Kareena sat immobile, her face gray. In her mind, she probably saw it as a script from one of her mother's flicks—a married woman falling for a scoundrel, a batterer who was broke. To finance his habits, his directorial flops, their union, he demanded ransom money from the husband. Otherwise, the lover threatened, he'd go public with their liaison. He'd have the husband assassinated. In her infatuation, her love for the high life, she agreed with his scheme. The husband couldn't make the full payment and …
“The script ended with a twist,” Mitra said.
“Adi—” Kareena choked and let the sentence dangle. Her eyes bulged in grief and panic. A single gray hair showed itself near her temple.
“It was his baby, wasn't it?”
Kareena didn't answer. She didn't need to. The answer was clear to Mitra.
She pictured Adi's sad eyes, the weariness about them. How happy he would have been if he were alive and received this news.
“Are you saying you didn't know Adi's life was on the line?” Mitra asked, angry at Kareena's naïveté, but keeping her voice level.
Kareena shook her head. After a while, she said, in a thickened voice, “Jay only told me he'd sent him a threatening note after a full amount had not been received. And I made the conclusion that was all that would be required.”
Now that they'd talked and her fantasy was gone, Mitra saw her sister in her plain skin. Her chest ached with trepidation. She wanted to say: You did all this for love— what you thought would bring you happiness. It's not working, if you ask me. There's still time for you to change your ways, dear sister.
Mitra touched Kareena's hand. “Do you realize the trouble you're in? You're hanging out with criminals. They could kill you, too, if you cross them. Listen, don't go back to Jay. Come with me.”
Her eyes unfocused, Kareena appeared to be processing the information. “I have to go now.”
“Wait,” Mitra said, “I've been dying to tell you something really big. Something that has changed my life. We're half-sisters. Aunt Saroja told me the whole story. We share the same father.”
Kareena frowned, as though she'd just heard the most ridiculous piece of news. “What are you talking about? I need to go now.”
A big bulky uniformed chauffeur, possibly also a bodyguard, appeared at the door. He signaled Kareena and favored Mitra with a glare.
Kareena rose, tossed a shawl over her shoulders, and took a tentative step. Mitra saw the tears streaming down Kareena's cheeks, running through her makeup. She didn't want to acknowledge the tight situation she was in, the bleakness facing her, or the hard edge of saying goodbye to a “friend of the heart.”
If she let Kareena leave now, that'd be the end of everything. Their close ties would become a dot in the past. Their sisterhood wouldn't even be in the picture. Mitra jotted down Preet's cellphone number and Mother's address on a napkin, stood up, and pressed it into Kareena's hand. “Come to my mother's place tonight. We can hide you there. You can fly back to Seattle with me. If you want to break free of this life. If you want your child to—”
Kareena glanced at the napkin, folded it, and put it in her purse, taking time to do so.
“Please call me tonight,” Mitra said.
Kareena turned toward the door.
“Kareena, please.”
She halted and swiveled to face Mitra. A woman from a nearby table frowned at both of them.
“I'll stay up waiting for your call.”
Kareena took a step, nearly tripping on the front pleats of her sari, and disappeared through the door.
“See you soon, sis,” Mitra whispered, burying her face in her hands. If it had been hard for her to let go of a friend, she found it harder still to let go of a sister.
FORTY-NINE
MITRA EXITED THE CAFÉ. It must have been late by now, for all nearby businesses had switched off their lights. Her high heels hindered her movements, as did the unfamiliarity of this neighborhood. Feeling drained, she paused momentarily on the sidewalk and breathed the warm night air. No one was about. Occasionally, a car whizzed by. Kind of scary. Arnold and his taxi would be waiting for her somewhere in an alley a block away.
She was about to take the cellphone out to call Arnold when she noticed a handsome man, about 5′11″, clad in an expensive black leather jacket, standing at a distance of few feet, in the direction she was going. A loiterer? No, he was dressed too spiffily. Should she go back inside the café and make her call from there?
