A Scandalous Secret

by Jaishree Misra

  ‘But I can’t, darling,’ Laura sobbed, tearing off a strip of kitchen paper to wipe her eyes. ‘It may be stupid of me but I just can’t understand why you would want to go on such a punishing quest. As it is, Dad and I would have been beside ourselves worrying about you being so far away. But somewhere like India! All that poverty and disease. And trying to find your natural mother? Why, Sonya? Have you lacked for anything at all in your life with us?’

  ‘Of course not, Mum!’ Sonya cried. ‘Why would you even ask that?’

  ‘Then why?’ her mother asked again, her tone anguished.

  ‘Mum, Mum,’ Sonya responded, dodging around the dishwasher to take her mother’s plump frame in her arms and squeeze her tightly. ‘It’s so hard to explain but this has nothing at all to do with Dad and you. It’s just something I need to do. For me. When Chelsea told me about her search, it made utter sense, you know. Even though what she found at the end of it was a squalid council flat and a smelly old couple. It was just something she needed to know – don’t you understand?’

  ‘I’m trying,’ Laura said, now looking mutinous through her tears. ‘Chelsea may have made light of it but the whole experience must have been terribly traumatic at the time. And so unnecessary, especially given what a lovely family she has. I met them at least twice back in your primary school days and, really, they couldn’t have been a nicer family. Anyway, how can this search for your birth mother be nothing to do with us? I feel as if we must have failed you in some way.’

  ‘Of course you haven’t!’ Sonya responded crossly. ‘But let me do this, please – Chelsea’s parents did. You hear all the time of people going off in search of themselves, don’t you? Well, it’s something like that, Mum. It’s been like a missing piece in a jigsaw puzzle. Or a gap in my teeth that’s annoyed and irritated me for years.’

  ‘But you always seemed so happy, so … so contented,’ Laura cut in, ‘And we’ve told you everything we possibly could, everything we knew, Sonya.’

  ‘That’s exactly the point, Mum. “Everything we knew” isn’t really very much. I read somewhere once that when children who’ve been adopted or are in foster care don’t know about their biological parents, it’s as if they’re carrying great big holes in their heads. And what do you think they do? They allow their imaginations to rush in and fill those holes with the most impossible fantasies. At least I haven’t done that. But I do need to know the truth now, Mum. And there’s no one who can tell me but her.’ By now, Sonya had released Laura and they stood looking at each other by the dishwasher, both their eyes full of angry tears.

  After a pause, Laura bent to collect the dishes. ‘The truth can sometimes hurt terribly,’ she muttered softly. ‘And that’s what we’re scared of. Dad and I simply couldn’t bear to see you get rejected a second time over, darling. And by the same woman. I mean, you were such a darling little baby. Only someone truly cold and heartless could have picked you up and given you away. And then walked away from you without once turning back to enquire after your welfare.’

  Sonya looked down at the floor tiles. Then she picked up the tea towel and wiped the casserole dish, before kneeling to put it in its usual place. After a few minutes, she looked up at her mother and said softly, ‘I know, Mum. I know you and Dad have only ever wanted to shield me from painful stuff. And you always have. But I’m eighteen now. About to leave for uni. You won’t be able to protect me from everything, y’know.’

  ‘Well, you can’t blame me for trying. I might not be your biological mother but I doubt anyone will love you as much as I do,’ Laura replied defiantly.

  Deciding to lighten the mood, Sonya turned her expression impish. ‘Perhaps I should smuggle you into Balliol and have you set up home under my bed? With a little hob and a little kettle so you can be ready with one of your famous cuppas at a moment’s notice? Bet you’d like that, wouldn’tcha?’ Sonya got to her feet and stuck her forefinger into Laura’s soft belly, trying to make her laugh.

