The Dowry Bride

by Shobhan Bantwal

  Megha had learned to recognize the footsteps of the people who lived upstairs, the postman who delivered the mail to each individual flat in the afternoons, the milkman who left the bottles outside the door every morning, and the servants who worked for various residents of the building. Kiran had informed his own servant that he didn’t need his services until further notice. He wanted Megha to feel safe. Besides, Megha had insisted on doing all the housework in return for his kindness. He had not wanted her to do anything other than the cooking, but she’d been adamant, so he had conceded.

  She paused in the midst of her chores to listen closely to the footfalls. Hoping it was one of the neighbors, she held her breath. When the sound came close enough for her to be convinced that it was not someone going to the neighboring flat, she shut off the gas burner and without thinking picked up the pan of milk heating on the stove. She nearly screamed in pain and dropped the hot pan back on the stove with a thud. The milk sloshed dangerously in the pan, spilling a small amount on the stove.

  Meanwhile, the ominous sound of a bunch of keys being fished out of somewhere became clearly audible outside the door.

  Could it be Kiran, she wondered? No, those were not his footsteps, and he always called her ahead of time to warn her that he was on his way, just so he wouldn’t frighten her. It was also too early for him to come home. This was someone else. Who else had a key? She had no idea. She began to shake. Hastily using the edge of her sari to pick up the hot pan once again, she shoved it inside one of the kitchen cabinets, shut the door, and raced to the bedroom.

  She needed a place to hide. Her desperate eyes swept over the bedroom. The armoires were too small for her to fit in. The bathroom! But, what if this person coming in the door needed to use the bathroom? Dear God in heaven, where could she hide?

  The front door opened and someone walked in. The door’s click and squeak were unmistakable.

  Realizing the only place she could possibly remain hidden was under the bed, Megha hit the floor and crawled underneath it. There were two large empty suitcases stored there, leaving very little room for her. Frantic to keep herself hidden, she scrunched her body into a tight little ball and slid as far back from the doorway as possible. Her elbow bumped into the hard surface of a suitcase and she bit her tongue to keep herself from groaning.

  The edges of the bedspread did not quite make it to the floor, allowing a view of what was underneath, if one wanted to look for something there. Megha’s heart thumped in alarm. The sound of her own heartbeat echoing in her ears was so loud, she was afraid the person now entering the flat could hear it, too. Her knees were pressed close to her chest and her cheek butted against the edge of one suitcase as she lay in a fetal position, her sari pulled tightly around her so its bright blue color wouldn’t show.

  Closing her eyes for a split second, she prayed. God, please…let it not be Amma…

  She heard the front door shut and then the footsteps headed toward the kitchen. It definitely wasn’t Kiran. He always called out her name as soon as he came in the door. Besides, there was a gentler sound to this person’s movements. The footsteps were confident, yet soft, very soft, not like Kiran’s purposeful, masculine tread.

  Her mouth turned dry. Amma! But the gentle, silky steps couldn’t be Amma’s.

  A burglar then! What was she going to do if he found her there? He was bound to look under the bed. Wasn’t that where a lot of people hid their valuables? He would surely kill her. Her heartbeat went up another notch. But then, the person had used keys to get in. A burglar wouldn’t have keys to the house. It had to be someone who had free access to the flat. But who? The blood continued to pound away in her head.

  Megha’s eyes turned wide with alarm when the person’s feet went towards the stove and stopped at the exact spot where she had been standing moments ago. What she saw was even more shocking: the hem of a pale gray sari and a pair of expensive and elegant mid-heeled sandals peeking out from under it.

  A woman! Damn it! What was a woman doing in Kiran’s flat? Did he have a girlfriend and had conveniently forgotten to mention the fact to Megha? In spite of the nearly paralyzing fear, Megha felt a vaguely familiar twinge go through her. Jealousy—the same bitter, corrosive kind she’d felt when the salesgirl at the store had flirted with Kiran. The woman standing at the stove certainly had a key, and the way she’d confidently marched in indicated that she knew her way about the flat very well.

