Monsoon Memories (31 page)

‘Hello,’ Aunt Anita’s voice wobbled. ‘Vinod? Is that you? This is Anita. Yes, it is me. Ma is not well. Can I speak to Shirin? Shirin! It really is you...’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

A Daughter’s Duty

S
aturday. The Eyes. They were everywhere. Stalking her. Like in the early days after.

A headache had gradually crept up on her, dull at first, now throbbing. It loomed like a bad omen behind her eyelids, threatening nightmares. She had managed to fight it off with paracetamol and ibuprofen. She couldn’t any longer.

‘I am going to bed,’ she said.

‘That bad?’ Vinod asked.

She nodded, barely able to keep her eyes open. Once in bed, the duvet pulled up to her chin, she succumbed, heavy eyelids shutting closed.

Pain bloomed red flowers on a field of white, where a pair of empty accusing eyes danced, holding court, telling a story...

The morning after her wedding, Shirin woke to sunlight streaming in through unfamiliar, mosquito-netted windows, pink curtains waving; in a bed far too big for her and smelling of man: musky with a lemony tang; draped in strange blankets—and still a virgin. She looked up: flaky white ceiling, red blades of a Bajaj fan droning lazily. No lizards draped precariously across wooden beams. No being shaken awake by Madhu from depths of slumber, with a cheery, ‘Time for mass.’ She wondered if the coach had reached Taipur yet, with dawn arriving orangey rose over the tops of the coconut trees, or if it was stuck somewhere in the ghats. She wondered if her family was thinking of her, if they were missing her. A snapshot of Madhu: lipstick smeared across her face, holding Shirin close, body racking with sobs, loath to let her go. ‘Look after her,’ she’d said to Vinod, wagging a trembling finger at him, ‘Heart of gold, she’s got. Heart of gold...’

Heated voices raised in argument filtered in through the thin walls. Vinod... Was that really Vinod’s voice? ‘Couldn’t you at least have stayed off the drink on my wedding day?’

Shirin sat up, pulling the blanket around her, conscious of her flimsy nightgown even though the door to the bedroom was closed and there was no one to see her.

A feminine voice murmured something. Her mother-in-law? Then, ‘You scared her. I hadn’t been wedded two minutes and you had to make a scene. What the hell am I supposed to tell her? That I hid the fact that I have an alcoholic for a brother, that I have been hiding it, protecting
you
all my life...?’

Now she knew. The empty eyes—only filled by alcohol. She bunched the sheets in her fists.

‘Vinod...’ Her father-in-law’s voice.

‘And now you slink in, dead drunk. Her first morning with us. What am I supposed to say? How am I supposed to explain?’ The edge of pain in Vinod’s voice made Shirin want to hold him, to console him, to do the things they hadn’t the previous night.

‘I will take him out. Don’t you worry...’ Her father-in-law again.

‘We should have told them upfront. She’ll think I trapped her into marrying me...’ Vinod,
her husband
, was worried about lying to her. He cared about what she thought. He cared.

‘She’ll think no such thing. You are a catch for them. No dowry, wealthy...’

‘Ma, don’t start. I want to leave here, begin anew.’

‘Please, putha...’

‘Like we agreed, we will stay here a month. Then we are moving out.’ The proprietary use of ‘we’. Shirin’s heart bloomed. Just her and Vinod in a little house of their own. In time, maybe children... Vinod’s voice, soft: ‘I can’t take this anymore, Ma. Lying to everyone. Especially her, I don’t want to deceive her...’

‘Not married a day and already she has such a hold over you.’

‘She’s my
wife
, Ma...’ His wife. A warmth spread through Shirin. His wife. Then why hadn’t he kissed her, made love to her?

Sounds of dragging. Loud cursing. Slurred. Prem. The gate opening. A car starting. Silence. Then, footsteps. Halting outside the bedroom door. Shirin lay back down, pulled the blanket up over her head. The bedroom door opened softly, the latch turned, the bed sagged beside her. His smell: woody, spicy; pervading her senses. Would he hold her? Would he kiss her? Make love to her? The tingle of anticipation, the desire, the ache. She felt him turn. The bed complained, creaked. And then, nothing... Slowly she pulled down the sheet, opened her eyes. He was leaning on one elbow, looking down at her. As she watched, with one finger, he traced her features. So gentle. Hardly a touch. More a whisper-soft caress. On her eyes, her nose, her mouth. Her gaze locked with his. Desire exploding in her breasts, her lower body. Her mouth opening in a small moan, an involuntary sigh.