  ‘Go on, you,’ Laura said gruffly, pushing Sonya’s hand away, but Sonya could see her mother was now smiling, albeit reluctantly. She sighed under her breath, glad that the present crisis had blown over. Growing up with a rather over-emotional mother, Sonya had grown adept at spotting a tantrum brewing from miles away and she knew it wouldn’t be long before another bout of maternal tears emerged from somewhere. And who knew what her impending chat with Tim would do to Mum and to her? One bout of tears in a day was more than any girl ought to deal with, for Chrissake. Perhaps she ought to disappear into her room and do something really innocuous like read a book! Oh yeah, or do her packing … Dumping Tim could wait for another day or two, really.

  Chapter Seven

  On the evening after her dinner party, Neha mustered the energy to visit her parents. She had not seen much of them in the past week, busy as she had been, calling and reminding all her guests of their party invitations and getting the house and garden spruced up. Besides, she needed to tell her parents she was leaving for Ananda the following day. Neha hoped her mother would not ask to come along, seeing what short notice it was and how little she had enjoyed it on the one occasion Neha had taken her along. This time she really did need some space to sort out the mess in her head.

  As the car pulled into the porch of her parents’ small and neat Kailash Colony home – the house in which Neha had grown up – her mother’s trim figure emerged from indoors, followed as usual by the family’s two boxer dogs whose stubby tails started wriggling furiously at the sight of Neha’s car. Neha made her habitual fuss over the dogs, both of whom adored her, before she briefly hugged her mother.

  ‘You look tired. Too much partygoing, huh?’ her mother said.

  Neha shot her a glance to assess whether she was being sarcastic or disapproving but her mother’s handsome face was impassive. ‘Where’s Papa?’

  ‘Gone to the golf club,’ came her reply. ‘But he said I was to hold on to you till he got back.’

  ‘Oh, I can’t if he’s going to get too late, Mama. Sharat’s leaving for Lucknow and I should see him off. And I have to send some things his mother’s asked for too.’

  ‘She’s always asking for “some things”, isn’t she?’ Mrs Chaturvedi said drily. There was no mistaking the sarcasm now. Neha’s mother and mother-in-law had never seen eye-to-eye, a situation caused partially by the disparity in their social standing. Neha’s mother had always considered herself far more sophisticated than Sharat’s, despite the fact that the latter had a great deal more money and lived in a Lucknow mansion that was five times the size of her home. Luckily such tensions had never affected Neha’s own relationship with Sharat’s parents which, except for the odd hiccup, had remained close and warm. ‘What is it that she wants this time?’ her mother pressed.

  ‘Oh, just a couple of sets of jewellery that she left with Tribhovandas for polishing last time she was here,’ Neha replied.

  ‘Hmmm,’ her mother said with a distant expression on her face, and Neha knew she was now thinking of all the jewellery that Sharat’s mother still hadn’t passed on to her. It was her mother’s oft-expressed belief that Sharat’s mother had grown too old to wear heavy jewellery. ‘Women above a certain age should stick to a nice pair of solitaires and a delicate pearl string for the neck,’ she sometimes said, shuddering at the massive old ranihaars and pendants that Sharat’s mother often wore to family weddings. Furthermore, it was her firm opinion that the keys to the locker that housed the famed antique collection of the Lucknow Chaturvedis should now be rightfully handed to the family’s only daughter-in-law, which of course was Neha. For her part, Neha had always resisted this notion, not merely because she had plenty of jewellery already – both her own as well as pieces bought for her by Sharat over the years – but also because she considered it extremely unbecoming to squabble over things as inconsequential as keys to bank lockers. Neha, who was far more interested in contemporary art, preferred to spend her money on paintings and artefacts to furnish her elegant home
with, rather than squandering it away on jewellery she hardly ever wore. She decided to change the subject quickly before her mother embarked on the habitual harangue.

  ‘Our party went off very well,’ Neha remarked, realizing that her mother had forgotten all about it, even though she had mentioned it a few times in the past few weeks.

  ‘Oh yes. You had your party. Who came?’

  ‘Well, the usual crowd mostly. One starts running out of different people to call in a place like Delhi! But the Home Minister was there this time. And spoke very positively to Sharat about his chances of getting a seat in the next election.’

