Secret Keeper (8 page)

The pencil snapped in half because she was clutching it so tightly. Suddenly she slammed her diary shut, stood up, and twisted like a cobra about to spring.

“What are you staring at?” she demanded of the shutters across the way.

To her surprise they flew open, and so did the window behind them. Their neighbor leaned out. “What are you writing?” he retorted.

“None of your business,” Asha answered, checking quickly to make sure the coconut trees barricaded them
from sight. If anybody saw them talking, her reputation in the neighborhood would probably be tarnished forever.
Not that I care,
she thought, noticing for the first time that her watcher’s hair was longer than that of most young men his age. He was wearing only an undershirt, and she felt a twinge of irritation that his arms were more muscular than any recluse deserved. “I
don’t
like to be spied on,” she added with a scowl, folding her arms across her chest.

“I haven’t been spying on you,” he said. “I’ve been studying you.”

That made her even madder. “Oh. Studying. And just how is that different than spying?”

He swallowed, hesitated, and took a deep breath. “I want to- I’d like to … paint a portrait. Of you.” The last five words came hurtling out of him like arrows, making her feel even more like a bull’s-eye.

“Well, you can’t,” she said. “How dare you paint me without asking my permission?”

“I haven’t started yet. I have been sketching, though, and trying to gather the courage to ask.”

“Well, I don’t give it to you.” She turned to go.

“Wait!” he called. “I’m not a beginner, if that’s what you’re worried about. I studied art in Moscow for a year. A couple of gallery owners in Delhi and Leningrad who like my landscapes have been wanting me to try a portrait, but I haven’t found anybody I want to paint. That is, until now.”

“So that’s why you’ve been spying on me. Well, I don’t want anyone watching me or anybody in my family; I don’t care if it’s for the greatest masterpiece on the planet.”

“Oh, I see. You’re angry about the rabble on the corner.
Listen, I’m sorry on behalf of my sex, but I haven’t joined in their pastime, in case you hadn’t noticed. I’ve got better things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Like this.”

A paper bird soared over the space between their houses and landed at Asha’s feet. She wanted to stomp on it, but somehow she couldn’t. She didn’t bend to pick up his gift, though, and neither she nor the painter spoke for a few moments.

“Let me paint you, Osh,” he said finally, breaking the silence. “Please?”

She ignored the question. “You know my
nickname?
What else have you discovered about me?”

“I’m sorry. Our houses are so close, and your sister calls your name when she wants you. Don’t tell me you haven’t found out everything you can about me. But that’s okay, it’s going to help the painting to learn as much as we can about each other. By the way, my name’s Jay Sen.”

“I’m absolutely not interested in finding out anything more about you,” Asha said, wondering why she didn’t just leave. But something in his face was making her stay, and she could sense that he was telling the truth-a practice she always appreciated.

“Just think about it before you say no,” he said. “Take the sketch. Look at it. Give us a chance, Osh. Please. Give our painting a chance.”

She groaned.
He's not shy,
she realized.
Just odd. And persistent. But harmless probably, like Raj said.

Downstairs, Uncle’s voice was calling out a hearty welcome to his guest. It was time for the proposal. Picking up the paper bird, Asha quickly tucked it into her diary and left the roof without another word. She wanted to be sure she was in place in time to eavesdrop.

ELEVEN

A
SHA CREPT DOWN AND PERCHED ON THE HALL STAIRS BESIDE
her sister, who was already sitting there. Raj emerged from his room and joined them. Only Uncle was in the living room; Grandmother, Auntie, and Ma were in the kitchen, and the twins had been sent next door to play with a friend. Auntie occasionally bustled out to refill the teacups or add biscuits to the platter of goodies. She was too distracted by the momentous occasion to look up and spot the three extra listeners.

The Lusting Idiot’s uncle got to the point almost immediately. “Your two nieces have been staying under this roof for quite some time now. I’ve heard the older one is a lovely girl. Might she be interested in considering my nephew’s proposal, as we discussed yesterday?”

Uncle didn’t hesitate. “My nieces and their mother are
transferring residence to New York,” he said importantly. “The president of the United States recently opened the door to Indian professionals, haven’t you heard? My brother is there now, securing a job.”

He has a right to be proud,
Asha thought, wanting to applaud her uncle’s reply. Baba was one of the first in the neighborhood to go to New York.

Uncle’s guest raised the stakes. “Your brother’s been gone for some time already. When will he send for his wife and daughters?”

A pause. “Soon.”

Another pause. “What a generous man you are,” their visitor said, his words slathered with sarcasm. “If he doesn’t find work, you’ll have to support your nieces indefinitely. I hear he tried to find something here in Calcutta. No luck, eh?”

On the steps, Reet caught Asha’s shirt collar in the nick of time. Asha muttered a forbidden swearword under her breath, but subsided when Reet didn’t let go.

“So many strikes and protests,” Uncle was saying. “Businesses shutting down. No money to build new roads and bridges. Tough times for our engineers these days. Mrs. Gandhi is holding on, though. She’ll turn us around.”

