The Dowry Bride (18 page)

At the moment Harini looked like a mother hen whose chick had been snatched by a hungry cat.

Although plain in looks and average in brains, Harini was born with better fortune than herself, Megha concluded. It only went to show that good looks and intelligence didn’t necessarily guarantee a happier life. Everything in life was entirely predetermined by fate: who you were; what you did; whom you married; and where your life would eventually take you.
Karma. Kismet
. Destiny. They all boiled down to fate.

And yet, Megha loved her friend and was happy for her, truly glad that Harini had found a blissful home and a kind husband. Her dear friend deserved the best. Harini looked content and Megha knew for a fact that she was eagerly looking forward to the birth of her first child.

Like Megha, Harini had married immediately upon completing her degree, just a few months prior to Megha’s wedding. Harini’s husband, Vijay, worked as an engineer for the local public works department, or PWD as it was known, and they lived in middle-class comfort. Her husband’s younger brother was an engineering student, a shy young man who was easy to get along with. All Harini had to do was make sure the house was clean and everyone was fed well. In fact, that was the main reason Vijay had married a homemaker and not a career woman. With no women to take care of their all-male family, the men needed someone like Harini with her housekeeping skills.

Glancing at Megha, Harini smiled wryly. “Envy me? What for? I’ve always wanted your model-like beauty and elegance. You’re clever, too. I can’t imagine why you would envy someone like me.”

“Because you have such a quiet and safe life.”

Harini’s worried frown instantly returned. “Talking of a safe life, Megha, what are you going to do? You can’t hide forever.”

Megha stopped pacing and came to sit in one of the old-fashioned kitchen chairs. Harini’s kitchen was somewhat like Amma’s kitchen, ancient and small, but it felt so much more cheerful. There was a radio softly playing Hindi songs. A burning incense stick on the altar exuded the pleasant and familiar smell of jasmine. Gleaming stainless steel pots and pans were lined up face down on a three-tiered wooden shelf that had turned gray with age. A small blue refrigerator hummed in a corner.

A package of Monaco biscuits lay open on the kitchen table, but Megha had yet to eat one. This kitchen had such a cozy and warm look about it as compared with the Ramnaths’. Even the tea tasted so much better here.

“I know,” Megha agreed with a sigh. “I can’t hide forever, but I can’t go back to my husband, Harini. That’s not an option. One of these days I’ll contact my parents, but in the meantime I don’t know what to do.”

“What made you go to Kiran Rao for help, Megha? Why did you go to your husband’s cousin when you had family and friends?”

Megha took a deep breath. Hadn’t she asked herself the same question over and over again? “Because he is the only person who seems to understand me, the only one who has been on my side when Amma and her family picked on me. And like he says, no one would dream of looking for me in his house, whereas all
my
family and friends will be suspect.”

“I see.” Harini took a second to think about it.

“Kiran is very kind and generous,” said Megha, “but that makes my hiding in his house even worse.”

“Why?”

“I feel so guilty about putting him in this awkward position.”

“Oh, Megha, I hadn’t realized how hard this is for you. That horrible woman could have burned you to death. Why would she want to kill her son’s wife?” Harini’s eyes turned moist with tears once again.

Watching Harini shed tears for her, Megha’s own voice turned hoarse. “In…in Amma’s eyes, I’m worthless. I didn’t come with a dowry, nor did I get pregnant.”

Harini stared in contemplation at her cup for a long moment. Perhaps instinctively, she put a hand over the gentle swelling of her own growing middle before she turned to Megha. “I know the dowry business bothered her, but what is this fuss about you not being pregnant?”

“I was brought into the lofty Ramnath household for a purpose—like a prize cow. I was supposed to produce one or two good-looking grandchildren, preferably boys, for Amma and Appaji to bounce on their knees. If, God forbid, my children looked like their side of the family, I’d probably be tossed out on my backside in a minute. If I produced a girl, again a similar fate. No dowry and no grandchild—therefore I was to be killed off.”

Sucking in an incredulous breath, Harini exclaimed, “They’re lunatics!”

