A Scandalous Secret (13 page)

The therapist indicated that the massage had ended by gently chiming a minuscule pair of brass cymbals. Neha, lying face down on the massage bed, savoured the feeling of a body revitalized by the hot stone therapy she had just undergone, even though her mind still refused to be soothed. After she had heard the door click behind the departing masseuse, Neha turned over in order to breathe more freely. The cluster of green bamboo outside the bare window was rustling in the breeze and throwing shadows across the ceiling. Neha gazed at their shadow-play for a few minutes, seeing not the immaculate high ceiling of Ananda's therapy room but another one from a long time ago.

 

Someone had painted the ceiling of the delivery room in Oxford's John Radcliffe Hospital with a plethora of cartoon characters. It was an image that had not returned to Neha for a while but she saw it now with surprising clarity – those larger-than-life cartoon characters that someone had reckoned would be the best way to welcome Oxford's newborns to the world. There was Winnie the Pooh holding a pot of honey, Goofy and Donald dancing a jig and little Minnie Mouse smiling from under an enormous parasol.

I tried to find some amusement in the idea of the painter lying on his back in Da Vinci style while painting these Disney characters. They all looked so cheery and happy, dancing on that ceiling, their jollity gut-wrenching when set against my anguish.

There were bloodcurdling screams coming from the woman who was struggling to have her baby on the next bed. I listened to her, terrified of what lay ahead for me. But I managed to remain tight-lipped and trembling when my turn came and the pain started to tear through my body. I would not give in to such unseemly shouting. What was to come later would be so much worse anyway.

And it was. How did one compare one kind of pain with another? Was physical suffering more bearable than emotional anguish? All I know, thinking of the clawing, tearing of childbirth the following day, was that it was far more painful to be holding my baby in my arms with the certain knowledge that I would soon be giving her away.

 

The sweet-faced massage therapist came back into the room and, surprised to see Neha still lying down, approached her with a look of concern. ‘Ma'am, are you okay? You are not feeling giddy?'

‘No, no, I'm fine, thanks,' Neha reassured her as she sat up. She pulled the towel around her body, feeling a sudden chill.

‘Did you like the hot stone massage?'

‘It was very good, thank you,' Neha said, trying to smile.

‘Would you like to book another session before you go?'

‘Yes, I might …'

‘If you wish, you can see if I am free when you schedule it, ma'am. My name is Amminikutty,' the girl said in a soft south Indian accent. She was kneeling on the floor
before a cupboard as she prepared a bath tray for Neha. Getting to her feet, she pointing to its various constituents. ‘Ma'am, this is the body scrub, a mix of shikakai and powdered lentils. And in this ceramic pot is the herbal shampoo. I will leave you to have your shower but, if you need any help, I am right outside. Be careful when you stand up, there is oil on your feet.'

Neha nodded but waited until the girl had left the room before she got off the bed and unwound her towel. She stood before the tall mirrors in the dressing area, massaging the remaining oil into her skin, stopping as her fingers reached her abdomen. She ran her fingers lightly over her flat stomach. She had not acquired any stretch marks after her childbirth. Perhaps it was due to the elasticity her skin had had when she was in her teens, although she could not discount the concerned efforts of Nicki and Clare, both of whom had older sisters with children and knew, therefore, all about cocoa butter and StriVectin cream.

 

‘My sister's tum is as flat as a washboard and totally blemish-free – she swears by this.' Nicki held out a tube of cream.

‘And, next time I'm home, I'll root through me mum's wardrobe to find tops and jogging bottoms that'll mask your little bump nicely. Not that it shows anyway. You're quite small, aren't you?' They both looked down at my stomach and Clare continued speaking, ‘I reckon it's because you're quite tall – sort of stretches you upwards, doesn't it?'

‘No one will be able to tell you're pregnant, Neha, not in those loose tee-shirts you wear anyway. Don't you go worrying about that. In fact, don't you go worrying about anything but looking after yourself …'

Every so often Neha remembered their love and kindness … before she quickly shoved away the thought that those friends too had had to be forsaken, along with so much else from that distant time.

