Cara hadn’t known it at the time, but that first cup of chai was the beginning of a ten-year friendship.
‘Good evening, all.’ A disembodied voice came over the PA system. ‘My name is Michael Hughes. Not only am I the lovely bride’s brother, but it’s my great pleasure to be your master of ceremonies this evening.’
Cara shifted in her seat, straining to see the source of the voice. A thirty-something man was standing behind a rostrum near the bridal table. He had the same waif-like quality as Tess, but it wasn’t nearly as attractive in a man.
She leaned back in her chair, steeling herself for the predictable catalogue of announcements and speeches to follow. What was I thinking, she wondered, attending this reception at all? The ladies’ room beckoned. She pushed back her chair and struggled upright.
‘Excuse me,’ she muttered to no one in particular.
It felt as though two hundred pairs of eyes were trained upon her as she picked her way between the tables in the semi-darkness. The MC was waxing lyrical about the bride and groom. Suddenly a waiter serving entrees veered into her path, balancing a stack of plates.
‘Sheeet,’ he muttered, trying to dodge her. His evasive action was too late; the plates slid from his grip and crashed to the floor, splintering into tiny pieces.
‘Sheeeeeeet,’ the waiter groaned again, glaring at Cara.
The MC stopped mid-sentence, and the bridal party turned to stare. Cara dropped to the floor and began to pick at the shards, desperately hoping Ravi hadn’t seen her.
‘Don’t,’ said a voice nearby. A smooth white hand reached across hers. Cara looked up into kind eyes. ‘Don’t,’ he repeated. ‘I’m sure he can clean it up himself. Here . . .’ He passed her a napkin. ‘You’ve got some sauce down your front.’ She looked down and gasped. A giant streak of brown was smeared across her cleavage, dripping onto her dress.
‘Oh God.’ She sponged desperately at the mark.
The pale eyes smiled at her. She began to back away.
‘Um . . . sorry. And, thank you,’ she said, obscuring her chest with her handbag.
She bolted back to the table and sank into her chair. Grateful for the darkness, she joined the crowd in applauding the matron of honour, who proceeded to regale the crowd with tales of Tess’s schoolgirl antics on the hockey field. It all sounded very banal.
Then suddenly Ravi was at the microphone, adjusting its position to accommodate his height. He pulled a sheaf of speaking notes from his pocket and grinned at the audience with trademark casualness.
‘The first time I met Tess . . .’ he began.
The room seemed to contract around Cara. The walls leaned inwards, threatening to collapse. The audible thud of her heart overrode Ravi’s words. She could hear voices gibbering in the distance, but couldn’t decipher them.
After their exchange on the railway platform, her friendship with Ravi had deepened amid tutorials, trivia nights and work on the campus newspaper. But they’d remained friends and no more. Cara had replayed that night over and over in her mind, recalling Ravi’s declaration. Had she offended him by her dismissal? Whatever the reason, Ravi had never again strayed into romantic territory, and they spoke no further about it.
All that changed, however, on the night of Ravi’s graduation.
They’d been friends for nine months and Ravi had surprised her with an invitation to his graduation ceremony.
‘My flatmate’s coming along, but I wondered . . .’ He paused. Cara thought she detected a flush of pink creeping across his olive cheeks. ‘Would you do me the honour of attending my graduation ceremony?’
‘I’d love to.’
On the afternoon of Ravi’s graduation, she paid special attention to her appearance. ‘He’s got no family in Australia,’ she reasoned, applying an extra coat of mascara. ‘There’s no one else to invite.’
The Masters in Public Health was a relatively new course and Ravi was one of just twenty students to graduate. Cara had sat proudly in the third row of the Great Hall, amid parents, siblings and spouses, her camera poised. As he’d tipped his mortarboard at the vice-chancellor and turned to leave the stage, his gaze had zeroed in on Cara. Flustered, she failed to take a photograph at all and, instead, rose to her feet and clapped. She sat down almost as quickly as she’d stood up, embarrassed.
‘He looks lovely,’ whispered a matronly woman seated to her right. ‘You must be very proud.’
