She nodded with obvious reluctance.
“When?”
“I…uh…a few days ago. In fact, it happened the day you and I ran into each other by the riverbank—very late that same night.”
He digested the information for a minute. He clearly remembered that evening, every tiny detail. She had looked sad and tired and disheartened, but he’d had no idea she was expecting.
She sent him a soulful plea. “Promise you won’t say anything to anyone? Only my parents know about it. Amma would kill me if she found out.” The irony of her own words hit her instantly. “What am I saying? Amma was about to kill me even without knowing about the miscarriage.”
Kiran grunted in sympathy. His loathing for Suresh went up another notch. “I’m sorry about the miscarriage, Megha. That baby probably wasn’t meant to be,” he consoled her.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” she agreed, the faraway look in her eyes telling him she was recalling that night.
“Get some sleep now.” He returned the first aid items to the box. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“But tomorrow—”
“I’m going to take a day off from work and we’ll plan a course of action together.” He waited for her to settle back on the bed and pull the covers over herself.
As he started to walk away she called, “Kiran.”
He turned around. “Yes?”
“Thank you for taking me in.”
“No problem.”
“I thought you’d turn me over to them, but you’ve been…very kind.”
“I would never turn you over to them, Megha.”
She was quiet for a moment before she said, “I’m such a coward, aren’t I, Kiran?”
“Why would you think that?”
“I panicked and ran away from an impossible situation instead of dealing with it.”
“Anyone would have panicked in your place. It’s human instinct to be frightened of death, Megha. Even soldiers trained in combat often run from certain death.”
“A brave woman would have stayed and fought back. She would have known how to protect herself,” she argued. “She would have at least gone to the police.”
He shook his head at her. “Megha Ramnath, you are braver than anyone I know. Do you have any idea how many thousands of young women don’t have the guts to run away from a situation like yours? You, on the other hand, recognized that there was no way to save yourself from two evil and determined individuals, so you escaped to save yourself. That’s courage.”
“But what’s the use of trying to escape? I’m sure they’ll find me sooner or later.”
“No, they won’t,” he said with quiet assurance. “We’ll make sure that they don’t. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Now try to rest.”
“Okay.” She sounded like a worn-out and frightened little girl.
Somehow Kiran didn’t think she believed him.
Chapter 7
Despite her earlier desire to curl up and rest, sleep eluded Megha. She lay staring at the ceiling, the night light casting moving shadows on it as the overhead fan rotated at low speed. The degree and immediacy of the terror hounding her had lessened somewhat, but to be lying here in Kiran’s bed was also frightening, although the bed was more comfortable than any she’d ever slept in.
What in God’s name was she doing here? In retrospect, what she’d done tonight was insanity of a sort. The survival instinct supposedly made people do the strangest things. And this was beyond strange.
She shut her eyes and tried to unwind. Perhaps a little sleep would enable her to think more clearly in the morning. But her mind remained on full alert, listening for sounds, conjuring up dark images. The sound of an occasional passing vehicle outside the window seemed magnified and made her sit up in panic. The feeling of being hunted was still very much with her. It would probably remain with her for the rest of her life.
For a while she wondered what her poor cat was doing. Should she have brought Kuppu with her? But that, of course, was a silly thought. She had no idea where she was headed when she had started to run. The instinct to get away from danger was so potent, she’d never given any thought to the cat. Poor kitty, he was probably looking for her, wondering why she’d abandoned him. In the short while that she’d lived in that house, Kuppu had somehow become her personal pet.
As she prayed for sleep to come, a succession of images of what her life had been for the past year paraded through her mind. Was it because on some level she was trying to justify her reasons for being here? Why she had risked everything and literally ended up in the bed of a virtual stranger?
She clearly recalled meeting her husband for the first time—on the day of her bride viewing. He had come to her parents’ home with his mother, father and sister to meet and assess Megha as a potential bride.