“Much worse—they’re psychopathic killers. Now do you see why I had to run away?”

“Why didn’t you go straight to the police when you started running? Those murderers should be put in jail.”

“What proof did I have? Who’s going to believe the words of a distraught, twenty-one-year-old runaway against upstanding, upper-caste citizens like Amma and her rich, influential brothers? The police would laugh in my face and have me back in Amma’s possession in a minute.”

Harini’s mouth formed a visible O. She looked as if she’d finally begun to comprehend the situation. “But how are you supposed to produce beautiful children with those ugly genes coming from their family? They look like three anemic rabbits mixed in with one raging hippopotamus.”

Despite her anguish Megha chuckled at Harini’s apt description of the Ramnaths. “And you thought I had a flair for colorful descriptions?”

But Harini didn’t seem to think it was funny. She still looked indignant. “And why did your parents marry you off into such a horrible family in the first place?”

“My father said the Ramnaths were well-off but were willing to settle for a smaller dowry than the other families they had considered for me. My father is also getting old and sickly. Amma never missed an opportunity to remind me that she made a big sacrifice by accepting me into their family in spite of the measly dowry and my lack of a career.”

“So your parents married you off to the first man who settled for a small dowry?”

“Precisely.”

“I didn’t know all the details until now, Megha.” Harini threw her an accusing glance. “You…never really told me.”

“It’s not something to be proud of.” Megha bit her lip in misery.

A pained groan came from Harini. “Oh, Megha, no wonder you looked so tense all the time during the past year. And your lord and master did nothing to protect you from that fat hippo?”

“Which lord and master do you mean—senior or junior? There are two in that house, remember. Senior quakes in his
chappals
at the sight of his beloved Chandramma. Junior simply doesn’t care. To him I’m just a free sex slave, cook, and servant rolled into one.”

Harini squeezed Megha’s hand. “I wish I could do something to help. Does Kiran have any suggestions?”

Megha rose to put their empty cups in the sink. “Kiran thinks it would be good for me to stay with him for a while and worry about the future after I get a divorce.”

“But divorce could take years!” Harini looked scandalized. “You can’t live with a young bachelor in secrecy for that long. You have to get a job or something, Megha.”

“What kind of job? A bachelor’s degree in liberal arts is good for nothing these days. I have no money or influence. I’m a fugitive, so I can’t even stir out of the house. I’m here today under cover of darkness, my face hidden behind a
chunni.”

“Maybe you can teach English? You’re good at English, especially poetry.”

“I don’t have a teaching degree or a certificate, Harini.”

“What about working for a newspaper or magazine? You always wanted to be a journalist.”

“And exactly how many English language newspapers and magazines are there in this town?” Megha’s laugh was dry. “Exactly one:
The Palgaum Messenger.
And that is a small, one-man operation.”

“Oh! But you write and speak beautifully. That should help.”

“A lot of good that did me! Writing and speaking talents had no place in the Ramnath household. Only culinary and drudgery skills were welcome. They eat like gluttons. Amma looks forward to each meal like a starved animal.”

“Starved hippopotamus.” Harini grinned for the first time, easing the mood for both of them.

They moved to the drawing room and settled themselves on the couch for a while, immersed in their own private thoughts. Then Harini slid a hand in Megha’s. “I’m glad you came to see me today.”

“So am I.”

“And I’m relieved that Kiran is taking such good care of you.”

Megha stroked the pudgy hand that lay on hers. “You must promise not to mention this to anyone.”

“I promise. But you have to stay in touch, okay? Don’t make me worry about you again.”

Megha’s anxious glance wandered to the clock on the wall. “I better go now. Kiran will start to worry.”

“Can’t you stay a little longer and eat dinner with us? I’m making your favorite—”

“No! Vijay will be home in a little while and we don’t want him to find me here.”

“He’ll understand if we explain. And we’ll call Kiran and tell him you’ll—”

“No!” Megha held up a hand. “You can’t tell Vijay. It’s too dangerous—not just for us, but for him, too.”

