As a fitting finale to an enjoyable day, he took Megha to a quiet restaurant outside town for an elegant dinner. Kiran watched with amused contentment Megha eat the rich makhani chicken curry, alu matar or potatoes with peas, the hot, puffy bread called naan, and the rice pulau and salad. She had become very thin lately, and if she ate like this more often maybe she could gain a little weight. He wanted to give her many more pleasures like today’s. Who knew what the next few days and weeks would bring? He fully intended to enjoy every hour of his time with her.
After they returned home that night, exhausted from the shopping and stuffed from the sumptuous dinner, Kiran talked Megha into modeling her new clothes for him. Excited about her lavish new wardrobe, she did as he wished, showing off her lovely ensembles, one after another. “Oh Kiran, these slinky fabrics feel wonderful against my skin,” she marveled.
“I’m glad,” he replied, envying her childlike joy in simple things. He hadn’t experienced that feeling in so long, not since he was a little boy and every new toy was an adventure. It was a shame he took so much for granted.
Megha appeared to be caught in a shimmering dream. She glowed each time she wore a different costume and paraded before Kiran’s admiring eyes. His appreciation seemed to encourage her, because she strutted before him, emulating the runway models she must have seen on television.
Caught up in her mood, Kiran applauded heartily. “Absolutely gorgeous!”
She sank down before him in a mock curtsy at the end. “You’re making my head swim, Mr. Rao, sir.”
“You should wear things like this all the time,” Kiran told her.
“Can’t—”
“Nonsense. Did you ever think of becoming a model or entering a beauty pageant?”
She chuckled. “Every teenager dreams of being a model or beauty queen or even a movie star, Kiran. But then, what girl from an orthodox Hindu family gets to wear skimpy outfits and flaunt herself in front of millions of people?”
“True, but lots of decent girls go into show business these days, and it’s much more exciting than being hidden away in the kitchen of some house in Palgaum.”
“This private showing was fun, Kiran,” Megha admitted. “But—”
The phone rang, interrupting her. Perhaps jolted back to reality by the shrill ring, she fled to the bedroom and shut the door with a snap.
The spell was broken. Kiran picked up the phone.
Just before retiring for the night, Megha and Kiran made up a list of provisions that Kiran could pick up on his way home from work the next day. “Need any special things for Diwali?” he asked as he added items to the list.
She shook her head. “It doesn’t mean much this year.” For her there would be no lamps and fireworks and sweets and ceremonial herbal bath. Not that the previous year had been much fun either. In spite of being a new bride, Diwali had been very mundane. She’d slogged in the kitchen for days, making a variety of sweets and savory snacks, then cooked an elaborate meal on the day of Diwali and later watched everybody else eat till they were ready to explode. She had been too tired and fed up to be able to enjoy the festival.
Even though her parents weren’t wealthy, her childhood Diwalis had been fun and eventful. Her sisters and she used to put on new outfits after the scented herbal bath. Avva used to decorate the cauldron that heated the bath water with a string of marigolds and tuck a flower in each girl’s tightly braided hair. Then there would be lots of sweets to eat. After the sun went down the family would light the oil lamps and place them on the front veranda. Appa would climb on the stool to hang the akash-deep and invariably get irritated when everyone had an opinion about where and how the paper lantern should be suspended. “Four women driving me insane,” he would grumble.
Days before the actual event, Avva used to slog over the kitchen hearth and make a variety of rich sweets: round wheat-flour and sugar undé dotted with raisins, sticky halwa, and deep-fried karcheykai filled with sweet coconut and sesame filling.
When Megha, the only one among the children with a sweet tooth, tried to take a sweetmeat or two, Avva would gently smack her hand and pretend to admonish her. “Those are for the goddess. Unless she blesses them first, you cannot have them! You’ll have to wait until Diwali,” she’d say, but the twinkle in her eye told Megha that she didn’t really mean it. A little while later, watching Megha pout, Avva would let her have whatever she wanted. “I suppose it is okay for small children to eat before the goddess does,” Avva would say. In fact, by the time Diwali day rolled around, Megha tended to lose interest in the sweets, having eaten her share beforehand, her fingers often sticky and her mouth covered with crumbs.