Avva had been cleaning the house most of the day and then made special snacks for the guests: spicy round potato bondas and sweet wheat halwa. In a pastel pink silk sari, Avva had looked so pretty. With not many special occasions in her life, Megha’s mother very rarely got dressed up, so it was heartening to see her in silk. Appa, too, had worn a clean, crisp white shirt and black pants for the occasion—he hadn’t dressed that way since his retirement. His gray hair was slicked back with a touch of coconut oil and he had almost looked like his old handsome self.
Naturally, Megha had taken great pains with her grooming that day. She had chosen her favorite sari from amongst her mother’s silks—the lavender Benares with a narrow silver border and silver peacocks scattered all over—the one that made her dark eyes and glossy dark hair look richer, and her fair skin fairer. She had to make a dazzling first impression on the man who could easily end up being her husband. He was a highly-placed bank officer and probably came across lots of well-dressed and impressive women.
With great care she had made the pleats of her sari fall just right—not so high that her ankles would show and not so low that they swept the ground. Just that once she would have liked to have a little makeup, but Appa condemned cosmetics of any kind, calling them veshaa-astra, evil weapons of seduction worn by prostitutes. But in spite of it, the small pearl necklace and earrings that belonged to her mother’s modest jewelry collection, combined with the fresh white rose tucked in her hair, had served to make Megha look her best.
Though not vain, Megha knew she was a very pretty young woman and wasn’t above admitting it. She had been blessed with good genes since both her parents were good-looking. And fair skin was valued highly by Indians, especially Brahmins, so she was more than grateful to God for giving her a light complexion.
However, a little later, with a sinking heart she had let her eyes rest briefly on the rather small, uncomfortable-looking man named Suresh Ramnath. Utter disillusionment had settled in at once. Good heavens, this was the man her Appa and Avva had picked for her! What were they thinking? Her parents had to be insane to think of this individual as potential husband material. “Please, God, tell me that’s not the man I’m supposed to marry!” she’d whispered to herself.
Suresh barely made eye contact with Megha. She wasn’t even able to see what color his eyes were. He sat slumped in the chair, kept his hands folded in his lap and nodded or shook his head appropriately when someone addressed him. Gaunt and oily-skinned, he had scant hair, a hooked nose and deep-set eyes. His khaki pants and baby-blue shirt were just shy of shabby. He seemed to swallow a lot, because his Adam’s apple seemed to bob up and down constantly. He was a delicate man. In fact, he could hardly be classified as a man. Each time his mother made a remark and said, “Don’t you agree, Suresh?” he replied, “Yes, yes, very true.”
A boy still tied to his mother’s sari, Megha concluded. How on earth had he managed to become an important official at a major bank?
Her father had assured her that Suresh was a responsible man with a master’s degree, a fabulous job and a bright future. And yet, during the entire visit, Suresh’s large, bossy mother did all the talking.
> And God, what a formidable woman Chandramma Ramnath was! Dressed in a bright green Dharmavaram silk sari and heavy gold-and-diamond jewelry, she had filled the small drawing room with her presence and the odor of her overpowering perfume the moment she charged in. She looked as if she were ready to do battle rather than meet her son’s potential bride. Her dark eyes bulged from their sockets and her skin was dark and scarred with acne. Thick hair sprinkled with gray was pulled back in a round bun at the back of her head. Her teeth were whiter than white against her wide lips. When she looked around the worn-out drawing room with an air of unconcealed contempt those lips had curled in what looked like a practiced sneer.
She had studied Megha for a long minute, as if she was a ripe tomato to be purchased from the bhaaji market. Megha had shivered from the close, unblinking scrutiny. Even now the thought of that meeting made Megha wince. Had she sensed the malevolent vibes coming from Amma even as far back as her first contact with her?
Although bride viewing typically involved asking the potential bride and her family pertinent questions about her education, hobbies, talents and such, Chandramma Ramnath’s list of questions for Megha was endless, bordering on harassment. “Can you cook?” was her first question.
