He shrugged, walking indoors. Without feeling too positive, he tried Neha’s number again but the message remained the same: ‘The Airtel number you are trying to reach is currently not available.’ Sharat cursed under his breath. Things had a strange way of falling apart in Neha’s absence; either it was the cook demanding to go to his village or the phone lines going down or, like last time, the desktop computer breaking down completely. Perhaps all these things happened while Neha was around too, but then she ensured he never got to hear of them. Not that this was a domestic crisis, of course, but something about the visit of the two foreigners had left Sharat feeling a bit uneasy. He wasn’t normally given to weird hunches but it was as though a distant storm was brewing and about to break over their heads. He desperately wanted to talk to Neha. Hearing her low-pitched soft voice always had a calming effect on him. Sharat pulled out his phone and clicked on Neha’s name for the umpteenth time. Amazingly, this time he was rewarded with a ringing tone. Distant and shaky but a ringing tone all right! He held his breath, hoping Neha wasn’t in the middle of one of those lengthy Ananda massages. He never understood why she so enjoyed all that alternative stuff; it was completely alien to him. Suddenly the ringing stopped and Neha’s voice came on the line.
‘Hello, Sharat?’
‘Yes, yes, it’s me,’ Sharat breathed in relief, ‘God, I’ve been trying endlessly since yesterday!’
‘I know, I’ve been trying since yesterday too but, because of the rains, the landlines here are down.’
‘Are you okay, Neha? Enjoying yourself?’
‘Of course, I always enjoy Ananda. It’s very quiet too, hardly any other guests as it’s off-season. Just a group from South Africa who are en route to a Vedanta conference in Pune and the usual sprinkling of Americans. But how are things there? Your parents in Lucknow? Are they okay?’
‘They’re fine, just the usual health grumbles.’
‘Pita-ji’s arthritis?’
‘Bad. Poor guy can hardly walk. You should’ve come along, it would have made him even happier to see you.’
‘Oh, sorry, Sharat, but I wasn’t thinking straight after our party. I’ll go see them soon, I promise. And anything further from Vir Saksena?’
While Sharat was telling Neha of his plans to meet the Home Minister the following day, the line went dead. Sharat clicked the phone off in frustration and it was only much later that he remembered he had not had the chance to tell Neha about the mysterious visit by the two foreign girls.
Chapter Sixteen
Sonya managed to hold on until they had exited the Chaturvedi gates but, the minute they were outside on the pavement, she burst into tears. Estella put her arm around her friend’s shoulders, trying to comfort her while also very conscious that the staring from all around was getting embarrassing. A pair of men at a nearby cab rank were looking curiously at Sonya sobbing on Estella’s shoulder and people in passing cars were swivelling their heads around to see better – the sight of a delirious sobbing foreigner was a sight to behold. But Sonya was completely oblivious to the unwanted attention.
Estella patted her back. ‘Never mind, Sonya, stop crying,’ she pleaded. ‘We’ll try again after a couple of days. Besides, you got her mobile number from the butler guy, didn’t you, so we could attempt calling that later, yes? That was a clever way to get her phone number, pretending you were a friend’s daughter passing through Delhi …’
But Sonya was barely listening and Estella trailed off. She patted her friend’s back again as she tried to quell her tears. After a while, Sonya finally spoke, her words emerging through heaving sobs. ‘Bitch … bitch …’ she said, her face red and streaming.
‘C’mon …’ Estella said, trying to be fair. ‘She didn’t know we were going to drop in today, did she? So she wasn’t really avoiding us by not being there, I guess …’
‘But she did know, Stel!’ Sonya exploded.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’d written to say I was coming …’
‘You what!? But you never said …’ Estella asked, confused.
‘I know, I know, I’ve been meaning to tell you but just hadn’t got around to it, Stel.’
‘Fuck me, what did you say to her? And did you say we would be going today? I mean, you’re not suggesting she’s deliberately avoided our visit, are you?’