‘Yes, I am,’ she said, blushing. It was only then, talking about Ravi to a complete stranger, that she realised she was in love with him.
The graduation was followed by refreshments in the quadrangle under a billowing white marquee. Cara nibbled at a chicken sandwich, but only managed a few mouthfuls. As she sipped her second glass of champagne, Ravi waved at her from the other side of the marquee.
‘Cara,’ Ravi called. He gestured towards a dishevelled-looking young man at his side. ‘This is my flatmate, Paul.’
‘Hello,’ said Cara.
‘Hi,’ Paul replied.
Ravi nodded towards the lawn. ‘There’s my photo call. I won’t be a moment.’
Paul was a subdued character and conversation was a challenge. Her attempts at polite chit-chat were met with monosyllabic responses, but she persisted out of courtesy. Eventually, when Paul went to the bar, Cara drifted over to the other side of the marquee where the graduates were posing for photographs. Some threw their caps in the air, some kissed their lovers, others linked arms with friends and cheered at the camera.
‘Hello,’ said a soft voice in her ear.
She turned and smiled at Ravi. ‘Congratulations, Doctor.’
‘Do you want to get going?’
‘Yes, please.’
He took her hand and they waved goodbye to Paul, who was still loitering near the bar.
‘He’s not a very forthcoming person,’ Ravi said, apologetically. ‘But he’s been a good flatmate.’
They’d walked quickly to Ravi’s terrace on Glebe Point Road. Inside, a gloomy hallway led to a set of creaking stairs. At the top, Ravi turned and, with a hint of self-consciousness in his voice, asked, ‘Um, would you like a cup of chai?’
‘No thanks,’ she said quickly.
He opened his bedroom door and turned on a bedside lamp. He clearly hadn’t planned a seduction. The bed was unmade, clothes were stacked in uneven piles along one wall and medical textbooks were strewn across the floor. A balcony lay beyond the window, several towels strung across its cast-iron balustrade.
‘Sorry for the mess,’ he said.
Cara shrugged. The state of his room was inconsequential.
And then suddenly he was in front of her, their faces almost touching.
‘You are beautiful, Cara.’
She stared at him, speechless. It had been nine months since that moment on the station platform.
He lifted her hand to his cheek.
They kissed first with curiosity, then with increasing intensity. He pulled her onto the unmade bed and lowered himself next to her. They writhed fully clothed until, finally, Cara sat up and unbuttoned her shirt.
Sometime later they were startled by a knock at the door. Cara pulled a sheet over her chest and Ravi leaped from the bed.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Paul, mate. Sorry.’
Cara frowned. Paul must have been downstairs for a while. Cara hadn’t heard anything except Ravi’s breathing.
‘Your mum’s on the phone from India,’ he called through the door. ‘She’s rung twice and I put her off. I knew you were . . . busy. But she sounds a bit pissed off. She’s still on the line.’
Ravi sighed. ‘I’ll be down in a moment.’
Cara listened to Paul’s retreating footsteps. Did Ravi really have to take the call from his mother?
‘My mother rarely rings,’ he explained, sensing her disquiet.
‘Okay.’ She leaned across the bed and began groping about for her underwear, holding the sheet to her chest.
‘A
passion killer,’ he said, with a wry smile.
‘A little, but that’s okay.’ She pulled on her blouse. ‘I’ll go. Thank you for a lovely night.’ She stood up from the bed, feeling rather foolish.
‘Cara.’
Ravi stood shirtless in front of her. He put a smooth hand under her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. ‘It’s been the night of my life.’
She smiled, relieved. ‘I’ll show myself out.’
She floated all the way to the railway station, her heart full of Ravi.
The next day, an ordinary Saturday in November, Cara’s world looked completely different. Colours seemed brighter, the weekend papers more entertaining, a phone call from her brother—as usual, asking for money— more tolerable. Everything, from the junk mail in her letterbox to the unopened television guide, seemed full of promise. Ravi didn’t telephone, but he would call on Sunday afternoon, she was sure.