“Yes. My mother has taught me well.” That was one thing Megha could be proud of.
“Good. Do you know how to play classical music? Sitar, violin, vocal music, anything?”
“No, I-I’m afraid I’m not…musically inclined.”
Amma frowned. “Well, why not? Music is important in a cultural sense, no? The human mind needs some culture. Our Shanti has had lessons in playing the sitar since she was ten years old. Anyway, are you any good at mathematics then?”
“Reasonably good,” Megha had replied, afraid of saying anything more. She had always fared better at languages and social science. And what the hell did the ugly she-donkey want, a wife for her scrawny son or a rocket scientist for the space program?
“What use is a woman if she cannot teach her children mathematics?” Amma retorted. “It is the basis of all rational thinking.” That particular remark was accompanied by a superior look aimed at Megha’s mother, who had limited formal education.
The grilling continued in that vein the rest of the evening, with questions about everything from sewing and embroidery to bargain-shopping and child-rearing.
When Avva brought out the snacks and tea for the guests, the men and Shanti ate and drank heartily, but Amma toyed with the food, perhaps to show she wasn’t happy with the quality of the plates and cups they were served in. Or maybe she was nervous, too.
Megha felt emotionally drained from the Ramnaths’ visit and especially from that long and painful interrogation.
Suresh’s father, Vinayak, whom Suresh strongly resembled, ventured to add a few comments when his wife commanded him to do so. “Very important for the girl to fit in with our family, no? We are a very close-knit family, you see,” he said mildly. In faded gray pants and a cream colored bush coat, he seemed to be a man of few words and very little personality. He looked puny compared to his wife.
Shanti, Suresh’s sister, the meek and bespectacled teenager, also seemed to favor her father in looks and personality. She wore a pale yellow crepe sari with an ill-matching blouse and a thick gold necklace that looked awkward around her bird-like neck. After joining her palms in the customary greeting of Namaste when she was introduced to Megha and her parents, Shanti immediately grabbed the newspaper lying folded on the teapoy and read it with undivided interest all the while they were there.
Later, when Megha analyzed her own reactions to the Ramnaths, she realized disappointment had topped the list, followed by intimidation. She protested to her parents, “How can you expect me to marry that man? He looks old and emaciated. And did you see his mother? Oh my God, she’s fearsome enough to make Palgaum’s notorious cockroaches run for their lives.”
“Old? Suresh is only ten years older than you,” Avva snapped, rolling her pretty eyes. “Putti, your father and I are fourteen years apart.” Putti meant little girl; it was an affectionate term her mother often used with her. In fact, it was commonly used in many Kannada-speaking households to address female children.
“But your generation is different, Avva! People my age want some intellectual connection with their spouses besides the obvious sexual union.”
“Shh, why you are talking dirty like that?” Her mother looked at her like she had completely lost her mind. Physical bonding between the sexes was not to be discussed openly.
Her father scowled. “Stop fussing, Megha. If he is a bit thin now, he’ll put on weight with age. All men do. If you look at his fat mother there is no doubt he will also become like her later on.”
Besides, the astrologer consulted by her parents had with supreme confidence informed them that Suresh Ramnath was the perfect match for Megha.
When her mother had asked if he was certain, the astrologer’s eyes had widened with offended disbelief. “You are questioning my expert prediction, Mangala-bai! You know I always find most eligible boy for your daughter: educated, employed and also rich. Have I not made very best matches for your other two daughters? They are now happy in their husbands’ homes, no?”
When Megha grumbled about having to marry an ugly man, one shorter than herself, too, her once-handsome father sat her down and lectured her sternly. “Megha, let me tell you something: I’m a poor man and I cannot pay a big dowry. Because of your good looks the Ramnaths are asking for a reasonable dowry. Even that small amount I cannot afford, no? They have agreed to wait so I can pay it in installments. In my financial condition this is the best husband I can find for you.”
“But why does he want to marry me, Appa? There are lots of marriageable girls out there with big dowries. Can’t Suresh Ramnath have one of them?”