Sonya shook her head, relieved that Estella at least wasn’t cross with her for writing to Neha. ‘No, I hadn’t mentioned any specific date. But, when I sent the letter, I didn’t even know for sure if she’d get it, you know, if the address was correct. But now that I know it’s the right address, I bet she got the letter. And simply didn’t reply. Bitch.’ Sonya suppressed an angry shiver.
‘Which means that she may indeed be avoiding meeting you,’ Estella said, trying to work her way through the muddle of information. ‘That would be a bummer, having come so far.’
‘Besides, she’s so fucking wealthy! They’re bloody loaded!’
‘Certainly would seem so,’ Estella said, even though she wasn’t very sure why that fact should upset Sonya so greatly. It was, to Estella’s mind, all a little exciting if she were to be honest. For one, the trip out to central Delhi in an auto-rickshaw had been great fun, a mode of transport that was quirky and quick and cost no more than a couple of pounds. Then, on discovering the Chaturvedi house, it had turned out to be a beautiful sprawling white mansion behind forbidding metal gates, manned by the obligatory servants (they had seen at least four: a guard, a valet, two gardeners and a pair of chauffeurs wearing white peaked caps). Having inveigled their way in, they had found an empty but amazingly elegant home that made Estella think instantly of The Great Gatsby; deep verandas lined with cushioned white wicker chairs that overlooked trim flowerbeds and manicured lawns that were hissing softly with sprinklers. A pair of gardeners was toiling at one end of the garden, weeding and trimming the edges of a creeper hanging over a shed, while someone else was stacking vast quantities of garden furniture inside it. It was a scene that was redolent with good taste and bucketloads of money. And, just as they were taking all this in open-mouthed, that suave Indian businessman wearing a smart suit and with just the right amount of silver sprinkled in his dark hair had turned up in his shiny sleek Mercedes, as though aware that he was the last prop required to complete a nearly perfect picture. Not that Estella had seen many Bollywood films but, as far as she knew, the kind of wealth evident at the Chaturvedi place was the stuff of Bollywood’s most overblown escapist fantasies. Without a hint of kitsch, though, seeing how muted and elegant everything was. It had all been so stylish, in fact, that Estella had promptly lost her tongue when Mr Debonair had turned up in his Mercedes, leaving poor Sonya to do all the talking.
But this wasn’t the moment to discuss all that with Sonya, who was still very upset. ‘I just don’t get it, Stel,’ Sonya continued tearfully, ‘Neha Chaturvedi is educated, she’s clearly rich. From what I can see, the woman lacks nothing and yet … yet she gave me up? Okay, let’s say she had some compelling reason to do it then but, in all these years, she’s never once bothered to try and make sure I was okay? Nor even replied to my letter! I mean, what possible justification can there be for any of that? All kinds of terrible events could have befallen me when I was a baby! I might have never been adopted and been in and out of foster homes. Or in a children’s home and been the victim of the worst abuse all through my childhood for all she knew. But, did she care? Did she heck!’
Estella patted her hand, ‘Well, thankfully none of that happened, hon,’ she said, ‘and you ended up with your lovely parents in Orps. Oh, and got little old moi for a best mate!’ Estella paused, hoping Sonya would smile but she was still distraught and so she tried changing course. ‘Maybe Neha wasn’t rich then. When she had you, I mean,’ Estella offered. ‘Maybe she was just a penniless student and couldn’t afford to keep you and later became rich by marrying that man in the Mercedes …’ she trailed off again as Sonya shot her an anguished look. An
other thought occurred to Estella, who had now stopped in the middle of the pavement. ‘That could be it, Sonya. She had an arranged marriage to a rich guy, who was told nothing about your birth, and she’s never been able to tell him because she would end up losing everything.’ Estella now had Sonya’s full attention and so she warmed to her theme. ‘I mean, it’s a pretty conservative society here in India, isn’t it? A baby before marriage would destroy a woman’s prospects, I’d have thought.’
Sonya’s tears had dried up. She gestured to a nearby cement bench and they walked across and sat down. Traffic was hurtling past them on the road but Sonya seemed oblivious to it as she spoke, her voice now low-pitched and sombre. ‘I think you’ve got it, Stel.’