“All right. But at least stay in touch,” Harini added, as she watched Megha reach for the phone to call Kiran.

After a few minutes, picking up her purse, Megha slipped into the
chappals
she had left by the front door. She gave Harini a tight hug. “I feel so much better now.”

“You don’t look like you’re better. Something else is troubling you, isn’t it?”

Megha closed her eyes for a moment. “I’ve been having nightmares lately. I have this…this feeling that something is about to happen…that someone is watching me. I can feel it in my bones. Amma is waiting to pounce on me. Even walking here this evening, I had a feeling someone’s eyes were following me.”

“It’s just nerves, Megha. I don’t know much about psychology, but I’m sure anybody who’s had an experience like yours would have nightmares. You were almost murdered, for goodness’ sake.”

“Nearly burned to cinders.”

Harini winced. “Thank heavens you’re okay now. I’m sure Kiran will keep you safe.”

“Kiran tries very hard to keep me safe, even to the extent of putting himself in danger.”

“Oh, my God,” said Harini, a strange look coming over her round face.

Megha frowned at her. “What’s wrong?” When Harini said nothing, she grabbed her arm. “Harini, are you okay?”

“I just realized something. Kiran is in love with you, isn’t he?”

“What!” Megha gasped. “Don’t be silly—he’s my cousin-in-law. That’s as good as brother-in-law in our family.”

Harini shook her head. “I noticed him during your wedding. He kept staring at you all day, completely fascinated. I thought he was admiring your good looks like everyone else at the time, but now I know why he’s doing so much for you. He’s crazy about you, Megha.”

Afraid that Harini’s words might have some basis, Megha hurried to the door and unlocked it. “No, no, there’s nothing between Kiran and me. He’s a perfect gentleman.”

“I didn’t say he was not a gentleman,” Harini replied quietly. “Listen, call me. And tell me if I can do anything for you. I have a little money of my own if you need it.”

Megha shook her head. “You’re very generous, but I can’t take your money.”

“In case you need it, you just have to ask. And be careful.”

Leaning against the doorframe, Harini waved goodbye, the worry clearly showing on her face. Her eyes still looked red with tears.

Keeping her well-covered head down and her eyes on the ground, Megha hurried to the end of the street. Her palms were damp and her heartbeat pounded in her ears. The sense of dread was worse than the kind that used to come just before a final exam while in high school and college. It went beyond anything she had felt in the past. Was she doomed to live like this for the rest of her life, looking over her shoulder, worrying over where she went and what she did and who saw her?

She quickened her pace, telling herself she had only a few more steps to cover before she’d be safely ensconced in Kiran’s car. For a moment she panicked. What if Kiran wasn’t at the designated spot, waiting for her? She noticed the starved-looking beggar boy on his usual corner and quickly crossed the street to avoid him. Surprised that he hadn’t come after her, she kept walking. The little devil hadn’t recognized her in her camouflage. Or this late in the evening he was probably too tired to run.

Her heart was racing at a giddy pace now. This secret visit to Harini was more stressful than she’d imagined. What Harini had said about Kiran just now was disturbing, too. The more Megha thought about it, the more sense it made. Was Kiran really in love with her? Was that why he was so kind and attentive, so generous and wonderful?

And if he was in love with her, what was she going to do? Her feelings for him were…well…what
were
her feelings for him? She appreciated everything about him. He was a highly attractive man. He dressed elegantly, too. She’d have to be blind not to notice his sex appeal. She had seen women, young and middle-aged, look at him with frank admiration. The pangs of possessiveness and jealousy that came over her whenever that happened were hard to deny. So did that mean she was interested in him, too…as a man and not as a cousin? She wasn’t sure. Everything was so confusing these days.

She realized she had reached the end of the street. When Kiran’s parked car came into view, she broke into an excited run.

A
s Megha slid into the passenger seat, panting, Kiran shot her a smile. “Calm down. You’re all right.”

“Thank…God! That was…quite an adventure,” she managed to murmur.

“Take a few deep breaths. You’re wheezing.”

“Okay…okay.” She did as he said and felt her frantic heartbeat settle a bit.

