Maple and Spice

by Moushmi Biswas

  “Anyhow, you should file for divorce first. And if you’re filing in Vermont, I’ll need some ID and proof of address.”

  The pain returned. Sharp, stabbing. This was legal speak.

  It was going to be over.

  A swarm of office workers arrived and lined up at the front counter. Tina’s voice echoed in the background amidst the rippling of grey suits and ruffle of newspapers

  “Are you going to stay in Boston? He’s close, in Salem.”

  Monisha thought for a moment. It was a forty-minute drive in rush hour.

  “Could he contest?”

  She recalled the doorbell ringing at the Sitara road house. Then the phone. That horrible moment that her parents had leapt up, hoping it would be Shailesh, clinging to the slightest possibility that they could fix things. But the Kulkarnis hadn’t been in touch. Not once.

  Tina shook her head.

  “When one spouse contests it can be considered an irreconcilable difference in itself.”

  Damn lawyers!

  Monisha stared out the window. The dance hall was across the road. Once upon a time, she’d twirled round its hardwood floors with big-bottomed Mrs Bhatia. Apparently, the old woman was still going strong. The soles of her feet were like hide.

  “I could come back here… I suppose.”

  Tina jumped up. Cups slid sideways. Crumbs scattered onto the floor.

  Monisha smiled as she watched her friend, now clumsy with excitement.

  “I have to, Tina… St Anthony’s totally sucks.”

  31

  Twenty-three Adam Court was just how she remembered it. Frozen in time. The tired, old, floral-print curtains hung limp. The grandfather clock chimed forlornly in the sitting room. The wooden kitchen cupboards still hid the odd turmeric stain. Monisha crept round in her slippers, opening windows and letting out the musty air.

  First upstairs was Swanker’s room. The walls were lined with posters of his high-school heroes: heavy metal guitarists and baseball players. On the bedside table was his school photo. Adorable! There he was with bucked teeth and his basin haircut. He looked nothing like that now. But her mother hadn’t changed a thing when he’d gone.

  Poor Swanker! He hated every minute of engineering school.

  “Qualification! Qualification! You must complete a qualification! After that you can do what you like,” her mother would scream, each time he threatened to leave.

  It worked like magic; he’d reached the final semester.

  And he was always dating ‘some hottie’. Though he never elaborated, except to say: “You don’t marry them”. In a couple of years her mother would be trawling the matrimonial columns. For a good Indian girl.

  Or would she? After this?

  In her own bedroom hung a picture from the reception at the Belvedere. There she was, smiling sheepishly beside Shailesh. The pair of them walking under an archway of pink butterflies. Hand in hand.

  She turned her head. Saw the double bed. The one they’d slept in, after coming back. From the… from the hospital. Gulp!

  Her fingers shook as she unhooked the photograph. Where could it go? She opened a cupboard and found a crate of old things: a rag doll, a music box without its ballerina and a silver cat with trinkets on its tail. All from Aunt Romila.

  An exercise book toppled out, its pages filled with her third-grade scrawl.

  “When I grow up, I want to be a ginacollogist. You have to work hard to bring out babies. Babies cry a lot…”

  She slapped it shut. But it was too late. Sharp pangs of grief struck all at once. Bones. Muscles. Throat. She cried out in pain. Aargh!

  In a daze, she continued to her parents’ room. On her mother’s dresser, the ceramic brush and comb lay blanketed in dust. A telephone cord trailed out under a pile of science journals. Her father’s doing! She found the receiver, picked it up and dialled the Sitara Road number. Blubbery and shaking.

  Professor Bastikar answered, in a voice weakened by hurt. He’d argued with Rohit and Shyam. They should have found out about those exam scores, quietly made some enquiries. They’d only have told her what she absolutely needed to know.

  Shyam felt guilty. Now they weren’t speaking.

  “How’s Mom?”

  “Gone for a walk,” he said, “and still convinced you should have given it a chance.”

