“Do you remember our film, Pree?” He settled in a seat close enough to touch her but far enough to give her space…leaning forward, playing to an audience of one. “How much fun it was? How much hope we had? Kitne sapne the. We had so many dreams.” They’d shot for three weeks in Simla…playing in the snow and then warming each other at night. Filmmaking had been at its purest for him on Hain Apna Dil To Awara. The very essence of the art, of telling a story of love. Of living one. “Remember what we used to say? That we made that movie because we ‘HADTA’?” Even to himself, he sounded so boyish in that moment, his chuckle tripping over the film’s silly abbreviation. “I have to do this, too. I have to be with you.”
“Why now?” she demanded, rising from the divan and clenching her fists. “You could have followed me to Kolkata, but you did not. So why are you my shadow now? Why? Kano?” Her Hindi was gone, buried in anger that only her mother tongue could express. “Bolo, Rahul. Tell me. Why is it so goddamn important for you to walk in my every footstep now when you didn’t spare a thought for me then?”
“‘Didn’t spare a thought’? What nonsense.” He mirrored her motions, following her across the lounge even as her illogical words took root. “What the hell are you talking about? Of course I came to Kolkata. Right after you’d gone. I begged at your door every day for a week. Your father ran me off like a dog. He said you were done with me. Khatam. Finished. He said he’d kill me if I asked after you again.”
“No.” Priya lurched backwards as if he’d struck her, all the blood draining from her face, leaving the Rose without bloom. “Na. Na, hote parena. It can’t be.” She pressed one hand to her stomach, as if she was about to be violently sick. “You did not come for me. You never wrote me. You never called. You didn’t care, Rahul. You didn’t care.” She repeated it, as if trying to convince herself of the fact.
A thousand repetitions wouldn’t make it true.
“I didn’t know,” he corrected, closing the space between them, aching to hold her but knowing he couldn’t. It was impossible to grasp on to ice…it always melted and slipped through your fingers. “I didn’t know any of it. Not if you lived, if you died, if you loved me or hated me. So I came back to Bombay and made a life. But adhi zindagi the. It was a half life.”
“I can’t make you whole,” she whispered. “Amar khomotha ney. I don’t have the energy or the capability. Don’t ask me.”
“I’m not asking, Pree.” He, too, whispered. Because his voice barely had the power for anything more, so choked was it by sorrow. “I’m telling. I’m telling you that you are my whole world.”
“So? Mujhe kya farak parthi hain? What’s it to me? You’re not directing a scene. You’re not producing a picture. This is real life. Yeh meri life hain.” Her defenses were up, her Hindi was back. “I don’t have to listen to you.” She turned to go, and his hand flashed out, instinctively circling her wrist. And in that instant he knew he’d been wrong: She wasn’t ice. She was liquid nitrogen. So cold that she burned. But yet he held on. As tight as he could without causing her pain.
“You don’t have to listen, but you will hear me. I’m not that stupid boy anymore. I won’t be put off with secrets and lies. I won’t be turned away from your door.”
She wrenched out of his grip. “You. You, you, you. It’s all that matters, na? Not me, not anyone else? You haven’t grown up at all, Rahul. Just as a child thinks, it’s still all about you. Well, I don’t live like that anymore. I can’t live like that anymore. I have priorities.”
“Sach? Really? Where were your priorities when you fucked me in Bihar?”
This time it was her hand that flashed out. The blow was more than the simple sting of a slap. It practically knocked his head off…and he savored it. You’re not immune. You still feel for me. No one indifferent could put such power into her fist.
His fingertips came away bloody when he touched his rapidly swelling lip. Priya flinched, and he could see the sweetness of her heart that she’d tried to drown in vinegar. “Rahul.” She swallowed, the dampness in her eyes caused by a different kind of hurt. “Rahul, I’m—”
“Don’t say ‘sorry’. I’m so sorry. I was wrong. I was crude. I deserved it…and likely worse.” From there, from that flimsy verbal apology, his hand moved on its own. Not echoing the violence of hers but, rather, copying an action played out in so many romantic films. He took his red-tipped fingers and anointed the part in her hair. Sindoor was the sign of a Hindu bride. Making that promise in blood was just a fraction of what he owed her. “You deserved this. All those years ago. I’m sorry I never offered it to you. Maybe if I had…you would touch me in love, not fury. You would be my wife, Priya. We would be a family.”