  So who the hell was she? Girlfriend, that’s who she was! She had to be. Damn!

  Megha nearly passed out when she heard the woman exclaim to herself. “Oh dear! This boy has spilled milk on the stove.”

  She knew that voice. Kamala! Kiran’s mother was in the kitchen!

  Megha’s heart did a terrified flip. Kamala had obviously discovered the milk Megha had spilled in her frantic efforts to hide the partially heated pot. Was the milk still warm, and would the hot stove give her presence away? In a tight frenzy, her brain hunted for a way to explain her presence to Kamala if she were to discover her under the bed.

  And she realized there was no explanation. There was no way in the world to justify a young, married, female relative’s presence under Kiran’s bed. Megha was supposed to be missing, no less. Amma had spread the word around that Megha had disappeared. Kamala was Amma’s sister-in-law, friend and sympathizer. Put the two together and it spelled disaster.

  What was Kiran’s mother doing here, anyhow? Megha could have sworn that Kiran had told her only one or two other people had keys to his flat. Well, how was Megha to know that his mother was one of them? She prayed again that Kamala would not enter the bedroom. But knowing what a devoted mother Kamala was, Megha knew it was wishful thinking. The bedroom door was ajar and Kamala was bound to come in to check on her precious son’s room.

  Megha’s dread increased when she noticed one of the armoires in the bedroom was partly open. Kiran must have left it like that after he had got dressed for work that morning. Although she was crouching on the floor, Megha could still see the edges of her new outfits hanging in the armoire, side-by-side with Kiran’s suits and formal jackets. She recalled the time Kiran had insisted that she hang them there. Their combined clothes in close proximity to each other in the confined space were a bit too intimate for Megha’s comfort. But Kiran had convinced her that her lovely new outfits would be crushed and ruined if she folded them into tight bundles and shoved them into the chest of drawers.

  Now Kamala was here, going through her son’s house, and she was sure to find the colorful, feminine outfits. Megha’s world would come to an end. Kamala was an astute woman and would surely guess about Megha’s presence in the flat. The police would come and drag her back to Amma’s house, so Amma could finally derive her pleasure from watching Megha’s skin singe and scorch and hiss, one tiny millimeter at a time.

  At the grisly thought, Megha trembled. No, she couldn’t allow that to happen. She wouldn’t allow it! If it meant standing up to Kiran’s mother, she would do it.

  She watched Kamala’s movements in silence. Her soft, well-preserved feet in their expensive sandals went back and forth in the kitchen as she cleaned the milky mess on the stove. Or at least, that’s what Megha assumed, since she couldn’t see anything higher than Kamala’s ankles, and the kitchen tap was turned on and off a few times. Her breath painfully trapped inside her throat, in the next second she noticed Kamala’s feet coming directly towards her. They came to stand by the bed, right before Megha’s petrified eyes.

  Kiran’s mother stood there for what seemed like eons. What was she doing there, where Megha could literally see the color of her nail polish and count the number of gold threads in the fine border of the sari?

  Megha held her breath taut until her chest hurt from the pressure. And still the older woman did not move. All at once, Kamala turned on her heel and walked out of the room. The gray hem and heels disappeared into the dining area.

  Gradually Megha exhaled all that oxygen she had held inside herself
for so long. It didn’t appear that Kamala had noticed the partly open armoire. But the woman was still in the flat—she still posed a serious threat. Megha was trapped under the bed, praying that Kamala would go away quickly.

  What would she do if Kamala decided to stay until Kiran got home?

  Finally, just when she thought she was about ready to come out screaming from under the bed and beg Kamala to end the torture of waiting and call the police, she heard the footsteps fading away and the front door being opened and then a moment later being shut. Another familiar squeak and click sounded. Still powerless to believe she was all alone again Megha let a few tense moments go by before she found the courage to crawl out from under the bed.