“So how was it?” Kiran put the car in gear and pulled out.

“Good. Really good.”

“Is your friend doing well?”

She took another long breath and pushed the veil away from her face. “Harini looks wonderful. She’s getting nice and round.”

Kiran chuckled. “She’s supposed to get nice and round if she’s going to have a baby soon.”

Megha sniffed and looked around. “Why do I smell flowers?”

Kiran stretched his arm onto the back seat and retrieved a small plastic bag. “Because I bought you these.”

Opening the bag, Megha pulled out a handful of
champak
flowers. “Why, thanks, Kiran.” Holding the pale yellow flowers with their long, pointed and graceful petals in her cupped palm, Megha leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes to inhale their fragrance. “Umm, they smell fantastic…so soothing.” No wonder spas and salons offered something called aromatherapy these days for calmness and serenity.

Why was he giving her flowers? But then he kept giving her things all the time, some big, some small, but gifts nonetheless. Maybe Harini was right. If he wasn’t in love, he was at least suffering from a crush of sorts. But was she worth it—worth the attention of a man like Kiran? He was rich, educated, sophisticated, a man of the world. So how could he have a crush on her? But if it was true—and it was a big
if,
there was a major hitch: she was married. She might be a runaway, but she was very much married. She looked down at the beautiful flowers in her lap. It was such a sweet, sentimental gesture. Damn, it was nearly making her cry!

The scent of the flowers reminded her of that other occasion when Kiran had given her a single
champak
flower. It was the night his cousin Mala had turned thirteen. There had been an elaborate birthday party—more a gaudy spectacle than a party. The evening had started on a sour note with Amma ordering Megha to wear a different sari than the one she’d had on.

“That sari is not suitable. I don’t like it.” Amma’s nose wrinkled in disapproval. “Change into something more proper, Megha. This is a very special occasion. Mala is turning thirteen.”

Megha looked down at her pale green polyester sari with the pink rose print. It looked fine to her. “But, Amma, this is—”

“Just change!” Amma snapped. “What will people think if they see my daughter-in-law in a cheap sari? That we can’t afford to even dress you properly?”

So that was it—Amma’s ego. Megha gave Amma an acquiescent nod and rushed to the bedroom to reach into the steel
almirah
for a silk sari. The choice was easy. She had only three decent silk saris. They were from her wedding trousseau. She preferred to save them for very special occasions, not birthday parties. But she dare not stand up to Amma, who had decided that her youngest niece’s birthday was a momentous occasion that called for silk.

Hurriedly pulling out the turquoise sari with the orange border and gold motif, she changed into the appropriate orange blouse.

She wished she could enhance the sari with more elaborate jewelry, but she didn’t possess anything beyond the simple
mangalsutra
, gold earrings, and four bangles. A coral necklace to highlight the orange border on her sari would have been nice. She had seen a beautiful one in the window of a local jewelry store. It had three rows of tiny corals that dipped to a V with a circular pendant surrounded by pearls. The matching, dangling earrings were equally lovely. She had yearned for that coral set since she’d laid eyes on it almost two years ago.

While she finished wrapping the sari around herself as hastily as she could, there was a harsh rap on the door. “Come on, Megha, we are late!” Amma bellowed. “The taxi is here and the meter is running.”

“Coming, Amma.” Megha made a dash for the door. It wasn’t her fault they were running late. She ran to the drawing room, thrust her feet into her
chappals
and stepped outside. Suresh was pacing by the front door. Amma, Appaji and Shanti were already seated in the taxi. Suresh put the heavy padlock on the door, then both he and Megha hopped into the taxi. Or rather, squeezed in.

The taxi was a compact old model that shuddered and stalled as it lumbered up the street at a crawl with its overload of passengers. The cloying scent of Amma’s perfume was stifling in the close interior of the automobile. Megha bit back a mild wave of nausea.

The party was in full swing by the time they arrived at the Raos’ home. Although smaller and plainer compared to the elder Raos’ mansion, it was still quite elegant and was located in a high-priced neighborhood.

