The Unexpected Son

by Shobhan Bantwal

  Living in America for some years was probably responsible for his outward gloss.

  He asked Vinita a few questions about her education and career. She answered with caution. Vishal was sitting across from her, the warning spark in his eyes as bright as a traffic light. She would have liked to talk to Patil alone and tell him the truth. She disliked deception of any kind, especially after the lesson she’d learned from hiding her affair with Som from her family. She’d paid a steep price for lying to them. To this day, her fractured relationship with her parents showed the fault lines.

  She didn’t want to make that same mistake again.

  As the awkward evening came to an end, she didn’t quite feel the familiar sense of relief settle over her. This time she hadn’t told the truth to this man. He had probably mistaken her for a nice Marathi girl from an old-fashioned family.

  As the guests got ready to leave, Girish Patil did something odd—and unexpected. He motioned to Vishal to step outside into the corridor with him. “Vishal, may I please talk to you alone for a moment?” he asked.

  Vishal looked flustered for an instant before he nodded. “Certainly.”

  The two men walked out the front door. Vinita noticed they were about the same height, except Patil looked older and stouter than Vishal.

  None of the other men had asked to have a private conversation with Vishal or her parents. This time, since her father wasn’t here, Vishal was taking on the role of responsible male.

  While the men talked in whispers outside the door, Rohini Sitole chatted with her mother, and Kishore Sitole gazed out the window. A minute later, the two men returned. It was a very brief conversation. Vishal frowned slightly while Patil’s expression remained unchanged. It was hard to tell what had transpired.

  Had Patil rejected her right away? Well, what was one more rejection? It stung a little, but she was getting used to it.

  Once again, her eyes remained fixed on his right hand when he said his namastes to them.

  As soon as the door closed on their guests, Vishal turned to Vinita. “He wants to see you alone.”

  A spark of electricity buzzed through Vinita. How interesting! That’s exactly what she wanted, too. This business of family meeting family, and everyone watching everyone else with hawks’ eyes was stifling.

  “What?” Her mother looked scandalized.

  Vishal stroked his chin, like he was trying to make sense of it himself. “He says he’d prefer to talk to her alone. He asked for my permission to take her out to dinner tomorrow night.”

  “What did you tell him?” demanded Sarla.

  “I said yes. He’ll pick her up at seven-thirty tomorrow,” Vishal replied. “He seems like a decent fellow, Mummy. I’m sure Vini will be safe.”

  “It’s not her safety I’m concerned about.”

  Thanks a lot. Vinita scowled at her mother. “Then what exactly are you concerned about?”

  “What will people say? A single girl going out with a stranger? Does he think this is America, asking a girl for a date?”

  Vinita gave a cynical chuckle. “I’m not the average single girl.” She wasn’t exactly a girl, either. She was a little past her prime by their strict standards. “I’d like a chance to talk to him.”

  “Don’t be silly,” admonished Sarla.

  Surprisingly, Vishal was the one who backed her up. “Mummy, let her go.” But he issued Vinita another stern warning. “Don’t say one unnecessary word. Don’t ruin your one good chance, you hear?”

  With great reluctance Vinita nodded. But she didn’t make a verbal promise.

  Later, as she looked at herself in the mirror, she wondered what the man from America had seen in her. The beauty salon had done a creditable job with her face. The makeup was just right. It had enhanced her more appealing features while downplaying the unattractive ones. Her plucked eyebrows looked shapely enough, and the sari her mother had picked out for her was an excellent choice.

  It could be the man liked the way she looked. On the other hand, he could very well be getting ready to inform her that he wasn’t interested. Maybe that’s how they let a person down in America—quietly and privately. If that’s what it was, then she had to give him credit for showing sensitivity and discretion—something the other men had lacked.

