Monsoon Memories (21 page)

Afterwards, while her mother was in the kitchen washing up, she flopped onto the sofa beside her aunt who was flicking through channels.

‘There’s nothing good to watch at this time, is there, Reena?’ Aunt Anita said.

‘I’m sorry I lost my temper,’ Reena mumbled, staring at the TV. ‘And I wasn’t being fair to you. You are one of the few adults who treat me as an equal. Well, most of the time anyway.’

Aunt Anita laughed. ‘You are something, you know that?’

‘You’re not angry with me?’

‘Why? For showing some spirit? ‘ She reached across and tousled Reena’s hair. ‘You’re a niece to be proud of, that’s for sure.’

Reena blushed, feeling unworthy. ‘Do you regret giving me the letters?’
Now why on earth did you ask that? Serve you right if she takes them back.

‘No. And I won’t ask for them back, don’t you worry, until you have read them all. I’d like you to get to know the person Shirin was before...’ A pause. Aunt Anita stared past the television at something only she could see.

Whew,
Reena thought.
Golden rule of detection: Think before you speak.
If she had taken the letters, where would Super Sleuth Reena Diaz be?

‘When you meet Shirin,’ Aunt Anita met Reena’s gaze, held it, ‘and one day you will, she’ll say the same thing I bet. That you’re a...’ she looked away, ‘a niece to be proud of.’

Why? Why had Aunt Anita looked so discomfited when she said that last bit? Why couldn’t she meet her eye?

* * *

That evening after dinner, instead of watching a Hindi movie with her mother and aunt, Reena excused herself saying she had a maths test the next day, lying as easily as the rest of her family. Perhaps it ran in the blood. Once in her room, she locked the door, reached for the bundle of letters, opened the next one and started to read.

Letter 2: Extracts:

1. In this extract, subject guesses about Uttam.

Anu, this Uttam you keep mentioning in your letter, is he in your class? He sounds very interesting. And you seem to really like him. And respect him. I don’t think you’ve ever really respected a boy before. They tend to make a nuisance of themselves around you. So, is Uttam just a friend or something more, perhaps?

NOTE: When she was younger, did subject yearn to be a detective as well? She would have been good at it. Perhaps she found something she shouldn’t have and that was the reason she was shunned? This detective hopes that is not the case. If this detective discovers the cause of rift,
will she be shunned too?

2. Aha, Eureka, Abracadabra. THE CLUE.

In your letter, you asked me about my post-graduate college, how I am finding it, and if it is any good. It is. I enjoy it. And, Anu, you’ll never believe this: Tariq is here, doing an MS in Electronics and Communications.

I thought, after everything that happened, he would not want anything to do with me. But…

The first morning, after induction, I was in the canteen eating chattambades and catching tantalising glimpses of the sea shimmering beyond the teachers’ mess when a familiar voice, very close, whispered, ‘Hello.’ I turned and found myself looking into his eyes, those beautiful brown eyes I had only ever thought I’d see in my dreams. ‘Your hair’s grown back,’ he said.

NOTE: Shirin says, ‘After what happened, he would not want anything…’ What happened? Something to do with her hair? And
who is this Tariq of the beautiful brown eyes?

3. This detective knows now why Aunt Anita gave her the letters to read. They contain the explanation, the clues to what happened. She meant for this detective to find out; she recognised the potential in this detective.

He loves me, Anu. He loves me. Still. Despite everything.

We were sitting on the rocks behind the Hindu temple, watching the tiny specks that pass for boats bobbing gently up and down at the point where the sky meets the sea. On the beach, a lone vendor selling baby cucumbers liberally coated with chilli powder and chaat masala did brisk business. The sea breeze raised goosebumps on my skin as the faded curtain of dusk fell on the golds and the orangey-reds and the pinks: the sun’s last act. And he leaned towards me, his spicy breath warm on my cheek, and told me he loved me. He asked me to run away with him.

And I did run. The coward that I am, I ran like hell to catch the last bus home. (I know, I swore. Don’t tell Sister Maya.)