By Sunday night, there’d still been no call from Ravi. She settled in front of the television with a bowl of macaroni cheese. He was probably just giving her a respectable amount of space, she reasoned. She drank half a bottle of red wine, watched a war documentary, then went to bed.
He didn’t ring on Monday, or Tuesday. She couldn’t make any sense of it. Didn’t he feel the same way she did? Had she put him off somehow, without even knowing it? He didn’t attend their usual Wednesday night trivia session at Manning Bar and no one in the group knew where he was. By Friday afternoon, her confusion had been replaced by anger. What sort of bastard is he, not calling for a week?
On Saturday morning, she picked up the telephone. Paul answered within three rings.
‘Hi Paul, it’s Cara. Is Ravi there?’
‘No,’ said Paul, monosyllabic as ever.
‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’
‘No.’
‘Well, tell him I rang, will you?’ She put down the telephone.
Another week passed without Ravi returning her call. Cara’s anger began to dissipate, replaced by gnawing regret. How had she misjudged the situation between them so badly? And if he didn’t want a relationship, why couldn’t he tell her to her face?
The following weekend, Cara tried telephoning again. She dialled Ravi’s number, a cold pit in her stomach.
‘Paul,’ she said quietly, when Ravi’s flatmate picked up the phone, ‘it’s Cara. I’m having trouble getting in touch with Ravi. Is he there?’
‘No.’
‘Paul,’ she urged, ‘please, can you help me?’
Paul was silent for a moment. ‘He’s disappeared. And he’s left me to cover the rent.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He just packed up his things and bloody nicked off, that’s what I mean.’
‘When?’
‘The morning after his graduation. I got up and saw the taxi drive off.’
Cara was stunned. ‘Why?’
‘No idea—you tell me. You were the last person to see him.’
Cara attempted to digest Paul’s words. Her mind reeled. Gone? Without saying where or why? It made no sense.
‘I can’t imagine what’s happened,’ she said. Tears sprang to her eyes. ‘I hope he’s okay.’
Paul was silent.
‘Um, well, if you hear from him, tell him that I’m trying to contact him, please?’
Paul grunted an acknowledgement.
Cara replaced the handset and stared into space. Was Ravi in some kind of trouble?
Three weeks later, the telephone rang. It was Paul.
‘Have you heard from Ravi?’ she asked, breathless.
‘No,’ said Paul. ‘Nothing.’
‘Oh.’
She bit her lip, fighting back tears.
‘Do you want to see a movie?’
Cara paused. ‘What for?’
‘Because uni’s finished,’ he replied. ‘Witching Hour is supposed to be good.’
And then it dawned on her. Paul had called to ask her out on a date.
‘No, thanks.’ Her tone was curt. ‘It’s just that Ravi and me, we’re . . . well, we were . . . Anyway, no, thanks.’ She didn’t need to explain herself. ‘Goodbye, Paul.’ She put down the phone.
Weeks became months and, slowly, the first insult of loss began to loosen its grip. Cara called over to Ravi’s house and, with Paul loitering behind her, looked over Ravi’s room. There was nothing to suggest anything except an orderly departure. Most of his personal effects had been taken, with a few large items left behind, like the wardrobe and the bed. He’d even stripped the sheets. There had been no calls from India, Paul said, nothing to suggest that Ravi had been missed by his family. Cara nodded mechanically as Paul informed her that a new tenant would be moving into the room the following week.
‘Do you want Ravi’s bed?’ he asked. ‘Since you two were . . .’
She shook her head.
‘Good. I’ll sell it on eBay.’
She’d sent a dozen emails to Ravi, all of which went unanswered. In a last-ditch attempt to find him, Cara visited the university student centre and explained her situation to a grey-haired bureaucrat who peered over his spectacles with a disapproving air.
‘I can’t give out that sort of personal information about students unless you’re next of kin,’ he said. ‘Privacy laws.’
Cara’s lips began to tremble.
The bureaucrat looked uncomfortable. He pushed his spectacles over the bridge of his nose, then began tapping at his keyboard. After several minutes of silence, he squinted at his screen. Then he turned to Cara.