  There was a thin layer of dust gathered on top of the suitcases and her sari was coated with it in places. She brushed it off. The dust flew about her, the particles dancing in the sunlight and making her sneeze. She was lucky that sneeze hadn’t erupted earlier. She ran to the bedroom window, hid behind the curtain and peeked outside. Kamala was climbing into the back seat of the Raos’ car. A second later the chauffeured vehicle drove away.

  Megha’s body went limp with relief. She slumped against the window frame and then slid down to the floor. She wondered if this was how it felt to be near death and come back to earth. She had lived through this one ordeal. How many more were there to come? How long could she continue to stay in Kiran’s flat undetected?

  Once again she sneezed. Being a superstitious sort, she took it to be a bad omen. She was sure to be discovered. It was only a matter of time. Pondering the thought, she let her head rest on her raised knees for a while.

  Exactly what had Kamala been checking out in this room? Curious to find out, Megha returned to the bed and positioned herself exactly where Kamala had stood a few minutes before and looked around the room. The armoire door was at an angle, where anyone standing in this precise location would not be able to see the clothes hanging inside, at least not the female garments. Megha had managed to escape detection by a mere inch or so.

  “Thank you, Lord,” she whispered.

  Turning toward the kitchen, she found that Kamala had indeed cleaned up the spill. Then she noticed a plastic bag sitting on the dining table and opened it. Inside the bag was a round stainless steel container. A note was attached to it. Kiran, the cook made your favorite almond halwa today. Give us a ring when you get home. Love, Mummy. So, this was Kamala’s reason for intruding on Kiran’s privacy unexpectedly. She had to bring her darling son his favorite sweet, the rich and sticky ground almond and sugar squares flavored with cardamom. And why had Kiran never mentioned to Megha what his favorite dessert was?

  Oh well, ironically, while she’d been rationalizing that Kamala was the intruder, it had completely escaped her mind that she herself was the intruder here. Kamala belonged in her son’s home, while she didn’t. And why should Megha expect Kiran to share his likes and dislikes with her?

  Now that Kamala had come and gone, what was she to do? She paced the drawing room floor while she debated calling Kiran. Any minute she expected the front door to open once again and for Kamala to walk in—accompanied by Amma. Megha’s hands still shook and the tension in her nerves refused to subside.

  Should she tell Kiran that his mother had come by? Or would it be best to leave the matter alone? In the end she decided it would be prudent to inform him. If Kamala was in the habit of making unanticipated stops like today, then she and Kiran had to plan a strategy on how to prepare for them in the future. Besides, the sweets sat in the bag with its little maternal note: Love, Mummy.

  When Kiran heard Megha’s hesitant voice over the phone, his own seemed to become tight with concern. She’d never called him at work before. “Megha, is everything okay? Are you all right?”

  “I…I’m okay, Kiran. I…we had a visitor today.” She wasn’t sure how to introduce the subject and wasn’t at all certain of his reaction, either.

  “Who?” His tone clearly held alarm now.

  Fearing that she had caused him unnecessary anguish, she at once decided to subdue her own voice. “Oh, nobody came to actually visit me. Your mother came by.”

  “Mummy?” After a moment of silence he said, “So she saw you there?”

  “I don’t think she saw me. I hid under your bed when I heard her come into the flat.”

  “Are you sure she didn’t see you?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Damn! I completely forgot that my parents have a key to my flat.”

  “Oh dear.” That explained how Kamala had turned up there.

  “I just realized this is going to be a problem, Megha. I have a meeting to go to in a minute. Let’s discuss this when I come home, okay?”

  “Okay.” She wondered if she should have waited until he came home to spring this kind of unpleasant surprise on him. He was a busy man with a department to run. “Kiran, I’m sorry I interrupted your work.”

  “Don’t be sorry. You did the right thing. It was my fault for not remembering that my mother has a key.” Since Megha didn’t respond, he said, “Stop worrying about it. We’ll think of some way to avoid this sort of thing from happening again. Now just enjoy your afternoon. Watch some TV. Read a magazine. Relax. I’ll see you later.”