He felt the shudder go through her. She leaned into him, accepted the shelter of his palm atop her head. But it was painfully brief. Before he could say anything else, win another moment of her weakness, she gathered herself. “Please, Rahul. Please, don’t,” she said, before she fled from the room.
Funny, but he’d never imagined that agony and hope could both taste like copper.
She didn’t think of Rahul. Or even of Shona. Not right at the start. Na, it was her father she thought of as she fairly ran through the hotel lobby, climbing into the first taxi that pulled up to the curb. Her sweet, talented, intellectual baba. Certainly he had been strict with her, had insisted she follow his rules to the very last letter, but he’d never struck her as a man who could be cruel, who could lie. Yet he’d been both a tyrant and a liar when Rahul came to Kolkata. The realization hollowed through Priya’s chest like the curved blade of a boti slicing through fresh jackfruit. She was just as raw, just as uncooked. Rahul had come for her. He’d followed her. But Baba had sent him away from her.
I didn’t know.
But for a basket of untruths, he would have known. He could have been there for seven more months of carrying Shonali, for the pain of birth and the joy of holding her—so tiny and red-faced and angry at the world—afterward. When, at six months, their daughter attacked the traditional onnoproshon plate with gusto and chose the book that symbolized a lifetime of academics, Rahul would’ve laughed and said, “Thank God, woh actress nahin banegi! No more acting in the Anand family!” No acting. Just life. Just honesty. Rahul could have been there for all of it. Every smile, every laugh, every wobbling step. Every sleepless night. Every lonely morning. Every time she’d reached out for him in the dark, he would’ve been there. When she’d ached for him to kiss her, he would’ve given her his lips. When she feared she’d never love again, he would’ve loved her until she couldn’t untangle from the sheets of their bed.
I didn’t know.
It wasn’t until several kilometers separated her from the Hyatt that she allowed herself to cry. Wrenching, noisy, sobs that made the driver ask, “Madam, sab tik to hain? Everything okay?”
No. Nothing was okay. It was all a jumble, a mess, a tragedy of arthouse-film proportions. She’d chased Baba’s lies with more of her own, making the myth of Shona’s birth into a full-color picture that papered the walls of their house…resulting in years she couldn’t give Rahul and Shona back. They were strangers…and strangers they would have to remain. Because Rahul would never, ever forgive her if he discovered what she’d kept hidden…and her parents would never forgive her if she told him the truth.
You would be my wife, Priya. We would be a family.
Na. She would only be his enemy. Those beautiful pictures of a love lost that he’d drawn so vividly in his mind…they would crumble to dust, just like his heart. Just like the last, fragile threads of her hope for a new life.
Chapter Fourteen
There were days in Mumbai that moved with the slow pace of a fly drowning in honey and others that buzzed past him like a bee. Half the time, Davey barely had time to think, much less check his mobile…which, inevitably, was loaded full with frantic messages and voicemails from George. Ever desperate for his insight, his attention. In between segments for Sunny Days, he found a n
ew addition to the log: an unknown number. Twice. He didn’t pay it any mind until the phone rang again while he was sprawled in his office chair, fucking around and pretending to look over projected ratings for the next few months. He answered with only a cursory glance at the display, with a curt “Yes?” in lieu of a traditional greeting.
The reply, a “Hullo. Is this Mr. Shaw?” was made in a high, sweet voice just barely beginning to deepen, laced with that typical accent of English medium-educated Mumbai youth.
Were they taking up a collection for footie uniforms or some such? How in the hell had he gotten on a registry for that? “Er, yes. Who’re you?”
“Jai,” piped the voice, as if this was obvious. And, after a moment, it was.
“Sunita’s Jai?” He felt like someone was about to jump out of the bushes and yell “Surprise!” Despite the obvious dearth of bushes in his immediate surroundings. “Er…um…what can I do for you?” God, he sounded like a prat. Like any number of prats he’d grown up thoroughly mocking.
