The Unexpected Son

by Shobhan Bantwal

  They ignored Vinita. For all the trouble she’d stirred up, she could very well have been one of those tiny house lizards clinging to the wall. And being ignored hurt more than getting scolded—more than the occasional spanking she’d received as a little girl.

  She went to her room and lay down. Rest was impossible for her brain, but at least her tired body could use some help. Despite the hunger pangs, the smell of her mother’s masala bhaath—spicy vegetable rice—and the favorite accompaniment of buttermilk kadhi wafting up the stairs made her get up and close her bedroom door. Even pleasant odors nauseated her lately. And kadhi was one of her favorite things—a soup-like dish made of chickpea flour blended with buttermilk, then cooked and seasoned with mustard, chilies, cumin, and curry leaves.

  A little later there was a knock on the door. “Vini. Lunch,” announced her mother.

  “I’m not hungry,” Vinita said, burying her face in the pillow.

  “But you have to eat something.”

  “I can’t stand eating, Mummy…please.”

  There was a long silence before she heard her mother’s footsteps fade away.

  As the others ate in the dining room downstairs, she heard their voices, low murmurs mixed in with the faint clunk-clunk of spoons, pots, and plates. It sounded like those three were slowly emerging from their earlier stupor, and they were discussing what to do about the elephant in their midst.

  An hour later, there was another knock on her door. This time it was Vishal. “Can you come out? We need to discuss something.” His tone was clipped, authoritative—not exactly brotherly.

  More than likely they had come to some sort of decision, Vinita concluded. Naturally it wasn’t going to be a discussion; it would be a command. Time to face the proverbial music.

  She rose from the bed with a weary sigh, used the bathroom, and then headed down to the drawing room. The hollowness in her stomach made her feel light-headed, and she stopped for a moment to regain her equilibrium before facing them. At least the nausea had receded.

  They were seated in the exact same spots they’d occupied earlier. Gone was the unshaved, disheveled Vishal from this morning. He looked clean and combed. His wrinkled clothes were replaced by a neat pair of gray trousers and a blue shirt. The family’s fearless lion was back in form. And he was ready to spring into action.

  Her father, too, was dressed and shaved. He had his arms folded across his middle, his jaw clenched tight. The controlled expression was alarming. As for her mother, she refused to meet Vinita’s eyes and kept her gaze downcast. Was she that ashamed of Vinita that she couldn’t even bear to look at her anymore?

  Vishal waited till Vinita sat down. “I have contacted a friend of mine in Bombay,” he said. “He’s a doctor, and he has offered to take care of your…uh…pregnancy.” He was clearly having difficulty saying the word.

  Vinita absorbed her brother’s remarks. So, they had already begun to arrange her life for her. And her opinion didn’t matter. But then, she’d known that all along, hadn’t she?

  “You and I will be leaving for Bombay tomorrow,” Vishal informed her.

  She looked at him, her heartbeat picking up momentum. He appeared a bit too calm—in control. “What’s going to happen to me in Bombay, Vishal?”

  “I just told you.”

  “You said your doctor friend can see me through this ordeal, but what happens afterwards?”

  His color drained a bit. He obviously hadn’t expected her to question his decision. He’d probably assumed he and their father would find a solution and she’d bow to them—like she’d usually done in the past. But that was then. This was now. Her life had changed. She was no longer a girl. Although still a teenager, she was a woman—a woman with a problem. A small, helpless human being now depended on her.

  He cleared his throat. “My friend has contacts. We’ll find the child a good home.”

  Vinita blinked. “You mean…give my child away…adoption?”

  Her shocked query met with complete silence.

  She glanced at her parents for their reaction. There was total agreement in their expressions. It looked like the morning’s grim silence had been replaced by this take-charge resolve.

  Whenever her father was faced with a business problem, he drew up a point-by-point plan, and decided exactly how it would be executed. Now the two men were using the same methodical approach to solve her problem. For some reason the realization brought her a sliver of relief. This was more normal behavior. Last night, when her parents had sat motionless, like glass-eyed dummies in a wax museum, she’d been afraid that one or both of them were going to have a stroke or something.