“Oh, Megha, you silly girl, don’t you understand that he wants to marry you?” her father said, the combination of impatience and frustration clear in his expression. “The Ramnaths want a beautiful wife for their son so they can have good-looking grandchildren. They are all ugly people and the only hope of having a better-looking second generation is to acquire a pretty daughter-in-law. You fit the need perfectly.”
When Megha pouted and whined in protest her father frowned menacingly. “Stop this nonsense right now, Megha! You will have a highly-educated husband with an excellent job and his parents are well-off and they own a nice house, which he will inherit someday. You will lack nothing, so just be grateful.”
“I’m only twenty, Appa. I have only a bachelor’s degree. I don’t want to get married right now. I want to get a master’s degree and become a journalist. I want to earn my living.”
“Good girls from orthodox families don’t work for a living,” her father chided. “They get married so their husbands can provide them with a respectable home and a comfortable life.”
“But journalism is a good profession for girls, Appa—very respectable. My professor says I have excellent writing skills. I could easily get a job with a magazine or newspaper.” She had pleaded her case passionately. “Please, Appa, if not a job, at least let me finish my master’s degree. We can borrow a little money from Leela and Hema. After that I can help you and Avva pay off the loan.”
The shock was apparent on her father’s face. “I will never borrow money from Leela or Hema! No parent should ever borrow money from his children. Megha, I cannot afford to send you for another degree. I’m getting too old to support you. I might die soon. So stop arguing and get married, for God’s sake!”
Pleading with her mother had proved just as futile. Avva’s sad eyes looked sadder than ever. “We are married to our fate, child. Suresh appears to be your destiny, no? There is no escaping from what fate has written across one’s forehead. We cannot run from it and cannot hide from it.”
Megha was unable to come up with any more arguments. Professional writing classes were entirely out of the question. Being bright didn’t mean much becau
se the small town of Palgaum didn’t offer anything like graduate scholarships to gifted students. Job opportunities for young, middle-class girls were limited, and in any case, her old-fashioned father would never allow her to work. No matter which way she looked at it, she was being sucked into the dark, bottomless pit of Hindu Brahmin conservatism, and there was no way out of it. Survival meant only one thing: Total compliance.
Squelching her cherished hopes, Megha reluctantly agreed to the marriage. She didn’t want to make her parents’ life more difficult than it already was. Perhaps if she’d been born unattractive, this wouldn’t have happened. For the first time in her life she considered her good looks a curse.
After some serious contemplation she made up her mind that if she was married to her fate, she would give it her best. She would try to accept it and make a life for herself. Maybe Suresh wasn’t such a bad man. In private perhaps he was kind and gentle and loving. Maybe even romantic. Her best friend, Harini, who got married only a few months earlier, had bagged herself a sweet and kind husband, and she was very happy. Megha, too, would be happy. She’d try her best, anyway. Mother Superior at the convent had always emphasized the timeless adage: God helps those who help themselves.
The wedding took place a few weeks later and was very small and unpretentious. Again, because that’s all Megha’s father could afford. Amma, the center of attention, dressed in a gaudy pink sari with gold designs accessorized by lots of diamond jewelry, looked like a giant ball of cotton candy sprinkled with glitter. She made a point of broadcasting that she had magnanimously agreed to a frugal wedding despite Suresh’s being her only son simply because of her kind heart. “This wedding is not much better than the zopadpatti or shantytown weddings. But I am trying to be generous. One has to make a few sacrifices for the sake of the children, no?”
Megha noticed that Amma carefully omitted mentioning the dowry she demanded, something Megha’s father couldn’t afford. Nor did Amma mention to anyone the fact that she was desperate for a good-looking daughter-in-law. She wanted a swan to join her family of hideous ducks. From the curious stares Megha inferred that most everyone had guessed the truth but hadn’t expressed it. Nobody dared to question the formidable Chandramma Ramnath.
The Dowry Bride Page 8