“Some engineers haven’t felt the pinch,” retorted the other man smugly. “My brother, for example, just built a new house with a private flat attached where his son will live after he gets married. He’s the only son in the family, and we have to prepare for his future, as you know yourself. That’s why we want to secure a lovely girl from a good family.”

“Who does he think he is?” Asha muttered, gripping the banisters so tightly it felt as if her knuckles were going to explode through her skin. “Why doesn’t Uncle tell him to prepare his nephew’s boring future far away from us?”

“I know his nephew,” Raj whispered, as though the identity of the Y.L.I. had just dawned on him. “None of us can stand him.”

“ Shh- hhh,” Reet said softly. “I want to listen.”

“We’re prepared for the fact that your niece will bring little or no dowry,” said their guest. “How many suitors will accept that?”

“My niece has a perfectly adequate dowry,” Uncle answered haughtily. “But in a few weeks’ time, if my nieces are still with us, I shall contact you about this matter. I want only the best for my brother’s children; I love them like my own. Perhaps arranging a good match is one service I can do for him.”

Asha couldn’t believe what she’d heard. What was Uncle saying? He wasn’t rejecting the proposal, he was
post -poning
it. Raj snorted in disgust and got up without meeting his cousins’ eyes. They heard his door close with a sharp click.

Asha reached for Reet’s hand. It was cold; her sister’s face looked strangely vacant. “Don’t worry,” Asha whispered. “We’re leaving for America soon, remember?”

But were they? They had no idea when Baba would send for them. It could take him weeks, months, or even a year to find a j ob. As long as they were living under this roof, Uncle could make any arrangements he wanted for his nieces. He might think he was doing Baba a favor by securing Reet a
rich husband. Baba, in turn, might not be able to do anything once his older brother started negotiations. Espe cially if Ma didn’t object. Or Reet herself.

“Let’s go,” Asha whispered. “We’ve heard enough.”

The girls went upstairs and pulled the curtain to their room closed. They sat on the bed and looked at each other.

“Why don’t you say something?” Asha asked. “Tell them you don’t want to get married. They’ll listen to you.”

“They might. They might not. Besides, Ma seems to think it’s a good idea.”

“Think of yourself for once, Reet,” Asha said. “This isn’t a saree or a hairstyle you’re letting her pick; it’s a husband. For life.”

“I’ll say something before it’s too late. For now, Ma seems so happy I don’t want to ruin it for her.”

“Once these things get started, how do you stop them? What if you can’t?”

“I don’t know. I’m hoping Baba will send for us and that will put an end to it. Could you believe how prideful that man sounded?”

“Disgusting. If his nephew’s anything like that, you’d better storm down there right now and tell them you’re not in the least bit interested.”

“That’s what you would do,” Reet said, a bit wistfully.

“I’ll do it for you.”

“No. I can handle it. You’d just get in trouble. Besides, Baba’s telegram is coming any day now.”

The twins had returned and burst into the room. “Come on, Tuni Didi,” they said. “Time for a game.”

Asha got up. “Let me know if you want me to do
anything,” she said, leaving Reet leaning against the wall, hands clasped so tightly in her lap, it looked as if she were praying.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” Asha told the twins as she paused by Raj’s door.

She knocked.

“Who is it?” Raj called, clearly irritated.

“Me.”

“Oh. Come in.”

Asha closed the door once she was inside his room. “Tell me what you know about this fellow,” she said.

“He’s a good tennis player but a terrible sport. I know him through our tournaments on Friday afternoons. He’s always trying to bend the rules to make things go his way.”

“You’ve got rules? I thought it was just show up and play.”

“Oh no. It’s fairly strict. You’ve got to wear white shorts, a cap, and a collared shirt, and you need to bring along some decent tennis balls and a one- rupee note. About fifteen or twenty of us usually show up, and boys come from neighborhoods all around the southern part of the city. Losers are eliminated in best- of- seven- game matches until the two best players meet in a final match. The winner of that match takes the week’s prize money home. Your sister’s lover wins most of the time; he’s one of those gloating types who try to make the rest of us feel bad.
And
he
tries to stack the matches so he always faces the worst players.”

“Tunidi, come on!” the girls were clamoring from downstairs.

“Off to be a blind bee again,” she told Raj.

“Better you than me.”

TWELVE

A
SHA OPENED
J
AY’S PAPER BIRD LATE THAT NIGHT, AFTER HER
cousins and sister were asleep. In the candlelight, the sketch glowed as though it were already painted. In it, Asha was bent over her diary, scribbling as if her life depended on it. Wisps of loose hair made the viewer feel the wind blowing through them. Behind her, the coconut tree bowed low like a protector. A storm was coming, but the girl in the sketch didn’t notice the clouds on the horizon. She was writing, but something in the curve of her shoulders and the tilt of her head made Asha’s heart ache. The girl in the sketch seemed so vulnerable. And alone. Was that how Asha seemed to Jay in real life?