The Dowry Bride (23 page)

“You promise?”

She nodded yes into his chest.

“Good. Now let’s get out of here and go home.”

Home! The word sent a mild and unexpected pang of longing through her. It sounded so good, and yet so wrong, corrupt somehow. She was going home to her cousin-in-law’s house, not her own. Even so, she knew she had to go with him. Maybe someday soon it would begin to feel right. As long as he said he would make it right, she would trust him. He was the most trust-inspiring individual she knew.

They walked hand in hand to his car. Engulfed in fog, they had to carefully feel their way over the rough terrain in near-total darkness. He had on shoes but her
chappals
had been carried away by the river. Although he had brought a flashlight with him, it had fallen out of his grip while rescuing her. It took them several minutes to locate the car because he couldn’t quite remember where he’d parked it. She followed him in silence, letting herself be led like a small, rebellious child chastised by a loving parent and then hauled home—forgiven, but expected to be on her best behavior in the future.

She turned to Kiran as he started the car. “You were fast asleep when I walked out of the house. When did you find out I was gone?”

He raked unsteady fingers through his already disheveled hair. In the dull radiance of the car’s dashboard lights, she noticed he was in pajamas. They were wet and muddy below the knees. His expression was grim. He looked exhausted.

“I woke up and noticed you were gone,” he said. “It meant only one thing: you had started to run once again. I had this ominous feeling that what happened between us caused you to go away, perhaps even harm yourself.” He turned to her, his eyes dark and bleak. “I thought I’d be too late. I prayed all the way here, Megha.”

“I’m not as brave as you think I am.”

He fixed her with a thoughtful look for a moment. “Let’s just call it a minor lapse in judgement—caused by severe stress.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I promise I won’t try it again.”

“Okay.” He threw the car in gear and started to drive down the rutted path that led to the main road. They drove home in silence. She noticed he wore a brooding scowl on his face. Tonight’s strange events would hang between them for a long, long time.

Once they reached home, things got awkward. Only hours earlier they had slept in each other’s arms. But now what? They both glanced at the bedroom door then looked away.

Kiran made the decision for both of them. “Go to bed, Megha. I’ll sleep on the sofa as usual.” Perhaps noticing the look of hesitation on her face, he added, “Don’t worry—I won’t be disturbing you.”

T
he sound of children playing in the park across the street drew Megha to the window. Standing at a safe distance behind the curtains, she observed the scene outside. Half a dozen little boys played cricket with tot-sized bats while a couple of nannies,
ayahs,
kept a watchful eye on them. In this affluent neighborhood,
ayahs
minding children was the norm. Every morning and afternoon Megha noticed the
ayahs
walking the kids back and forth to school or to the playground.

Megha looked wistfully at the children. Would she ever be blessed with any of her own? Not likely, now that she was going to be a divorced woman with no real chance of remarriage.

That single night of passion with Kiran several days ago came to mind. Oblivious to everything but their desperate need to touch and explore and discover each other’s bodies and make love, neither she nor Kiran had thought about protection. Passion had overruled common sense. She had lost sleep over the possibility of pregnancy, obsessed about it, until this morning, when her period had arrived as a blessing. She’d never been this relieved to see it. A quick prayer of thanks had come to her lips.

God, what a catastrophe it would have been if she’d become pregnant with Kiran’s child. On the one hand, it would have been the most joyful thing to happen and, on the other, it would have made an already difficult situation entirely impossible. A fine way to start off the New Year, which was coming up in a couple of days! Ironically, her sense of relief was in direct contrast to what she’d felt while she was married to Suresh. Then she had longed to conceive. And when it had finally happened after nearly a year of waiting, it hadn’t lasted very long. Now that she thought about it, the puny and unhealthy-looking Suresh probably had some problems in the fertility department. Had Amma ever given thought to the possibility that her son could be a poor sperm producer? Even if she had, the stubborn woman would never admit it.

Megha remembered the one time she was pregnant, and hadn’t even known it until that miserable night, not that long ago. It was the same day as her first wedding anniversary. God, what a dreadful day that was—she remembered it well. Things had gone so wrong. The half-inch long scar on the inside of her right wrist was a cruel reminder of that day. Most people recalled their first anniversary with fondness. Hers had been eventful all right. But sentimental? Sweet? Hardly!

Megha leaned against the window frame and closed her eyes as she reconstructed that day in her mind, image by image. It was all so painfully clear, and likely to stay that way for a long time.

By the time the Ramnath family had finished breakfast and Megha was well into preparing lunch, she knew with a sinking heart that her first wedding anniversary was going to be a disappointment. Nobody had remembered it was a momentous occasion for her and Suresh. Not even Suresh.

She had awakened with a mildly optimistic feeling that morning. It was exactly one year to the day since her wedding. Nothing noteworthy had occurred during the year, but it was a significant milestone nevertheless. A first anniversary was meant to be celebrated. But not in this house apparently.