  There was little left to say, except that the Dases were well, she’d met Tina, and in a day or two she’d be heading back to Boston.

  She hung up and found her father’s computer. It had been a while since she’d checked her emails. Her inbox was loaded. First, she read her brother’s reply to her breaking news.

  “Hope it works out. Good luck with Mom and Dad.”

  That was it?

  Then, buried under junk mail, a message from Shailesh.

  Her heart stopped. She took a deep breath before she read.

  ‘Dear Monisha. Sorry I couldn’t be the husband you’d hoped for. As soon as you left, doors started opening. There’s a hospital being built nearby. Modelled on the US. They’re looking for surgeons, American returned. I’ll stay in Salem until its finished. I couldn’t live out your dreams and give up on mine. I belong here.’

  He signed it ‘A sad-and-sorry Shailesh’.

  Even though he wasn’t either.

  She forwarded it to her father. To Swanker. To Riya. To Tina.

  Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!

  The phone rang. It was Tina. Yes, she’d read the email. No, that wasn’t why she was ringing. She was inviting her out to dinner. Justin, her boyfriend of six months, would be there. It’d be better than moping round the house. All alone.

  Would it be? Seeing a loved-up couple?

  Tina noted the hesitation.

  “Oh please! You’re not the only one to have loved and lost. In fact, you didn’t even love. You’ve just… lost. I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

  Monisha reluctantly jumped in the shower.

  La Fontana was a pretty Italian place, with olive trees in the courtyard and a small fountain. They sat outside and waited. Justin called to tell them he was running late. Monisha gazed admiringly at the picture on Tina’s phone. Justin was blond with washboard abs. A hottie!

  “If he doesn’t propose in a year, I’ll leave him.”

  Monisha looked up in horror.

  “Why?”

  “We could be running around in circles for years. And my eggs won’t last that long!”

  A good-looking waiter began walking towards their table. Suddenly Tina began scrutinising her from head to toe.

  “Seriously Monisha! Crew-neck sweater and jeans… To a restaurant? And what’s that round your neck? It’s so gold, it’s orange!”

  Monisha frantically began tucking her chain under her shirt. She needed a new look, thought Tina. Out with the gaudy, in with the slick.

  From behind the fountain, Justin appeared. Tanned and smiling. More handsome in real life. Before she stood up to greet him, Tina poked her in the belly.

  “And go easy on the alfredo. You’ll need to hit the gym.”

  32

  The next morning, Monisha rang the department of oncology at University Hospital. In a trembling voice, she explained her predicament. Two months ago, she’d accepted the oncology offer in Boston and rejected Vermont’s to be closer to her husband. Now her marriage was over. Had their positions been filled? Could they possibly reconsider?

  The woman at the end of the phone had no idea, but she would try her best to help. Professor Davidson was around and the ‘three o’clock person’ had cancelled. She could certainly pencil her in for a meeting. No promises, but it was worth asking.

  As Monisha stared at her reflection in the bedroom mirror, fear swept through her body. There were only four hours left to change her look. Gulp!

  The mall was ful
l of fresh-faced cheerleader types and impossibly thin mannequins. Everywhere the spotlights and transparent glass made her hips look wider. Eyes puffier. And the tempting scent of cookies and ice cream almost drove her to distraction. She scurried past each shop. Demoralised.

  When she got to the second floor, a glittery sign caught her eye. The word ‘DAZZLE’ was written in elegant cursive script. Beneath it, a chalkboard offer: ‘Shampoo, cut and blow dry, forty dollars. No appointment necessary.’

  They had her. In a flash she was inside.

  As the man held up her long unruly mane, she cringed with embarrassment. When he asked her what she wanted done, she froze. He pointed at her shoulders and she nodded apprehensively.

  For the next hour, he was in his element. The warm lather began to relax her. She lay back, inhaling the alpine freshness, while her frizz was lovingly tamed.

