The Unexpected Son (15 page)

Girish showed her photographs of his house in New Jersey. “I know it's modest, small…only three bedrooms,” he said. “After Nadine and I split our assets, this was all I could afford to buy right away.”

“Doesn't look modest at all,” she assured him. She found it charming, actually, with its exterior of brick and white siding, and a variety of shrubs planted under the two front windows, which were flanked by black shutters. The house even had two floors, with the bedrooms located upstairs. It didn't look small, either. “Two bathrooms in one house is sheer luxury by Palgaum standards, and an extravagance when compared to Bombay's cramped flats.”

Photos of the backyard showed some giant trees with dense foliage. “They're maples and oaks,” he explained to her. “Unlike most trees in India, these turn to shades of yellow and red and orange, and they shed their leaves by late fall. They become totally bare. Then they grow the leaves back every spring.”

“Is it exciting to see the change in the seasons?” she asked him.

“Yes. It's like watching a miracle unfolding—nature at its most engaging.”

She tried to imagine trees covered in shades she'd never seen on leaves. She'd read all about it in books, even seen pictures in magazines of how extreme cold could cause dramatic changes in flora.

He let her gaze at the photographs for a minute. “Do you think you'd like to live in a house like that?”

She blinked at him. She wasn't sure what he was leading up to, but her pulse wobbled a bit. “I don't know,” she replied with a shrug.

On the fourth night, after a simple meal of fried fish on the beach, he asked her if she'd consider marrying him. It wasn't a huge surprise; the hints had been building up little by little. It was a humble proposal, almost Victorian in its chasteness and propriety.

“I'm not a good-looking man and I'm several years your senior,” he said. “But I can afford to give my future wife and children a decent living. If I'm lucky enough to have children.” He took her hand and enclosed it in both of his. They were warm and they trembled a little. “Vinita, would you consider marrying me?”

There were none of the fireworks or heightened excitement that Som had ignited in her with a mere brush of fingers, but there was a quiet strength in Girish Patil she had sensed from the very beginning. He was the kind of man a woman could probably lean on and close her eyes for a long while. And when she opened them, he'd likely still be there, still holding her hand.

Every night, after Girish dropped her home, Vishal asked her if she'd managed to keep her mouth shut. When she answered yes, he'd said, “Good. Keep it that way. This is your one chance for a future.”

Her mother, of course, nodded in mute agreement. In fact, Mummy was beginning to smile a lot and was even encouraging Vinita to go out with Girish. She was probably having visions of getting Vinita married quickly and packing her off to a distant foreign country, so their secret could finally be buried. Her mother could concentrate on finding Vishal the perfect wife—a delicious prospect in her maternal eyes.

However, after spending four evenings with Girish, Vinita still hadn't summoned the courage to tell him her secret. Each day, she'd promised herself she'd confess the next day. And she didn't. Was it because she had slowly begun to view America as a place to escape from her past, a place where women enjoyed much more freedom, a place where she could truly begin afresh? Or was it because she saw Girish as a really promising suitor, unlike the others?

Was she losing her courage in the presence of this honest man? He deserved just as much honesty from her, didn't he?

And yet, his forthrightness could be a clever façade. She had just met him. She had heard some grim stories about naïve young women marrying men living in a foreign country because from afar it seemed like an exciting life, only to discover their husbands were lechers, or abusive, or alcoholics. Girish could be any of those things. She couldn't let herself be taken in by his seemingly candid personality. She couldn't let herself become a victim for the second time.

Despite the doubts, she liked him, genuinely appreciated his company. The slow fire he lit in her veins when he looked at her a certain way, or teased, or said something humorous, wasn't her imagination. There was no denying a real spark existed between them.

At the moment, with his proposal hanging in the air, she looked out on the ocean for a long time. What was she to do?

He sat beside her in complete silence and let her have the time to think.