Once showered and dressed, Neha wandered across to Ananda's dining hall, remembering as her tummy growled that she had had a very early breakfast in order to attend the morning's Vedanta lecture on anger management. There was only a small handful of people still lunching at this late hour. A couple were sitting out on the balcony, braving the occasional forays made by hungry monkeys, while a few stray loners like her were scattered around the large hall. From her many trips to Ananda, Neha had figured out how many people there were in the world who needed to escape to the solitude that was on offer here.

She took a table near a large plate-glass window overlooking the valley and ordered a lime juice with mint and crushed ice before examining the day's menu. Despite her hungry stomach, her mind was still refusing to connect with any of the excellent choices that were on offer. She was staring blankly at the description of vegetable pulao with raita, written for the benefit of Ananda's many foreign visitors, when her thoughts were interrupted by a figure materializing before her.

‘Are you lunching alone?' a male voice with an American accent asked.

Neha looked up, unable to conceal a small frown. ‘Yes,' she said, looking up at an oldish man with silver hair and an open, pleasant countenance.

‘Mind if I join you?' the man persisted gently, glancing at the empty chair opposite her.

Neha hesitated momentarily, wondering if she ought
to show her irritation at the intrusion. But the man's expression was non-threatening and friendly and suddenly she felt like company; company that would be completely free of the kind of expectations that usually accompanied interactions with friends and relations. And company that would distract her from her tormented train of thought too. Ananda was about the safest place to befriend strangers. Everyone who came here seemed to share a certain mindset that was all to do with healing and support. Neha smiled and waved at the chair across the table. ‘Please join me,' she said.

‘Hi, I'm Arif,' the man said as they shook hands over the table.

‘Hello, I'm Neha.'

‘Hello, Neha, very pleased to have met you and thank you for letting me join you in your lunch,' Arif said with mock formality as he shook out his napkin over his knees. Neha saw that his eyes – kindly eyes – were twinkling. She could not tell how old the man was but she guessed he was probably around her father's age.

Neha, adopting the same faux-pompous tone, replied, ‘I am very pleased to be joined at lunch, for lunching was not an activity ever meant to be conducted with either seriousness or solitude.'

Arif smiled. ‘Do you mind if I ask where that accent's from. It's either British or posh Indian. Can I guess – the latter?'

‘That depends on what “posh Indian” means,' Neha replied lightly. ‘If you mean royalty, then, no. But if you mean to ask if I was brought up properly and taught to mind my manners, you'll find a lot of Indians fit that description, actually.'

‘No, I meant to ask if a British education played a part somewhere,' Arif replied.

Despite the American-style directness, Neha liked the good-natured curiosity with which her dining companion was conducting his inquisition. ‘Well, yes and no,' she replied, ‘because I'm not sure a year at Oxford can qualify as a “British education”. It's very unlikely to have left a lasting impression anyway!'

‘Just a year? I didn't think Oxford University had any one-year courses, unless you did a post-grad diploma?'

It was another rather inquisitive question and this time Neha ignored it. Luckily, they were interrupted at that moment by the waiter arriving to take their lunch orders. They returned to their conversation after the waiter had departed but Arif appeared to have forgotten his earlier query.

Over a leisurely lunch, Neha discovered that Arif was a recently retired lawyer from Los Angeles, on his way back home from visiting his parents in Iran, and passing through India for the first time. He had specialized in ‘Californian Lemon Law' he said, clarifying, ‘You know, when people are sold a lemon. In this case, cars. But I'm glad to have left that particular rat-race. My epiphany came in the shape of a Vedanta lecture that someone once dragged me to in Beverley Hills. And it's been more fun than I'd have ever thought, this pursuit of the meaningful. Especially when it brings me to beautiful places like your country … I just love what I've seen of it so far.'

Neha found herself enjoying the elderly American's peculiar brand of warm curiosity which seemed to apply to everything he had seen and done in India. She was also surprised at how easily she fell into the kind of banter she associated with her long-gone days at Oxford. Certainly,
her social life in Delhi, which was invariably a much more formal affair, was not conducive to this sort of instantly laid-back conversation at all and, by the time their plates were being cleared, she and Arif were chatting like old friends.

