A Scandalous Secret

by Jaishree Misra

  Sonya wandered across to the window. The night was warm and the air hung sticky and heavy over the garden, although a pair of fireflies were zipping and dancing around under a street light. After watching them for a while, Sonya returned to her bed and lay down again with a thump. She had to force herself to sleep if she wanted to go out again with Keshav tomorrow, as planned. But the anticipation of seeing him again in a few hours was making her feel dizzy.

  It was such a strange thing, her attraction for Keshav. The man had a certain swagger about him that, in another context, Sonya would have considered most maddening: arrogant at times and so forthright with his opinions. There was, in fact, little about him that she would, under normal circumstances, have found appealing. But, lying sleepless in the dark somewhere in the heart of India and so far away from home, all Sonya knew was that she had found Keshav more and more personable – charismatic even – as the day had progressed. She had been especially touched by the caring manner in which he had escorted her and Estella to the crowded street on which they had lunched, treating them as though they were the two most precious charges he had ever been responsible for. He had also proven to be possessed of superhuman tolerance when they had later gone to the craft bazaar for their shopping. While she and Estella had gone a bit wild buying junk jewellery and gifts for family and friends back at home, Keshav had waited patiently, smiling with amusement as he leant on various shop counters watching them haggle, stepping in to help only when necessary. And then doing so in a fabulously manful way, switching fluently between Hindi and English. When she had felt his fingers brush her neck as he had clasped the necklace around it, Sonya had felt an electric surge hit her heart, the kind of high-voltage moment that she had almost never experienced with Tim back at home.

  Poor old Tim … Sonya had a sudden guilty flash of the last time she had seen him, sitting on the swings in Orpington Park while she had made good her escape on a bus. She hadn’t been very nice to him. He was, after all, not merely a schoolmate but had been one of her best friends too, their friendship going as far back as middle school. But Sonya knew without a doubt that she would never in a million years be able to feel for Tim the way she already did for Keshav. Despite all their differences, it was with Keshav that she was more likely to experience that thing – that magical quality which had eluded her so far. It must exist. Surely she was not immune to that thrilling explosion of feelings that Emily back at school had once described as ‘a lightning flash through the body, reaching the very tips of your fingers and toes’. Sonya had never once felt anything remotely resembling that in all her time with Tim. Was it right to spurn the opportunity for such an experience now, when it was staring her right in the face?

  It was close on midnight when Sonya’s eyes finally closed themselves in a restless, fitful sleep.

  Keshav turned up at the Mahajan household early the next morning, as promised. It was Sunday and so the whole family was sitting in the garden, enjoying breakfast outdoors under the generous shade of a mulberry tree. Mr Mahajan was teaching calculus to his fifteen-year-old son, Rishi, who seemed a distinctly reluctant student from what Sonya could see. Despite Mrs Mahajan’s efforts, both Sonya and Estella had cried off helping Rishi, stating a common aversion for any subject even remotely mathematical. Instead, they read the newspapers and made further travel plans with the help of their guide book while helping themselves to the generous bowl of cut papaya that had been laid out on the garden table.

  Sonya’s heart lurched slightly as the gates opened and she saw Keshav come striding down the garden path. He was wearing a clean white shirt today, matched with blue jeans, and seemed to have taken particular care over his appearance with a shave so close it had left his face shiny smooth. Sonya personally preferred the unshaven carelessness he had displayed the previous day – the ‘Banderas look’ that most of the young fellows in Delhi seemed to sport – but he still looked rather scrummy. She fingered a strand of her hair nervously, hoping she was looking nice too, given that she had woken at the crack of dawn in order to wash her hair and iron her lacy blue Topshop shift dress. She had even run her new smoke-grey eye-kohl around her eyes in an effort to make herself look more Indian.

  Keshav received an ecstatic welcome from Rishi but Sonya could not tell if this was genuine fondness on the part of the boy or merely a means to escape the rigours of his calculus lesson. ‘Keshav bhaiyya, can we watch the Australia-India test match together tonight? On the high definition LCD?’ the boy said in a wheedling voice, doing his best to tempt the older lad.

