The Unexpected Son

by Shobhan Bantwal

  The Unexpected Son

  Also by Shobhan Bantwal

  THE SARI SHOP WIDOW

  THE FORBIDDEN DAUGHTER

  THE DOWRY BRIDE

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  The Unexpected Son

  SHOBHAN BANTWAL

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Acknowledgments

  As always, I offer my initial prayer of thanks to Lord Ganesh, the remover of obstacles.

  My heartfelt appreciation goes to my warm and supportive editor, Audrey LaFehr, who has placed her faith in me again and again. Special thanks to Martin Biro and Maureen Cuddy, consummate professionals who make my writing career a pleasure.

  The friendly and dedicated editorial, production, public relations, and marketing folks at Kensington Publishing richly deserve my gratitude and praise for a job well done. I look forward to working with you on my future projects.

  To my agents, Stephanie Lehmann and Elaine Koster, I thank you for your invaluable help and guidance at every step. I would not be here without you.

  I am greatly indebted to four talented doctors, Shilpa Hattangadi, Anil Kagal, Ajit Divgi, and C. J. Lyons, for patiently answering my medical questions. Any inaccuracies and/or mistakes that may appear in this book are entirely due to my own lack of understanding and not these very committed and helpful medical professionals.

  The Writers’ Exchange at Barnes & Noble in Princeton, New Jersey, and the Writers’ Group at the Plainsboro Public Library deserve my thanks for their insightful comments and suggestions. I offer a grateful hug to my many other friends, who are my cheerleading group.

  And last but not least, to my super-supportive family, especially my husband, Prakash: I am deeply grateful to have you in my life and for putting up with my idiosyncrasies—and for loving me in spite of them.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Part 2

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  A Reading Group Guide

  Discussion Questions

  Prologue

  There was something odd about it, despite its plain and inconsequential appearance. Vinita gazed at the mystery envelope for a long moment, weighed it in the palm of her hand. Her instincts were prickling. It went beyond mere feminine intuition.

  She didn’t receive any letters from her family in India anymore. Cheap long-distance telephone rates and e-mail had put an end to that somewhat antiquated form of communication.

  The smudged postal seal on the envelope read Mumbai—one of India’s largest and most populous cities—a place Vinita was very familiar with. The envelope had that typical “India” look—multiple postage stamps in various colors and sizes; thin brown paper; and the sealing flap placed over the vertical edge, unlike the American-style horizontal edge. But it didn’t look like the occasional wedding invitation or the quarterly statements from the bank where she and her husband maintained a small account in rupees.

  There was no return address, but it was sent to her attention—neatly hand printed. She slit it open with her finger and eased out the contents—a single sheet of white, ruled paper. Her hands shook a little. She wasn’t sure if it was anticipation or anxiety. Or both.

  The message was brief—a few lines penned in blue ink. She scanned it quickly, trying to ignore the tingle crawling up her spine like the cautious progress of a venomous spider. The subject matter was bizarre. The writer’s name was missing. The trembling in her hands edged up a notch.

  Only minutes ago, it had looked like any ordinary Saturday morning—a day to recoup after five hectic days of poring over spreadsheets, memos, and databases till her eyeballs ached and her back turned stiff as cardboard.

  This morning, lying in bed, through drowsy eyes she’d watched the first shimmering rays of sunlight poke their fingers through the window blinds. The sound of the wind whistling through the pale green spring foliage was a sign of a brisk but sunny April day.

  May, her favorite month, was right around the corner. The dogwoods and azaleas in the neighborhood, weighed down by fat, succulent buds, attested to that. Spring was always such a buoyant season, so full of promise. It had brought a contented smile to her lips.

  Reminding herself that it was time to emerge from the warm cocoon of the down comforter, she’d sat up in bed, stretched like a slothful kitten, and leaned back against the headboard. She’d managed to grab more than two extra hours of sleep. Her reward for waking early on weekdays.

  Her husband was on a business trip to Detroit, and wasn’t due to return until the following week, so she had the weekend to herself. She’d planned to indulge herself by brewing a cup of scalding masala chai—strong tea delicately laced with her own blend of five spices—instead of the usual coffee-on-the-run she drank on weekdays at the office. Then she was going to eat lunch at the taco place and do some shopping at the mall.

  Working late the previous evening had prevented her from looking at the mail right away. Exhausted, she’d tossed the stack of correspondence on the nightstand, eaten a quick meal of leftovers, and gone straight to bed.

  Now, as she sat on the bed in her aqua print pajamas and checked the mail before getting dressed, she wondered if the weekend of self-indulgence she’d been looking forward to was already beginning to wilt and curl at the edges. The tacos and the shopping spree no longer appealed.

