The Dowry Bride

by Shobhan Bantwal

  It was Kiran, Suresh’s cousin.

  “Hello!” She was surprised to see him. “What are you doing here, Kiran?” She quickly surveyed his tall, athletic figure dressed in a tan open-neck shirt and crisp brown trousers. He walked towards her with a confident stride.

  “I was going for a much-needed walk after sitting in a cramped airplane seat. I just returned from a business trip to Mumbai,” Kiran explained. “Mind if I sit down?” His brows were raised in question.

  “Not at all.” She slid over to the far end of the boulder to make room for him. Always the gentleman, she noted. He even asked for permission before he sat down. “So how was Mumbai?”

  “Hot and crowded and stifling. And the return flight was delayed.”

  “By then it was too late to go to the office, I gather?”

  He nodded. “I decided to take a walk along the river instead, stretch my legs a bit and enjoy the sunset.”

  She smiled. “Me, too. I came to visit my parents and needed to get out for some fresh air.”

  “This is a beautiful spot, isn’t it—the most scenic view of the river and the temple? I’m sure your poetic mind appreciates it more than the rest of us.”

  “As a matter of fact it reminds me of something written by Sara Teasdale.”

  “Teasdale, the American poet?”

  Megha looked at him in pleased surprise. “You know about her?” Indian men and even women typically were not interested in poetry and poets, let alone one who wasn’t all that well-known outside the literary and academic communities. Most people knew names like Wordsworth and Byron and Tennyson, but Teasdale?

  Kiran shrugged. “My English teacher in high school might have mentioned her once or twice…I think.” He quirked a brow at her. “You actually remember the poems you studied in school?”

  “Not all of them. Teasdale just happens to be one of my favorite poets.”

  “Can you recall enough to recite something?”

  “You don’t mean now!”

  “Why not?”

  Megha threw him a wry look. Was he pulling her leg? No one other than her poetry teacher at school had ever asked her to deliver a poem. “Come on, Kiran, you don’t really want to hear someone reciting poetry.”

  “I happen to like it.” He grinned at her. “Contrary to popular belief, real men do like poetry.”

  “Oh, all right,” she said with a chuckle and tried to recall something that was appropriate for the moment. “Stop me if you’re bored,” she warned him, “but this one is called Dusk in June. I think it suits the present setting:

  Evening, and all the birds

  In a chorus of shimmering sound

  Are easing their hearts of joy

  For miles around.

  The air is blue and sweet,

  The first few stars are white.

  Oh let me like the birds

  Sing before night.”

  Kiran looked delighted. “That was beautiful, Megha. And to think you remember it so well! I’ll be damned if I can think of a single line.”

  “But I bet you remember all your mathematical equations and formulae from high school. I can’t recall anything beyond long division.” She rolled her eyes. “I’d have preferred to have a mathematical brain like yours instead of the one I have.”

  Kiran feigned a puzzled look. “Hmm, I’ve always wondered why beautiful scenery tends to inspire poetry and not geometry. Pythagoras could be so much more exciting than Keats, don’t you think?”

  Megha snickered. “Oh yes. Amma always reminds me, ‘Mathematics is the basis of all rational thinking.’” Megha managed to do a convincing imitation of Amma, including the imperious raised eyebrow and fists planted on the hips.

  Amused by her antics, Kiran laughed out loud. “Well, despite Amma’s philosophy I still think the sunset here is worthy of poetry.”

  “I agree. Even as a child I often came here to think. I still come here to contemplate,” she told him.

  “You must have been contemplating a serious matter or composing a poem of your own before I showed up,” he teased, “judging from your frown.”

  “I tend to frown when I think.” Was it becoming a habit lately? Too much frowning caused early wrinkles, according to Harini.

  “This used to be one of my favorite places, too, especially during my summer holidays. How come I never saw you here before?” he asked.