“What about Nadine?” she asked him finally, looking for signs of hidden emotion in his eyes—anything that would indicate his true nature.

“I haven't thought about Nadine in a very long time. We lost touch after the divorce.” Seeing the dubious look on her face, he shook his head. “Nadine will never come into my life again. She was the one who wanted out of our marriage more than I.”

“But then, I need to…” How in heaven's name was she going to introduce the truth to him?

“You're free to pursue a career in America. And your dancing, too,” he added, misinterpreting her reasons for faltering. “There are some Indian classical dance schools in New Jersey, by the way.”

When she remained silent, he let go of her hand. There was such disappointment in his expression that it squeezed her heart. “I'll understand if you decline, of course,” he murmured. “You could find a much more eligible man than me. There are so many—”

“Please, Girish,” she interrupted, touching his arm. “Give me one more day.”

Palgaum, India—2007

V
ishal Shelke swiped his face with a handkerchief. Sitting at the desk of his home office, he could feel the heat coming at him in waves from the nearby window—the humidity typical of late April in Palgaum.

He could also smell the storm brewing. The rumblings of approaching thunder were audible in the distance. That, too, was typical of the town's weather. The heat could only be dispelled by a fierce, cleansing rainstorm.

He rose to his feet and started to pace the length of the long room, wishing he could do something about the storm raging in his mind, in his life. He could smell this one churning, too. It was going to be just as violent and disturbing as the one developing in the sky. He'd tried to work on his computer, but his restless thoughts about his sister had driven him to his feet once again.

Vinita's phone call from New Jersey the other evening was most upsetting. It had been one of the hardest things he'd had to do in all his life—confess that he'd been lying to her for thirty years, lying about the fact that her son was alive. Even worse was giving her the rest of the news. That portion was downright distressing.

Wincing inwardly at the thought of his sister learning the shocking truth about her son in such a crude manner, he stopped pacing and sat in his chair once again. The crickets and mosquitoes were already setting up a racket of chirp and whine since it was turning dark outside.

Other familiar sounds drifted up from the rooms downstairs. At the moment, it was those sounds that kept his mind on an even keel. There was something therapeutic about the humdrum nature of routine.

In the kitchen, his wife Sayee was likely putting the finishing touches to their dinner. Although Anu, the maid, served their meals, Sayee preferred to cook them herself. She didn't trust anyone in that particular area of housekeeping. He could smell the mustard seeds and curry leaves being tempered in oil for the
dal
—the soupy split pea dish served over rice.

His mother was in the
dév-ghar
—the altar room—saying her evening prayers before dinner. He breathed in the scent of her
agarbattis,
the long, thin incense sticks she burned during her
pooja.
Ritualistic worship.

Ah yes, the daily sounds and smells that made up his world. And his family. What would he do without them? The house seemed a bit empty at the moment, though. He missed his twin sons, twenty-one-year-old Aneesh and Anmol. After graduating from college, they were both in Bangalore, taking a one-year certification course in some type of new software.

Neither one of his sons was likely to join his accounting business. That was disappointing. But Sayee had convinced Vishal that it was best to let the boys follow their instincts. Young men and women these days were attracted to the high-tech industry with its promise of lucrative jobs.

At least the boys were together. They were identical, always inseparable—twins in the real sense of the word. They often reminded him of what his sister had lost years ago, when she'd believed her baby boy had been born dead. She was heartbroken. Of that he was sure, although she'd put on a brave front and gone back to college.

But thank goodness Girish Patil had come along at the right time. He had proved to be a decent chap when Vinita needed a man like that in her life to make her forget Kori. Getting his sister married to Girish and sending her off to the States had brought incredible relief to Vishal and his parents. The best part was that she seemed happy in her marriage, her career, and her home.

But now some anonymous letter had brought back that old nightmare for her and the rest of the family. Who could have written it?

He heard someone come up the stairs and stop by his office door. He didn't have to look up to see who it was. He knew those footsteps well. His wife.