  Suddenly, the taps stopped running and the man sat her up with a jolt. He took her to a new swivel chair and immediately began chopping. Ruthlessly! Each time she saw a piece of her hair dropping to the ground, she jumped with fright.

  He stopped at her shoulders and added a neat little fringe. Then he dried it and fixed it with mousse and spray. When he’d finished, he showed her how to wear it out and how to twist it up in a clasp. Like a sorcerer he’d worked his magic. She was beautiful.

  He whisked off her cape.

  “So… are you ready to dazzle?”

  She beamed proudly and handed him a $10 tip.

  With new hair, it was easy to find new clothes. Slimming ones. Smart ones. Sexy ones. The look was going to be European. No more sparkly bangles or purple silks. But pale blues and soft pinks instead. And she’d be sleek! Like Tina had said. Pencil skirts. Fitted waists. No silver sandals, but knee-high boots and classy heels. With stockings. Black or neutral. And always sheer.

  She twirled round each changing room. Delighted!

  The one place left to visit was the jewellery store. Within seconds she found exactly what she wanted. A silver chain with a clear crystal pendant. Inscribed inside it, the letter ‘M’.

  She’d wear it forever.

  At five to three, Monisha strode towards John Davidson’s office. She wore a pencil skirt, crisp white shirt and killer heels. With her hair in a clasp and a copy of her CV tucked under her arm, she was ready to dazzle.

  Associate Professor John Davidson was younger than she’d imagined. He was pale and lean with sandy hair, a shadow of a beard and rugged features. A squash racket jutted out of the holdall next to his desk.

  He shook her hand and caught sight of the letter ‘M’.

  “How can I help you Dr Bast-ik-ar?”

  He offered her a seat and sat himself down behind his desk.

  “Am I pronouncing it correctly?”

  She liked it when someone made an effort. She told him how she’d rejected the offer of haematology and oncology training in Vermont and accepted the job in Boston to be closer to her husband.

  He nodded.

  “What happened?”

  Her heart began fluttering.

  Damn Shailesh for making her look stupid now.

  “I’m getting divorced and my parents live here. My father is actually…”

  A deathly silence followed. Her chain felt hot round her neck.

  John Davidson rocked forward on his chair and leaned in.

  “Your father is in the physics faculty. My colleagues in radiation know him.”

  His voice was calm and reassuring. She found the courage to speak again. She wanted to come back to Vermont, she said.

  He thumbed through her CV, then stopped at page two. “You want to relocate… because your family is here?”

  Trap. Don’t fall for it.

  “No! My father wants to retire soon… to Mumbai. My brother is in Chicago.”

  Her crisp white shirt was now moist with sweat. She sat up straight and took a breath.

  “I went to med school here. I like the programme; it would have been my first choice.”

  John Davidson ran his fingers through his hair. He seemed genuinely surprised.

  Really, she would choose Vermont even after working in a place like St Anthony’s?

  Monisha nodded her head effusively.

  “Yes! Because the people there are so… They’re, er… They’re just…”

  John Davidson smiled when he sensed her hesitation. “Such assholes?”

  She burst out laughing. Chuckling. Chortling. Giggling.

  “Do you have kids?”

  The laughter stopped. She shook her head.

  “Phew… It’s not going to be as hard then.”

  He rocked back and forth. They were talking like friends now.

  “I’m afraid all our jobs are filled.”

  Ouch!

  Like a rag doll she crumpled. Her necklace dangled in front of her. And from it that salty, sickly smell of sweat and deodorant. John Davidson waved her CV back at her and cleared his throat.

  “But you’re a strong candidate from a fine institution. I could offer you a research post, salaried. And you could re-apply, next round.”

  She shot up, grinning from ear to ear. Suddenly his face hardened. He stared straight at her, his blue eyes steely and cold.

  “I warn you, the research I do is not Mickey Mouse stuff. With me it’s a PhD or nothing.”