The man nodded at her pleasantly, making her feel foolish. She needn't have been so paranoid.
The man took a deep drag on his cigarette, then tossed the cigarette butt on the sidewalk with a sudden force, and looked around.
His gestures startled her.
He whipped around, glared at her. She stiffened.
Run, Mitra, run.
But in these high heels? In this semi-darkness?
She cursed her stiletto heels and tried walking past him when he suddenly flew at her and tripped her. She slipped and tumbled on to the pavement. He stood over her, ready to strike again with a fisted hand.
“Who the hell do you think you are, Miss?” he said in a menacing tone. “How dare you step on my toes?”
“I did not step on your toes.” She made a move to rise. “But I'm sorry if—”
“Now you'll be really sorry.”
He kicked her. A pain shuddered through her body. Her stomach felt queasy. She closed her eyes, moaned, and gathered all her strength, ready to shout for help, but her voice was gone. She dreaded a worse blow, every nerve in full alert.
Without warning, she threw up all over his shoes. It poured out of her—the tea and the cake and all the grief. Even in her distressed condition, shrinking on the sidewalk, she couldn't help but notice that his black leather moccasins, new and pricey, Gucci possibly, were now soiled. His socks were drenched with vomit, too.
“You fucking shit,” he hissed. He quickly stepped aside, shook his feet, and shook his head. “You've ruined my best shoes. I should send you to hell for this.”
He was distracted. Now was the moment. Scooting into a seated position, she assessed her chances of escape. Could she run? No. He'd grab her again.
It flashed in her mind, the self-defense moves she had once mastered.
She stood. He grabbed her by the shoulders and twisted her around. With her bracing against him, he placed his hands around her throat from behind. His cold fleshy fingers squeezed her throat tighter and tighter, wiping out the lights as well as the darkness before her. She felt herself tilting, falling.
Fight Mitra. Kareena had advised her long ago. Don't ever let a man harm you.
A feeling of power surged in her, an animal power. She stomped on his foot with her spiky stiletto heels. Shrieking with pain, he let go of her throat. She slammed a knee to his groin, just the way she'd been taught. Then again with vigor. And one more time.
He hunched over, cupped his crotch with his hands, bared his teeth, and moaned. His eyes were closed.
Here was a break. Be quick, Mitra.
She took her shoes off, clutched them under her arms, and began to run. An uneven sidewalk, lots of potholes, unexpected loose stones. Her feet hurt. Her hand felt light. She'd lost her purse. But she had to keep going. Glancing behind, she saw he was staggering and lurching, just a few feet away.
He was getting closer. He stretched an arm out toward her; his eyes were on fire. She turned, drew nearer, and poked a finger at that fire.
He staggered, bent over, and moaned.
She ran down the block, shouting, “Arnold, Ma, are you there?”
A car honked. A familiar taxi pulled out of the alley and glided over to the curb.
Mother jumped out, closely followed by Preet, and shouted, “What's going on?”
Mitra, still panting, could only point to the assailant half a block away.
“That's a goonda,” Arnold said. Thug.
Arnold started running toward the assailant, but Preet called o
ut to him. “Don't go near him. He could have a gun. Call the police.”
Arnold halted and punched keys on his cellphone. Mother snapped away with her new camera, shouting, “How dare you assault my daughter?”
The assailant looked up and straightened. “Fuck you, Mother,” he shouted back. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.”
Mitra cringed. To insult her gentle mother with that kind of language? She spat on him.
Mother laughed and yelled out, “You fuck your mother? What a lovable son you are.”
The assailant blazed a glance at Mother, pivoted, and limped in the opposite direction, mumbling curses as he went.
“Isn't he the jerk who played a bit part in Cutie?” Mother said, taking yet another shot of the offender in flight. “I bet either he's a buddy of Jay Bahadur or he was planted by him.” She put the camera down and wrapped Mitra closer with an arm. “Are you okay?”
Mitra nodded, happy to be alive and exhausted from the excitement. How close she'd come to being seriously hurt. As she slipped on her shoes and steadied herself, the trio circled her, forming a shield.