As she had lain in bed at dawn, she had remembered how Harini’s husband had surprised Harini by giving her a gold chain with a lotus pendant and then whisked her off to Goa for a couple of days of fun and romance by the sea. Harini had returned with stars in her eyes and even more love for Vijay than ever before.

Although Megha had no such romantic illusions where Suresh was concerned, she had hoped he would remember the occasion and perhaps mention a simple but private dinner at a restaurant or at least a movie. She was not looking for expensive trinkets; something unpretentious and cheap would have been sufficient to make her happy. Even a long, romantic walk by the river would have been better than nothing. But Suresh had entirely forgotten their anniversary. How could he! Her easy-to-stir temper began to simmer at his negligence.

Nobody else from the family had remembered the anniversary, either.

An indignant pout settled over her mouth as she went about her morning duties. Tukaram must have noticed her sullenness, because he, too, worked in silence. She chopped the potatoes with a rare vengeance and carelessly tossed them in the pan, causing the hot oil in it to splatter and land on the inside of her wrist. She winced in pain. This time the angry tears managed to spill out unchecked. Oh hell! Nothing was going right!

She quickly held her wrist under cold running water for a few minutes. An angry red blister, the size of a large grape, was already beginning to form. The fiery pain shot right through her forearm. It would likely turn into an ugly scar and last for years, maybe forever. She wiped the stubborn tears away with her knuckles.

On the other hand, the burning sensation in her wrist prompted her to do something, anything, to combat the gloom hanging over this dismal day. She wanted a break from the dull routine she had sunk into. Seven days a week she did the same things, over and over again. She needed to get away from this depressing place and its occupants. If she didn’t, she’d explode. The walls of the tiny house felt like prison, with Amma the chief warden and Suresh the prison guard. She decided she’d give herself a day off—an anniversary gift to herself. She’d consider it her private celebration.

That afternoon, as Amma readied herself for her customary siesta, Megha approached her. “Amma?”

“Hmm?”

“I-I’m planning to go visit Appa and Avva today.”

She winced inwardly when Amma’s eyebrow shot up. “What did you say?” The voice was threateningly soft.

Megha knew Amma had heard it right the first time. “Since it’s my first wedding anniversary, I’d like to be with people who care about what it means to me.” Megha was shocked at her own effrontery when the words escaped her mouth, but she had just about had it with Amma and her witless son. Even if she had been somewhat undecided until that point, she was now convinced that she’d spend the rest of the day…and, oh yes, the night as well, with her parents. She was going to exercise her rights. At the moment she didn’t care if she was dismissed as a rebel. She didn’t even give a damn if Amma decided to raise a hand to her. Rebellion—hot, kick-in-the-stomach rebellion—welled up inside Megha at Amma’s stern expression. She was even prepared to get into a fist fight with the witch if she had to.

Amma shifted on the bed. “Going to your parents’ house, huh? What about my afternoon tea…and the family’s dinner tonight?”

Casually slinging her overnight canvas bag over her shoulder, Megha managed to hold Amma’s gaze. It was an outward calm, to be sure, because her legs trembled and her heart thudded madly. There would be a heavy price to pay for her impertinence, perhaps for the rest of her life. But she wasn’t about to give up now, not when she had come so far. “Your tea is in the thermos on the kitchen table and I made plenty of food for lunch, so there should be enough leftovers for dinner.”

“What about Suresh? He is your husband, no?”

“My husband doesn’t even realize it’s his first anniversary, Amma, so I’m planning to spend it with my parents. I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said and turned around.

Thrusting her feet into her
chappals,
she stepped out the front door, her back rigid, her head held high. The last thing she heard as she walked away was Amma’s piqued voice talking to herself. “Who does the silly chit think she is—the maharani of Palgaum or what? What is this anniversary nonsense, anyway? We never had anything like that when we were young.”

Although Megha’s parents lived some two kilometers away and the afternoon sun was hot enough to scorch her skin, she decided to walk instead of taking the bus. All the pent-up anger was roiling inside her and she needed to work it out of her system. She also needed to think. The noisy, crowded bus with sweaty bodies crammed in like pickled limes wouldn’t allow her to think clearly.

The perspiration running in droplets between her breasts and down her back was annoying. The burning in her wrist hadn’t ebbed one bit, but she ignored it and kept walking at a brisk pace. By the time her parents’ modest home came into view she felt faint and nauseated. She told herself it was only the sweltering heat that made her feel sick. She’d be okay once she had a chance to sit down and have a glass of cold water. A nice afternoon nap in her old room sounded blissful. That’s what she badly needed—sleep.

When Megha knocked on their door, her mother opened it. Caught by surprise, she stared wide-eyed for a moment, then smiled. “Megha! What brings you here today,
putti?
”

Megha shrugged. “Just felt like it.”

Her mother pulled her in. “You look so flushed. Did you walk all the way in this heat, dear?”

