She didn’t have any answer to his questions—not verbally, anyway. In her heart she knew exactly what the reasons were: she was too dazzled by his charm to see the corrupt soul that lived inside him—too foolish to decline his advances—too naïve to foresee the trouble she could land in.
She’d chosen to see only his kind side, his wryly humorous side, his altruistic side that gave alms to beggars, loans to his less fortunate friends, and generous tips to starving waiters. And she had to admit he did have all those attributes. Somewhere inside that broad chest lay a heart—but like a stagnant pond, a thick layer of slime covered up the hidden depths.
“You want to know the truth, Som?” On a defeated sigh she returned her gaze to him. “All right, then. Since I’ve humiliated myself to this extent, I’ll go all the way and finish the job. I did it because I love you. I thought you loved me, too. I knew precisely what you were, and yet I believed you’d changed since you met me. I thought a plain girl like me had caught your attention because you were finally beginning to make the difficult transition from being an immature boy to a responsible man.”
She buried her face in her hands and breathed deeply to keep the threatening tears at bay. There, she’d finally admitted to him her innermost feelings—something she’d never told anyone. Her mortification was complete.
And yet he said nothing in response.
He continued to pace silently—like a caged animal. He reminded her of the circus that had come to town when she was eight years old. Watching the wild cats pace back and forth in their cages had both fascinated and terrified her. To a free spirit like Som, maybe this did feel like being trapped in a small box with steel bars.
Finally, after what seemed like ages in that edgy, endless silence, he came to a stop in front of her. With some satisfaction she noted a look of mild regret cross his face.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It wasn’t meant to go this far. But I’m willing to pay for it.”
Still fighting to keep the tears away, she looked up at him. “Pay?” What the dickens was he talking about? Hope flickered briefly. Pay for their wedding…perhaps?
“The abortion,” he murmured.
She stared at him, her speech frozen for the moment.
“I know a fellow in town who can do it discreetly. I’ll pay for the procedure.”
“Abortion?” She blinked.
His eyes narrowed on her. “What else?”
She shook her head. “I thought you’d…that we’d…” She had come to him with a mere speck of optimism, thinking maybe, just maybe there was an ounce of decency in him, enough to make him consider marriage—if not for her, then for the child they’d made together. But he was clearly too self-centered for that.
“Bloody hell!” His face registered utter disbelief. “You actually thought we were going to get married or something?”
Or something. She glanced at him with clear contempt. “Most people who get caught up in such situations…get married.”
“In the movies, you mean?”
“In real life. A child needs…parents.”
He closed his eyes for a second and looked up at the ceiling, as if summoning divine help. “Look, I’m trying to do my best here.”
“If this is your best, what’s your worst?”
His voice gentled. “I have responsibilities, Vinita. I wish I could do more, but I just can’t…marry you.”
“So you don’t give a damn about our child?”
“I told you I can’t do anything about it.” He raked his fingers through his hair and let out a deep breath. “Why can’t you take my simple suggestion? People do it all the time these days. Why do you have to be so serious about everything?”
“Because I happen to be a serious person, Som. I could ask you a similar question. How can you take something as vital as creating a life so lightly?” Taking the easy way out was probably commonplace to him. She wondered how many girls he had impregnated, and how many babies he’d helped abort by paying for it.
He made a helpless gesture with his hands wide open. “I have responsibilities,” he repeated.
“Yeah, like your rich cousin from Bijapur,” she tossed back, the sarcasm burning her tongue.
He went still. “What do you know about that?”
She wasn’t about to give him an answer. It was clear he wasn’t going to lift a finger to legitimize her child. Their child. She owed him nothing. To him the baby was a mere inconvenience to be crushed and discarded like one of his cigarette butts.
So what was she going to do?
Suddenly both panic and despair resurfaced. She had one last chance to make him see reason. She couldn’t afford to be self-righteous or derisive. She hated begging, but there was little else she could do.
“Please, Som,” she pleaded, softening her stance.
“I can’t, Vinita.”
“I won’t hold you to the marriage. You can get a divorce immediately after the baby comes.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“After the baby’s born, you’re free to go,” she reasoned. “I’ll disappear from your life forever. You’ll never have to see me or your child again. I’ll ask for nothing from you.”
He shook his head. “You’re so damn intelligent, but you have no clue how the real world works, do you?”
She remained silent. There was truth in what he said. She could do complex mathematical calculations in her mind and memorize complicated formulae, but she was a simpleton when it came to the practical world.
With that realization came the worst sense of defeat—and desperate loneliness. She was going to have to face this alone. She had used up her last chance to reason with Som. And she’d failed.
She gazed outside the window for long minutes while Som maintained his silence behind her. The damn rain just wouldn’t stop. She couldn’t stop shivering. The cold seemed to have invaded her bones. She longed for a single ray of sunshine. She needed the warmth, the comfort of the sun—for someone, anyone, to tell her this, too, would pass, that things would turn out all right in the end.
Finally she turned around, picked up her umbrella, and slung her handbag over her shoulder. “I guess I’d better get out of here.”