  Keshav tousled Rishi’s hair and replied, ‘Maybe not tonight, Rishi. I have some other plans … but the next one is with you definitely, theekh hai?’ He smiled at Sonya and Estella, and Sonya hoped desperately that his evening plans included her for, like Rishi, she too was extremely keen on Keshav’s company tonight.

  Sonya watched Keshav now as he talked to Mrs Mahajan in Hindi, feeling a strange ache in the pit of her stomach. Estella flashed her a warning look and moved her head sideways to signal that they should leave the breakfast table. They had made plans with Keshav to go into central Delhi and try once more to track Neha Chaturvedi down so there was serious work at hand. Both girls mumbled excuses and got up from their chairs.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind if we use the car again today, Mrs Mahajan,’ Estella asked. ‘We’ll keep tabs, of course, on the mileage so we can settle up before we leave.’

  ‘Of course, it is no problem at all,’ Mrs Mahajan replied, stacking the cereal bowls, ‘We have the other car if we need to go out anywhere. Anyway Sundays are usually quiet days at home for us. Mr Mahajan likes to sleep after breakfast, you see! So tired is he from his working week.’

  Mr Mahajan, who tended not to say very much when his more garrulous wife was around, nodded and beamed beatifically at the mention of his forthcoming morning nap.

  Mrs Mahajan carried on speaking as the plates were cleared. ‘You girls go and enjoy yourselves. Keshav tells me you are going to Lodhi Gardens and Humayun’s Tomb. Oh, and that lunch you will be having along with your shopping at Khan Market, so I won’t expect you back before evening, yes?’

  Sonya and Estella looked at Keshav for confirmation as neither had made any contribution to the itinerary. He nodded and so Estella said, ‘That’s right, Mrs Mahajan. Keshav’s very generous to spare us a precious Sunday. He’s what would be called a “diamond geezer” in Britain.’

  Mr Mahajan seemed very pleased with this description for Keshav and the girls could hear him laughing and repeating the words ‘diamond geezer’ a couple of times as they went upstairs to gather their belongings from their room above the garage.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were piling their bags, cameras and water bottles into the back seat of Mrs Mahajan’s spacious Ambassador. This time they decided to sit together on the front seat and Estella heroically stepped aside to allow Sonya to get in next to Keshav. Sonya wondered if her friend had suddenly grown a little distrustful of Keshav as she seemed to be a little on-guard. But she rewarded Estella with a grateful smile as she climbed into the car and moved up so close to Keshav she could feel her bare leg brush against the material of his jeans. She managed to curb herself from laying a proprietorial hand on Keshav’s thigh. Perhaps if Estella hadn’t been around, she’d have felt less inhibited and thrown all caution to the winds …

  Keshav drove them quickly into central Delhi, heading for Prithviraj Road. The plan was simple. They were going to make one more direct attempt at meeting Neha Chaturvedi at her house but, if she continued to evade Sonya, they would follow her around the city, exerting pressure on her by tailing her car until she agreed to meet Sonya and explain herself. Sonya, relieved at finally getting some action, was enthused by the idea; although the more cautious Estella had to be assured by Keshav that following someone around at a safe distance wasn’t illegal in India.

  When they arrived at Prithviraj Road, Sonya pointed out the large black gates and the discreet brass nameplate that
said ‘Chaturvedi’. Keshav let out a low whistle. ‘I knew they would be rich people when you said Prithviraj Road,’ he said. ‘But this! These people are majorly rich, man,’ he said excitedly.

  ‘So what do we do now?’ Estella asked, her voice wobbling with nervousness.

  ‘Let’s go and ask the chowkidar if madam is in,’ Keshav suggested.

  ‘You go – you can speak Hindi,’ Sonya urged.

  Keshav thought for a second before saying, ‘No, I think it would be better for one of you to go. You see, the chowkidar will be much happier to talk to a girl than a boy. He may even let you into the house.’

  ‘He did last time,’ Estella recalled. ‘Well, I think it’s the same guy. Can you tell, Son?’

  Sonya peered through the dusty windshield. ‘Can’t tell … I think it’s the same guy but that might not be good news for us – he might be wiser after last time and have strict orders not to let us in again!’