NOTE: So she didn’t run away with him. Not this time. Why does she need to
run away
with him? Mai does not approve perhaps. But why? Tariq. The name sounds Muslim. Aha. Marrying a Muslim is worse somehow than marrying a Hindu. Perhaps that was it. Eloping with a Muslim is far worse than marrying a high-born Brahmin, even today…

NOTE 2: Shirin keeps referring to something that happened before. What happened?

4. Even though this extract makes this detective want to shake the subject, hard, (Golden rule of detection: Do
not
allow personal feelings to get in the way of detection—so not the hallmark of a good detective), a picture is beginning to form:

In other news, Aunt Winnie came over yesterday with a proposal for me. Boy is from Bangalore. Wealthy family. Has one older brother who refuses to get married: first love gone sour put him off for life according to Aunt Winnie. Ma was very excited about the proposal: ‘From Bangalore, really? Wait till the parish committee hears about it!’ (you know what she’s like). She’s worried about the older brother and kept asking Aunt Winnie all sorts of questions about him. Aunt Winnie harrumphed and said, ‘If you want to be like that, Jessie…’ Ma placated Aunt Winnie with jackfruit and paan and gave her one of those horrible CVs she made containing all relevant information about me—my vital statistics, my qualifications, my hobbies—to pass on to them. She also included that unflattering picture of me, taken in Benny’s studio when I turned nineteen.

Remember?

Remember how Ma decided when, after a year of rigorous groom-hunting I was still on the marriage market and no one had shown the slightest interest in me, that what was missing was a full-length photograph. She was convinced that once she circulated a picture along with the CV, offers for my hand would pour in. Poor Ma!

Do you remember how she and Madhu deliberated for a long time on which sari I was to wear, launching into a detailed discussion on the colour that would suit me best, make me look relatively lighter skinned? Finally they decided on that orange sari with pink flowers and gold border that I absolutely loathe. Madhu altered the sari blouse so it would fit me. Ma painted my lips with that bright-red lipstick (the one you called ‘tart gear’) and plastered talcum powder on my face. I kept my head down the entire way to the studio, refusing to look at all the many people we encountered, and to all of whom Madhu proudly announced that I was going to have my picture taken in preparation for my wedding.

Benny kept asking me to stand up straight and then when I did, he asked me to bend slightly. He was not happy with my smile, complaining that I showed too many teeth or no teeth at all. The picture that he and Ma finally agreed upon is horrendous. You know the one. Ma bought around 50 copies of it.

Anyway, that is the picture which is going to the suitor in Bangalore along with the CV in which Ma has listed my weight five kilos lighter than I really am and my height two inches taller. She has also declared that I am ‘wheat-complexioned’. I have never understood that expression. If she said I was the colour of coconut husks at least that would be nearer the truth. She has bragged about how well I cook (does appreciating Madhu’s food count as cooking?) and how I am the best singer in the choir (I haven’t sung in the choir since I was ten). She’s said I can dance Bharatanatyam (do the few lessons I took at school with you, but dropped out because I had two left feet, qualify?) and that I can play the guitar (again, does interest but no ability count?).

You know, Anu, even if—and it’s a big if—someone does agree to marry me (why would they when there are hundreds of more beautiful, lighter-skinned, thinner girls out there?), by the time I explain away all the many embellishments to my CV, he will run miles.

I know what you will say: ‘Run away.’ I know that’s what you would do. But, Anu, I’m not you. Although, when Tariq catches up with me after class, his breath fogging up his glasses and offers his sweet smile and his hands to carry my books; when we sit in the library, heads bent, almost touching and I find it hard to concentrate on balancing accounts, distracted by the droplets of sweat beading the hair on his bare arms, wanting to touch them; those times I so wish I was you: impulsive, ‘devil may care’ courageous.

I have to go. Rosary time. Yes, I can picture your gleeful grin. Reply when you can. I am counting down the days to Christmas when you, Deepak and Da will be here and the house will feel like home again.

NOTE: This detective feels frustrated with Aunt Shirin. If she was in her shoes, she would have run away and not subjected herself to all this humiliation and this business of arranged marriages when she had a perfectly good suitor who loved her. So what if he was unsuitable? So what if her family was opposed to him?

