Maple and Spice

by Moushmi Biswas

  It was almost springtime before Shailesh came over. And when Monisha saw him wandering through Logan International, bedraggled, with more belly fat and less hair than last time, she felt nothing. Not love. Not joy. Not even relief.

  Just nothing.

  He smiled at her. But only a half-smile. Like he’d left the other half in Mumbai.

  The exit from the airport was confusing. Twirling loops of freeway sprouted everywhere. One wrong turn and they’d be lost. Monisha hunched over in the driver’s seat, searching desperately for the ‘North’ sign.

  Shailesh called her a safe but boring driver, and suggested they stop for a drink. A traffic light appeared out of nowhere. She slammed the brakes.

  “This is the US; you can’t drink and drive.”

  “Okay. I’ll drink, you drive.”

  The streets were busy. There were ‘Sale’ signs plastered on every window. A woman with a baby stroller crossed the street. Inside, Monisha’s anger burned hot. Here, she was the breadwinner. And he owed her. He drink and she drive? Grr! Just like Sohan Singh had thought. And what had her mother said?

  “I’m not your taxi. Goddam it!”

  A shocked silence followed. Less than an hour out of customs and an argument was brewing. Shailesh spoke in a soft, barely audible muffle.

  “After I’ve dumped my things, maybe we could go out later and both of us grab something to eat and… er, drink.”

  She chuckled to herself. With those exam scores, he was obviously a brilliant student. And he was learning already.

  They reached Northend. Monisha nervously unlocked the door to the flat. In the lounge, the small TV was on. Blonde presenters with fake tans lit up the room. Mr Anaesthesiology was sitting on the sofa, rather close to another man. Shailesh dragged his dusty suitcases in. She winced. They smelled of diesel and drainpipes.

  “My husband, Shailesh,” she announced. “He’ll be staying a few days.”

  It sounded almost apologetic. Mr Anaesthesiology looked up and nodded a hello. The man next to him pouted.

  “My boyfriend, Jack. We were just leaving.”

  Shailesh grimaced and let out an audible groan. The two thin men walked straight into the smell of diesel and drainpipes, before slipping out the door. Monisha felt herself blush.

  “HOMOSEXUALS!” shouted Shailesh, eyes ablaze. “I can’t stay here!”

  Monisha rushed over to the kitchen in search of a cloth and disinfectant. She didn’t know anything about her flat mate, except that he was an anaesthesiologist. The rest was irrelevant, she told Shailesh before complaining that his suitcases stank. He raised his eyebrows.

  “But you have homosexuals in your flat!”

  Monisha wiped the baggage. Over and over, until a sickly smell of pine needles prevailed.

  Shailesh waved his arms in the air. “I can’t stay here, with those two… in bed together. Bleurgh!”

  “Well, I can’t afford a hotel.”

  She placed a large towel on the floor of Miss Never There’s room and dragged one of the suitcases in. Shailesh followed with the other. There was now barely space to stand.

  When they finally got to her own room, Shailesh rang his mother. His voice choked as he spoke. Tears welled up in his eyes. Yes, he’d reached safely. Yes, America was really clean. The streets were wide. The buildings were grey.

  When Seema came on, he began sobbing. Monisha gently placed a hand on his shoulder. It was a while before he could compose himself.

  “Ayesha wants to talk with you.”

  Goodness knew why! Monisha took the receiver hesitantly. A moment later, she was all smiles.

  “She’s married Chemjong! The pictures are on the internet. They’re about to leave for their honeymoon.”

  Shailesh frowned deeply. “Stupid, stupid girl.”

  He watched helplessly as each image came through. The bride in a cream silk sari. Chemjong, smart in his crisp, black suit. Seema their flower girl. And Mrs Kulkarni beaming. All perfectly timed, to take place the minute her brother left for the States. Clever move, Ayesha. The sly fox.

  That night, at the Cheers Bar, Shailesh sulked in front of his Jack Daniels. Monisha picked up a bar bill of $150.

  Their married life together had officially begun.