“You can marry my mom.”
It was such smooth, confident line delivery that, for an instant, Davey just had to marvel at the cadence, the crispness, before the content actually sank in. “I’m sorry, what? Say again?”
Jai barreled on before he could continue to sputter like he’d come up from the deep end of a swimming hole. “You make her happy. Woh bahut khush hai. And I think you should marry her straightaway. Before she runs off.”
Either the boy had watched far too many Bollywood films, or he knew his mother’s habits inside and out. Davey would venture to guess that it was a little of both. “Well, Jai, I rather think that’s up to her. Women don’t really respond to just being wedded, you know.”
“Are you making an excuse, Mr. Shaw?” He could practically hear the suspicion on the other end of the line. “You do want to marry her, don’t you? Do the pheras?” There was a tad bit of wheedling that followed. “My papa can’t get married to Viki Uncle—that’s his boyfriend—so if you marry my mom, I will get to experience the whole desi wedding tamasha, na? You wouldn’t want to deprive me of that, hain na, Mr. Shaw?”
Well, hell. Davey held the phone away from his ear, so he could stare at it in abject awe. Jaidev Khanna was a natural manipulator, a performer in the making. He’d just hooked him with both the old intentions speech and added cultural guilt. When Davey safely settled the mobile once more, he sighed. “Look, Jai, I appreciate the call. Really, I do. And I think we’d get on if Sunita would actually let us meet…but I’m not going to make any promises to you without making them to her first. Samjhe? I’m in a relationship with her, not you.”
It was a risky bit of dialogue, a gamble, and he waited for the silence on the connection to shift, to become charged with teenage annoyance. What he got instead was delighted laughter. Rather like Sunny’s, which he heard entirely too rarely. “I like you, Mr. Shaw,” Jai bubbled in that disarmingly precise English. “Mom likes you, too.”
He was glad to hear it. Christ, was he glad to hear it. “Thank you, Jai.” He chuckled, rubbing a palm along his cheek and sighing. “That’s good to hear.”
What wasn’t nearly as good to hear was the sharp intake of breath, the slew of Hindi curses, as Sunita appeared in his office doorway.
She watched Davey end his call through a haze of…of what? Anger? Hurt? She couldn’t even define the emotion that surged through her. “Y-you’re talking to Jai?” she heard herself say, though she could barely feel her lips form the words. “Kyu? Why?”
He placed his mobile on the desk, pushing the chair backwards and making to stand. “Because he called me, darling, and it’s only polite.”
Perhaps that was a rational argument to some, to anyone else, but to her it was a war cry. “I don’t need you to be polite,” she snapped. “I don’t need you anywhere near him.”
Shaw was maddeningly calm. Superior. He approached her slowly, like she was a wild animal in need of taming. “We’re involved, Sunita. At work and personally. It’s only natural that he be curious.” He shrugged.
“Then we can be uninvolved.” She shrugged in return, though her shoulders felt brittle, like dried curry leaves. “It’s simple, Shaw-saab. I have Jai. I have a career. A life. I’m filled to the brim, Davin. I don’t have room for you.”
His sharp blue eyes sparked like a flame. “Bullshit. There’s plenty of empty space in your bed, Sunita, and you’ve got endless amounts of room in that gargantuan heart of yours as well. You’re just scared.”
Sunita had fought to be fearless. She’d fought and won, goddammit. “Scared? Of you? Breaking news, ulloo, the British Raj ended in 1947. I fear nothing.”
Davey shook his head, still treating her as though she was rabid and bordering on biting him. “That’s not true,” he soothed. “You’re terrified of letting me in. Of letting anyone in besides a fourteen-year-old boy who needs his father just as much as he needs you.”
“Fuck off.” Her skin felt suddenly cold. Clammy. “Did Sam put you up to this?” It was possible, wasn’t it? After all, Rahul was close friends with them both. They probably all went drinking together and laughed about what a horrible bitch she was. It was, no doubt, a rousing night’s entertainment. “That’s it, na? This is all Sam. He and his Romeo want to take Jai from me, and you’re my consolation prize?”
