A Scandalous Secret (14 page)

Neha, suddenly uncertain, dropped her voice as she repeated. ‘Kheer?
Kheer
is a rude word?' She saw Arif nodding. ‘In what language? For heaven's sake it's just a kind of rice pudding!'

‘I know,' Arif said, his eyes creased with laughter. ‘I discovered it on my first day in India, in fact. That the name for India's favourite dessert is one of the rudest words in the Persian language!'

By the time Sonya and Estella had made their way back to the Mahajans' B&B from their aborted visit to the Chaturvedi residence, they were wiped out, both from the heat and their earlier roadside argument. The sight of Mrs Mahajan standing in her darkening garden with her sari hitched up while she hosed down her hydrangea bushes was like a tonic and both girls melted at the warmth with which they were greeted by their landlady and offered all manner of food and drink.

‘Oh, yes please, we'd love some tea, Mrs Mahajan,' Estella said.

‘Don't be all British, calling me Mrs Mahajan and all. Just call me Aunty, okay? Kusum Aunty. While you are here in Delhi, you are in my care, just as if you are my own nieces. Or daughters even.' Mrs Mahajan stopped scolding for a minute and peered at the pair of tired and dusty faces before her. ‘Are you girls all right?' Without waiting for an answer, she carried on, ‘Delhi can be a very bad place, very aggressive. The men especially are very bad, always staring at young girls, especially young foreigners like you. You must be careful. And, if you have any bad experiences, you just come and tell me. I will sort it out. Now you go upstairs and get freshened up and I
will send tea upstairs for you. Then we will have an early dinner, okay? Maybe at about seven thirty or eight? After Mr Mahajan comes back from the office?'

Promising meekly to do all that was being demanded of them, the two girls proceeded to their room above the garage. The sun had sunk behind the treetops in a blaze of orange and gold but both girls were too exhausted and dispirited to notice the beautiful Delhi dusk. When a pot of tea was brought upstairs, along with a platter of strange round biscuits and a bowl of fudge-like milk sweets, Estella fussed over the tray, stirring sugar into Sonya's tea and carrying it across to where she was sitting, leaning her back on the headboard of the bed.

‘Thanks, Stel,' Sonya said, sitting up and taking the mug off her. In the mirror across the room, even she could see what a wan expression she wore on her face.

Estella sat at the edge of her bed and said, ‘I'm sorry I made you cry, Sonya; you know I didn't mean any of what I said earlier.'

Sonya was silent for a moment before she spoke. ‘No, I'm glad you stopped me when you did, Stel. It would have been totally counterproductive to go back to the Chaturvedi house and talk to the husband. I wasn't thinking straight. The adoption social worker back in England warned me my feelings would be on a rollercoaster when I tried to search for my birth parents.'

‘Didn't she ever try discouraging you from embarking on this search?' Estella asked.

Sonya shook her head. ‘No, not at all, actually. I think people now understand how important it is for adopted children to be able to find out about their pasts, so there are now all sorts of laws to help them discover the circumstances of their birth and history.'

‘I've never asked you how traumatic it was, trying to piece the information together. I knew you were doing it these past few weeks but it all seemed a little exciting, to be honest, and you never seemed too fazed by anything. It's different being here, I guess.'

Sonya sighed before answering. ‘That's the funny bit, Stel. It was so bloody easy back in England, almost as if the information was lying there just waiting for me to walk in and look for it. All I had to do was go to the British Adoption and Fostering website and from then on it was a cakewalk. The folks at the Births Register helped me locate the adoption agency that had handled my case. I was allowed to read the reports they had written up at the time and there it was: the name Neha Chaturvedi and quite a lot of detail about her time in Oxford as a student.'

‘Nothing about your birth father?'

Sonya shook her head, ‘No. Because he didn't want any involvement apparently. And Neha didn't offer any information on him at the time. As a matter of fact, she signed papers expressing her wish not to be contacted by me. But the rules have changed since, you see.'

Estella raised her eyebrows. ‘God, that does make her sound callous, I've got to say. What were the reasons she gave you up? Did the report say?'

Sonya shook her head again, her voice starting to wobble precariously once more. ‘It just said something vague about her knowing there was no future to be had with my birth father and her needing to get on with her own life. I suspect she had some kind of student fling at Oxford and then wanted out. Easy-peasy, eh?'

‘Poor Sonya,' Estella said softly, putting her arm around her friend as she started to weep again. ‘You've been through the wringer with this, haven't you? Listen,
you'll tell me, won't you, if you want to give this quest up and go home?'

