The Dowry Bride (20 page)

All afternoon she paced the floor, with short breaks to sit down and rest her overworked legs. The television failed to hold her attention for more than a few seconds at a time. Every time she heard a vehicle on the street she sprinted to the window. When she realized it wasn’t a family member alighting from a car or taxi she collapsed with relief. Two cups of hot, strong tea didn’t help calm her nerves either. To keep herself from going completely crazy she washed clothes, even Kiran’s office shirts that normally went to the cleaners.

She starched and ironed the shirts with vigorous, deliberate strokes in an effort to get some of the agitation out of her system. She couldn’t go on like this, couldn’t live like a fugitive, a common criminal. She had done nothing wrong. All she was guilty of was running away from certain death. Anyone facing the death sentence would have done the same. And then she had come to the one person who was willing to help, that’s all.

In fact, Kiran had more than helped—much, much more. He had given her shelter, clothes, spending money, everything that he owned—everything that he was, with no expectations in return. She recalled the shopping spree, the appreciation on his face, his kind touch, his softly encouraging words, the gentle humor he added to most everything. Warmth and gratitude filled her. Kiran was her very own angel.

She put his favorite blue shirt on a hanger and took it to the bedroom. The rich fabric felt soft and huggable. When she hung the shirt in the armoire next to his other clothes, the distinctive scent of his aftershave met her nose. They smelled like him. She felt an urge to touch them, gather them up and bury her face in them. How silly and sentimental was that? She’d never felt this way before, not even about Suresh’s clothes. She was behaving foolishly—like a woman in love.

She stopped abruptly in her tracks then. Oh God! It hit her like a loaded truck, the most upsetting and mind-numbing realization: She was falling in love with Kiran! In fact, she
was
in love with Kiran. Deeply. Desperately.

She tried to tell herself this was all wrong. She had no right to fall in love with a man she had no claim on. Perhaps what she felt was only a crush, with its roots in gratitude, like a dreadfully ill patient imagining herself in love with her doctor. Could it be infatuation then? After all, Kiran was a striking man with lots of charm. It had to be infatuation. No, it couldn’t be. But on the other hand…

Picking up a photo album from the bookcase, she flipped to a page where there was a picture of Kiran taken in America—his graduation day, when he got his MBA from Columbia University. His hair was a little longer then, but the smile was the same. He looked proud and happy and…so damned desirable. She closed the album and put it back. She’d never felt like this about any man before.

Wasn’t it only weeks ago that she had thought she loved Suresh, or at least felt wifely fondness for him? Then why did she feel this strange detachment from Suresh now? In fact, it went well beyond detachment. She loathed him. The swine! The filthy, good-for-nothing bastard! Even as the vicious words crossed her mind, she cringed. Where had they come from in the recent weeks? She wasn’t raised to use words like that, even think words like that. Her father would have slapped her face if he’d ever caught her using such foul language.

After some serious deliberation Megha gave up analyzing her emotions. It was hopeless. She had no choice but to face the truth. She was not infatuated with Kiran—she was in love with Kiran. She had felt a certain energy flow between them since the day she’d stepped into this flat. At first she’d dismissed it as her mind playing tricks on her. But his closeness in the last few weeks had brought a curious breathlessness to her lungs, a tingling to her limbs.

She found herself fantasizing about how it would feel to be touched intimately by Kiran. Sleeping in his bed made those fantasies more vivid. They left her confused. He was merely her friend and protector. She couldn’t think of him as anything else. She wouldn’t. It wasn’t right.

In retrospect, there was always an inexplicable bond between them—right from the beginning. How had she not recognized it earlier? At Mala’s birthday party, he had walked in late and their eyes had met across a crowded room and something like a surge of electricity had passed through her. It sounded like a trite cliché, eyes meeting across a room and all that sentimental mush, but it had happened nonetheless—and she had failed to acknowledge it.

Then there were several other occasions when she had noticed, or rather, sensed his eyes on her, and felt a mild rush of excitement. She remembered explaining it away as awkwardness and embarrassment. It had been neither; it was sexual attraction and love in its blossoming phase. Never having experienced anything like it before, she had been blind to it.