  She folded the sari into a neat rectangle and put it on a hanger along with the blouse and petticoat, and hung it in her steel almirah with the mirrored doors. Then she examined all her other saris hanging in a row. What should she wear for tomorrow’s dinner appointment? Or should she call it a date? Although she’d had dinner in restaurants a few times with Som, those occasions hadn’t been dates. They were clandestine meetings, constantly plagued by the threat of being discovered.

  This was different. A sophisticated man from the U.S. was taking her to dinner—with her brother’s knowledge and blessings. She had to look her best. And dignified. She had to make sure she didn’t make a fool of herself, even if he was going to tell her she wasn’t right for him.

  What did one talk about on a date? She knew nothing about baseball, or American fashions, or anything else about the culture, other than what she’d seen in Hollywood movies and read in books.

  How did one behave with a man who was used to foreign ways? She had noticed his accent and choice of words—an odd but interesting combination of Indian and American.

  As she made her decision about which sari she’d wear, the image of his peculiar right hand flickered in her mind. Was it okay to ask him about it, or would it be considered offensive? And then there was his divorce. She couldn’t be sure if it was proper to question him about that. As far as her knowledge went, asking about someone’s age and their salary was considered impolite. But goodness knew what rules of etiquette they had about discussing divorce. And missing digits.

  Nonetheless, she had a right to know about his past and present. It was always considered a man’s prerogative to ask questions about a potential wife, so why couldn’t a woman have the same privilege? On the other hand, he had an equal right to know about her past. It didn’t matter what Vishal or her parents said. She would tell him. It was the right thing to do.

  If he rejected her because of that, she’d have only herself to blame.

  Chapter 14

  Girish Patil arrived at precisely 7:30 p.m. And he was dressed like a college professor: crisp tan pants, white shirt, and a navy jacket. It was a wonder he wasn’t perspiring in it. His scholarly expression, too, was that of an educator. The only thing out of place was the footwear—chappals instead of shoes. That was the only concession to his Indianness and to the sweltering Bombay weather.

  Vinita had been dressed and ready for nearly fifteen minutes. She knew the salmon pink nylon sari with a dainty, white print suited her well. Worn with her pearl pendant and matching earrings, it looked dressy without being gaudy.

  Accustomed to the casual “Indian Standard Time,” Patil’s prompt arrival was a pleasant surprise. That kind of punctuality was admirable.

  Despite her earlier resistance, Vinita’s mother was cordial to the man who was taking her daughter out to dinner. “Nice to see you again, Girish,” she greeted him.

  “Likewise, Mrs. Shelke,” he said with a smile and a namaste. “Hope you don’t mind if I whisk your daughter away for the evening?”

  “That’s…okay,” Sarla replied, her wary eyes darting to Vinita and then back to him. She was probably dying to find out where he was taking her. But she dare not ask.

  “Vinita and I need to talk,” he explained, perhaps because he noticed her mother’s hesitation. “In private.”

  “I understand.”

  Vinita quashed the urge to smile at her mother’s blatant lie. Vishal hadn’t returned home from work yet, so it was her mother who had to play friendly host to this man who could, by some twist of fate, end up being her son-in-law. Vinita didn’t see that possibility, once she’d finished telling him about her past—but her mother had to try nevertheless. A potential jaavayi
held a special place in a Hindu household. A son-in-law was to be honored.

  “I’ll bring her back by ten o’clock,” he promised.

  “Thank you,” her mother said with a tight smile, all the while taking in every inch of his appearance. “Have a nice…dinner.”

  Stepping out of the lift, Vinita and Girish got out of the building and onto the crowded footpath.

  He stopped for a beat and faced her. “You look lovely,” he said, taking her by surprise.

  She knew she looked her best, but lovely was pushing it. “Thanks.” She searched his face for signs of hidden amusement. There were none. He appeared serious and honest. Like a professor.

  They started moving again. It was awkward walking beside a strange man. She couldn’t help recalling trotting beside the tall and swaggering Som. She’d felt like a dwarf next to him, always hurrying to keep pace with his long strides.