While Amma haggled over the fare with the taxi driver, Megha stood aside and admired the familiar house. It had a garden abounding in flowering bushes, a sturdy
champak
tree with full, graceful branches, and a wrought iron fence with a red and white painted gate. Hot-pink and white bougainvillea covered an arbor. The second floor had a balcony that boasted Devayani’s prize rose bushes in giant terracotta pots. Fat roses in every possible color were in bloom at the moment, lending the house a lush, tropical look. To give Devayani due credit, despite her spiteful ways, the woman had created a lovely home.

Megha reflected with a wistful sigh that if she could own a house like this some day, she’d be more than content. She could almost picture it in her mind: lots of flowers; a dream kitchen; two children; a cat…

Devayani appeared at the door, bringing Megha’s fantasy to an abrupt end. She was decked out in a red silk sari, a jasmine garland tucked around her elaborate hairdo. Lots of heavy gold jewelry complemented the ensemble. Her overbite seemed a bit more pronounced today, perhaps because she had decided to use a generous layer of blood-red lipstick that was in stark contrast to her large, white teeth. Her brows were crimped in irritation. “Why so late? I was beginning to worry,” she said with the usual sinus twang and sniffle.

Amma inclined her head towards Megha with a long-suffering eye roll.

Devayani glanced at Megha, taking in her appearance and passing silent judgment at the same time. “Oh.”

Megha offered an apologetic smile. She disliked apologizing for something that wasn’t her fault, but it had become a habit lately. She tried not to let the resentment fester, but some days were harder to endure than others.

Devayani’s husband and Amma’s youngest brother, Rama Rao, smiled and nodded at them. He was a quiet, unassuming man with a mop of dense gray hair and a pleasant face. Everything about him was low-key. In spite of being a successful businessman he seemed to maintain a modest image. That was probably the reason Appaji and he got along so well. The two men usually huddled together and watched everyone else do the talking, especially their wives.

Megha looked around the room decorated with pink and white balloons. Mala was dressed in a powder blue and silver
salwar-kameez
outfit. She looked ill at ease and unhappy—not at all like a young girl celebrating a birthday. Short and chubby, with coffee-colored skin and wavy dark hair, she was a plain-looking adolescent, but an affectionate one. She was also a bright girl and excelled in school, especially at mathematics and science. She had dreams of pursuing a career in medicine. Megha liked her best among her husband’s female cousins. Although Mala was a coddled child and complained at times, she was fun to be with when they talked about topics of mutual interest.

After everyone else had wished Mala a happy birthday, Megha gave her a brief hug. “Happy birthday, Mala. Why do you look so sad on your big day?”

Grabbing Megha’s arm and dragging her to a quieter corner, Mala whispered through clenched teeth, “I hate this. I got my first period last month and this silly party is to celebrate that. Can you imagine that, Megha? They’re going to humiliate me by telling the whole world that I got my period.”

Poor child, reflected Megha. This was never an event to be proud of. Some Hindu families liked to make a big splash over a girl’s transition to womanhood. Fortunately for herself, her own family had never paid attention to such routine matters. Nobody had noticed when Megha and her sisters had gradually turned into young women. Besides, her parents didn’t have a large family or scores of friends or money to go out of their way to celebrate anything in style. Obviously the Raos preferred to make this event symbolic. She gave Mala a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “I’m sorry. I can imagine how awful it must be.”

“I don’t think anyone can imagine this.”

“Try to grin and bear it. It’s only one evening.”

Mala cast an annoyed look at the crowd in the drawing room and especially at her mother, who was blowing her nose periodically and carrying on an animated conversation with a relative at the same time. “I’d love to disappear somewhere and come back after the party is over.”

“It will be over in a few hours, Mala.”

“Megha, will you stay with me through the evening?”

Surprised at the unusual request, Megha’s brow flew up. “You want
me
beside you? Why not ask your sister?”

“Kala is a fat frog.”

“Shh! She’s your older sister; you shouldn’t say such things.”

“Kala is mean and fat and jealous. She always makes unkind comments about you and Shanti.”