  Hanging up the phone, Megha sank onto the sofa. “Relax? Enjoy? Easier said than done,” she murmured to herself.

  All afternoon she paced the floor, with short breaks to sit down and rest her overworked legs. The television failed to hold her attention for more than a few seconds at a time. Every time she heard a vehicle on the street she sprinted to the window. When she realized it wasn’t a family member alighting from a car or taxi she collapsed with relief. Two cups of hot, strong tea didn’t help calm her nerves either. To keep herself from going completely crazy she washed clothes, even Kiran’s office shirts that normally went to the cleaners.

  She starched and ironed the shirts with vigorous, deliberate strokes in an effort to get some of the agitation out of her system. She couldn’t go on like this, couldn’t live like a fugitive, a common criminal. She had done nothing wrong. All she was guilty of was running away from certain death. Anyone facing the death sentence would have done the same. And then she had come to the one person who was willing to help, that’s all.

  In fact, Kiran had more than helped—much, much more. He had given her shelter, clothes, spending money, everything that he owned—everything that he was, with no expectations in return. She recalled the shopping spree, the appreciation on his face, his kind touch, his softly encouraging words, the gentle humor he added to most everything. Warmth and gratitude filled her. Kiran was her very own angel.

  She put his favorite blue shirt on a hanger and took it to the bedroom. The rich fabric felt soft and huggable. When she hung the shirt in the armoire next to his other clothes, the distinctive scent of his aftershave met her nose. They smelled like him. She felt an urge to touch them, gather them up and bury her face in them. How silly and sentimental was that? She’d never felt this way before, not even about Suresh’s clothes. She was behaving foolishly—like a woman in love.

  She stopped abruptly in her tracks then. Oh God! It hit her like a loaded truck, the most upsetting and mind-numbing realization: She was falling in love with Kiran! In fact, she was in love with Kiran. Deeply. Desperately.

  She tried to tell herself this was all wrong. She had no right to fall in love with a man she had no claim on. Perhaps what she felt was only a crush, with its roots in gratitude, like a dreadfully ill patient imagining herself in love with her doctor. Could it be infatuation then? After all, Kiran was a striking man with lots of charm. It had to be infatuation. No, it couldn’t be. But on the other hand…

  Picking up a photo album from the bookcase, she flipped to a page where there was a picture of Kiran taken in America—his graduation day, when he got his MBA from Columbia University. His hair was a little longer then, but the smile was the same. He looked proud and happy and…so damned desirable. She c
losed the album and put it back. She’d never felt like this about any man before.

  Wasn’t it only weeks ago that she had thought she loved Suresh, or at least felt wifely fondness for him? Then why did she feel this strange detachment from Suresh now? In fact, it went well beyond detachment. She loathed him. The swine! The filthy, good-for-nothing bastard! Even as the vicious words crossed her mind, she cringed. Where had they come from in the recent weeks? She wasn’t raised to use words like that, even think words like that. Her father would have slapped her face if he’d ever caught her using such foul language.

  After some serious deliberation Megha gave up analyzing her emotions. It was hopeless. She had no choice but to face the truth. She was not infatuated with Kiran—she was in love with Kiran. She had felt a certain energy flow between them since the day she’d stepped into this flat. At first she’d dismissed it as her mind playing tricks on her. But his closeness in the last few weeks had brought a curious breathlessness to her lungs, a tingling to her limbs.

  She found herself fantasizing about how it would feel to be touched intimately by Kiran. Sleeping in his bed made those fantasies more vivid. They left her confused. He was merely her friend and protector. She couldn’t think of him as anything else. She wouldn’t. It wasn’t right.

  In retrospect, there was always an inexplicable bond between them—right from the beginning. How had she not recognized it earlier? At Mala’s birthday party, he had walked in late and their eyes had met across a crowded room and something like a surge of electricity had passed through her. It sounded like a trite cliché, eyes meeting across a room and all that sentimental mush, but it had happened nonetheless—and she had failed to acknowledge it.