‘Hey, Neha, I've been meaning to ask someone what exactly the standard greeting here is. I thought
namaste
was how Indians greeted each other but, here at Ananda, I keep hearing the word
namashka
. Everyone you pass in this place kinda bobs their head and says
namashka
– I hope I'm saying it properly? – I just wanted to be sure I was getting it right before returning the compliment!'

Neha smiled. ‘It's just another way of saying
namaste
, a bit more formal, I guess. You're nearly there, actually. It's
namashkar –
n-a-m-a-s-h-k-a-r – but you're right, the “r” is mostly silent.' Then she laughed. ‘Did you see that film
The Love Guru
?' Arif looked questioningly at Neha and so she explained, ‘You know, the Mike Myers spoof on Indian ashrams? I saw a DVD of it recently.'

Arif shook his head. ‘Never seen it. Any good?' he enquired.

‘Patchily funny,' Neha replied. ‘Funnier in retrospect, actually, now that I'm here. A lot of things here at Ananda are suddenly reminding me of the ashram in the film. Including your question about the endless
namashkar
s. The Americans in the film don't have a clue what
namashkar
is, of course, and so they go around greeting everyone with the word ‘Mariska!'

‘Mariska?' Arif responded, puzzled, before he got the joke and burst into a loud guffaw. ‘Mariska Hargitay, the actress! Is she in it?'

Neha nodded, quite forgetting her troubles now as she too sat back, enjoying Arif's mirth. ‘In fact, the yoga
teacher who took my session this morning reminded me of the character in the film who's played by Ben Kingsley – a teacher going by the irresistible name of ‘Guru Tuggin-my-phuddha!' She giggled at the memory. ‘Sorry that pun won't mean anything to a non-Hindi speaker, I just realized.'

‘Teach me, teach me! I'm willing to learn,' Arif replied, ‘Especially if it means expanding my lexicon of rude words.'

‘Oh, I couldn't,' Neha protested, reddening, ‘It's really rude!'

‘All the more reason,' Arif insisted. ‘If you won't tell me, I'm going to ask that guy over there.' He turned in his chair to call out to a waiter, ‘Excuse me, but could you tell me the meaning of a Hindi expression please – I believe it goes “tuggin' my …”'

Neha stopped Arif by grabbing his forearm with a small anguished cry. She was still laughing but was by now quite flushed from embarrassment, ‘You can't just ask someone that, Arif, it's really, really,
really
rude!'

‘Can't be ruder than “dick”, can it?' he asked innocently.

‘Oh well, okay,' Neha said, wiping her eyes with her napkin. ‘That's what it means then.'

‘Dick? Is that it?'

‘Yes, if you insist, “dick”. Although it is a ruder version, I have to say.'

‘Pooda? Have I said it right?'

Neha flapped her hands in distress again and dropped her voice to a near whisper in order to correct Arif's pronounciation, ‘Shhh … shhh … not pooda but
phuddha
. Oh, I can't believe I'm saying this. But, please, the waiter's coming back to our table now. Believe me, this is
not
the time!'

‘Oh, okay, I'll behave,' Arif said, straightening the expression on his face to one of extreme solemnity. He took the dessert menu off the waiter and scanned it before looking up at the waiter. ‘I'll have the sorbet, please,' he said with an exaggerated serious air.

‘And I'll have the kheer,' Neha said.

This time it was Arif who burst into loud laughter, puzzling both Neha and the waiter as he doubled over and rocked in his chair. ‘I can't believe you just said that!' he accused Neha as the waiter walked away, shaking his head.

‘What did I just say?' Neha asked, confused.

‘That word!'

‘What word? I just asked for kheer.'

‘Shhh … shhh … don't!' Arif implored, looking over his shoulder as though terrified someone would hear them. ‘It's very, very rude!'

Neha laughed nervously. ‘You're pulling my leg, aren't you?'

‘No, no, I promise I'm not,' Arif replied, pressing his napkin over his watering eyes.