  Nonetheless, this reversal in behavior didn’t mean she was happy about it. The first rumblings of anger started to stir inside her. How dare they push her around like a vermin-infested sack of grain!

  “But…you never even asked me,” she fumed. “You just assumed I’d agree to adoption?”

  Her father jumped in then, talking to her for the first time in hours. “Your opinion has nothing to do with it. This is a matter of our family’s aabroo—our honor. We have to do whatever is required to protect it.”

  Her mother nodded like a windup doll. “Papa is right. The quickest way to settle this is a discreet confinement, then find the child a decent home.”

  Rage slammed into Vinita like a boxer’s fist. “What about me? Isn’t it my body and my child?”

  “Stop it, Vini!” Vishal threw her a scorching glare. “Don’t you see we’re trying to protect you from complete disaster?”

  “Protect me or your precious aabroo?”

  “Same thing!” he snapped. “A Hindu girl and her family’s reputation are inseparable. We’re a respectable family and we have to do everything in our power to protect ourselves.”

  “Damn right!” agreed her father, giving his son an approving nod.

  Vinita’s clasped hands tightened in her lap. Take a calming breath, she told herself. Temper and nerves are not good for the baby. “I care, too.”

  “And this is how you show it?” sniffed her mother.

  Vinita flinched at the hurtful remark. “I’ve never given you any trouble before. My one and only mistake was falling in love with the wrong man.”

  “Yeah,” chimed in Vishal. “You had an affair with a notorious mowali, and now you’re…” He let the sentence trail off.

  “I didn’t exactly seek him out, Vishal, if that’s what you’re insinuating,” she protested. “It just…happened.”

  “On top of everything, you’re telling us it’s too late to abort it.”

  “I was afraid to tell you earlier.” She bit hard on her lip. “I knew you’d react…just like you’re doing now.”

  “How else do you expect decent folks to react?” demanded Vishal, pounding a fist on the chair’s arm. “At this late stage, when an abortion is impossible, we have only one option—to get rid of it in the most humane fashion.”

  Her hands shook. How could Vishal use the word abortion so casually? He was being deliberately cruel. “The three of you have no right to get rid of anything, least of all a baby.” She put an instinctive hand to her belly.

  Her father’s brows descended in a tight knot. “You call that rascal’s seed a baby?” he asked. “Now look here, Vini, I refuse to tolerate any more nonsense from you. Just listen to me and Vishal and go pack your suitcase. You’re leaving for Bombay tomorrow morning.”

  She stood her ground. “I’ll leave for Bombay if that’s what you think is best. But I plan to keep my baby. I intend to raise it myself.”

  “You think this is some kind of Hindi movie type of situation?” Vishal pointed a condescending finger at her. “Let me tell you, unlike the movies, Kori is not going to come riding in on a white horse and make you his bride. He’s not going to wear some silly costume and dance because he’s going to be a father. There is no happily ever after.”

  “I know that,” Vinita ground out. She knew that fact better than anyone else.
She knew exactly what kind of a cockroach Som Kori was.

  But her mother reminded her anyway. “You know all this and still you want to hang on to his child?”

  “Because I love the child, that’s why. It’s not the baby’s fault that I made a mistake. An innocent baby can’t just be given away like secondhand clothing because of its parents’ foolishness. And no matter how rotten his or her father is, I care about him, too.” Her voice was cracking. There was a lump the size of a tennis ball lodged in her throat.

  Before she could say any more, the tears she’d been holding in began to leak out. “I can’t give up the baby,” she whispered. It was a product of love. At least on her part it was love.

  Her attempts to explain only served to fuel her father’s fury. “What kind of insane love is that? Love happens when you marry a decent young man picked by us. Until then there is no love.”