  This man was a bit shorter, heavier, older. But he was close enough for her to smell his soap and aftershave, or deodorant, or whatever it was that smelled like fresh breezes and tulsi. Basil.

  He seemed at ease with himself and the situation. After all, he had dated an American woman, courted her, then married her. He walked with deliberate slowness, obviously taking smaller steps so she could keep pace. It was considerate of him.

  She wondered where they were going. Amidst the bustling crowds of pedestrians, it wasn’t easy to walk side by side, so he fell a step behind her at times, then caught up again. On one occasion, he put a steadying hand beneath her elbow when her high heels stumbled over the uneven concrete blocks of the footpath.

  “Is there a particular type of cuisine you like?” he asked after a minute or two of aimless strolling. “I’m trying to come up with a suitable restaurant where we can eat.”

  She shrugged. “I’m not fussy, Mr. Patil. Whatever you pick will be okay.”

  “Mister Patil?” he said on an amused note. “Do I look that old?”

  “No…you don’t…but you know how it is.” She didn’t want to offend him, but what else was she supposed to call him? He was a stranger to her.

  “I know how it is,” he assured her. “I was only kidding. Having lived in the U.S. for over nine years, I tend to forget certain Indian customs.” His lips curved in a smile. “But please, call me Girish.”

  “Okay.” She felt her taut shoulders loosen up a bit.

  “Do you mind Chinese food? I haven’t had Indian-style Chinese in years, since most Chinese restaurants in the U.S. are Americanized. I’ve been craving some pungent, spicy food.”

  “I like Chinese,” she replied. “There’s a good place not far from here. It’s called Ming.” She wondered if it was proper etiquette for the woman to suggest restaurants. Wasn’t it usually the men who picked the location for a date? She had to stop thinking of this as a date.

  “Excellent!” he said, putting her mind at ease. “Walking distance, or should I hail a cab?”

  “Walking distance.” She was glad of it, too. Sitting beside a man she hardly knew in the hot, cramped seat of a taxi wasn’t something she wanted to do. With the windows down, the wind always whipped her hair into a mass of tangles and that wouldn’t do at all on an occasion like this. Besides, her mother was already worried about her going out with a strange man. A taxi would feel a bit too intimate.

  And the good thing was that Ming wasn’t too expensive. She didn’t want him to spend a lot of money on her—especially after he discovered her secret and realized she was all wrong for him.

  The popular eatery was overcrowded as usual, but after a brief wait they managed to get a small table amidst the hustle and bustle of Bombay’s more fashionable restaurant patrons. Eating Chinese food was the mark of a sophisticated palate.

  The first thing Girish asked the waiter was whether they served wine.

  The waiter looked him over briefly, as if to assess his ability to pay for an expensive alcoholic drink. He must have liked what he saw, and noted the slightly American accent. He nodded. “Yes, sir, Golconda wine.”

  “Golconda, huh? Is it a sweet or dry variety?”

  The waiter had no clue. He scratched his head and frowned. Perhaps no one had ever asked him such a question.

  “Sounds interesting, anyway,” Girish said, and raised a brow at her. “Would you care to have a glass?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve never had wine before.”

  “Guess what? I’ve never had anything called Golconda, either. Perhaps this is a chance to try our first glass of Indian wine.” When she nodded, he ordered two glasses of it.

  Why not try some wine, she thought, with a mild spark of excitement. She’d heard a lot about it from her colleagues, about how wonderful it tasted, but since her family didn’t drink alcohol, neither did she.

  While he held the menu in both hands and studied it carefully, she stole a swift glance at his hand before perusing her own menu. She’d tried hard to keep her eyes away from his hand, but it was impossible. What could have caused him to lose his fingers? Or was he born that way?

  After they ordered their egg rolls, chicken soup with sweet corn, and prawns in black bean sauce, they sat back in their chairs to enjoy their wine—served in small water glasses. The restaurant obviously didn’t have stem glasses. Vinita gingerly took her very first sip. It burned a little as it trickled down to her stomach. She stifled the impulse to clear her throat.