  20

  The days whirled ahead and vanished one by one, into a pool of lost time. A few weeks passed before they could see each other. There was always some obstacle that prevented them. Shailesh hadn’t found the right apartment yet. Monisha was asked to cover for a colleague. Someone dropped out of a laparoscopy workshop and suddenly Shailesh had a free place. Then came the problem of aeroplane tickets, expensive and available, or cheap and not. Co-ordinating their diaries made her head spin.

  The journey over to Wichita was just as she’d expected. Tedious. After a delayed connection and four packets of potato crisps, Monisha reached the airport. Moments later Shailesh came charging into the meeting point, so quickly that he nearly knocked her over.

  He appeared rested and carefree, as if he were on holiday. His belly was now hidden beneath his handknitted jumper, one of Mrs Kulkarni’s creations. He chatted away excitedly about his new car, an absolute bargain. He’d had to buy one. Hutchinson was forty miles out and there was no other way to get around town.

  The old bomber was fire-engine red. When it started making spluttering noises, Monisha burst out laughing. It let out a deafening ‘VROOM VROOM’ and she began quivering.

  Shailesh leant over her and reached into the glove box and lifted out a gift-wrapped package. She felt it; it was hard, flat and rectangular.

  “What do you think of this?”

  Perplexed, she opened the gift. It was a solitary wall tile. Blue with a hand-painted sunflower.

  “The first piece of our first house.”

  She threw her arms round him. He kissed her, tenderly. A thrill soared through her body. Her hairs stood on end.

  Oh my God! This was really happening!

  The Three Oaks apartment block was more like a holiday villa; a white facade, yellow shuttered windows and a sandstone courtyard that led to the pool. Shailesh’s flat was on the ground floor. She couldn’t help but feel jealous; all of it came for less than half of what she was paying for her room at Northend.

  The front door was flung open. Cayenne pepper and curry spices hit her nostrils and made her cough. A young man rushed over to greet her: five foot two, Indian, with hands yellowed by turmeric and the filthiest of fingernails. She gagged and gasped.

  “Pleased to meet you, Monisha. I’m Suresh,” he said. “Your cook for today.”

  Trying hard not to think about his fingernails, she turned her attention towards the living room, which was jam-packed with odd bits of furniture: a black leather couch with torn cushions, and a pine table and four cane chairs. Books with an array of titles were stacked high on the floor: Engineering Basics, Windows for Dummies and Gallbladder Surgery. And the carpet had been destroyed by shoe marks.

  A blast of Bollywood music made her jump. Another man appeared, his white polo shirt gleaming against jet-black skin. He swaggered over, clapping his hands in time with the beat.

  “I’m Rajan. What’ll it be, Shailesh?”

  He searched for an unused whisky glass in vain.

  “A top up, Suresh?”

  No drink offered to her. Not even lemonade.

  Shailesh nodded, then took her bag and dumped it in a room that smelled of pickles. Their flat mate was out of town. His mother had sent him three giant jars.

  “You can use this until he’s back.” said Shailesh.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “My room’s the smallest.”

  It was indeed. But, somehow, he’d managed to fit an assortment of single malt whiskies, rum, vodka and wines onto his bedside table. And a stack of beers in a cooler, beneath the dr
esser.

  Monisha clasped her head in her hands. Oily pickles, unemptied trash cans and dirty fingernails. Filth! Filth! Filth! Aargh! She was trapped in a jungle of maleness. And the only way out of it was to cook and clean.

  Before he could pick up his whisky glass, she begged Shailesh to drive her to the nearest store.

  Three hours later each room had been wiped down and vacuumed. At the dining table, plates and glassware glistened. And they all sat down to supper: chicken curry, fried rice and salad. The men sang her praises and devoured the lot.

  Afterwards they sank onto the torn leather couch, drinks in hand, to watch the cricket. Quietly, she slipped out.

  The kitchen was a safe haven, away from the drunken discussion on who was the better captain or the best bowler. She started on the dishes. Watching specks of curry disappear into lemony foam seemed far more interesting.

  A few minutes later, Shailesh poked his head in.

  “Rajan’s brother has a degree in physics. I told him your father would get him a job.”

  He was slurring his words. Monisha glared briefly, but went on washing, stacking the plates onto their holder, then wiping the work surfaces, and restoring cleanliness and order.