Then there were the fireworks that Appa would bring home in a cardboard box—a small quantity compared to the rich kids’ treasures, but still loads of fun. Megha found great delight in lighting a string of firecrackers and then tossing it as far away as she could before it exploded into a long, continuous bang-bang-bang. With her fingers stuck inside her ears, she’d stand at a distance and watch them pop. It was silly to set them off herself and then run scared—but that was half the fun—anxiously waiting for the first thunderous crack, her heartbeat soaring.
It was even more entertaining to watch her sister, Leela, run for her life before the explosion. Leela was scared to death of loud noises. She hated fireworks of any kind.
Alas, all that frolicking had gradually dwindled down to just the religious ceremony at her parents’ home in recent years. Her father had put an end to all the fun things. Besides, all those trimmings were expensive. And both her older sisters were married and gone.
Megha looked at the nasty burn scar on her wrist. If she thought the previous year had been bad, this year was much worse. “If I were still home there’d be no need for fireworks, Kiran,” she said to him. “My burning corpse would have provided enough fireworks for the Ramnath family’s entertainment.”
“Don’t!” Kiran’s voice cracked like a whip across the table. “Don’t ever say things like that about yourself!”
A surprised moan escaped from Megha’s throat at Kiran’s sharp rebuke.
He abruptly shoved away from the dining table and came to stand in front of her as she leaned against the kitchen counter, his grim, scowling face mere inches away from hers. His tone was uncharacteristically harsh. “Not even as a joke, Megha! Not even as a bloody joke!”
Megha trembled and took a step backward, her back pressing into the hard edge of the granite counter. “I…I’m sorry. It was in poor taste.” She chided herself privately for upsetting him so. He had promised to protect her and he considered her family, but the emotion behind this sudden flash of temper was evidence of just how much he cared. For Kiran to fly into a rage, she had to have hurt him deeply. “I don’t know what made me say it, Kiran. I apologize.”
Blowing out a long breath, he backed off. “Apology accepted.”
Afterwards, when things settled a bit following Kiran’s unexpected outburst, they decided it would be best for Kiran to attend the Diwali day Lakshmi Puja at his father’s office. The puja was the ceremonial prayer and obeisance to Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth and prosperity and every Hindu businessman’s primary goddess. It was an elaborate annual event and the family would be there, along with all of his father’s employees. If he didn’t show up it would look suspicious. Besides, Kiran was devoted to his parents, and as their only son it was his duty to be there. Sadly, Megha would have to stay home by herself.
Kiran glanced at her. “I don’t like leaving you alone at home at festival time. I wish you could come, too,” he said.
“You’re very kind, Kiran, but I want you to go and enjoy yourself. Make your family happy. I’ll be okay,” she assured him and got up to get ready for bed.
That night, for the first time since she had started to run for her life, she slept in peace, without the curse of dreams or nightmares.
Chapter 12
Alone and restless on Diwali day, Megha settled down to watch
television for a while, but every channel showed footage of the festivities taking place in various parts of the country. Smiling people doing happy things crowded the TV screen. The radio stations, too, played devotional music. The daily newspaper was full of Diwali photos and articles. There was no way to avoid the festive mood all around.
She wished she had the freedom to go out there, join the throngs of revelers on the sidewalk, light some sparklers and watch them erupt into a thousand stars, laugh a little and share some sweetmeats. But what she really wanted was to be with the family, with Kiran. And yet, all she could do was imagine the celebration taking place at Kiran’s father’s office. It was probably packed with family and friends, loads of lights and flowers and food. Amma was probably strutting around in silk and diamonds, playing the role of queen bee.
Earlier Kiran had looked dashing in his traditional shervani, the long, gold-embroidered, white silk jacket worn over matching trousers. When Megha had offered to press his outfit, he’d been hesitant. “I don’t want to put you to work any more than I already have, Megha,” he’d argued.