An ear-splitting crash invaded their intimate silence, stilled the finger on her lips. She wanted to flick her tongue out, pull his finger into her mouth, suck on it. The crashing sound continued: a stainless-steel tumbler falling, rolling round and round on the floor until it stilled. Other sounds filtered in. The rattling of the front gate. Dogs barking. Vendors yelling. Footsteps sounded; loud, deliberate. They hovered near the closed door of their bedroom, stopped. A strident knock. ‘Vinod, Shetty Uncle is here. He couldn’t attend the wedding yesterday. Wants to wish you well.’ Footsteps moving away. Sounds from the living room. A man’s voice.

Vinod retrieved his finger leaving Shirin bereft, cold. She wanted to pull the blanket back up. She wanted to pull Vinod down, on top of her, to ease the longing, to fill that suddenly empty part of her. Instead she smiled shyly up at him. Oh, why was she so timid?

‘Time to get up,’ he whispered. He bent down. Shirin’s heart caught in her throat. Was he going to kiss her? He did: a feather-soft kiss on her eyebrow. She swallowed her disappointment and got up to face her first day as the new daughter-in-law.

Her mother-in-law cornered her as she stumbled to the bathroom, while Vinod was making small talk with Shetty Uncle.

‘I have waited all my life for a daughter to help with the chores,’ she announced. ‘From tomorrow, I expect you to wake at six thirty and help me with breakfast.’

Shirin nodded meekly. Her mother-in-law still blocked the entry to the bathroom. ‘Now, after you have brushed, come and make tea for our guest and help with the lunch preparations.’

‘Yes,’ said Shirin, and only then did her mother-in-law move.

After Shetty Uncle left, Vinod announced that he had to pop into work for a while. ‘This is what happens when you have your own business. Never a moment’s rest.’ His voice hardened as he said the last bit.

That afternoon, she accompanied her mother-in-law to the dry cleaner’s. As she hopped along to match her mother-in-law’s stride, Shirin was assaulted by thoughts of home. What were they doing at this very moment? Were they eating lunch, munching on fat red rice soaked in mackerel curry with sweet squash bhaji and brine-soaked lime pickle? Were they missing her?

Walking back, laden with bags, Shirin felt someone hovering over her right shoulder. ‘Voniye, let me carry that for you,’ a voice said. She looked up. Prem. She had not felt uneasy when he came up behind her and she didn’t now. He took the bags from her, not meeting her gaze. No pungent tang as he stepped close. ‘Why aren’t you at work?’ her mother-in-law asked, smiling. ‘Just got back. Vinod is coming with Da.’ He sounded normal. Slightly diffident. Very different from the leering Prem who scared her.

Why had she been so scared of him? He was okay, really, she decided as he regaled them with jokes all the way home. Teasing his ma. Laughing at himself.

When they reached home, he held the door open for her: ‘See you later, Voniye, I am going out.’ He returned half an hour later with boxes of soan papdi and laddoos. ‘For the lovely women of the house,’ he said, grinning.

As she helped her mother-in-law roll chapattis for dinner, Shirin mused about her brother-in-law. To think she’d actually gone so far as to consider calling off the wedding because of her irrational fear of Prem! Yes, he had a drink problem. So? Richa Uncle, Mini Aunty, her cousin Ronnie all had drink problems. Her mum and Madhu had always accused her of an overactive imagination, worrying that there were ghosts lurking in the toilet, convinced there was a dead body in the courtyard that time during a power cut when she stumbled on a coconut frond… She watched her mother-in-law place the perfect circle of chapatti dough right onto the flames, watched it puff up and rise, the charred sweet smell enveloping her.

This unease, this fear of Prem was irrational, all in her head.

That evening, after she’d bathed, she lavishly applied the body cream that smelt deliciously edible (wedding gift from Anita), and waited eagerly for Vinod to consummate their marriage. He held her in his arms gently as if she was something precious—when what she had wanted was for him to crush her roughly against his body—and, instead of kissing her, said, ‘I have a confession to make.’

She waited, looking up at him, wanting him to do so many things to her, wanting them
now
.

‘I lied to you. By omission. My brother Prem... he’s an alcoholic. That’s why he’s not married, even though he’s older. I am sorry. I should have told you earlier, but I... when I saw your eyes peeking down at me from between the bars of the window, Shirin... your beautiful eyes... I... I couldn’t find the words...’

Her beautiful eyes. How could he say these lovely things and not make love to her? He kissed first her left eyebrow and then her right. Why didn’t he kiss her mouth? She wanted to know how it felt. She wanted to see if he tasted like he smelt: spicy, of woodsmoke.