  Drying her eyes with the edge of her chunni, Vinita shook her head. “Maybe not, but I’ve made a mistake; I have to pay for it.” If she had to raise her child alone, she’d do it. “Maybe I’ll go to some women’s shelter,” she said, raising her chin. “That way neither you nor any of Palgaum’s people have to see me or my child.”

  She gave them a moment to digest what she’d hurled at them and watched the incredulous looks replace the frustration and fury.

  “And how do you propose to raise this illegitimate child?” her father growled.

  “I have a brain, Papa. I’m capable of working—”

  “With no college degree?”

  She took another shaky breath. “Well…I’ll do whatever it takes to support your grandchild.”

  Her mother winced. Clearly she had difficulty viewing it as her grandchild. “But you’re a child yourself,” she said, her voice turning hoarse. “You can’t be a mother yet.” She was taking this worse than the two men.

  “I realize that.” Vinita didn’t need to be reminded of the fact. “Besides, weren’t you married at eighteen and had Vishal at twenty?”

  A defensive gleam flashed in her mother’s eyes. “I was married to your father,” she reminded Vinita. “Your Papa was a respectable man, chosen by my parents. He had a good job and was fully capable of supporting a wife and children.”

  “Damn right!” her father repeated, straightening his shoulders. Men of the Maratha caste were known for their manliness. They came from a proud race of warriors. The famous emperor-conqueror Shivaji was the Marathas’ ultimate symbol of greatness.

  “I know that,” Vinita said to her mother.

  “Then why—”

  “I also know,” Vinita interjected, regaining some of her composure, “it’s going to be hard. But if uneducated widows and abandoned women could manage it a hundred years ago, I can do it in the twentieth century.”

  “That may be easier in Europe and America, where there is not much stigma attached to illegitimacy, but in our culture…unthinkable.” Her father shook his head at her. “People do not accept such disrespectable things here.”

  Vinita bit back the retort that sprang to her throat. Sex is not disrespectable—not when one’s heart and soul are in it. And wasn’t it sex that had brought Vishal and her into this world? Why did Indian people behave like making love was some disease to be shunned? After all, India was probably the only country in the world that had an ancient and elaborate instruction manual on sex. And then there were those highly erotic sculptures that adorned prehistoric temples. And yet some individuals went about twisting love and sex into something grotesque and shameful.

  “Why are you doing this? How do you expect us to show our faces in this town?” cried her mother. Then she buried her face in her pallu and started to sniffle.

  “I’m sorry, Mummy,” murmured Vinita. She hated seeing her mother cry. She hated the fact that her parents would become objects of ridicule in their cozy social circle.

  “Vini, you’re not thinking rationally,” said Vishal, watching with concern as his mother shed tears of anguish. “I’ve known that Kori chap since I was in college. He’s totally lacking in brains and morals. All he knows is how to play cricket. Even that is for a small-town college. He’ll never be a professional cricketer.” He wrinkled his long nose. “He has affairs with every willing girl in town, and his father has a long line of mistresses. That entire family is rotten. I’m sure you knew all this?”

  “I did.” She wasn’t proud that she’d fallen for the devil despite knowing what he was. “But I was too weak to resist,” she grudgingly admitted for the second time. What did she have to lose at this point? Every humiliating and ugly detail about her affair with Som was out in the open now.

  Meanwhile her mother’s sniffling continued. Her father patted her hand in his usual awkward fashion. “Shh, Sarla, why are you getting so upset? Vishal and I will deal with this.”

  Vishal rooted his gaze on Vinita. “It’s too late to do anything about it now. We just have to look at the future.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “You had better eat something and get some rest. Mummy will help you pack your things later. We have an early-morning flight tomorrow.”

  “Where will I be staying in Bombay?” she asked, after her mother’s tears subsided.

  “With me.” Vishal sounded unhappy about the prospect. He obviously liked his bachelor life in his small flat. Having a sister around would be a nuisance. “After the baby comes, we’ll have to decide how to proceed,” he added.