“You're so brave,” Preet said. “You fought that guy off.”
“He's at least one and a half times your body weight,” Arnold said. “He won't be able to show his face among his cronies.”
“If it weren't for the self-defense class I took,” Mitra said, “he'd have finished me.”
“I doubt he would have had,” Mother said. “We Indian women are strong. We have the tradition of great women like Sita and Savitri. Our best self-defense is our mental toughness.”
Mitra dusted her sari off, but it was now smeared with dirt and her vomit. She walked back a few steps and recovered her purse, which was lying on the sidewalk. Thank God, the voice recorder was intact, as was Preet's cellphone.
“Jump in.” Arnold opened the car door. “We need to get out of here fast. I don't like the feel of this street. Take it from me, Driver Maharaja. I smell bad things in the air.”
FIFTY
MITRA'S THROAT FELT SCRATCHY, her eyes watered, her body burned and, with her knees buckling, she could barely walk when she reached home. After changing, she lounged on a recliner in Mother's living room. Preet and Arnold stayed with her for awhile, then said goodbye and left.
Mother pressed a cold compress on Mitra's forehead. “It's been quite an evening for you,” she said. “Your forehead feels warm. Don't try to talk. We'll catch up tomorrow. But I forbid you ever to visit that friend of yours again.”
Mitra couldn't stay silent. “It still feels unreal, seeing Kareena and hearing her side of the story. What a mess she's gotten herself into. I wonder if I could have done something more for her that I didn't.”
“No, my dear daughter,” Mother said. “You tried to save her, but she didn't want to be saved. She went astray. There's always a price to be paid for that.”
Mother's phone trilled from the other end of the room. “I'll get it.” She raced over to the phone and picked up the receiver.
Even in her distressed state, Mitra couldn't help but notice. Mother's face turned haggard as she listened, her expression one of disbelief. She hung up and stood motionless. She seemed to have lost her ability to speak.
“What's the matter, Ma? Who called?”
Mother didn't seem to hear her. She lowered her head. Silence thickened around her.
“Who was on the phone?”
“Arnold,” Mother mumbled. She came over to Mitra and grasped her hand. “Oh, Ma Durga. Kareena—she is—dead. Car accident.”
Mitra rose, then fell back against the pillow. “There must be a mistake. I want to speak with Arnold. Give me the phone.”
“He's driving a passenger to the airport and can't talk. He heard on the radio that there has been a car accident. It involved the live-in companion of Jay Bahadur. Her chauffeur is in the hospital in critical condition.”
“It's not true. Where's Preet's cellphone, Ma?”
Even as she said so, in her sinking heart, Mitra felt the news had to be true. Kareena—she was marked, being hunted. But why? There could be one reason. Jay had suspected she was going to cross him and that she'd decided to go with Mitra.
Mother handed Preet's cellphone to Mitra. Indeed, a message was waiting. It came only half an hour ago when Mitra was still fighting the assailant.
“I'm on my way, M,” Kareena's voice said. “See you soon.”
There was a rise at the end of the sentences, a spurt of hope. Her sister meant those words. She had finally figured it all out.
A deep exhaustion rolled over Mitra. “I can't handle it anymore, Ma.”
Mother sat on the edge of the bed and placed a hand on Mitra's forehead. Her warmth and caring seeped through that touch.
Oh, God. How close Mitra had come to saving her pregnant sister, how pitifully close. It had slipped out of her hand, something most precious, and she couldn't stop it.
* * *
A day later, with Mother in a chair nearby, Mitra got her suitcase out. Much as she would have liked to stay longer, she'd decided to cut her visit short for safety's sake. Jay's thugs would want her dead.
As she began packing, Mother gave her more details about Kareena's death. Her chauffeur tried to avoid a lorry coming from the opposite direction, but couldn't. One report insisted his blood alcohol level was high. Kareena was taken by an ambulance to the hospital and pronounced dead on arrival. The person at the center of it all, Jay Bahadur, was in seclusion. His office had released a statement concerning his grief and his desire for privacy.