  ‘Foreigners are welcomed everywhere in India,’ Keshav reassured them, adding gruffly, ‘They’re like VIPs wherever they go.’

  ‘Okay, bull-by-the-horns and all that,’ Estella said suddenly, opening the door of the car.

  She got out and Sonya scrambled after her in haste. Together they walked up to the guard’s hut. An old Nepalese face peered out at them from over the wall. ‘Excuse me, we’re looking for Neha Chaturvedi,’ Estella said.

  The guard looked uncertain.

  ‘Is madam in the house?’ Sonya asked, trying not to betray her anxiety.

  This time the guard nodded almost imperceptibly. Sonya clutched so hard at Estella’s arm, she made her friend yelp. ‘Did you see that, Stel? He nodded. She’s in!’ Sonya hissed.

  Perhaps their behaviour seemed suspicious, or the guard had been given stern instructions not to let them through after their last visit. Whatever the case, the man remained implacable, refusing point blank to open the gates for them on this occasion. Just when Sonya was contemplating calling Keshav for help, the guard compromised by allowing them to make a phone call to the house from a small telephone instrument that was wired up to his cabin. He dialled the number for them and held the mouthpiece a few centimetres away from his face as he bellowed, ‘Ram Singh, madam ke liye koi visitor hain.’

  Sonya and Estella could hear a voice crackle down the line in response before things went silent. They waited, shifting from foot to foot as the guard held firmly onto the telephone and eyed them with increasing suspicion. It was all taking so much time that, before long, Keshav too emerged from the car and stood next to the girls. Finally, after what seemed like aeons, the telephone line crackled again and this time, the guard stood to attention as he answered with a brisk, ‘Ji, memsahib.’ Then he handed the phone to Estella. With a look of complete alarm on her face, Estella hastily passed the instrument on to Sonya, behaving almost as though it would burn her. Face now pale and eyes wide, Sonya took the telephone between trembling hands and held it to her ear.

  ‘Hello?’ she said, her voice low.

  An equally muted voice responded. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is that … is that Neha? Neha Chaturvedi?’ Sonya asked.

  ‘Yes,’ came the hesitant response.

  Sonya paused to take a breath before speaking again. She could feel both Estella’s and Keshav’s hands on her shoulders, offering silent support. ‘I wrote you a letter recently,’ she said. ‘I’m Sonya Shaw.’

  There was a long silence before the voice spoke, its tenor remaining unchanged, low and grave, as though this phone call had been expected all along. ‘Hello, Sonya. Yes, I received your letter. I was going to respond but needed some time to think.’ Sonya remained silent as she did not know what to say next and, after a pause, Neha spoke again, her voice dropping now to a whisper. ‘You are outside my gate?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sonya responded.

  ‘Look …’ Neha said, her voice still barely a whisper. Sonya thought she discerned a tremble in her voice too as she continued, ‘We need to talk properly. Not like this. Can you … can you meet me in Lodhi Gardens in half an hour?’

  ‘Lodhi Gardens?’ Sonya repeated for Keshav’s benefit and he nodded vigorously.

  ‘Do you know where it is?’ Neha asked. ‘It’s just around the corner from here.’

  ‘I can find it,’ Sonya said.

  ‘I’ll be there in half an hour – eleven thirty – near the duck pond. Ask someone for directions,’ Neha said before abruptly hanging up.

  Sonya returned the phone instrument to the guard and managed to make it back to the car before she burst into tears. Both Estella and Keshav wrapped their arms tightly around her while she wept as though a storm were raging through her. Then she sat up abruptly and wiped her face with her hands, saying as firmly as she could, ‘I mustn’t cave in now. Gotta keep my head. She wants to meet me.’

  ‘Bloody Nora. When?’ Estella asked.

  ‘Eleven thirty. How far is Lodhi Gardens from here, Keshav?’

  ‘Two minutes,’ was his response. ‘Ten minutes max, including parking etcetera. Do you want to head off there now?’

  Sonya nodded. ‘Yes, please. We’ll need to find the duck pond too.’