  “My friends and I played around this general area.” She motioned with one hand. It would have been hard for a well-to-do boy like Kiran to mix with the likes of her. He had probably mingled with his own kind: children who were educated in exclusive boarding schools and played sophisticated sports like cricket and tennis and golf—not street hopscotch and card games played with dog-eared cards, as she had. Besides, he was a few years older than she was.

  “I generally met my friends over there.” He pointed toward the royal plantation.

  She laughed gently. “If that’s where you played your games, you probably socialized with the royal princes.”

  “I went to school with Suraj Kane, brother of the present maharaja of Palgaum.”

  “I thought so. Even if you saw me in those days, how would you know who I was, Kiran? I looked just like dozens of other little girls.”

  “Believe me, if I’d seen you when I was in my teens, when I had nothing but girls on my mind, I’d have turned around and taken a second look—a pretty girl like you. The rest of the girls would be nothing like you.” A wicked sparkle in his eye told her he was merely indulging in a little harmless flirting with her.

  “You’re very kind, Kiran.” Despite knowing it was friendly ribbing, her cheeks felt warm at the unexpected compliment.

  His gaze suddenly came to settle on the red blotch on her wrist and his expression turned serious. “What happened to your wrist?” He studied the blister for a second then sent her a wary look.

  Embarrassed, she laid the wrist face down in her lap. Was it her imagination or did he seem suspicious? Surely he didn’t think Suresh was physically abusing her? Suresh was an indifferent and thoughtless husband, but he had never raised his hand to her. “Hot oil splatter—I got careless while cooking.”

  “Have you put any kind of medicine on it?” Kiran’s tone was filled with concern.

  She nodded. “My mother put some cream on it.”

  He slid closer to her, picked up her wrist and examined it. “The blister looks fresh. It must hurt like hell. You’d better take good care of it, Megha. Burns can easily get infected if you neglect them. Didn’t Suresh notice it?”

  Megha gazed out on the water for several long seconds before she spoke. “It’s a minor burn—it’ll disappear in no time.”

  “Megha, I asked you if Suresh had seen it.” His voice was one of quiet authority—something she’d never heard before. Was that the managerial tone he used in his office?

  “Not yet. It happened after he left for work. But then Suresh notices very little. He didn’t even notice that today was our first wedding anniversary.”

  Kiran’s eyes widened with outrage. “That thoughtless bastard!” He immediately offered her an apologetic shrug. “Sorry…pardon my language.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Those were my sentiments, too. I was so upset at Suresh’s behavior that I decided to get out of there and go to my parents’ house. I’m planning to spend the night there, just to get even with him.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Megha. I expected better than that from Suresh.”

  She shrugged it off and glanced again at the setting sun, now only a thin, salmon sliver. Dusk was beginning to settle around them, the mosquitoes becoming more abundant. The twittering birds in the tree overhead had quieted down, indicating they were settled for the night.

  Nearby, the temple lights came on. There were no lights by the river and the fog had a way of rising unexpectedly after sunset. Getting lost in it was like walking with a blindfold on. So she quickly rose from the rock. “I better head on home. It’s getting dark.
”

  Kiran sprang to his feet. “I’ll walk you home.”

  “I can find my way,” she assured him with a smile. “I’m a grown woman and I’m familiar with the neighborhood.”

  “With the fog rolling in it’s not safe for you to walk alone, Megha. I’m going to see you home.”

  “That may not be a good idea. I appreciate your concern, but…my parents won’t like seeing me with you.” She fixed him with a regretful look and plunged into an explanation. “Nothing personal, but you know how it is—old-fashioned customs and all.”

  He brushed the dust off the seat of his slacks. “Don’t worry—I won’t go all the way to your door, only to the end of your street. I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

  How considerate, Megha reflected. No one, not even her own father had walked with her in recent years to any place to ensure her safety. “Thank you.”

  They began to walk back slowly, watching the lights come on in homes and businesses in the distance, listening to the sounds of rushing water, observing the fireflies make weird illuminated patterns in the rubber plantations.

