumping to his feet instantly. At last things were beginning to look up. “But of course! You can come back as my wife. As for accommodations, don’t worry. You can stay with me.”
“I…I don’t want to impose. I’ll move as soon as I find a place of my own.”
“Don’t even mention it,” he said, impulsively grabbing her by the waist and swinging her high up in the air. “I’ll do anything as long as you keep my mother off my back.”
***
But obtaining a visa wasn’t a cakewalk as Rihaan soon discovered. A marriage certificate was required for which he and Naina had to appear in front of the registrar, along with a couple of witnesses. Having heard rumors about the horrors of Indian bureaucracy, he chose to fess up to good old Uncle Rajbir, though not before swearing him to secrecy. To his surprise, he didn’t react the way he thought he would. Instead Uncle Rajbir heard him out with a wide grin pasted on his good-natured face. He then patted Rihaan on his back, and agreed to assist after extracting a solemn promise from him to never let go of his wife. She was—according to him—‘laakhon mein ek.’(One in a million.)
But the registrar Mr. Desai (a scrawny man with a mug wrapped tight in a woolen scarf) proved to be a different cookie altogether. Most of his statements were preambled with the words, “Mein ek imaandaar aadmi hoon,” (I am an honest man,) which was apparently more to reassure himself than his beleaguered clientele who happened to be quite a few. Rihaan and Naina were made to wait for more than three hours, despite having an appointment. And when they presented their request, he refused promptly. “No, impossible. Can’t be done. It says here that you’re already married to a…a Deepika. Where is she?”
“She…she absconded, jilted me. This is my real wife, Naina,” Rihaan said, putting on his most sincere face.
Naina nodded, following suit.
Mr. Desai appeared to find it extremely hilarious. Hooting with laughter, he clapped his cluttered desk a few times. “Yeh lo! Absconded! Which desi girl in her right mind would give up a crorepati NRI and that too a dimaag ka doctor?”
Rihaan mumbled, correcting him. “I’m a neurosurgeon.”
“Tell me a story I can believe in!” Mr. Desai demanded.
Rihaan stared helplessly at Uncle Rajbir who winked and said he’d take care of it. And he did. God bless him. A brief conversation held in a curtained alcove was enough to shake the man’s integrity. Putting on a façade of serious reluctance, he carried out their bidding. His pockets had been lined well.
Everything else went without a hitch. Naina’s leave was approved and her tickets were bought. Rihaan breathed a sigh of relief. When she came to bid him and his family farewell at the airport, promising to join them in a couple of weeks, he pulled her aside. He was having the jitters again.
Grasping her hands in his, he almost pleaded. “Promise me, you won’t backtrack on your word.”
She smiled, replying coyly, “I won’t. Besides, in my husband’s happiness lies mine.”
Easier Said Than Done
“Sorry I’m late. Thought I’d left the clinic in good time but I forgot to account for the traffic,” Rihaan blurted out in a rush when he came upon Naina sitting alone, looking exhausted and bleak in the near vacant arrivals lounge of La Guardia airport. “I hope you didn’t think I had abandoned you.”
He grinned when she didn’t respond, but continued to stare blankly at him. He had forgotten how beautiful she was; more so now that she wasn’t in her element. An aura of compelling vulnerability enveloped her.
She flushed. He’d read her mind. “I thought you wouldn’t come.”
“What? And let go of my ticket to freedom? Impossible!” he exclaimed, stooping down to gather her luggage. But when he looked up her lovely visage had turned pale. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like that at all. I…”
Her cheeks creased into a wan smile. “It’s alright. I guess that’s one way to look at it.”
But it didn’t stop him from kicking himself. The thrill of seeing her on his home turf had his brain unhinged. He was never one for social niceties but this faux pas was unpardonable. He almost wished he’d included his mother in the welcome crew. No, that’d be beyond cruel!
He sneaked a glimpse at her. She was looking morose again. Damn!
“Aren’t we leaving?” she asked as he pulled her into a bustling airport café.
“Yes we are, but not before you get some java therapy,” he said seating her at a table.
A few minutes later Rihaan found cause to alleviate some of his guilt.
“There! Just what I wanted to see.” As if by magic, the tiredness had faded from her face after she took a couple of sips of the steaming brew. Giving himself a mental pat on the back, he squeezed in beside her onto the already cramped wall-to-wall settee. “I hope you had a decent journey.”
***
“Yes, I practically slept through it,” she said a little too quickly, squeezing her thighs together to avoid any kind of contact with him. The impact of his overwhelming charisma was disconcerting enough. Actually, she hadn’t slept a wink. The entire fifteen some hours had been spent chastising herself. What had come over her to make such a rash decision? What whim had urged her to pack her bags, abandon her steady stable life and move to the United States? Did she feel obligated because she was wedded to him? No. In her book, he still belonged to Deepika.