  She was summoned again. Suresh had thrown up on the carpet. No apology. Only an explanation. Two-day-old red wine and Captain Creole rum, one after another. Nothing to do with her cooking.

  Asshole!

  Several hours after a tedious two-plane journey, she was cleaning a shoe-and-vomit-stained floor. She scrubbed away. Harder and harder. Tears welling up.

  Assholes! Assholes! Assholes!

  When she was done, she headed to the bathroom. Shailesh followed her.

  “I can’t believe you told him my father would get his brother a job!”

  He was wobbling. His face now as red as his car. His voice thick and heavy, his words garbled.

  “This is what Indians do: help each other.”

  She banged the door in his face.

  “AND WASTE THEIR MONEY ON DRINK… WHICH THEY CAN’T HANDLE.”

  Hot water trickled from the shower, then burst through at full speed. Rose and damask infused her senses. Bought from the local store, a different shower gel for each day. The perfect antidote to all the filth.

  Monisha made her way over to Shailesh’ s room, feeling warm, delicately scented and contrite. After all, the dinner had ended no differently to others. Drunken men boasting. Women cleaning. She opened her mouth to apologise, but Shailesh was fast asleep. He lay, curled up in front of his drinks cabinet; his quilt in the shape of a large hill.

  Luckily, the room that smelled of pickles had a computer. Even better, its username and password were taped to the screen. As Monisha typed away, the machine came to life. Her inbox flashed. A message from Tina.

  She was returning to Vermont, she’d found a law firm and a nice apartment. Tina was coming home! Her heart raced. Yippee!

  Less enthusiastically, she opened the attachment from Ayesha. It was a picture of herself and Chemjong, with his hand across her belly. The caption in bold letters read ‘Number two on the way’.

  Monisha shot out of her chair and kicked the floor. A row of stinking running shoes went flying across the room. She bent down to pick them up, trying to hold her breath as the tears flowed. Lord Venkateshwara stared blankly from his resting place, while Shailesh’s deafening snores reverberated down the corridor. She sighed and opened the window.

  Right now, all she could do was try to get some sleep.

  21

  The Belvedere Hotel was buzzing with Indian people. Huddled under the brass chandeliers were the latest arrivals, the IT crowd, couples mainly, with one or no kids. And Leela Bastikar had invited them all to the reception dinner.

  In the foyer, Shailesh strutted around introducing himself and making small talk. Monisha hovered tentatively behind, in pink silk. She barely knew a soul here. In fact, she barely even knew her husband. A year and a half after their marriage, they had lived together for four weeks. Shock horror!

  One month out of eighteen.

  The ballroom had been decked out with butterflies of gold-and-silver papier mâché. There were butterfly napkin holders at the table and butterfly king prawns on the menu. According to Leela Bastikar butterflies were good omens; they made dreams come true.

  “We can use all this again, for Swanker’s reception,” Professor Bastikar had said when he surveyed the expensive scene. “Except for the butterfly king prawns… at $8 a head.”

  But Mrs Bastikar, hobbling round in toned-down, mother-in-law peach, had spared no expense. Linking arms with Shailesh, she made her way into the ballroom. Her sugar-coated voice, once reserved for bridegrooms, was now used on guests.

  “My son-in-law Dr Shailesh Kulkarni. MBBS Karnataka. MS Mumbai. Please see the board for your name and table number.”

  She repeated herself, adding bits as she went.

  “My son-in-law Dr Shailesh Kulkarni. MS Mumbai. Working in the department of surgery at Wichita. My daughter Monisha, medical resident at St Anthony’s. Please take your seats.”

  Monisha blushed and looked down at her feet. What airbrushed facts! Shailesh was an observer at Hutchinson, moonlighting in the billing department. But, to her mother, this was minutiae.

  Tina strolled by, wearing a green velvet dress and holding a matching clutch. With her hair braided neatly and very little skin on show, she was obviously drumming up business for the firm. Shailesh reached out to her and planted a kiss on her cheek.

  “I’ve heard about you,” he said, his face breaking into a smile.