  Who could have sent her the odd message? An old friend? An acquaintance? She blew her disheveled bangs out of her eyes to read it again, more carefully this time. Perhaps there were clues she had missed the first time.

  My dear Mrs. Patil,

  I am writing to tell you about your son. He is suffering from myeloid leukemia. Many years ago, I made a promise that I would never reveal anything about him, but this is a serious matter. A bone marrow transplant is his last hope. My conscience will not allow me to let a young man die without having a chance to try every possible treatment. Your brother may be able to give you all the details.

  I leave the matter in your hands.

  Best Regards & Blessings,

  A well-wisher

  Setting the letter aside for a moment, Vinita rose from the bed. The cool air in the room seeped right through the soft flannel of her pajamas, giving her goose bumps. Her bare toes curled the moment they touched the cold wood floor. Shivering, she padded over to the window and threw open the blinds. Crossing her arms, she tucked her freezing hands under her armpits.

  The daffodils growing in the front yard were a blaze of heartwarming yellow. The blue and white hyacinths provided a lovely contrast to them. Her bulb plantings from last fall had been worth the effort.

  Her neighbor, Doris, was pushing a wheelbarrow filled with seedlings from the garage to the area beneath her bow window. Vinita couldn’t help smiling at the sight
of her neighbor’s industrious little body hobbling as fast as it could to keep up with her agile mind. At seventy-two, Doris was a bundle of energy, despite her arthritis. She put women half her age to shame. Her neat clusters of flowers and rows of lush vegetables were a delight.

  Looking on the sun-drenched landscape and Doris’s short, gray curls lifting in the chilly wind as she parked her wheelbarrow and pulled on her gardening gloves, Vinita stood in silent contemplation.

  Who was this nameless letter writer? And why had he or she chosen to remain anonymous? Something about the message was disturbing.

  How could someone spring something like this on a total stranger? Whose son were they talking about, anyway? Was it possible the letter was mailed to her erroneously? But what if it wasn’t a mistake and she was indeed the intended recipient?

  Was this someone’s idea of a sick joke? But then, why would they spend over forty rupees to mail something all the way to the U.S. as a mere prank? Everything about the letter spelled serious intent. This was no hoax. And yet it made no sense.

  The author appeared to be educated. The writing was clear and precise. And the old-fashioned salutation and blessings at the end meant the person was older than Vinita. The writer couldn’t be a practical joker.

  Of course this was a gaffe, she reflected. It had to be. She had no son. Her only child was Arya—her bright and impetuous twenty-three-year-old daughter.

  Turning away from the window, Vinita picked up the perplexing letter once again and tapped it against her palm. Should she trash it and let it go? Or perhaps she should wait until her husband returned home and discuss it with him?

  On second thought, that would be a terrible idea. She couldn’t afford to bring up anything that even remotely involved her past. Not now. Not ever.

  Maybe she could talk it over with Arya? Bad idea again. Her daughter would be the last person to understand any of this, especially Vinita’s past.

  The past! Something dark and vague flickered in her brain. Could it be…? Don’t let your imagination run away from you, she reprimanded herself. And waited for her heartbeat to settle into its natural rhythm.

  Whom could she turn to for help in solving this puzzle? She began pacing the length of the room, hugging herself to stave off the mild shivers racing up and down her body. But it helped very little.

  This was ridiculous. Ordinarily she wasn’t an excitable sort. But here she was, turning into a nervous puddle over a simple letter.

  She pulled her husband’s plaid robe from where it hung over the bedpost and slipped into it. It smelled like him—soap and his brand of deodorant—the comforting scent she loved and breathed in each day. She could have used a calming hug from him right about now, feel his hand smooth her hair.

  Twenty-five years of marriage and she still missed him dreadfully when he was away from home. Had he remembered to take his blood pressure medication? Had he remembered to pack enough underwear to last him the entire trip?

  Pulling the robe tighter around herself, she stopped and read the letter a third time. It did mention her older brother, Vishal—her only sibling. And that was another mystery. How and why did the writer assume her brother knew anything? Besides, the letter was mailed from Mumbai, while Vishal lived in Palgaum, a town in southwestern India, where she and Vishal were born and raised.

  Was it possible her brother knew something about this? Maybe he could shed some light on the mysterious message and its equally enigmatic writer, the well-wisher.

  She glanced at the bedside clock. It would be early evening in Palgaum. Picking up the phone, she took a couple of deep breaths and dialed her brother’s number.

  Two sharp rings and he answered, sounding pleasantly surprised to hear her voice. “Vini! How come you’re calling on a Saturday?” She usually called on weeknights because weekends were too unpredictable, packed with social commitments and household chores.