“I don’t think she means any of it.”

Mala pressed on. “She’s jealous of you because you’re pretty and tall and slim. And she can’t stand Shanti because they’re classmates and Shanti gets better marks than she does in all the subjects.”

Megha laughed. “Why would your sister be jealous of me? She’s such a smart girl and very ambitious. She has a brilliant future ahead of her. I’m only a housewife with no job and no interesting hobbies.”

“Just stay with me when my mother makes the stupid announcement and distributes the ceremonial sweets, okay?” Mala rolled her eyes in indignation. “Uh-oh, here comes another one of our aunts.”

Megha and Mala observed Kamala Rao, Kiran’s mother, making her way through the crowd towards them. Both girls stiffened in response. Kamala had an impressive-looking gift-wrapped package in her hands.

“What are you two young ladies whispering about?” Kamala inquired, one shapely brow elevated. Then she gave Mala a hug. “Happy birthday, my dear. You are a big girl today, aren’t you? I have something special for you,
putti.”
She presented Mala with the gift and beamed with pride.

The woman looked elegant in her peach sari. Diamonds glittered in her ears and at her throat. Rows of gold bangles jangled at her fair wrists. Her nails were perfectly manicured and painted a peachy pink. One slim, long finger showcased an obscenely large diamond ring better than any velvet-lined jewelry box. She was the rich one in the family. She was also a very good-looking woman, graceful and classy. Once again Megha could tell from whom Kiran had inherited his tall and refined looks. Suddenly her own apparel seemed cheap and gaudy when compared with Kamala’s fine getup.

Mala put on her best faux smile and thanked her aunt. “I’m sure I’ll love it.”

“Of course you will. I had it brought in from Mumbai just for you,” said a pleased Kamala. She gave Megha a polite smile and a casual once-over. “You look very pretty this evening, Megha.” Then she moved on to the others in the room.

Mala and Megha let out sighs of relief and stood in their corner to study the other guests pouring in, mostly family members. The extended family added up to at least fifty people: Devayani’s cousin Padma and her family; Padma’s brother-in-law, Jayant and his brood; Amma’s uncle Sadanand and his children and grandchildren; second cousin Raghvendra and his entire clan of six married offspring and their respective families. It went on and on. Megha nearly got dizzy trying to remember all the names. The family rule was that if one relative was invited, the rest had to be invited, too, or it could lead to bruised egos, family feuds and bad blood. So the safe thing to do on special occasions was to invite everyone.

A couple of the Raos’ neighbors and close friends showed up as well. By late evening the house was packed to capacity. Some of them placed their gifts on a growing pile in the corner of the drawing room. Others insisted on coming up to Mala and handing their gifts in person, making Mala more uneasy than she already was.

Drinks and appetizers began to appear and took up the next couple of hours. Megha stayed with Mala as she had promised. Running out of things to talk about with Mala, she looked at the wall clock. It was nearly dinnertime—a grand catered affair with many succulent dishes, no doubt. The caterers had made the delivery earlier and the aromas from the kitchen were drifting into the drawing room.

Megha noticed when Kala decided to put in a late appearance, just in time for dinner. She emerged from her bedroom and came downstairs dressed in a pumpkin colored
salwar-kameez,
her face a picture of bored contempt. She stood at the base of the staircase for a long moment and surveyed the scene before she moved to a quiet spot, as if she couldn’t find a single individual worthy of her attention.

Kala looked like a round pumpkin in every way. She had a nervous habit of rolling her long hair into ringlets around one stubby finger. She was not a friendly individual, and certainly not a happy one. Megha had yet to see her smile or laugh. The few words she chose to bestow upon people were usually full of venom. She vaguely reminded Megha of someone else: Amma. Did she resemble Amma, too? Was Kala another Amma in the making? It was a frightening thought.

“Ah, here comes Tamarind Woman,” hissed Mala, using the cliché about the tart tamarind fruit to describe people of a cheerless nature. Observing her sister’s progress from the staircase to the drawing room, she added, “I would gladly give her ten rupees each time she gave up the sour face and smiled.”