  ‘Are you okay, hon?’ Estella enquired as Keshav started up the car. Sonya nodded. She felt suddenly drained of all emotion, the anger and rage with which she had first embarked on this journey having worn her out at the most crucial moment. Estella persisted. ‘Do you want me to be with you when you meet her, Son? Or do you want to do this on your own?’

  Sonya considered her options. After a while, she said, ‘I should meet her on my own, Stel. But would you and Keshav be somewhere nearby, please? Within calling distance?’

  Estella nodded soberly. ‘Of course. We’ll be right there for you, don’t you worry.’

  In a few minutes they were at Lodhi Gardens and Keshav pulled the Ambassador into a small car park. They entered lush green gardens through a small metal gate. It was a beautiful park, full of old trees and even older tombs and monuments that were so much a part of the Delhi landscape. But Sonya had no appetite for the lovely surroundings. Her insides felt so tightly wound up, she was scared she might puke. Her Dad’s pet name of ‘Drama Diva’ notwithstanding, this was truly the most momentous encounter Sonya knew she would ever face in her life.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Neha replaced the phone receiver with trembling hands. Her heart was thumping so hard, she felt faint and had to grip the edge of the marble counter for a few seconds in order to regain her balance. She looked surreptitiously over her shoulder even though she had taken the call in the kitchen, a part of the house that Sharat never visited. Only Ram Singh was pottering at the stove, and he clearly had not thought anything of the memsahib taking a call in the kitchen. Neha’s thoughts were racing. She had left Sharat in the breakfast room on the far side of the house, absorbed in the Sunday papers. Surely he would not notice her absence for an hour or so. She had to go to Lodhi Gardens – there was no way she could avoid this meeting any more …

  Neha slipped upstairs to wear something more sober than the pink tracksuit she had worn for her yoga session that morning. The terrible irony of doing something as mundane as choosing what to wear when she met her grown daughter for the first time struck Neha as she stood before her walk-in wardrobe and stared blankly at rack after rack of elegant clothes. She tried to suppress her panic by reminding herself that Sonya could be a very angry young woman or even a hard-nosed trickster with an agenda of her own. Neha recognized that she was employing cynicism as a defence. In truth, she couldn’t help hoping that she was wrong to be pessimistic about this meeting with Sonya.

  Neha hastily pulled on a pair of white trousers and a mauve cotton top and slipped her feet into a pair of plimsolls. Then, quite deliberately, she took her phone and shoved it into the back of her dressing-table drawer. She neither wanted anyone to know where she was nor to receive any phone calls for the next hour or so.

  Suddenly oddly calm, Neha returned downstairs and di
d a quick check on Sharat. He was still sunk in his favourite cane armchair that overlooked the back garden, engrossed in a newspaper article, his favourite Homer Simpson mug bought on a trip to New York full of steaming fresh coffee at his elbow.

  Heart thudding, she turned and walked swiftly to the side door next to the dining room and silently exited into the garden. The gardeners were unperturbed to see the memsahib walking down the jasmine path, accustomed as they were to her using the back route into Lodhi Gardens for her morning and evening walks. Neha greeted them but carried on walking quickly, glancing at her watch as she left the compound through the side gate and crossed the service road. She had ten minutes to reach the duck pond, a distance that usually took no more than five minutes, and so she slowed her pace as she entered the park, trying to harness the maelstrom of feelings raging within her.

  What would she say to Sonya? How would she greet her? Would Sonya be able to cope with her grief and anger … for surely those were the emotions the poor girl would feel for a mother who had abandoned her? Or were her intentions altogether more sinister?

  These were Neha’s muddled thoughts as she walked around the corner and saw a young girl standing by herself under a jacaranda tree, facing the duck pond. She stopped in her tracks and took in a sharp breath, because from this distance the girl could have been her, and time could have magically spiralled backwards to when she herself was eighteen. Sonya was tall and slim and her hair, like Neha’s, was tied back in a thick, dark ponytail that hung down her back to her waist. The girl turned to lean her back on the cement railings and Neha saw an English countenance, a higher forehead, a nose much sharper than hers and eyes that were a blazing blue. Alastair’s eyes.