“Come on, it’s nothing,” she’d countered, grabbed the hanger from him and proceeded to carefully iron the clothes. Kiran’s gratitude for such a simple gesture had been touching. For all the slaving she’d done for her husband and in-laws, she’d never heard a single word of thanks from any of them, except from Appaji once or twice.
Shutting off the television, Megha went to look outside the window once again. The strong odor of burning sulfur from the fireworks crept in. The street below was a haze of smoke. With Kiran gone, the flat felt empty. Although he went to work every weekday, today was different. It was Diwali. There was nothing for her to be celebratory about, except, as Kiran had cheerfully reminded her that morning, the fact that she was alive and healthy. And that by itself was plenty to give thanks to the goddess Lakshmi for. So Megha had taken a leisurely shower and bowed her head in silent prayer. Maybe next year would turn out better.
She ate a light lunch and watched a movie video Kiran had rented earlier in the week. One of the scenes in the movie showed a boat tossing about on a turbulent ocean. The howling wind and rain that nearly sank the boat and killed the dashing hero brought to Megha’s mind the unexpected cyclone that had struck Palgaum several weeks ago. The storm had swept in with violent winds and torrential downpours, and taken out the power lines for nearly two days.
In the Ramnath household, the storm had turned into a particularly notable event. The memory made Megha forget her gloominess for a moment. It even brought on an amused laugh as she recalled the rather comical episode.
For two straight days drenching rain had fallen over Palgaum. Rivers of slush washed up into the streets and consequently into people’s yards and homes. Along with it a long, fat snake ended up in the Ramnaths’ backyard and somehow found its way into their kitchen.
Although Megha and Amma were both in the kitchen at the time, Amma noticed it first and let out a shriek. Her body quivered like a giant mound of jelly and her eyes turned enormous with fear. For a split second, just before the scream erupted, Amma was rendered speechless, her mouth working without making a sound—something Megha saw with her own eyes, or she wouldn’t have believed it. Fearing for her own safety, Megha retreated to a corner far from the creature that seemed to be in no hurry. It slithered around casually, sniffing, investigating, and probably looking for a meal: a nice, juicy mouse.
Hearing Amma’s cries of distress, Suresh and Shanti raced to the kitchen and stood gaping at the serpent. A moment later Appaji valiantly rushed in to defend his family, his lungi pulled above his bony knees and tucked in tightly about the waist. “Stop screaming so much, Chandramma. I will take care of that bloody snake,” he assured his wife with quiet confidence.
Then he bounced around the kitchen with a folded umbrella, swinging it wildly, vowing to pound the “bloody snake” to a pulp. Megha had never seen Appaji exhibit such male heroism, so she watched in amazement as he tried to do battle with a five-foot long reptile.
Unfortunately, the snake gave Appaji the slip by creeping under the woodpile beneath the raised hearth. Appaji poked at the pile several times with the tip of the umbrella, but the snake eluded him.
Thwack! The umbrella came down with brute force, scattering the logs, but the wily snake was nowhere to be seen. A warning hiss now and then assured them that it was still alive and curled up somewhere underneath all that wood.
After a minute or two, several fruitless thwacks later, Appaji stared at the pile, too cowardly to move the remaining logs with his bare hands. He stood scratching his head in puzzled embarrassment. “Oh dear, looks like the snake is here to stay. Bloody stubborn, I say!” But he wasn’t done yet. He swung the umbrella one last time and brought it down with a determined thwack. Alas, it had no effect, other than make everyone groan in disappointment.
Amma shot Appaji a blistering look. “Maybe you should let Suresh handle it, no?”
Appaji’s shoulders slumped in defeat. Megha felt her heart constrict. The poor dear had one chance in his lifetime to prove his manhood. And he’d lost it.
Suresh stood beside Megha and Shanti and looked on the scene with a helpless frown. When Megha nudged him to go help his father, Suresh shrugged and glared at her as if she’d lost her mind. The woodpile stirred ominously, sending Amma into another screaming fit and Shanti cowering into the corner alongside Megha.