At that Sonya shook her head vigorously. ‘I'll be damned if I'm going without resolving a few things first. I'm not after revenge, Stel, but people shouldn't be allowed to get away with this kind of an irresponsible attitude, y'know.'

‘I dunno … I'm still terrified you may have the wrong person, Sonya.'

Sonya blew her nose before replying. ‘I can't be surer of the information I have, Stel. Perhaps I just got lucky because Neha doesn't seem to have changed her surname. Either that or it's some kind of caste name: Chaturvedi. All I did was Google the name I saw on the birth certificate and suddenly there was all this information. Apparently they're a bit of a power couple and there's loads of stuff about them online, mostly magazine articles. I even found a couple of pictures.'

‘You don't say! Fuck, was she anything like you expected?'

‘I don't know what I expected,' Sonya replied. ‘The pictures were a bit fuzzy anyway. All I could see was a couple arm-in-arm and smiling. One taken at an art gallery and another at some kind of Bollywood event.'

‘But how do you know you have the right person, Sonya? There could be millions of people with the same name here in India.'

‘Too many of the details matched. It had to be her. The name, age, the year she spent in Oxford that exactly matches my birth date. One magazine article even mentioned that she returned from England to continue her undergrad studies here in India because she was homesick for her parents. Yes, I know, fucking ironic, isn't it? No pregnancy was ever mentioned in that article, so it looks like she managed to keep her little secret very well.'

‘Bloody Nora,' Estella muttered, sipping contemplatively on her tea. Sonya was silent and so she asked tentatively, ‘So what do we do now, Son?'

Sonya took a few minutes before replying, her voice pensive. ‘I just have to wait until she gets back from wherever she's gone.'

‘And the phone number we've got? Did you not want to try calling her?'

Sonya shook her head vigorously. ‘The more I think of it, no. Simply because I think she's gone into hiding having received my letter and, if I let her know that I'm actually here in Delhi, chances are she'll never surface. Quite likely she has swish pads and hideyholes all over the country, going by the affluence that we saw today.' Sonya's blue eyes turned icy again as they narrowed, making her normally pretty face harden into a mask Estella could not read. ‘I really do need to meet her face to face to ask her a few things,' Sonya said, adding more to herself than to her friend, ‘and I'm running out of time.'

 

Half an hour later, when Estella went for a shower, Sonya lay back on her bed, willing herself to rest and recharge before going down for dinner with the Mahajans. But her mind kept darting back to the mansion she had seen earlier on Prithviraj Road; sweeping and graceful and enormous, and so different from the yellow-brick semi in which she had grown up in back in Orpington. They had not seen the entire house, of course, but it was not difficult to imagine what the rest of it would be like from the glimpses of wealth that had been so obviously on view, even if they were unintended.

After an initial bit of hesitation and a tetchy exchange in Hindi to the guard who had escorted them in, a butlerish
sort in crisp Indian clothes had eventually seated them on a pair of wicker hammock chairs generously filled with blue and green silk cushions. He had then gone indoors before reappearing with two tall glasses of iced water. Both she and Estella had accepted the drink gratefully, as the evening was hot and still, and butler-man had stood over them as they drained their glasses. When he had gone back indoors, they had sat silently, even Estella's normal chatter seemingly quelled by the hush of their luxurious surroundings. From that deep, cool veranda fringed with heavily budding rose creepers, they had looked out over an expanse of emerald lawn that was being painstakingly weeded by one gardener on his knees while the other expertly wielded a pair of shears, clipping away like an attentive hairdresser. A couple of cars were visible at the bottom of the drive and a man in a peaked cap was polishing them to glittering perfection. Someone else was stacking white garden chairs and putting them away in a shed. Then the butler, whose reserve appeared to be gradually thawing, emerged again, this time with two small silver bowls filled with cashew nuts and raisins … Sonya smiled, thinking of how even Estella had turned down this offering, open-mouthed and clearly reduced to awed silence by the general air of sumptuousness at the Chaturvedi house. Rather reassuring to know that it wasn't just Sonya who had felt dwarfed by the experience.