  Despite the awkwardness of strolling on a balmy evening with her cousin-in-law, Megha realized with a pang that it was pleasant. Kiran was fun to be with. He had even managed to get her mind off the anniversary fiasco.

  But she shouldn’t be enjoying his company, she admonished herself. How could she? It was wrong for her to appreciate any man other than her husband. It was unnatural.

  It was going against everything she’d been taught.

  The loud honking of a truck passing by jolted Megha out of her reverie.

  Chapter 22

  Kiran’s mind refused to dwell on work. His hands remained on his computer keyboard, but they barely moved. His secretary had looked at him strangely a few times—sort of a perplexed look combined with curiosity. When one of his analysts had popped in earlier to ask a question, he had more or less brushed him off. It wasn’t Kiran’s nature to ever neglect his work or his staff, but it had happened. He’d have to apologize to the man later.

  Megha often monopolized his thoughts, but lately it had become worse. Perhaps because he knew now what it felt like to hold her, love her, feel her body come alive under his hands. Or was it because he’d nearly lost her? He continued to worry about her emotional state. Would she attempt suicide again? Thank God he’d reached her in time and drummed some sense into that beautiful but stubborn head the last time, when she’d tried to drown herself in the river. The experience had shaken him. The river. It held some powerful memories.

  The walk along the river with Megha not too long ago came to mind. He remembered it vividly.

  Kiran stole another glance at Megha as she strolled by his side in silence. Being a tall woman, her stride nearly matched his. She had a graceful walk.

  It had been an unexpected joy to find Megha by the riverbank. Alone. His mind had gone into a tailspin the minute he’d recognized the lone figure sitting under the banyan tree. She had cut a forlorn image, her profile against the setting sun looking grim. At first he’d assumed his mind was playing tricks on him. His sensual dreams and thoughts about Megha had been playing havoc with his brain. When he’d realized it was indeed Megha in the flesh, he had stopped just short of running towards her.

  He had missed her while he was in Mumbai. When he’d passed by the clothing stores with their willowy mannequins in the windows wearing chic outfits, he’d thought of Megha dressed in them. She’d have looked superb. When he’d eaten a particularly enjoyable dinner at a popular restaurant, he’d wondered if she would have enjoyed it, too. When he’d picked furniture for his new flat in Mumbai, he’d wished Megha had been there to help him choose it.

  Now, she had mentioned the forgotten anniversary. That explained her sad look. How could Suresh have forgotten his own wedding day, especially when he had Megha for a wife? Most men would be thrilled to celebrate having a woman like Megha in their lives. Kiran’s jaw hardened in anger at what he considered Suresh’s gross negligence of his wife. Suresh needed to have his skinny little ass flogged for his carelessness, or at the very least have his ignorant head examined.

  They left the riverbank and reached the paved road and footpath, then continued to walk at a less leisurely pace. It was a little more difficult to walk together now, with other pedestrians weaving their way in and out. A young man sped past them on his bicycle, whistling a familiar tune. Kiran threw her a sidelong glance. “Remember that song? What was it…about five years ago that it became so popular?”

  She nodded. “It used to be one of my favorites. But then, at sixteen, every other movie song seemed to be the favorite.” She chuckled. “Until a new one came along.”

  Sixteen? Of course! Only a child, he thought unhappily. She was so young—and already married a year. A bright and spirited girl like her should have been enjoying her youth, acquiring advanced education, perhaps even pursuing a career. Once again he wondered why her parents had married her off to his pitiful cousin. Was it only the question of dowry or was there something else underneath the surface?

  As they drew closer to town and its clusters of homes, a flower vendor approached them with dainty jasmine gajras—small garlands that women wore in their hair as adornments. “Saheb, gajra for your missus? Very fresh,” the vendor called out. The heady, seductive scent of jasmine was potent as it floated across the way from the florist’s basket.