Fortunately, Amma’s screams brought the neighbor’s son, Arvind Jagtap, to the rescue. The young man took down the logs of wood one by one until the snake was uncovered, and then squashed its hood with one quick swing of a cricket bat. Since the creature’s tail continued to thrash about, he struck the tail, and that, too, went limp. The result was an oozing, mangled mess on the floor and the surrounding walls that sent the hypersensitive Shanti straight to the bathroom to throw up. Paying no heed to everyone else’s relieved sighs and Amma’s dramatic grunts, Arvind offered to dispose of the dead snake.
Appaji offered him a plastic bag and Arvind used one of the logs to slide the dead snake into it. Amma sent Megha a silent signal to clean up the waste left behind. Swallowing the acid rising in her throat, Megha quickly got down to mopping up the kitchen before she too felt the need to throw up. She’d never seen anything like that before. Although snakes were common in Palgaum, they stayed away from the more populated areas. She’d seen one or two from a distance in her father’s mango orchard, but this was her first close encounter with a real live serpent. It left her shaking for several minutes.
For a day Arvind was the neighborhood hero. Other neighbors who had overheard the ruckus and come out to investigate the cause of the commotion, stood outside the back of the house in ankle-deep mud and watched the scene unfold in the Ramnaths’ kitchen. They applauded and showered Arvind with praise for his unusual feat. The rather modest Arvind, perhaps embarrassed by all the attention, quickly got rid of the plastic bag’s contents and went directly home without another word.
But the snake episode didn’t end there. A day later, Amma stumbled upon the possibility of the snake belonging to the cobra family, in which case, she decided they were faced with a serious problem. “Oh God, I wonder if the serpent was a cobra, no?”
“It didn’t look like a cobra, Chandramma,” said Appaji with a casual gesture of dismissal.
“What do you know about snakes, Ree?” Amma threw him a look of mild contempt. “And what are we going to do if the serpent god, Naga, was killed by mistake, huh?”
“I’m telling you, it was not a cobra,” asserted Appaji.
“But what if it was? That, too, killed in our house! It is a big, big sin to kill a cobra,” Amma declared, promptly falling before the altar and laying her forehead on the floor in submission to her gods. “Ayyo, devré swami, kshama maadu!” she cried. Oh Lord God, please forgive us.
“But we had no choice, Amma. Don’t you see that?” argued Suresh in a rare show of logical reasoning.
“Wel
l, now that a cobra is slaughtered in our Brahmin home, a curse will fall on us,” Amma gloomily predicted, then continued to beat her head against the floor. It was difficult to say why she was behaving in that fashion—regretting what she considered a sacrilege or just plain theatrics.
Appaji rolled his eyes. “Snakes don’t put curses on people.”
“Let me tell you something. Cobras are highly revengeful creatures.” Amma finally raised herself into a sitting position. “They mate for life and grieve for their dead partner. They seek revenge on the killer. The dead cobra’s mate will come and punish us.”
“Don’t let your imagination frighten everybody, Chandramma,” cautioned Appaji.
“What are we to do now?” Amma was convinced it was entirely Arvind Jagtap’s fault. “That boy is so stupid—instead of taking the snake out alive, he went and killed it. On top of that, he had the cheek to behave like he deserved high honor. He had the nerve to smile and look superior when those idiot neighbors praised him, no?” she fumed. “Our Suresh would have somehow managed to get rid of the snake alive. Then we would not have to worry about the curse.”
Suresh get rid of a live snake? Megha nearly burst into laughter at Amma’s confidence in her precious son. Suresh started to sweat at the sight of tiny mosquitoes and ants, for heaven’s sake!
After some deep contemplation Amma came up with a plan—a prayashchith puja, in other words, a ritualistic atonement. “I am going to have a talk with that Arvind’s parents,” she sniffed. “It is their son’s fault, so they will have to pay for the ceremony.”
The Dowry Bride Page 13