“Here’s some money to help you out,” Som said, pulling out some large-denomination bills from his pocket and holding them out to her. When she didn’t take them, he took her hand and pressed the cash into it. “I honestly wish it hadn’t ended like this, Vinita. I’m sorry.”
Sorry indeed. “God help you when all your sins begin to catch up with you.” She placed the bills on the teapoy. “Save your money for your next lover, Mr. Kori.”
Then she opened the door and walked out into the rain.
Som shifted to the window and watched Vinita unfurl her umbrella and take measured steps down the narrow walk leading toward the footpath. She was always so careful, so meticulous—with everything. Her back looked rigid and her long braid swung from side to side. Her high-heeled chappals made a determined click-click on the wet concrete.
She didn’t look as though she was carrying a child. She looked as slender as she always did. But he believed her about the pregnancy. She was too bloody honest to lie about anything.
She continued to walk away steadily, and didn’t look back. Not once.
He should have known she’d never take his money. Why was he surprised? She wasn’t like those other girls. She had those stupid principles, and she lived by them. How many times had she tried to convince him to change his ways, to give up smoking and excessive amounts of coffee, to apply himself to his studies instead of concentrating entirely on cricket? Even after he’d shrugged off her advice, she’d repeated it—many times.
Damn! Why hadn’t he recognized that stubborn trait in her earlier? He could have saved himself a lot of trouble. And her. Come to think of it, she would have been a better match for his idealistic friend Raju than himself.
What was she going to do now? he wondered, the first rumblings of f
ear beginning to scratch at him. He could only hope she’d come to her senses and get that abortion. She was a sensible girl, analytical to the point of being annoying.
But what if she didn’t get that abortion? What if she decided to go to his father with her accusations? That would be the end of Som. Although marrying Vinita was out of the question—his father would rather have his son dead than see him marry a Marathi girl—it would still mean facing Appa’s wrath.
Besides, Som didn’t love Vinita. He had to admit he had come to respect her. But love? He didn’t believe in it. Silly emotions like that were reserved for women.
She’d reached the footpath now. He noticed her hailing a rickshaw and climbing in. The vehicle sputtered down the street and disappeared in seconds.
Turning around, he walked to the sofa and sat down. What was he to do?
He’d never had to face this kind of dilemma before. All the girls he’d been involved with were practical, and protected themselves one way or the other. In spite of that, two of his lovers had become pregnant.
But it had been easy enough to fix the problem. As girls from orthodox families, they had more to lose than he, so they were grateful for his help and discretion. And it had ended there. Always.
So why had it turned out so different this time? Even down to his own sentiments? He’d never felt guilty before. He pulled out a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. Inhaling the fragrant smoke was generally calming—but it provided little comfort now.
He waited till the cigarette was gone. That silly girl was going to stir up trouble. He could feel it creeping up on him, boxing him in. He rose to his feet.
Plucking the money off the table, he thrust it back into his pocket and headed for the door.
Chapter 8
Her world was quickly crumbling around her. She’d never be able to find all the pieces, let alone glue them back together. It was precisely seven weeks since Vinita had walked out of Som Kori’s life.
She sat with her hands in her lap now, facing her family like a traitorous soldier at a court-martial. Remorse and fear battled inside her, and nausea threatened to drive her to the bathroom any second.
She’d brought such anguish to her family. She’d have to be reincarnated several times over to do penance for the havoc she’d wreaked on her parents and brother—all the people who’d given her so much. She was indeed a traitor.
Her brother looked as if he was ready to explode from holding all his emotions inside. Vishal was an outgoing and out-spoken man, and yet he sat with his lips compressed. The poor chap had hopped on a plane as hastily as he could after he’d been given The News.
A day’s growth of stubble on his dark cheeks and chin and his rumpled clothes made him look like a thug. His mustache quivered every now and then, a sure sign of suppressed emotion. His disheveled hair looked like he’d been raking his fingers through it. His normally intelligent eyes had a somewhat dazed look.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured once again to no one in particular. “Sorry.”
All her contrite words didn’t matter. No one seemed to hear her. Vishal and her parents remained silent as they sat in their respective seats and stared at whatever object each one had picked to focus on.
Vishal had his gaze fixed outside the partly open front door, where the noon sun was burning with blistering intensity, the heat rising in shimmering waves. The rains were finally over, bringing Vinita the warmth she’d been craving for weeks. She had stopped shivering. However, her problem had ballooned. Literally.
Traffic sped along the street as usual, reminding her that despite the dead atmosphere in their home, there was still a world out there, teeming with life.
Her father’s balding head was thrown back on the sofa’s headrest so he could stare at the rotating ceiling fan, as if it was the most riveting thing he’d seen in a while. Her mother sat beside him like a stone carving, her tear ducts wrung dry from hours of crying. Her swollen eyes were fastened on the family photograph hanging on the wall—as if trying to recall the moment when the sweet, domestic image of a young couple and their two small children was captured on film.