‘Got it?’
‘The rich guy … the husband. He’s the reason she’s never searched for me. She’s scared she’ll lose him. They probably have their own children and she must be terrified of losing their love too …’
‘Yessss …’ Estella said doubtfully, feeling a little shiver of apprehension pass through her at the hard expression on her friend’s face.
‘So that’s what I need to do,’ Sonya continued. ‘I need to tell him.’ She got up abruptly, intending to start retracing her steps in the direction from which they had walked. ‘Come along,’ she said, turning to find that Estella wasn’t following her – she was still seated on the park bench with an aghast expression on her face. ‘Aren’t you coming with me?’ she asked.
Estella paused for a minute and then slowly shook her head. She had never disagreed with her best friend before, except in the most minor things. In fact she had set out on this trip with Sonya, determined to help and support her through what was sure to be a painful process of self-discovery. But what Sonya was proposing now was cruel and heartless. It wasn’t what Estella had come to India for at all. She stayed sitting on the bench, her face mutinous as Sonya looked at her incredulously.
‘I can’t believe you’re chickening out now, at the last minute, having come so far!’ Sonya cried.
Estella took a deep breath, steeling herself to speak calmly to her already upset friend. ‘I’m not chickening out, Sonya. Maybe I misunderstood, but we didn’t come here to ruin anyone’s life, did we?’
Sonya looked confused for a moment but soon gathered her thoughts. She raised her head and stood tall, a determined expression on her face. ‘You know what, Stel?’ she said slowly. ‘If these people’s lives are ruined by this, I don’t particularly care. After all, she didn’t seem to care about what would happen to me after I was born, did she?’
‘How do you know that, Sonya? Maybe she did grieve terribly … And what about that man – the one back at the house – he hasn’t done anything to harm you. You don’t even know him! And yet you want to ruin their lives. And your begrudging her her life and wealth? I don’t get that at all.’
‘I am not,’ Sonya muttered darkly, but without looking at Estella’s face.
‘Yes, you are, from what I can see,’ Estella countered. ‘I mean what if – just what if – we’d got here and found that your birth mother was a really poor woman, like Chelsea’s birth parents. Someone like that beggar woman we saw at the traffic lights. Would you have been so angry then? No, obviously not! You’d have forgiven her instantly. What’s got into you, Sonya? You were never like this!’
‘Like what?’ Sonya’s voice was still sharp.
‘This … this vindictive sort of person, Sonya. Look at you! The whole expression on your face has changed. You don’t even look like yourself any more.’
‘I don’t know what the fuck you mean,’ Sonya looked defensive but Estella could see that her words were finally having some kind of effect. Sonya was now looking down, grinding the heel of her sandal into a clump of mud by the side of the pavement, as if she could take out all her anger on it. Then she looked up and spoke in a small voice. ‘Please tell me what I should do, Stel, I’m so confused …’ she said as tears started to flow down her stained cheeks again.
Chapter Seventeen
The therapist indicated that the massage had ended by gently chiming a minuscule pair of brass cymbals. Neha, lying face down on the massage bed, savoured the feeling of a body revitalized by the hot stone therapy she had just undergone, even though her mind still refused to be soothed. After she had heard the door click behind the departing masseuse, Neha turned over in order to breathe more freely. The cluster of green bamboo outside the bare window was rustling in the breeze and throwing shadows across the ceiling. Neha gazed at their shadow-play for a few minutes, seeing not the immaculate high ceiling of Ananda’s therapy room but another one from a long time ago.
Someone had painted the ceiling of the delivery room in Oxford’s John Radcliffe Hospital with a plethora of cartoon characters. It was an image that had not returned to Neha for a while but she saw it now with surprising clarity – those larger-than-life cartoon characters that someone had reckoned would be the best way to welcome Oxford’s newborns to the world. There was Winnie the Pooh holding a pot of honey, Goofy and Donald dancing a jig and little Minnie Mouse smiling from under an enormous parasol.