  “There’s not much to decide.” She tossed him a defiant look before rising from the chair. “I want you to know right now that I will not put my child up for adoption. I appreciate everything you’re doing for me, but I promise I’ll get out of your way soon after the baby is born.”

  “I said we’ll discuss it later,” repeated Vishal, holding up an index finger, making it clear the discussion was over. Then he put a hand over his mouth and stifled a yawn. “We all need to get a nap first. No one got any sleep last night.”

  Rising to her feet to return to her bedroom, she noticed the odd looks that passed between her parents and Vishal. They were clearly disturbed by her decision.

  Nonetheless, she needed to be brave. She had to follow her conscience.

  Chapter 9

  Vishal, clad in white pajamas, tiptoed down the stairs and through the drawing room into the kitchen. His stomach was growling. Turning on the light, he looked around, then picked up a banana from the bunch on the table. He finished it in a minute. Discarding the peel in the wastebasket, he quietly slipped out the back door of his parents’ house to catch some fresh air.

  Standing on the covered veranda outside the kitchen, he gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the dark. Then he settled himself on the rectangular swing that occupied nearly a third of the veranda. The thick slab of teakwood, suspended from the ceiling by four massive iron chains, was easily large enough to seat six.

  It was well past midnight, but he couldn’t sleep. After tossing for a while, he’d given up and come out here to find some food and to contemplate.

  Gently setting the swing in motion, he stared into the gloomy blackness. The chains were rusty and creaked a little. But its gentle, rhythmic motion was soothing, reminiscent of his growing years. The swing had been in that spot as far back as he could remember.

  It was a little over a year since he’d left this house to make a living for himself in Bombay, but this was his home. It was a comfort to sleep in his old bed, in his own room.

  His parents had preserved his bedroom and everything in it intact, including some of his favorite boyhood toys, and his medals and certificates won in school and college. There was almost an air of anticipation about the room—it was waiting to be occupied once again. He knew they expected him to come back to live with them, take over his father’s business, get married, have a family. It was the old-fashioned way. Being an only son came with certain obligations.

  Street sounds were almost nonexistent at this late hour. An occasional car passed by, but mostly it was the muffled rumble of t
raffic on the highway about half a mile away that he could hear. Palgaum’s ubiquitous fog was out there, too—gray, stealthy, damply encircling the house like a serpent.

  This was blissfully peaceful when compared with his urban flat, where the streetlights and neon store signs encroached on his nights. And the never-ending traffic outside his window, twenty-four hours a day, assailed his ears. The smell of vehicle exhaust had embedded itself in his nose and lungs.

  He closed his eyes and absorbed the stillness, savored the cool air settling over his skin. The temperature was almost chilly compared with the sticky heat of Bombay.

  Something stirred in the shrubbery beyond the concrete steps—probably one of the neighbors’ cats. Then everything went quiet again.

  The distant but shrill whistle of a train pierced the night and his moment of peace. He opened his eyes. It was the overnight express that ran the Bombay–Bangalore route. For years the whistle and the chugging of the train had been a part of their lives. Palgaum Station was just a five-minute stop for the train—a tiny dot on the map.

  After his long afternoon nap following that emotional family conference, he wasn’t surprised that he was up in the middle of the night, wide awake and hungry, his conflicted mind trying to come to terms with what was happening to his family.

  All these years, his had been a normal, stable life, with practical Hindu values so strongly entrenched, he’d hardly noticed it. Until now.

  The fragile breeze brought with it the heady scent of mogra, the jasmine that grew in abundance in the garden leading off the veranda.

  An image of Vini as a little girl, aged eight or nine, came to mind. She used to enjoy plucking the mogra in the evenings, when the plump buds blossomed into waxy white flowers at dusk. She’d sit cross-legged on the veranda floor, dressed in a colorful parkar and polka—ankle-length skirt and matching blouse—with her basket of flowers and a needle and thread. She’d patiently string the flowers into two garlands—one for their mother’s hair, and the other to adorn her own tightly woven plaits, infused with coconut oil and secured with ribbons.