“Are you still worrying over the phone call?” she asked him, her round face ripe with concern.

“She's going to hate me,” he said, meeting Sayee's questioning gaze. “She'll never forgive me for this.”

“She's your sister. She'll get over it.”

He gave her a wry smile. “You don't know Vini. She can be very intolerant at times.”

“But surely she'll understand something of
this
nature?”

“Uh-uh,” he said, shaking his head. His sister was a woman of contradictions—exceptionally bright but naïve in many ways, stubborn at times but compliant at others, caring and loyal but not always forgiving. He loved her, but he'd never understood her. She had secrets that she had never shared with him. Her affair with Kori and the pregnancy were examples of how close-mouthed she could be. She would always remain a puzzle.

But then, he had kept some secrets from her, hadn't he? And now they were coming back to taunt him, dark and ugly.

“Do you think I should phone her?” he said to Sayee.

Dressed in a green sari scattered with white dots, Sayee had her thick, long hair braided and pinned up into a bun. She was a plump woman, never having lost the weight after she'd given birth to the twins over two decades ago. She had a sweet, youthful face, and her eyes twinkled when she smiled. Although she was only four years younger than he, people thought the difference in their ages was greater.

She stepped forward and laid a hand on his. “Why don't you give her another day or two to calm down? Besides, it's Sunday. She'll be busy.”

He nodded. Sayee and he had visited Vinita and Girish a few years back and they had observed what active lives Vinita and her family lived. “Their weekends seem to be busier than their weekdays.”

“I don't know how Vinita and Girish manage to get any rest or relaxation with so much housework, and full-time jobs.”

“But they seem to like the American lifestyle.”

“Thank God we have servants here,” Sayee murmured. She threw Vishal an encouraging glance. “Come on, let's go downstairs and watch some TV before supper.”

Vishal scrubbed his face with his hands. “I have some work to do before I eat.”

“I know it's not work that has you worried,” she said, reading his mind. “It's Vinita. Don't make yourself sick over it. You did what you had to do.”

“But I hurt her. I've lied to her for so many years.”

“You were only trying to protect her.”

He took the hand his wife offered him. “She won't see it that way. Should Papa and Mummy and I have told her the truth?”

She appeared to turn it over in her mind. “All of you were trying to make sure she had a chance for a future.” She pressed his hand. “Besides, you were so young yourself. You were hardly qualified to think like a wise old man.”

“But my parents were older, and they thought the same way I did.”

“There you go. Even
they
thought it best to let her think the baby was…stillborn.”

He could see it bothered his wife to use the word
stillborn
—just like it bothered him. Was his wife right? If he had to do it all over again, would he keep the truth from his sister? “But the problem is back, thirty years later,” he said. “And it's bad. The boy is apparently dying of cancer.”

He dropped Sayee's hand and tented his fingers. What exactly was Vinita going to do, now that she knew the truth? One thing he knew for sure: she was livid. She had every right to be. She had called him a liar—which he was. There was no defense for what he'd done to her.

Maybe she'd never want to speak to him again.

Just then the phone rang, startling him. He picked it up at once, instinct telling him it was Vinita. And it was.

“Vishal, I've been thinking about this,” she said, getting straight to the point. “I've decided what to do.”

“Is that right?” He had an idea what it might be. And his stomach plunged.

“I'm going to fly down to Palgaum as soon as I can. I want to see my son.”

His guess was right. She was being her impulsive and stubborn self, as usual. “What's the point, Vini? The boy doesn't know about your existence. You'll only upset him unnecessarily.”

“For heaven's sake, I'm not just coming to
meet
him,” she retorted. “I want to see if there's anything I can do to help.”

Vishal's grip on the phone tightened. But he chose to remain silent as his sister spoke a while longer. He gave a slow, tired sigh when he finally hung up and looked at Sayee. “She's coming to Palgaum…asking for trouble. Again.”