No one had slept the previous night, since Vinita had informed them about her condition right after dinner. After pondering and discarding all the alternatives she could think of: leaving home—she had no place to go; committing suicide—she was too much of a coward to attempt that; having a dangerous second-trimester abortion—her conscience wouldn’t let her kill her unborn child—she’d sprung it on her mother as her last resort.
Her belly was already beginning to show in spite of her lack of appetite and the loose kameezes she wore and the chunnis she draped over them. She had been getting odd, speculative looks from her friends and fellow students in the past few weeks. Notwithstanding their silence, she knew they smelled a rat. They weren’t imbeciles. They were aware of her affair with Som.
Nevertheless she’d told them a bald-faced lie—that she was simply gaining weight and needed to go on a diet. Time was running out and she had no one to turn to. Her only option was to confess her sins to her parents and accept their punishment.
Her mother had been eyeing her suspiciously for weeks, grilling her about her lack of appetite, the dark shadows around her eyes, and her midnight trips to the bathroom. Of course Mummy had suspected a serious illness. Apparently she’d even thought of stomach or ovarian cancer, but not this. Never this. A decent woman like Sarla Shelke wouldn’t dream of it.
Her poor mother’s delicate nerves had gone to pieces when Vinita had quietly informed her about her condition. “Arré Deva!” she’d gasped. Oh God! “What are you saying?”
Vinita had just stared at the floor. Repeating herself was unnecessary. Her mother had clearly heard every word.
After the shocked intake of breath and a moment of silence, her mother had dragged her husband into the room and made him hear it from Vinita’s mouth. It appeared that her mother couldn’t believe her own ears and had to have someone else corroborate the facts. “You had better hear this for yourself,” Mummy had said to Vinita’s father. “I can’t make any sense out of it. Maybe you can.”
Her father’s reaction had stunned Vinita more than her mother’s. When she’d braced herself for his wrath, the lectures, and the outraged order to get out of his sight and never darken his door again, she’d received a pained groan and a shake of his head.
All he’d said was, “You got involved with a Kannada boy?” She could read the rest of the question in his eyes: If you had to disgrace the family, couldn’t you at least find some decent Marathi chap who could probably marry you?
Her father was a staunch Marathi man and had nothing but contempt for Kannada people. Although he had several of them for clients as a show of tolerance, deep down the resentment that was ingrained from the time of his grandfather and father festered. It was a chronic illness that never left the body or the mind, despite all the token lectures and slogans from the politicians.
With the battles between the two cultural blocs escalating with every passing year, her father’s sentiments had turned more bitter. But the worst affront was closer to home. Many of the skirmishes had left his accounting office in town vandalized by the Kannada side. Broken windowpanes, graffiti on the walls, and smashed roof tiles had corroded his trust in the Kannada folks.
The delinquent behavior wasn’t one-sided, though. Both groups targeted one another’s businesses to vent their bigoted rage and frustrations. But her parents saw only what they wanted to see.
After having expressed his sentiments about her condition, her father’s shoulders had slumped, tearing at her heart. What kind of monster was she to do this to him?
Then he’d walked out of her room, picked up the phone, and called Vishal. Their murmured long-distance conversation hadn’t lasted more than a minute.
Later, both her parents had settled themselves in the drawing room to wait for Vishal to arrive. He was their source of strength, their future caregiver and decision-ma
ker. He would come to their rescue, come up with a viable solution, tell them how to handle something this incomprehensible. Without him they were helpless.
This was typical behavior on their part. The males in the house would put their heads together and handle it somehow. The women would be expected to go along. Vinita, as the daughter, would have to hang her head and wait for the verdict to be handed down.
She had seated herself in the chair across from the sofa her parents had occupied. During the night, as the three of them had waited in the gloomy semidarkness of the drawing room, it had felt like someone near and dear had died—a house of mourning.
After a while, Vinita had left her brooding parents and retired to her room to rest. But she hadn’t slept—not one wink. Their silent, all-night vigil in the drawing room had wrapped itself like a shroud around her.
The need to go to them and talk it out, ask for forgiveness, had almost had her getting out of bed and approaching them a couple of times—but something had stopped her. What could she have said? All the remorse in the world couldn’t obliterate the kind of burden she’d placed on them.
And now, Vishal was finally here.
It was broad daylight, and the harshness of it was blinding. What was going through her mother’s mind at the moment? she wondered. That it had been a mistake giving birth to a daughter who had brought them so much grief? That she should have thanked her lucky karma for giving her one perfect son like Vishal, and then stopped having children altogether? From her frozen expression it was hard to guess what her mother might be thinking.
The four of them sat in that manner for a while, each one conscious of, and yet oblivious to the others’ presence.
Then Vishal rose from his chair. “I’m going to take a bath,” he announced, and headed for the bathroom.
His movements seemed to stir Vinita’s parents into action—like the buzzer of an alarm clock. Her mother hastened to the kitchen to prepare lunch while her father decided to finally change out of his pajamas.
The Unexpected Son Page 7