  He shifted his swivel chair sideways and revealed a bookshelf filled with PhDs. Dissertation after dissertation. Leather-bound. Lined in rows. His jaw tightened. He expected her to get results and publish. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t make it onto the clinical programme. He tossed her CV onto the desk.

  “And now that you’ve messed them round in Boston, you won’t make ANY clinical programme.”

  It was this or nothing.

  Inside, she shook like a leaf. She promised him, she’d do her best.

  Whatever it took.

  He nodded slowly.

  “It’ll take longer. Six years instead of three. But at the end of it you’ll be an academic, a researcher AND a clinician.”

  A chill ran down her spine. Things were changing. Her career. Her plans.

  Her whole life course. Six years? Meeting a man… having babies… when?

  Fear crept across her face. He saw it.

  “You’re much better off doing research. No one survives in clinical oncology without research.”

  Professor John Davidson chuckled when he realised the double meaning. What he’d meant to say was that a career in clinical oncology without research was pretty darn depressing.

  33

  The newly renovated apartment was walking distance from the campus, and two blocks away from the cafés and diners of Church Street. With its high ceilings, hardwood floors, granite tops and antique brass fans, it was stunning. Her bedroom and built-in wardrobe were enormous. The power shower in the bathroom was pure heaven. Every morning, Monisha pinched herself. The space was really hers. All hers!

  She would never have to clamber over Miss OB-GYN’s boxes or make small talk with Mr Anaesthesiology. Any time she wanted to, she could kick off her heels and tap dance. Or Indian dance or Riverdance. Because the place was soundproof.

  Right now, the misery of her final months at St Anthony’s were a distant memory. The bitter Boston winter, endless servings of bean stew and that most awkward encounter with HR when they discovered they would have to re-advertise her job and re-interview.

  Ha! Ha! It was over.

  Associate Professor J.T.C. Davidson had thrown her a lifeline.

  John Tyrannical Control-freak Davidson.

  He’d sent her a range of projects. She’d chosen one she liked. But he’d decided that monoclonal antibodies were more ‘up her alley’.

  What alley?

  And he expected the literature review to be
completed before she ‘officially commenced’. The whole of one chapter written up. Between dayshifts. Night shifts. House hunting. Packing and relocating. Good God!

  Her parents were unable to help. Her mother announced that she couldn’t stick out another Vermont winter; the arthritis would kill her. Her father handed in his notice. And when he concluded he could not afford a house in Mumbai as nice as the one in Sitara Road, he ended the cold war with his in-laws and jetted back there.

  Until Tina came to the rescue, she’d been suicidal.

  Shailesh sent her an email or two. He deplored family medicine. Taking the job in Salem had been a huge mistake. Thankfully, the hospital managers in Andheri had sent him a contract. The place would be up and running by the summer and that was when he planned to leave.

  Just one summer after their expensive, butterfly-themed second wedding reception.

  On a positive note, Tina thought that their divorce was an easy ‘no fault job’. No children. No assets to split. She could wrap it up in a few months.

  And the $30000 that he’d promised to pay back? The ‘loan’? Tina had shaken her head.

  “Oh, for crying out loud Monisha! When you’ve finished, you’ll be driving a Ferrari!”

  But would she ever finish? Lab work was slow and tricky. The equipment was not always available. When it was, you worked through the night. Then waited and waited. Three months in, she’d only done one experiment.

  And it had failed. Abysmally.

  Somehow, she got through the days. There were research meetings twice a week, and Latin dance classes two afternoons at five o’clock. She met John Davidson on Fridays, and shook in her boots when he asked her how things were progressing.

  Still, it counted as human contact. Lab life was lonely. Worse than St Anthony’s. And without parents or patients, it seemed kind of purposeless.

  She tried to mix with other students. But they were nerds and computer geeks, with different time tables and agendas. She’d gone out with them once to a Mexican place in Church Street. Where the tequila had turned them weird, like e-numbers did to kids. So, she’d made her excuses and sprinted back to the flat.