  ‘Achcha? Where will it be, his seat?’ her mother exclaimed, her face finally losing its dissatisfied expression. Neha smiled. Perhaps Sharat’s political prospects would finally provide common ground between her parents and in-laws! She tried to imagine all of them together in a campaigning vehicle before hastily dismissing the thought.

  ‘Well, Sharat’s hoping for one of the South Delhi constituencies, naturally. But everyone wants those and they don’t usually get given to political novices. At this stage, he’ll take what he gets.’

  ‘That is very wise,’ her mother said, adding grudgingly, ‘Luckily, however unsophisticated his mother may be, she has somehow brought up a most sensible boy.’

  Neha did not have to think up a response to that as the tea service made a timely arrival, brought out by Bahadur, who had worked with her parents since she was a child. Neha enquired after the old cook’s family back in Nepal before turning her attention back to the dogs who had perked up at the sight of food. The trolley was elaborately laid out with bone china quarter plates and lace-edged linen serviettes, as was customary in her mother’s house, and, with the fuss of pouring and serving, the conversation turned to more general matters.

  Neha, thinking again about the arrival of the letter from England, realized suddenly why she had never got around to confiding in her mother, even as a nineteen-year-old. She looked at her mother’s prim figure and pursed lips as she poured the tea and realized, with a suddenly very heavy feeling, how little her mother had changed over the years. Neha knew there was little point in looking for help and sympathy now, all these years down the line and with so much more to lose. It would be counterproductive and, besides, given her parents’ age, Neha could not discount what the shock of discovering they had a secret granddaughter could do to them. No, she would have to face this by herself. And face it as bravely as she could. Blinking back a sudden rush of tears, Neha bent over to feed two very excited boxers an unexpected bounty of chocolate cake.

  Swiftly gathering herself together, Neha took the cup of tea her mother was holding out. ‘Shall I call Papa and see where he’s got to?’ she asked.

  Her mother glanced at her wristwatch. ‘Hmm, by now he should have left the greens. Yes, call him if you’re short of time.’

  Neha flipped her phone open and clicked on her father’s name. ‘Haanji, Papa, where are you? I’m at Kailash Colony, having tea with Mama. Okay, good, I’ll wait.’ She slid the phone back into its case and picked up her tea cup again. ‘He’s not far, just at the Moolchand flyover,’ she said.

  Neha talked to her mother about the usual things, her mother filling her in on the family gossip regarding a cousin’s acrimonious divorce before moving on to the difficulty she was having in finding a good driver and her own health problems. Their subjects of conversation never changed very much, Neha having long trained herself to keep things innocuous. When her father arrived, she got up to give him a relieved hug. Her relationship with her genial father had always been much warmer but, with retirement, he too had developed a general complaining air that left little room for genuine communication.

  ‘How was the golf, Papa?’

  ‘Good, beta, good,’ he responded, sinking into a chair with a groan and taking the cup of tea his wife was offering him. ‘And how are things with you and Sharat? Did your party go well?’ he enquired.

  ‘Sharat’s going to get a South Delhi seat,’ Neha’s mother cut in.

  ‘He hopes he’ll get it, Mama,’ Neha clarified. ‘The Minister was only promising to talk to the PM. Nothing pukka yet.’

  ‘That’s what this country needs,’ her father said, ‘more educated and upstanding people like Sharat coming into politics. That’s the only way we can get all the goonda elements out. Look at the way they behave in Parliament – did you see those scenes on TV yesterday? Throwing chappals and chairs at the Speaker – ruddy shameful! Can you imagine any other Parliament in the world allowing such a thing? The whole lot of them should be sacked, I say.’

  The conversation stayed in that vein and, an hour later, returning home from her parents’ house, Neha felt exhausted. Increasingly, her communication with her parents was ceasing to be meaningful, their conversations skimming only the surfaces of their real feelings. But how could she blame them? It was she who had first introduced lies into their relationship.

  ‘The course was too tough for me, Mama, I just could not cope’ … ‘I was homesick and … and there was a gang of girls that was bullying me … yes, bullying me … no, I don’t want to go into all that … leave me alone, please!’