‘I am sorry. Does it bother you that I lied?’

She shook her head. She couldn’t think straight. His presence, being in his arms, was so distracting. Why were they wasting time talking about Prem? As if he’d read her mind, Vinod smiled tenderly at her. ‘You are my special miracle, Shirin.’ He traced his fingers lightly down Shirin’s face and all thoughts fled her mind. ‘Shonu. Can I call you Shonu?’

She nodded, unable to speak. Was this it? Was he going to...?

Vinod bent down and kissed her on the lips. It was better than all her fantasies; more pleasurable than she had imagined. She had to restrain herself from throwing herself at him and begging him to have his way with her. After, he casually ran his fingers down her throat, raising goosebumps, stopping just above her breasts.
Please.
She moaned so loudly that he had to shush her. She was so embarrassed that she couldn’t look at him. ‘Shonu,’ he said softly, and even though her eyes were tightly shut, she could tell from his voice that he was smiling. ‘My little tigress.’

She blushed. She felt his fingers trace her profile.

‘Have you ever been in love?’ he asked.

Tariq.
‘No.’

‘Did you want to?’

‘Run away with me, Shirin,’ he had said.
‘Yes. I fantasised about Prince Charming whisking me away into the sunset.’

‘Oh.’ A pause while his fingers stopped just short of stroking her breasts, making her want to arch to meet his touch. ‘Were you disappointed that you had an arranged marriage?’

‘A bit...’

‘Oh...’

‘Until I realised that instead of coming on a horse, my Prince Charming came with his parents and asked my mother’s permission to whisk me away. He was a gentleman, my Prince Charming, with impeccable manners...’ How had she known what to say? She was normally mute around him, so full of longing that no words came out.

He bent down and kissed her again, for longer this time. ‘I cannot believe you are mine,’ He said, ‘Tell me about you. I want to know everything.’

I want you to make love to me. I want to know how it feels to be loved.
Her wantonness worried her. Was she wrong to want her husband? Was it sinful to lust after him? Why did he not want her? Was there something wrong with her? Did she have body odour? She couldn’t possibly. She had checked. And he was holding her close, kissing her eyebrows, her nose. He wouldn’t if she had BO. Maybe she was too hairy. But she had waxed before the wedding. Perhaps she did not have enough hair. It couldn’t be that. He hadn’t even undressed her. Maybe it was her weight. She must be repulsive to him. But he kept saying she was beautiful...

It was flattering that he wanted to know about her life, and so she told him. Talking about home made her forget her shyness, how tongue-tied she felt around him. She told him about the nuns and the priests, Madhu, Jacinta and Walter, Anita, Deepak and Rex the Third. He listened and he laughed. He looked deep into her eyes (as she had always wanted him to) and played with her hair. He kissed her once more and then again. But he did not make love to her.

The next morning she stirred awake when Vinod eased himself softly off the bed. She was getting used to his solid presence beside her. ‘Go back to sleep,’ he whispered, bending down to kiss her nose, his stubble, which had sprouted as if by magic overnight, tickling her cheek, causing an involuntary giggle. ‘No,’ she whispered back, ‘I’m getting up too.’

She helped her mother-in-law make breakfast, waved goodbye to Vinod soon after, feeling bereft. There was no sign of Prem. He must have left earlier.

After she’d cleaned the breakfast dishes, her mother-in-law asked her to go to the market: ‘You remember how to get to the dry-cleaner’s? Good. The market is the first right after. Here’s a list. Get me these things. You might as well start as you mean to go along.’

Shirin walked down the crowded, dirty street, getting lost only a couple of times. The stench of rotting vegetables, the noise of flies buzzing and people haggling reached her before the market came into view. The sun beat down mercilessly, plastering her hair to her head. Her underskirt was wet with sweat. Her sari blouse stuck to her back and fat droplets collected in the nape of her neck.

By the side of the main road were vendors: some sitting on mats, others not bothering with mats and squatting cross-legged on the dusty mud, all heralding their wares: fresh vegetables, fish, bangles, hair clips. She was fingering the wilting bunches of spinach bhaji, trying to choose the freshest one, when she had the strangest sensation of being watched. She shrugged it off at first. So many people were pushing past, pressing into her. Carts equipped with little gas stoves jostled for space, selling egg bhurji, biryani, chaat: the smells permeating the air, attracting flies. People argued and bargained. Drunks staggered and weaved their way through the crowd. Stray dogs and cows milled. But the feeling of being watched persisted, raising goosebumps despite the sweltering heat, despite the crush.
My imagination again
, she told herself.