‘All I can say,’ he said, kinder now, ‘is that if you’re his friend, he’ll find a way of contacting you.’
Cara felt like she’d been slapped.
She stumbled out of the student centre and down the sandstone steps, mute with disbelief. The university knew where Ravi was. She could only conclude that he was deliberately avoiding her.
She walked out of the university and did not return. She had satisfied all the requirements for her diploma. There was no need to linger in student life any longer.
As summer turned to autumn, she threw herself into the task of finding a job. Within three months, she’d landed an internship at a women’s magazine. It was a coup for a recent graduate, and although the magazine’s fashion focus was not Cara’s natural fit, the intensity of her working life prevented her from thinking too much.
Eight months after Ravi’s disappearance, Cara began seeing a photographer, Jason. She’d met him on a shoot and, unlike many others in the fashion business, he was genuinely interested in the world beyond magazines. He was a dreamy, caring character, who showered her with quirky gifts. They laughed together and she was happy, if not in love. After four months of spending every weekend at his house, Jason asked her to move in with him. She’d never lived with a boyfriend before and, at twenty-five, she was ready to try. Within a fortnight, she’d packed up her things and moved into Jason’s large, converted warehouse in Erskineville.
Five months later, more than a year after Ravi’s disappearance, an email appeared in her inbox: Cara, I am back in Australia. I only just received your emails. Can we meet? Ravi.
She typed a long, vitriolic response. She called him names, asked why she should meet him, and then concluded the email with: PS I am with someone else now.
She never sent it.
Instead, she composed a short reply: Ravi, I am surprised to hear from you. Meet me at Café Pronto, corner of Alfred Street, 11 am Monday. Cara.
*
All of her intended aloofness dissolved the moment she saw him.
‘Where in God’s name have you been, Ravi?’
His eyes were wretched.
‘I had to go to India,’ he said. ‘My mother rang me the night we . . . after my graduation. I caught the first flight out. I left a note for you with Paul. My sister died in a kitchen fire.’ His voice was flat.
‘What?’
‘Lina, my little sister. Dead.’ Ravi shrugged.
Cara’s stomach churned.
‘But why?’
‘You know why,’ said Ravi, his tone terse. ‘Because bride-burning happens all the time in India. Because men don’t respect women. Because mothers-in-law can be evil. Because the rule of law doesn’t always apply.’ He raked his fingers through his hair. ‘I’m sorry.’ He swallowed. ‘Lina married an older man, Anant, from my village—remember? A good match, everyone thought.’
Cara nodded. She recalled Ravi agonising about the fact that he couldn’t afford to fly home for the nuptials. She had offered to lend him the money, but he’d refused.
‘A month after the ceremony, Anant asked my parents to pay more dowry money, but my parents couldn’t afford it. They’d already given him everything they could. So on the morning of my graduation, Anant’s mother doused Lina in kerosene and set her alight.’
Cara gasped.
‘She didn’t die straight away. It took three months. She had internal injuries. I tried to do what I could. I got a burn specialist in from Delhi, but . . .’ He shook his head, unable to speak.
Cara reached across the table.
‘Oh, Ravi, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’
He pulled his hand away. ‘The note I left with Paul had my contact details in Rajasthan.’ He looked at her accusingly. ‘I was waiting for a phone call from you, a letter maybe. There is no internet in Gudda, but at least there are telephones. You didn’t call. I thought you had forgotten me.’ He looked wounded.
‘But I spoke to Paul several times, Ravi,’ she objected. ‘I even went to your house. Paul didn’t say anything about a note.’
‘I left it on the kitchen bench,’ he insisted. ‘He couldn’t have missed it.’
Cara searched his face; she could see he was telling the truth. Suddenly she remembered how Paul had called several weeks after Ravi’s disappearance to ask her out. Surely he hadn’t kept Ravi’s note from her deliberately?
‘This is awful, Ravi.’ She didn’t know what else to say.
The Mothers' Group Page 28