  Tears, recriminations, it went on for weeks, all through the summer holidays, Mama and Papa obviously hoping that I would change my mind by the time term was due to start again. But I held out – I had no choice – and, gradually, the nagging stopped. Mama had scoffed at all my excuses, even as I wept in her arms. What had really hurt, though, was that even if there were moments when Mama perhaps doubted the veracity of my story, she never once stopped to ask the actual reason for my hasty return home. She had never really been able to cope with strong emotion. Everything in her world needed to be neat and immaculate: not just inanimate things like her home and its furnishings but her marriage, her daughter’s prospects, her very emotions. But, they had to relent finally …

  The literature department at Lady Shri Ram College was good, taking me into their second year on the basis of my having spent a year at Oxford. They were impressed, clearly, and mystified at my having chosen to come back. But they too bought my story about having been bullied. ‘Great Britain is very racist, I am told,’ the Head of Department said, looking sympathetic. ‘It was in fact so bad, she actually fell sick,’ my father said, waving his arm in my direction, where I sat huddled on a metal chair. The weight I had lost, both during and after my pregnancy, bore that out. I was all skin and bones then and the principal needed no more persuasion. I could finally say goodbye to my Oxford dream.

  Neha looked out of the window of her car, not seeing the Delhi traffic or the crowds or the late September sunshine falling on the windscreen. She was far away, back in her college days, remembering how she had kept her head down and completed both her BA and MA, topping Delhi University in her final year. It had been no effort, immersed as she had been in her books at that time. Getting the gold medal had led to an offer to teach in the faculty but Neha turned it down, having by then met Sharat through Ramu Uncle, a family friend. Sharat and she had met only a couple of times before the formal marriage proposal came – it was all very handy, given that they were both Chaturvedis with all kinds of family ties that went back generations. Neha’s parents were overjoyed and there was no reason to let them down again. It was, after all, what Ramu Uncle described as ‘a most advantageous match’.

  She now looked down at her beringed fingers, the stones in the gold bands catching the sun and sending little pinpricks of light dancing around the plush leather interior of the car. Despite generally shying away from jewellery, Neha was sentimental about these three rings and almost never took them off; her wedding and engagement rings and the cluster of diamonds that Sharat had given her on their tenth wedding anniversary. He was a perfect husband – mild mannered and courteous and generous with his wealth – and Neha was well aware of how many friends and cousins envied her her good fortune. Neha herself felt fortunate that, after all her problems at university, she
had finally found someone like Sharat – her rock.

  And so it was that, with all the charmed events that had gradually come after her return from England, Neha had eventually given her parents little cause for complaint. They now probably barely even remembered that Oxford dream they had all once shared. The topic hardly ever came up. It would be ridiculous indeed to harp on about that, given how Neha’s life had eventually turned out. Oh yes, today, seeing Neha return to her Prithviraj Road home in a gleaming Mercedes car, even Mama would be forced to admit that – apart from not having borne a child so far – her daughter’s life was pretty immaculate too.

  Chapter Eight

  In the kitchen of the Shaw household, Laura gave her special chicken broth a final stir before taking out a stack of soup bowls from the cupboard. Richard wandered in, inhaling appreciatively. ‘Tim’s upstairs, I take it,’ he said, cocking a brow at the fourth place setting on the kitchen table.

  ‘They’ve been up there all afternoon,’ Laura responded, starting to ladle the broth into bowls. ‘Probably getting Sonya’s suitcase packed. Y’know, I’d have been so much happier if Tim had been going along too. The thought of two girls wandering around on their own in India worries me terribly …’

  ‘Wonder why he didn’t offer,’ Richard said, nibbling on a breadstick.

  ‘Tim? Oh, I don’t think he was even given a chance. Sonya’s reaction to that suggestion was even stronger than when I asked if you could go along. Remember how indignant she was then?’

  ‘Well, I could see why she didn’t want me trailing after her and Stel, cramping their style. But Tim would have been a nice halfway compromise. Most girls want to go off on holiday with their boyfriends, don’t they?’ Richard’s face wore a genuinely baffled expression.