“Don’t be absurd,” he scoffed, reaching for her hands and squeezing them between his. Part assurance, part comfort. “I barely know Sam, and we certainly wouldn’t be discussing your custody issues. I am worried about you. Period. Full stop.”
“It sounds to me like you’re more worried about getting your rocks off,” she spat, trying to jerk from his grip. But he only held on, shaking his head as though he were a forbidding master and she an unruly student.
“Then you’re not listening, which is typical. You just tune out what doesn’t suit you,” he accused. “And it doesn’t suit you to think that I could be there for you. That I could be trusted to have a simple phone conversation with Jai. That I, God forbid, might want to make a life with you. You don’t want to accept that any man can be trusted to care for you and your child.”
Because a man couldn’t care for her and her child. That wasn’t speculation, it was fact. Proven a thousand times over. “Brilliant psychoanalysis, Dr. Shaw.” She let sarcasm drip from her tone like rainwater. “But the reality is not so complicated. You see, I happen to like my independence. Like India did.”
“Goddammit.” Davey’s eyes darkened, and he released her hands so he could grasp her by the shoulders. “If you are so bloody determined to beat this colonial metaphor into the ground, I guess I have to show you how a proper takeover is done.”
He was rational to the point of ridiculousness. Unflappable. Always unruffled. But when he grabbed her now, tugging her close and bringing his lips down on hers, it was anything but cool and calm. It was wild. All tongue and teeth and demanding to be let in, to be made a part of her.
Sunny gave as good as she got, hooking her fingers in the ends of his shirt and tearing it open. She kissed him back with equal fervor, showing him the full extent of her desire. That was when he pulled back from her and stepped away, leaving her still reaching for him, breathing for him. “That is how we colonize,” he said fiercely. “We make you want us. Need us. Until you don’t remember what life was like before we conquered you.” He brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek. “But I don’t want to conquer you, Rani Sahiba. I just want to rule by your side.”
I just want to rule by your side.
Hai, Bhagwan. Such strong, beautiful, words…they needed to come from a film hero, not a TV producer. Not this man who was so tall and powerful…secure and safe. It had been so bloody long since she’d felt safe. But here was the illusion: in his arms, in the power of his chest. As he brushed his lips against her hair and splayed his palm across her back, she could almost fool herself into thinking it meant something. That it had permanence beyond the ten steps to and from his be
droom, beyond the few strides to the sturdy surface of his desk.
He whispered to her in that angrezi-accented Hindi, related all the filthy, gorgeous things he wished to do to her. Worse, he made her promises that she knew he couldn’t keep. That he would stay with her always. That he would marry her. That he and Jai would team up and make her life a joyous, merry hell. “Bas, Davey,” she begged. “Just stop. Stop talking such nonsense.”
“Kabhi nahin.” He tilted her chin with his fingertips, angling her mouth against his insufferably British stiff upper lip. “Never. I’m not going to stop with the nonsense, darling, and I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured, the words a tantalizing vibration on her skin. “I’m here for the duration. The sooner you believe that, the sooner we can go to bed.”
Believing in genies and churails would be easier, and far more realistic. But Sunny had been slinging gossip in front of an audience for years. If there was one thing she knew how to do with finesse and sincerity, it was lie. “I believe you,” she said, reaching between them to stroke him through his trousers. “I believe you,” she sighed, licking along the warm line of his jaw and the hot beat of the pulse in his neck. “I. Believe. You. Now chalo…take me. Anywhere you wish.”
Anywhere but to the marriage mandap, because that way…that way lay nothing but heartbreak.
Chapter Fifteen
The invitations went out on a Sunday for a cocktail party the following Saturday. An e-mail, simple and to the point, with no possibility for scandal. It was all completely respectable. Nina was almost proud of herself…only almost, because she was storing up her pride for later, for her own victory party after the big bash.
She’d cast the picture perfectly, chosen the right players. The conflict was ready-made. The setting inspired. There was no need for a script, because they would all improvise on cue. And, vah, what a show it would be. A superhit. One that, if all went as planned, would end the Rahul-Priya jodi, and begin a whole new era.
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