  “Well, I’ve heard very little about you,” she replied. Tina immediately turned towards Monisha and hugged her. “I hope you’ve put me next to someone with a legal problem!”

  The head table was at the front and Mrs Bastikar made sure the Vermas were on it. Vinod Verma was no longer president of the Cultural Association but, with his thriving business, stunning mansion, two ex-Ivy-League children and three grandchildren, to Mrs Bastikar, he still stood at the very top of the leaderboard.

  On the table next door, Swanker and his friends hooted and giggled with Tina. Monisha stared wistfully. She was trapped next to old snake eyes. Her mind flashed back to that awful encounter. In this very ballroom! Having to explain that she was still a virgin, staring at his pock-marked skin. She’d almost died.

  “To have made it over here is quite an achievement, Shailesh,” said Vinod Verma. “After losing your father, looking after your sister… her child…” He began pouring out wine. “Red or white for you?”

  Shailesh shook his head and lifted out a bottle of sparkling water from the basket.

  “I don’t drink in front of my elders and certainly not in front of my father-in-law.”

  The table shook with laughter. Even Monisha laughed at the irony. He was running a bar in his bedroom.

  “Monisha, you have definitely found a good Indian boy,” said Vinod Verma. “I’d never have thought.”

  Saurav Das, the nephrologist immediately screwed up his face.

  “Why ever not, Vinod? Such a beautiful, qualified girl?” He threw a glance at Shailesh. “So, what exactly are you doing in the… er… department of surgery?”

  Shailesh cobbled together an explanation. He wasn’t in the university hospital, but working as an observer at Hutchinson, assisting mainly and waiting for a placement nearer his wife. He’d done a lot of operating in Mumbai and he’d abandoned his burgeoning practice to come to the States.

  Saurav Das sipped his wine slowly, without for a second taking his eyes off Shailesh.

  “I hope you realise that getting into a surgical residency in the US is almost as difficult as getting into the Whitehouse.”

  There was silence. Creepy and unpleasant. It was Swati Das who came to the rescue. “Ah look!” she cried, gently brushing
her husband’s arm. “The butterfly king prawns! And Amit has made us promise to eat every one of them.”

  Dr Das accepted his caution. By now, everyone knew that the prawns were $8 a head. Vinod Verma said he could have got them cheaper. Amit Bastikar grimaced. The ladies bit into each delicious prawn, wiping lipstick and breadcrumbs off their mouths. The men filled their glasses again and again.

  Monisha beamed away as she watched Shailesh. Smart in navy blue. Swimming and lifting weights now. Waiting for a job nearer her. She thought of his beautiful gift of the wall tile, the first piece of their first house.

  Underneath the table, she slipped off her sandal and rubbed her foot along his leg. He held her hand, squeezing it tight.

  After dinner, the place erupted with jingly Bollywood tunes and ear bursting Bhangra. Shailesh and Monisha stepped onto the dancefloor gracefully, still holding hands. The IT crowd shuffled along behind them. Saris and kurtas flapped and dazzled under the glittery lights. Soon enough, aunties and uncles joined in, wiggling their flabby midriffs as best they could, until the music became a mesmerising rave.

  When the slow dancing was over, the guests left one by one. Shailesh and Monisha crept up to their room. And for the first time in months they made love. Passionately.

  Their Belvedere honeymoon suite and bottle of champagne came courtesy of old snake eyes.

  22

  Before the summer ended there was another trip to Wichita. With the swimming pool and sun loungers, at Three Oaks, it felt like a real holiday. Finally, Monisha could kick her heels up and relax. Now that they were both earning, she didn’t have to slave away in the kitchen. They dined out – Italian, Chinese, even Mexican – and slipped out for gelato late at night. Everywhere was food heaven! Mmm!

  In Shailesh’s room, his bedside table was filled with exotic spirits. Fancy named liqueurs in exquisite bottles: Cointreau, Frangelico and Laphroaig. And he was lapping them up; his cheeks were fatter, redder.

  The drinking was beginning to bother her. Each time she watched him fill his glass, there came a twinge of discontent. But she didn’t want to pick an argument. Why spoil her break? He wasn’t drinking and driving, or missing work. Or was he?