  Kiran noticed Megha stiffen and shift away from him.

  The florist had assumed they were married, since they were walking together along the riverfront. Romantic walks in this town were reserved for the married. Besides, the mangalsutra around her neck clearly announced to the world that she was married. The florist’s blunder didn’t bother Kiran in the least, but Megha looked mortified.

  Who else could have seen them together and jumped to the same conclusion? A quick glance around showed there were lots of people walking about. Neither he nor Megha had been paying much attention to the scene around them.

  Despite his mild concerns for Megha’s reputation, on an impulse Kiran pulled out his wallet to buy a gajra. “Take your pick, Megha,” he said, motioning her to come forward.

  She frowned at him and shook her head. “No, please.”

  “Then you’ll have to settle for my choice.” He picked one with snowy white jasmine and tiny red roses contrasted with the fragrant, grayish-green herb called marva. It seemed like the prettiest one in the bunch.

  But when he held it out to Megha, she refused to accept it. “I can’t take that from you, Kiran. But thanks, anyway.” She must have seen the puzzled look in his eyes, for she added, “Why don’t you take it to your mother?”

  He smiled. “Consider it a small and insignificant anniversary gift, Megha. Had I known it was such a special day, I would have brought a proper gift for you and Suresh.”

  Upon Kiran’s insisting, Megha reluctantly accepted the flowers, but tears gathered in her eyes, surprising him, making him wonder if buying her flowers was a mistake. She looked down at the ground and bit her lower lip, perhaps to control the tears. “My parents will wonder where I got it.”

  “Tell them you bought it for yourself,” he said, hoping to make light of the situation.

  She gazed at the garland in her hand as if it was priceless gold. “Thank you. It’s thoughtful of you. You’re very kind, Kiran.”

  “It’s nothing.” Kiran realized this was the second time she had referred to him as kind. The sentiment tugged at him. Was she starved for appreciation, and never received any? His aversion to Suresh was increasing by the minute. In fact, it was turning into full-blown loathing and Kiran didn’t like the feeling. It wasn’t like him to feel animosity toward anyone, and so it irritated him even more.

  Megha tucked the gajra in her braid. Perhaps from seeing the look of frank admiration in Kiran’s eyes, the color seemed to rise in her face. “It’s not right for me to accept gifts from a man other than Suresh or my father, Kiran,” she sai
d, raising a nervous hand to her hair to make sure the flowers were secured properly. The tears were now rolling down her cheeks.

  His eyebrows arched. “Why the tears, Megha? Have I made you feel that guilty?” Now he was really feeling like a heel.

  “No, it’s just that…no one’s ever bought me flowers before.” She sniffed and dried her eyes with a handkerchief. “Don’t pay any attention to me. For some reason I’m more emotional than usual today.”

  “There’s nothing wrong in being emotional. Everyone needs a little emotion in their lives. If Suresh missed spending this day with you, it’s his loss.”

  As they approached a busy intersection, she threw a cautious glance over her shoulder. “My father usually takes a walk at this hour. If he catches me talking to you, he’ll have a fit.” After another quick precautionary look around, she said, “Thanks again, Kiran. I can see my way home from here.”

  “Megha.”

  “Yes?”

  “Make sure you take care of that burn on your wrist.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  “And…try to cheer up.”

  She nodded and turned to cross the street.

  “Happy anniversary, Megha,” he whispered, knowing for sure that she couldn’t hear it. She was already striding in the direction of her father’s house.

  He waited and watched until she disappeared around the bend. What a sheer waste of beauty and brains, he rued for the hundredth time since he’d met her. Strange that he should be the one to spend her anniversary evening with her rather than her husband. It had taken every ounce of his self-control to keep himself from touching her. She had looked so utterly vulnerable this evening. He couldn’t believe a simple string of flowers had reduced her to tears. Well, it certainly had been a memorable evening.

  An odd sense of loneliness and disquiet settled over Kiran as he walked home.