This detective feels she is honing in on the reason for the rift—something to do with subject’s marriage. It is an exciting feeling, being this close to the truth, and yet somehow scary as well. Perhaps all great detectives feel this way?

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A Good Match

S
he called him as she was leaving the office. ‘No reply.’

‘There can be a number of reasons for that, Shonu. It’s her work ID, isn’t it? Well, she may be off sick, away on a shoot with no access to her email, on holiday...’ He didn’t pause to take a breath as he rattled off the reasons. He must have been thinking them up all day when she didn’t call.

‘Did you think she wouldn’t?’

‘No! I hoped she would.’ A pause. And then, ‘You can always call Deepak. Or we could go back, just turn up, shock them.’

Briefly, she entertained the fantasy. Her mother’s face. Anger, regret, shame. ‘Not yet.’
I need to see the counsellor again, get closure
.

‘Soon, then.’ And, softly, ‘Shonu, it may be something as simple as Anita not having had the time to check her emails as yet...’

‘Hmm...’

His voice gentle: ‘I’m leaving work now. See you at home.’

‘Bye.’

Kate came up behind her as she disconnected the call, helmet on, keys dangling from her index finger.

‘You came by bike?’

‘Yup. You want to ride pillion?’

‘No, thanks.’ She managed a smile.

Kate put her arm around her. ‘She might just be busy. If she had a day like the one I just had, she may not have had a chance to check her emails.’

‘It’s not like they’ve been falling over themselves to get in touch these past few years. I’ll live.’

The elevator doors pinged open.

‘Sure I can’t give you a lift home? Much faster than your old banger.’

‘Kate! How dare you? It’s my pride and joy.’

‘Doesn’t detract from the fact. It’s still an old banger...’

Shirin couldn’t help it. She laughed.

As she got into her old banger, Kate, sweet Kate, said, ‘There’s still tomorrow. It might be waiting for you when you come in.’

Shirin blew her a kiss.

* * *

‘Shall we go away this Christmas?’ she asked.

Vinod turned from where he lay on the sofa reading
The Economist
, one eye on the television: BBC News 24, the flat-faced presenter churning out one awful disaster after another.

When he’d got home from work, he had tried to bring up Anita and the email but she had stopped him. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ Her standard reaction to anything that hurt too much to contemplate.
Relegate it to a corner of your mind. Don’t talk about it until it manifests itself in nightmares and even then, try and ignore it.
‘But, Shonu, you have to talk, let it out. You were getting better...’ His mouth had set in a grim line. She had opened a bottle of wine, taken a long swig. ‘Please, Vinod.’

‘I can’t read your mind, Shonu,’ he’d said once, in the middle of an argument when she’d shut down, blanked him out. ‘I don’t know what goes on in there.’ He’d jabbed a finger at her forehead. She had thought he was going to hit her. Afterwards he had held her, and she had sat stiffly in his arms and listened to his sobs, endured his apologies. ‘I love you,’ he had said.
Love, what love? What do we have together, Vinod? Our bond—one horrific incident that still casts its shadow, maligning everything.

And now they were sitting in the living room, watching television, eavesdropping on other people’s tragedies.

He gave her a bemused smile. ‘Where exactly did you have in mind?’

Shirin shrugged. She hadn’t thought that far.

‘We could just go home.’ He was looking at her, waiting for a reaction.

‘Oh, Vinod,’ Weary. And, softly, ‘Do you get homesick?’
Why had they never talked about this?

‘Of course I get homesick. I miss them.’

Because it hurt too much.

His voice harsh as he continued, ‘God, do you think it’s been easy turning my back on my whole life before you?’ And as she started to speak, ‘Don’t you dare apologise. We never talk about this. Well, we are now and I am telling you how I feel.’ He took a gasping breath, ‘That doesn’t mean I am not happy. With you. I am, but the two things need not be mutually exclusive, as you well know.’

She apologised anyway. ‘I’m sorry.’

Vinod clicked his tongue. ‘Not your fault. If I wanted to, I would go.’