‘Belonged to Deepika.’ Naina’s heart sank, but it was followed by immediate self-reproach. Unwittingly, she’d allowed herself to be drawn toward this attractive man who at this very moment was perusing her while wearing his disarmingly-lopsided smile. That wouldn’t do. It certainly didn’t belong in the book of Naina Rathod or for that matter Rihaan Mehta.
“Let’s go,” she said jumping to her feet like a coiled spring.
***
“Don’t you want to finish your coffee?” Rihaan asked surprised at this sudden display of energy.
“No, I’ve had enough. Thank you,” she replied tersely, hurrying to the exit.
Rihaan capitulated reluctantly. He should have known; she was as volatile as quicksilver.
They walked out smack into a wall of dense arctic air. Rihaan flicked up his collar and watched with amusement as Naina stoically battled the subzero temperatures as they stood in line for the taxicab.
“Welcome to New York,” he said offering his coat.
She refused it, instead wrapping her arms tighter around herself.
“Suit yourself.” He shrugged and s
tuck a forefinger in the air. “Feels like snow.”
“How can you say that? Are you the…weatherman?” she scoffed in a halting stutter.
“No.” He said before shoving her roughly into a car. Her chattering teeth had begun to sound like a concrete drill on meth.
As luck would have it, the cabbie turned out to be one of the ubiquitous South East Asians who owned the NYC cab service and who liked to keep his temperature up by carrying on a nonstop conversation, either with his cell phone or his passengers whether they liked it or not. And when he discovered it was Naina’s first visit, he treated them to an impromptu joyride around town. She emboldened him by rolling down the window and sticking her face out to gawk wonderstruck at the skyscrapers.
“Do you want your head chopped off?” Rihaan barked, yanking her back inside while the Bangladeshi cabbie chattered up a storm, much to Rihaan’s considerable annoyance. But he kept his cool for Naina’s sake when he saw her visibly relax; perhaps finding for the first time someone she could relate to since her arrival.
She was smiling and almost back to her usual self when they finally disembarked outside his old brownstone. Rihaan nodded a greeting to the janitor, who informed him cheerfully that the elevator had broken down again.
“She’s having one of her temper tantrums,” the man called after them, poking his head over the balustrade as they trudged up the stairs; his rheumy eyes affixed on Naina.
But Rihaan carried on up the steps, not yet ready to put the lonely old soul’s speculations to rest; he could do with some excitement.
Yet, when Rihaan turned to Naina to gauge her opinion, he found her engaged in curiosities of her own; having opened the door to his apartment she was rapt in the scrutiny of his living room. Seeing her this way, he took the opportunity to step back and appraise it himself. He concluded that it represented a perfectly respectable bachelor’s pad though with nothing much to write home about. The furnishings were nominal but sturdy, and utilitarian, and the decor with its muted colors and heavy drapes bordered on the gloomy side. The only indulgence he’d allowed himself was a large, misshapen, overstuffed recliner that frequently served as his resting place and invariably gave his mother a headache—thus effectively banishing her from his lair but not his hair.
The person who was now going to accomplish that tough task was standing in the center of the room looking expectantly at him.
“You’re wondering where everyone else is?” he said hitting the nail on the head.
“Yes.”
“You’ll see them tomorrow,” he told her in his most reassuring tone. “They live in Queens, in an independent house, so my mom can grow her own vegetables. This place just happens to be my very own little one bedroom pad.”
“I… I can’t stay here,” she said, quickly turning apprehensive. “A motel, perhaps?”
He grinned. “I anticipated you’d say that. Not to worry. You can take the bed and I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“No, I’ll sleep on the couch,” she retorted, though doubt still lurked in her eyes.
“Nope. Not this time. You are my guest. Besides, I’m called in on emergencies. I wouldn’t want to disturb you.”
“But…”
He raised his hand. “I’ll hear no more on the subject. Tomorrow is going to be a long day and you’ll need all your strength. Why don’t you take a nice warm shower while I put together something to eat?” He carried her brand new scuffed up suitcases into the bedroom, and then hurried out, leaving her alone.
After shoving the frozen paneer masala into the microwave and pouring out tomato bisque soup into two large bowls, Rihaan placed a skillet on the stove and turned the heat on low. He then ripped open a brand new pack of Mission tortillas and reached into the shelf to pull out a couple of dinner plates. Everything was store bought, nothing prepared from scratch. It was unfortunate, but that was the life he led. He had never felt the need nor the inclination to cook. Most of his meals were taken in the hospital cafeteria, except on some rare weekends that he spent at the Mehta villa. His diet and palate for the most part remained unchallenged.
Having set the table to his satisfaction, he looked up at the clock and decided that forty-five minutes was time enough for any girl to get ready for dinner. But when repeated raps on the bedroom door incurred no response, he tried the door. Finding it unlocked, he stepped inside.
The room was icy cold despite a healthy fire burning in the fireplace. Puzzled, his attention shifted to the sliding glass doors that led to the small balcony. Sure enough it was ajar.