  “Because what I have to say couldn’t wait,” she replied, sounding curt even to her own ears.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked, wariness making his voice sound like a low rumble.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  As he started to respond, Vinita cut him off. “I just got this really strange letter from someone in India.”

  “What letter?”

  “It mentions something about a son…my son—”

  “What?”

  “—and that he has leukemia…” She trailed off. She didn’t know how to explain it all. The whole thing sounded preposterous.

  There was a long silence before her brother spoke again.

  “Good God!” Vishal’s voice was a stunned whisper.

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Palgaum, India—1976

  The applause lasted a few seconds before fading. For Vinita it was an evening to remember. She’d rehearsed for this one occasion, the grand annual college gala, for many long weeks. And all that preparation had been worth it, if only to hear the pleasant sound of hundreds of hands clapping in unison.

  She took her final bow before the appreciative audience with humble grace, her hands joined in a namaskar. Remain humble when accepting praise, was what her nritya guru, her dance teacher, emphasized to his students. To be able to dance skillfully was a gift, a privilege. It was not to be used for satisfying one’s ego. Humility. Always.

  The instant the heavy, faded curtains closed on the stage, she exhaled a quick, hard breath. Then she ran backstage, her ghoongroo, the traditional dancing bells tied around her ankles, making a racket. She waded through the folks standing in the wings, waiting for their cue calls. She heard the emcee’s voice on the microphone, announcing the next item on the program.

  While she made a beeline for the women’s dressing room—her long braid, intertwined with jasmine strings, swinging like a pendulum—she realized she was wheezing audibly. It was a demanding routine she’d just completed.

  Sweat ran down her face and arms. Voices swirled around her, spoken in whispers so as not to reach the microphones on stage. Now that the much-awaited yet much-dreaded performance was over, everything that had happened became a blur—the blinding footlights; the quick surge of anxiety as the curtains parted and the hush settled over the sea of faces in the audience; the melody of the South Indian dance music; and minutes later, the final, frantic rhythm of her recital’s finale synchronizing with the crescendo of the instruments.

  It was all so familiar, the galloping heartbeat and the urge to take cover and run. And yet every presentation was a fresh new experience to be savored—if it was executed perfectly, that is. And today it was.

  The evening’s program was packed, with a lineup of music, skits, dances, stand-up comedy, and even a juggling act. She was glad her recital was placed toward the beginning, so she didn’t have to pace in the wings, cracking her knuckles, waiting her turn.

  “Very nice, Miss Shelke,” someone murmured as she brushed past them.

  “Good performance, Vinita,” said another.

  “Thanks,” she panted absently, not bothering to look at their faces. Instead she kept striding toward the dressing room. She had to get out of her elaborate costume and join her friends in the makeshift open-air theater to catch the rest of the evening’s entertainment.

  The dressing room was blissfully quiet. There was only one other girl, getting ready for her performance in a play. They smiled at each other.

  “How did your dance go?” the girl asked. She was carefully gathering up the pleats on her sari.

  “Very well, thanks,” said Vinita, and proceeded toward the bathroom. “It’s a huge audience—bigger than last year. Good luck with your play.”

  At the sink, Vinita scrubbed and rinsed off the greasy makeup. The cold water felt marvelous against her heated skin.

  She dried her face and studied her image in the mirror. Her performance was a success. The audience’s reaction had assured her of that. The young, noisy crowd of students at Shivraj College wasn’t shy about booing and he
ckling a less-than-acceptable performer. They’d sat in silence while she’d gone through the intricate footwork and facial expressions of a varnam—a complex, classical Bharat Natyam dance composition that told a story of love and longing. In the end had come the gratifying ovation.

  She emerged from the bathroom to find the other occupant of the dressing room gone. Ridding herself of the elaborate rhinestone jewelry and form-fitting silk costume traditional to the dance form, she changed into a cinnamon-colored salwar-kameez outfit: knee-length tunic worn over drawstring pants and topped with a long piece of gauzy fabric called the chunni.

  Then she unfastened the ankle bells. In a couple of minutes she had her hair neatened and a touch of face powder dabbed on.

  Haphazardly she stuffed her things into her shoulder bag and thrust her feet into sandals. She didn’t want to miss any part of the evening’s excitement. This was the entertainment highlight of the year for both students and faculty.

  Rushing out the door onto the cool, dimly lit porch that wrapped around the ancient, ivy-covered stone building, she bumped into something hard. Or someone.

  “Ouch!” Her breath caught in her throat. Her bag slid off her shoulder and fell to the floor. The bells inside tinkled.

  She stumbled backward. Whoever he was, he looked tall and threateningly large in the shadows cast by the sturdy stone columns. And he was strong. Her elbow was smarting from the collision.