I tried to find some amusement in the idea of the painter lying on his back in Da Vinci style while painting these Disney characters. They all looked so cheery and happy, dancing on that ceiling, their jollity gut-wrenching when set against my anguish.
There were bloodcurdling screams coming from the woman who was struggling to have her baby on the next bed. I listened to her, terrified of what lay ahead for me. But I managed to remain tight-lipped and trembling when my turn came and the pain started to tear through my body. I would not give in to such unseemly shouting. What was to come later would be so much worse anyway.
And it was. How did one compare one kind of pain with another? Was physical suffering more bearable than emotional anguish? All I know, thinking of the clawing, tearing of childbirth the following day, was that it was far more painful to be holding my baby in my arms with the certain knowledge that I would soon be giving her away.
The sweet-faced massage therapist came back into the room and, surprised to see Neha still lying down, approached her with a look of concern. ‘Ma’am, are you okay? You are not feeling giddy?’
‘No, no, I’m fine, thanks,’ Neha reassured her as she sat up. She pulled the towel around her body, feeling a sudden chill.
‘Did you like the hot stone massage?’
‘It was very good, thank you,’ Neha said, trying to smile.
‘Would you like to book another session before you go?’
‘Yes, I might …’
‘If you wish, you can see if I am free when you schedule it, ma’am. My name is Amminikutty,’ the girl said in a soft south Indian accent. She was kneeling on the floor before a cupboard as she prepared a bath tray for Neha. Getting to her feet, she pointing to its various constituents. ‘Ma’am, this is the body scrub, a mix of shikakai and powdered lentils. And in this ceramic pot is the herbal shampoo. I will leave you to have your shower but, if you need any help, I am right outside. Be careful when you stand up, there is oil on your feet.’
Neha nodded but waited until the girl had left the room before she got off the bed and unwound her towel. She stood before the tall mirrors in the dressing area, massaging the remaining oil into her skin, stopping as her fingers reached her abdomen. She ran her fingers lightly over her flat stomach. She had not acquired any stretch marks after her childbirth. Perhaps it was due to the elasticity her skin had had when she was in her teens, although she could not discount the concerned efforts of Nicki and Clare, both of whom had older sisters with children and knew, therefore, all about cocoa butter and StriVectin cream.
‘My sister’s tum is as flat as a washboard and totally blemish-free – she swears by this.’ Nicki held out a tube of cream.
‘And, next time I’m home, I’ll root through me mum’s wardrobe to find tops and jogging bottoms that’ll mask your little bump nicely. Not that it shows anyway. You’re quite sma
ll, aren’t you?’ They both looked down at my stomach and Clare continued speaking, ‘I reckon it’s because you’re quite tall – sort of stretches you upwards, doesn’t it?’
‘No one will be able to tell you’re pregnant, Neha, not in those loose tee-shirts you wear anyway. Don’t you go worrying about that. In fact, don’t you go worrying about anything but looking after yourself …’
Every so often Neha remembered their love and kindness … before she quickly shoved away the thought that those friends too had had to be forsaken, along with so much else from that distant time.
Once showered and dressed, Neha wandered across to Ananda’s dining hall, remembering as her tummy growled that she had had a very early breakfast in order to attend the morning’s Vedanta lecture on anger management. There was only a small handful of people still lunching at this late hour. A couple were sitting out on the balcony, braving the occasional forays made by hungry monkeys, while a few stray loners like her were scattered around the large hall. From her many trips to Ananda, Neha had figured out how many people there were in the world who needed to escape to the solitude that was on offer here.
She took a table near a large plate-glass window overlooking the valley and ordered a lime juice with mint and crushed ice before examining the day’s menu. Despite her hungry stomach, her mind was still refusing to connect with any of the excellent choices that were on offer. She was staring blankly at the description of vegetable pulao with raita, written for the benefit of Ananda’s many foreign visitors, when her thoughts were interrupted by a figure materializing before her.
A Scandalous Secret Page 11