  “Do you like it?” His brows were raised above the rims of his eyeglasses.

  She hesitated. “Well, it…uh, tastes and smells a bit like cough syrup.”

  He let out a hearty laugh. “Cough syrup is an appropriate description. It’s awfully sweet. I would’ve preferred something dry and mellow.”

  She couldn’t help grinning back at him. He seemed to think her remark was funny. She didn’t know what dry and mellow wine was, so she quietly took another sip. It was slowly beginning to taste better, as the sweetness coated her tongue and the alcohol warmed her throat.

  “Tell me about yourself, Vinita,” he said, using his right hand to dip a crisp Chinese noodle in the sweet-hot sauce served in a dainty porcelain bowl. He seemed to make efficient use of his thumb and two remaining fingers. With surprising dexterity, too.

  “I’m sure you already know all about me,” she said, putting the glass down and clasping her hands in her lap. Was this a good time for total disclosure? she speculated.

  He crunched on his noodle and swallowed. “You mean that trivial stuff that every young lady’s family tells the man she may end up marrying?”

  She took another sip of wine. “Trivial stuff?” Exactly how much did he know about her?

  “The usual list of things like college degree, extracurricular activities, culinary skills, et cetera, et cetera.” He waved if off with his left hand. “I already know you have a great academic background and a promising career.”

  “You do?” she asked. “You know about my job, too?” How unfair was it that he knew everything about her and she had been told very little about him?

  “Most of it,” he replied. “Your brother mentioned it to my family. You’re a very smart girl…with ambition. And an accomplished dancer?”

  “Isn’t every educated woman at least a little bit ambitious?” she challenged him. Hadn’t he deduced that after living in an emancipated country all these years?

  “I suppose so.” He was silent for a moment. “I’m more interested in what you like to do besides your classical dancing.”

  “Like what?” What exactly was he fishing for? Was he waiting to see if she’d confess the truth about her past? Was this an integrity litmus test?

  “Umm…let’s see,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “What kind of movies and books do you like? Do you enjoy sports? Do you like spicy food or mild? How about travel and the outdoors? You know…personal likes and dislikes.”

  A soft sigh of relief escaped her. “I like mystery and romance novels,” she answered, after giving it careful thought. If not an honesty test, the
n it could be some kind of silly psychological quiz he was using on her—a bride evaluation tool. “I enjoy James Bond movies and Hindi films.”

  “Ah, yes, James Bond,” he said with some relish. Picking up another noodle, he dipped it in sauce. “I went through the addiction phase with Ian Fleming’s books. I read so many when I was a student that my mother had to hide them so I could get back to my schoolwork.”

  He studied her while he chewed on his noodle. “But I have to admit I never read romance.” His dark eyes sparkled with amusement. “I leave that to my sister Rohini, the romantic. She’s always reading the books with those sexy covers…a woman draped over the arm of a muscular man.” He demonstrated by leaning to one side, a hand thrown across his brow and a look of mock adoration on his face.

  Vinita let out a hoot of laughter at his rather apt display of a romance novel cover, then quickly clamped a hand over her mouth. She’d been shamelessly loud and forward. But he had such a quirky yet pleasant sense of humor. “You should try a good romantic mystery sometime,” she suggested. “You might find it interesting.”

  “Romance and mystery together?” He held up his glass in a toast. “I promise to buy one this week…if you’ll help me pick one. Let’s drink to my first romance book, shall we?”

  She picked up her glass and raised it, wondering if he truly meant to buy a book or if he was making fun of her. Anyway, this was her first toast. And the wine was making her bolder. “I also like spicy foods, especially cheap foods sold by vendors on Chowpatty Beach and the footpaths,” she confessed.

  “Me too,” he said in a conspiratorial murmur. “The spicier the better.”

  “Can you get that in the U.S.?” she whispered on a giggle, trying to keep up with his playful banter. This kind of interaction was new to her.