As the sound of running water was stilled in the bathroom and Estella broke out into a sudden warbling rendition of Lady Gaga, Sonya got up to gather her own toiletries together and choose a set of fresh clothes, mulling over her response to the evening's events. What was most galling to Sonya was that, from all her reading on the subject, she knew that most adoptees who set off to discover their
natural parents had quite the opposite experience to her own. Most people shared Chelsea Brigham-Smith's experience – finding her birth parents living in a squalid council flat, with open food cans littering every surface and cats slinking all over the place. However ghastly, surely that was easier to deal with – the knowledge of having been given up by people who clearly could not cope with parenthood, socially or financially. Chelsea had described her experience as a swift dawning of realization, a genuine understanding and a final closing of that door. But Sonya did not feel like that at all. Far from understanding and forgiving, it felt like a cruel insult to imagine that her birth mother lived in surroundings so much more lavish than the ones in which she herself had grown up. Her birth mother was certainly no voiceless and downtrodden woman who had been forced to give her up. No, the woman was a bloody memsahib, living in the lap of luxury, and Sonya could only think that she had been discarded as an inconvenience that didn't fit in with that scheme. Briefly, she couldn't help imagining what life would have been like for her had she not been given up: the wealth and the luxury, the servants waiting hand and foot on her, the cavalcade of fancy cars … and then she hastily put the thought out of her head. That was not only stupid and fanciful but also terribly disloyal to poor old Mum and Dad back at home.

By her third day in Ananda, Neha felt as though Arif was an old friend, although this she knew was born of sheer relief at being able to talk to someone who knew nothing at all about either her present problems or her background. She had briefly mentioned a husband with political ambitions to Arif, who was himself a widower with grown children, but he had not quizzed her further, perhaps because he knew little about the Indian political scene. He had also not asked the standard questions about where she lived which, in Delhi, was usually an immediate giveaway of one's financial and social standing.

‘Hey, did you want to come on this trek tomorrow?' Arif asked as they were drinking jasmine tea on the terrace one evening. He was leafing through the resort's brochure as Neha, resting between treatments, sipped contentedly.

‘The one to the hilltop temple?' Neha asked. ‘I've heard people talk about it but have never been. I tend to come here to Ananda and just flop.'

‘Five kilometres … gentle uphill climb … Jeep pickup to return to the resort,' Arif read out loud.

‘I can manage five kilometres easily,' Neha said, adding, ‘and I like the sound of the Jeep pickup! Although I'm not that keen on uphill, I have to say.'

‘I doubt it will be too bad. That just wouldn't be Ananda, would it?'

‘Too right. Even the adventure trails have to be sort of
uber
-luxury, air-conditioned and padded with cushions.'

‘Sounds like my kind of trek,' Arif grinned. ‘Shall we try it then? Tomorrow morning?'

‘I'm certainly game,' Neha smiled.

‘Right, then. I'll book us on. Think we may need to be accompanied by a guide.'

‘And it's a crack of dawn start,' Neha warned, getting up with a look at her watch. ‘Well, I'm off for my second treatment of the day.
Shirodhara
. This is the life, eh? Just floating from treatment to treatment …'

‘Enjoy!' Arif grinned before returning to his reading.

Neha walked towards the spa building, surprised at how a bit of normal conversation and laughter had revived her spirits. The human mind was indeed a wonderful thing, able to expand and take on quantities of emotion without cracking. And in Arif she had found a particularly entertaining companion, one who was as capable of fun as serious philosophical discourse, as she had discovered at the Vedanta lecture this morning. Just chatting with him about life in general, she found she was feeling altogether stronger about the situation with Sonya, and ready to face whatever awaited her in Delhi when she returned. Off and on she had toyed with the idea of calling the number in Sonya's letter but a terrible fear assailed her every time she thought of the events that might be sparked off. Besides, what reasonable explanation could she ever have for abandoning her child?

 

The following morning, Neha discarded the regulation Ananda uniform of cotton kurta-pyjama for jeans and a
tee-shirt in preparation for her trek. Luckily she had packed a pair of trainers and so she wore these before pulling a light jumper on as the pre-dawn air was light and cold. Making her way out of the darkened corridors, she headed for the meeting point in the spa building. Arif was already waiting, seated on the silk sofas with a couple of other guests and the guide who had been organized by the resort. The hotel had provided a small picnic of fruit and drink and the small group soon set off, leaving Ananda's wrought-iron gates to start walking towards the foothills. The distant mountains were edged with a pale silvery light as the time for sunrise approached and soon the skies were turning a buttery yellow.

In an hour, the group was climbing and, when they reached a grassy flat stretch, the guide suggested they stop for a snack. Sitting on a rocky outcrop, Neha was munching on an apple when she felt the phone in her satchel buzz. After that short aborted call from Sharat a night ago, she had lost her phone signal again and so she hastily fished the instrument out of her purse, answering it in a hurry as she saw Sharat's name flash on the screen.