Nodding, Megha discarded her
chappals
by the door and tossed her bag on the floor. “I was in a mood for walking.”

“Oh,” said her mother, looking at Megha’s face with apparent concern. “Your face looks so…uh…let me get you some cold water.”

Megha sank into the lumpy cushion of one of the chairs in the drawing room and watched her mother go to the kitchen and return with a stainless steel tumbler filled with water. How pretty her mother still managed to look, Megha marveled, as she accepted the tumbler. Despite having crossed fifty, she was slim. Her large eyes still twinkled brightly when she smiled, her thick hair had no more than one or two strands of gray, and her figure could hold its own against a group of thirty-year-old women any day. Even in a rough, faded print sari, her elegance was quite evident. Her skin still had a youthful glow.

Unfortunately, Avva had ended up in a lackluster marriage. She had a difficult life, Megha knew. Giving birth to three daughters in a male-obsessed society had not been easy. Her in-laws, Megha’s paternal grandparents, had apparently been harsh about Avva’s inability to produce a male child.

But at least Appa and Avva, despite their disillusionment, had been caring and loving parents. Her grandparents, on the other hand, had been distant and cold. They had never shown the girls any affection. It was almost as if female children had no emotional needs. They were always treated as unwelcome additions to the family. Consequently, Megha and her sisters had never been close to the old folks. After their deaths some years ago, there was no real mourning to speak of. Only Appa had grieved for them.

Money had always been tight, too, but somehow Avva had managed to raise her daughters with grace and dignity. She had sacrificed a great deal to make sure her children had a good education at a convent school. Mangala Shastry wanted her girls to speak and write fluent English and gain general knowledge, become more sophisticated—something she’d never had.

Swallowing large gulps of the deliciously cold water, Megha glanced at her father reclining in his favorite easy chair. Now he, unlike Avva, looked gray and old from rheumatoid arthritis and chronic heart disease. He used to be a handsome man until a few years ago. He had been a tall, distinguished-looking individual with an aristocratic nose and an air of proud masculinity. In fact, the rest of the family as well as friends had, in the past, made frequent comments about what a handsome couple Megha’s parents made. The two had been brought together as very well-matched individuals in an arranged marriage.

Their three daughters were considered lucky to have inherited their tall and slim good looks from such remarkable-looking parents. Megha’s older sisters had made excellent marriages because of their beauty. Megha probably would have done the same if circumstances had been different.

Noticing Megha’s blister, her mother drew a hissing breath. “Oh Lord! What happened to you?”

“Cooking accident this morning,” said Megha with a tired sigh.

“I have some cream for that. Let me get it.” She returned in a minute and applied some yellowish stuff over the blister, all the while lecturing Megha on the importance of being careful while working with hot oil. Then taking the empty tumbler from Megha’s other hand, she set it aside. “It is your first anniversary today, Megha. Shouldn’t you be with Suresh?”

“Suresh went to work as usual, Avva. He didn’t even remember it was our anniversary.”

Her mother’s anxious eyes met her father’s bespectacled ones across the room for a brief moment before they returned to Megha. “Maybe he’ll remember later.”

Shaking her head, Megha buried her face in her hands. She couldn’t trust her voice. She knew the tears would start flowing soon. Seeing her parents had reopened the still-throbbing wound of disappointment that had formed that morning. The long trek in the sun had not helped in the least. If anything, the exhaustion made her feel shaky and a headache was setting in. Her legs and lower back ached. The glass of cold water she’d just finished, instead of easing her stomach, was making her queasier. The burn on her wrist felt worse with Avva’s cream smeared over it.

Her mother came to sit on the armrest of the chair and ran her hand along Megha’s back. “I’m sorry,
putti.
I know you are disappointed.”

“Sorry is not going to make Suresh a better man, is it?”

“But Suresh is not a bad boy. He may bring you something nice when he comes home from work. He may be planning a surprise, no?”

“He won’t! He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. And his mother is even more selfish than he. I hate her, that fat, waddling bitch.”

Her mother’s shocked gasp was unmistakable. “Megha! You should not talk about your mother-in-law like that!”

“She deserves that and more. She treats me worse than a servant.”

“Ayyo,
you poor child!” Somehow Avva’s clumsy efforts at comforting her made the situation worse instead of better. Megha burst into bitter sobs.

Her mother continued stroking her back. “Shhh…shhh…everything will be all right,
putti.
You wait and see.”

Megha looked up to note her father’s reaction to her tears. He eyed the scene briefly and then looked away. Uncertainty seemed to flicker in his eyes. He slowly rose from his chair and went to stand by the window, with his back to her. His thinning gray hair badly needed a cut. At the back it lay in limp wisps over the frayed collar of his once-white shirt. His appearance seemed to fit in with the shabbiness of his house by the river, with its peeling paint, its dusty, framed photographs, and its meager furnishings. There was never enough money to live comfortably.