Cursing under his breath, he rushed over to pull the doors closed when he was struck by a singular sight. His companion of a few hours was standing outside barefoot, clothed in a mere bath towel with her tongue stuck straight out, aiming to catch the first snow flurries of the season.
He didn’t hesitate a fraction.
“Have you lost your freaking mind?” he thundered. Then forcibly picking her up, he tossed her over his shoulder and carried her back inside like a sack of potatoes.
“You were right,” she cried, unfazed and breathless as he unceremoniously deposited her on the floor near the fireplace. “It did snow and it tastes delicious.”
“You are nothing but an imbecile! You’d have frozen to death!” he snapped with barely controlled fury. Then without warning, he jerked her towel off in one movement, paying no heed to her gasp of alarm. And while she scrambled helplessly for cover, he calmly yanked off the bedding and wound the sheets snugly around her, adding his own sturdy arms to the mix.
As he rubbed her back with rough, broad strokes, he felt her shivers gradually subside. But that didn’t cause him to let go. He was invariably trapped.
Tugging at the wrap that covered her hair, he watched the damp ringlets tumble around her delicately-boned face that shimmered like gold satin. The large eyes that stared back at him no longer looked terrified. He found himself drawn irresistibly to her generous mouth, wanting to cocoon those ashen lips with his own, thereby restoring them to their natural luster.
Rihaan! A tiny voice cautioned. And it was enough. He thrust her away with a violence that surprised him.
“Get dressed and let’s eat,” he said, and walked away.
A Tough Dilemma
“So what’s your opinion? Did your daughter-in-law make the cut?” Shashank asked his wife as she walked into his home office grinning like a Cheshire cat. Having spent thirty odd years of his life in her company and after much trial and error, he could now claim to quite easily guess her moods by her expressions. And this one indicated either that she had struck a very good bargain, or had got hold of some juicy gossip.
Shobha sat down and waited impatiently for him to shift his attention from the vagaries of the stock market to her. “I don’t have any complaints; at least not yet,” she admitted somewhat grudgingly.
Her bahu Naina, whose behavior to begin with had seemed quite unorthodox, even dubious to a certain extent, appeared to have come around. Despite obvious fatigue from the transcontinental voyage, she had complied with all her dictates without a murmur. She had dipped her palms in red vermilion and imprinted them on the side of the house (which was certain to launch a new art deco craze) and then replicated the same with her pretty feet all along the marble entryway much to the delight of her American guests. “I must admit, she has exceeded my expectations,” Shobha concluded.
Shashank grinned. Rihaan’s wife had accomplished a rare feat. She had stumped his mother. Which meant that she was either a simpleton or an uncommonly shrewd young woman. By establishing an early rapport with her mother-in-law she aimed to free herself and her husband from future conflicts and intrusions, which every Indian daughter-in-law buys into. His son had made a sound choice, which came as a surprise. He’d have expected him to be a lot more naïve.
“Do you think I should ask them to come and stay with us?” His wife pi
ped in, interrupting his reverie.
“Absolutely not. Rihaan moved away to be closer to work and I believe it to be the same for Naina as well. Indeed even on a day like today he had to leave right after he brought her here. I don’t want us to make life difficult for them. They need their space,” he retorted in a tone sterner than he intended.
“Naina doesn’t have to work,” Shobha persisted. “Rihaan earns more than enough for the both of them.”
Shashank sighed. “I believe she wishes to work not out of necessity, but for her own sense of self-worth. It’s a different thing. Being a woman you should understand. Your son has done his duty. He has granted you your wish. Cut him some slack,” he said, turning the TV back on thus signaling an end to the discussion.
***
“Do you ever file your nails?”
“No, I don’t,” Naina replied to the manicurist wondering if she was guilty of an irreparable crime. The woman eased her mind, assuring her it was no big deal and asked her to relax and enjoy the pampering organized courtesy of Mrs. Shashank Mehta.
Naina smiled doubtfully before easing herself back in the lounge chair. Her mother-in-law had meant well. She had arranged an evening gala during which she proposed to introduce Naina to the world at-large. Therefore not without reason, she wanted her to look her best. Hence Shobha had taken the liberty to convert an entire guest room into a virtual spa, complete with well-qualified professionals. All Naina had to do was submit quietly.
She winced as the masseuse worked on relieving the tension in her neck. For a while Naina had been trying to let the various exotic aromatic oils and liniments tranquilize her and put her to sleep, but it was proving to be a vain exercise. If her mind would just stop thinking!
There it goes again!
Last night a near disaster had been averted. Not by her surprisingly, but by him. Why? How? Was it her tired mind or the consequence of his appalling stunt that had rendered her stupid and incapacitated? Or was it just him—his quiet strength, natural poise and his wicked intelligence? Whatever it had been, she had craved his touch with an intensity that scared her. The virtual wall of defense that had served her so well in the past had become practically ineffectual—and would have crumbled hadn’t he withdrawn in time.