‘Darling!' she heard her husband say, with relief in his voice at finally having managed to get her.

‘Oh, Sharat, I can't believe I finally have a signal. Could be because I'm outside the spa right now, actually, on a trek. It's the only thing about Ananda I don't like, the lousy phone signals!'

‘Well, part of the reason people go there is to get away from it all,' Sharat laughed.

‘I didn't need to get away from you, for heaven's sake! Tell me, are you okay?'

‘Yes, I'm fine. It's been a bit busy so perhaps it's just as well you're not here.'

‘Things okay at home? Ram Singh does tend to take things easy if I'm not around to supervise.'

‘Naah, he's managing all right. Even made “Eenglees” cuisine for my dinner last night.'

‘English cuisine?' Neha laughed. ‘What did he turn out? Don't tell me roast beef and Yorkshire pudding?'

‘Oh, nothing as elaborate as that. Just some potato cutlets, boiled vegetables and coleslaw actually. Oh “Eenglees” reminds me. I forgot to say the last time I called – a pair of girls were here asking for you a couple of days ago. Foreigners. English, I'd guess from their accents.'

Neha's blood suddenly ran cold. She felt faint as her surroundings swam around her. It took her a few seconds to regain her composure and she had to swallow hard before she could speak. ‘English girls? Looking for me? Did they say why?' she asked finally, her voice sounding strangulated to her ears.

‘No, they seemed strangely reticent, in fact,' Sharat replied. ‘I asked them to return in a few days but Ram Singh later said that he gave them your mobile number. Not that they'd have been able to get through to you at Ananda! But it was a reminder that we must instruct Ram Singh not to give out our numbers to all and sundry. Maybe he was just rattled by them being foreigners. I'm sure they won't call and pester you while you're there but I thought I should warn you. Probably something to do with your drama troupe, I'd say. Were you expecting a pair of English volunteers?'

‘Did they not give you their names?' Neha asked, her heart still beating rapidly.

‘Nope. Nothing. They were in a great hurry to get out of here when they found you weren't around. Wouldn't
accept anything to eat or drink except for a glass of water, Ram Singh said. Very peculiar.'

Neha heard little of the rest of Sharat's conversation as he told her about his meeting with the Home Minister. When he had finally hung up, she sat holding her phone in her limp hand, staring unseeingly at the distant mountains. Then she jumped as a hand tapped her shoulder.

‘Jeez, I didn't mean to frighten you,' Arif said. He stopped smiling as he saw the expression on Neha's face. ‘Hey, are you okay?' he asked.

Neha nodded, getting to her feet. She dusted the grass off her jeans, avoiding eye contact, certain that her face would give everything away. She had plainly not succeeded, for Arif was looking at her now with concern in his eyes.

‘Not bad news, I hope?' he enquired, glancing at the phone that Neha was tucking into her bag.

‘No, thanks for asking,' Neha replied, aware that her voice was still shaking. Luckily the crackly phone signals would have prevented Sharat from hearing her shock.

Neha and Arif joined the rest of the group who were already assembled at the gravel path and followed them as the hike resumed. Neha's mind was in utter turmoil and she could barely hear the banter among the rest of the group, let alone join in. Arif was, however, his usual cheerful self, joining in the general chatter with all sorts of wisecracks. Every so often, he darted a glance in Neha's direction, conscious, she knew, of her sudden change of mood. Partially to mollify him, she made a couple of attempts at conversation but it was no use. Her mind was darting all over the place. Sharat's news of the foreigners' visit was simply devastating. Of course, one of those girls was Sonya. It could be no one else. Which meant she had
kept her word. Sonya was, as her letter had threatened, now in India and in search of her. How long would she be able to hide, Neha wondered? How long before she would have to face the inevitable and let everything come out? What did Sonya want from her? And what would it do to Sharat and their world? It was just too frightening to contemplate.

 

When the group finally reached its destination two hours later, there were loud groans as realization dawned that they would need to climb a tall flight of stairs to get to the temple. Neha silently joined those who had already started tramping up. Even though she was tired and her legs ached, she barely noticed her fatigue. When she arrived at the temple, she lined up alongside the others, awaiting the blessings of the priest. An old man with a lined and kindly face tied a red thread around her wrist and marked her forehead with vermilion while chanting something under his breath. Neha looked into the darkened interior of the minuscule temple and prayed for forgiveness. What she had done to her baby was among the worst things a woman could do. And, while she had always thought that she had already been punished by being robbed of more children, clearly her trial was only just about to start.