“How I wish I could have helped you more,” Mother said.
Mitra shoved a toilet kit into her suitcase. “But you did help me, Sherlock. And I must thank you for it.”
Mother waved a hand dismissively. “Jaa.” Don't mention it. “I must apologize to you for being so critical of Kareena. She was criminal and cruel, but she was your best friend. Who am I to judge? I'm not perfect, either.”
Mitra laid her t-shirts and jeans over the heavier items. “You're way too hard on yourself. You have so much wisdom to offer. I hope someday I will be like you.”
Mother peered at the basket of fresh marigolds blossoms Mitra had bought for her this morning. “You're young. Don't try to undo things. Live forward, make mistakes forward—even if you've lost your dearest friend and you're grieving.”
“She was also my half-sister.”
Mother nearly jumped from her seat. She looked fully at Mitra. “What did you say?”
Mitra revived a page of her family history, as narrated by Aunt Saroja weeks ago.
“That fallen woman was part of my family?” Mother said, her voice rising to the ceiling. “I wouldn't have ever wanted her sinful feet to darken my doorstep, no matter how much that might have meant to you.” She choked up, rose, and hurried out of the room.
Mitra closed the suitcase and plopped down on a chair. Had she made a mistake revealing the family secret she'd been nursing for sometime?
A few minutes later, Mother re-emerged, her eyes brimming with regret. “Forgive me for over-reacting, especially when you're grieving. I didn't do much for you when you were little. And now that you've come for a visit after a long time, I shouldn't be yelling at you like that. Believe me, if circumstances were different—” She began weeping.
Mitra could have completed the sentence for her. She'd have welcomed Kareena into their family for Mitra's sake. Think of all the pride she'd have had to shed, the memories she'd have had to clear away, the sleepless nights she'd have had to endure. She'd have borne all that for her daughter's happiness.
Mother sobbed. Mitra rose and embraced her. She decided to keep silent about Adi losing his life savagely. Mother had had enough to cope with these past few weeks. Once back in Seattle, she'd write her a letter. For now, she'd tuck away that loss as a secret. Even if it burned inside her, as Kareena's memories did.
* * *
Arnold knocked at the door and said he was waiting outside with his t
axi. Just at that moment, mother's phone rang. It was Preet and Sam.
Sam invited Mitra to his fifth birthday next year. “Mitra-masi, you must spend a month here.” He wanted to build a tree house with her, and again play the Alien Attack game.
“I'll be back, Sam.”
Preet came on the line. “I want to thank you,” she said. “You've made me appreciate the life I have. What more can a friend do?”
Their eager voices stayed with Mitra as she cradled the receiver. At the door, she turned to face Mother. “I'll never be able to tell you, Ma, how much I love and admire you.”
Mother pushed away a curl dangling over Mitra's eyebrow. They were even closer now. Ironically, it was Mitra's search for Kareena, not to mention her untimely death that had played a role in it.
“You've given me the incentive,” Mother said, “to finally get out of this flat. This afternoon, Arnold will take me to Maniktola for a visit with your aunt Ranjana, whom I haven't seen in years. Of course, I'll take my camera with me. And I'll have Naresh put the pictures on his website, so you can browse them, too.”
Mitra now knew what was going on with Mother's health. That secret would no longer separate them. And although her health wasn't in the best shape, Mother seemed content. She'd found what she always hungered for in life, a son, a Naresh. And as for their relationship, there would be letters and phone calls, reminding Mitra that she and Mother were still a big part of each other's life.
Mitra's longing for India would not go away either when she left its soil. India was another mother, at times nurturing, at other times indifferent. Mitra would love both from a distance, like an uninvited guest outside the door, forever wondering what it'd be like to step in.
She glimpsed Arnold down the hallway and slung her flight bag over her shoulder. In the moments it took Arnold to stow the luggage in the car, her whole visit shimmered before her. She said one last goodbye to Mother.
Tulip Season Page 23