But now she knew. And she was trapped, ensnared by her own mind, her own heart. Married to one man and trying to hide from him, on the one hand—in love with another man and attempting to run from him, on the other. This situation was even worse than her predicament some weeks ago. Her heart had not been involved then.

Fear engulfed her. And this time the sense of dread was even more powerful than what she’d felt on the night she was to be incinerated. She had the option of fleeing then. Now she was truly trapped. How could she run from her own feelings?

But she had to do something.

Her sister Hema came to mind again. She had to reach Hema and find out if she would be welcome at her home. Maybe Hema’s husband could help her find a job. He owned a prosperous land-development business; perhaps he could find her a position there. Granted she had no skills of any sort, but she was a fast learner. She had already learned quite a bit about using a computer from Kiran. Her typing skills were improving daily. If office work was not available, she could become a nanny, or work in a nursery school. She loved children and could make a good teacher.

But Kiran had pointed out that the police and Amma would be sure to keep an eye on both her sisters’ homes. Megha’s presence would surely be a threat to them and their respective families. And there was also the matter of embarrassing her sisters’ families with a scandal—police arriving at their door and apprehending a fugitive. Both Leela and Hema’s husbands came from prominent families. They couldn’t afford to have their names dragged through the mud.

The phone rang, startling her out of her thoughts. As was her habit, she let the answering machine pick up the call. She picked up the phone only if she heard Kiran’s voice. The familiar click-click of the machine came on after the sixth ring, and she held her breath. When she heard the voice that spoke following the outgoing message, the breath seemed to go out of her lungs.

Amma!

All Megha could do was gape at the phone while the message got recorded. “Kiran, this is Amma speaking. Give me a ring at once. It is very urgent that I talk to you. I tried your office but your secretary said you were in a meeting.”

Unable to support herself on her weakening legs, Megha sank onto the chair.

A
fter the voice faded away and the answering machine clicked off, Megha sat rooted to her spot. It was not her tortured imagination. It really had been her mother-in-law calling. The blinking light on the answering machine was proof of that. Besides, that fearsome voice was unmistakable. It continued to haunt Megha’s waking and sleeping moments. She’d never forget that voice.

Amma’s message had sounded ominous. Urgent! She had clearly said it was
urgent.
Sudden panic flooded Megha’s senses once again. Kamala had detected Megha’s presence in the flat after all. Something had given her away. Was it the hot stove and the milk? Or was it the open armoire that had traitorously revealed its contents? Had she inadvertently left her new footwear in the room? To make sure she hadn’t, she peered under the sofa. There were all her sandals, safely tucked away.

She had been extra careful with all her belongings. But while she’d thought she had managed to elude Kamala’s keen eye, she must have grossly miscalculated. The woman wasn’t stupid. She had most likely called Amma right away about her discovery—if not an actual discovery, then at least her suspicions.

Megha knew she was finished. The police were likely to appear at the door any moment. She heard a vehicle come to a stop outside the building, so she raced to the window. It had to be the police! What was she going to do?

Looking outside, she found it was a taxi. A broad, slightly balding man stepped out of it. The driver opened the trunk to pull out a large suitcase and an attaché. The big man paid the driver, then picking up his luggage, headed for the front of the building. A minute later she heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. At the front door she listened with her ear pressed to it. With any luck he would go to the third floor? The footsteps came to a stop right outside Kiran’s door and she sucked her breath in. She heard keys rattling. Good God, exactly how many people had keys to Kiran’s flat? Who was the chubby man? Just as she got ready to bolt to the bedroom again, she heard a door open nearby and then shut with a thud.

It dawned on her after a moment. He was the neighbor—the man who traveled frequently. After being away for several weeks he had come home. Until then she hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath. She blew it out and went back to the drawing room.

The neighbor’s return added another wrinkle to her already complicated situation. He would suspect her presence in Kiran’s home. The cooking odors, the sound of running water in the bathroom, and the sound of her voice—they were sure to give her presence away. Chubby man was likely to get nosy.

But what did it matter now, anyway? Amma had found out and Megha’s end was near. She’d be dragged away to her death. Her luck had run out and even Kiran wouldn’t be able to protect her this time.

The phone rang again and the terror ripped through her once more. She walked away from it as if it were on fire. But this time it was Kiran’s voice that came on the recorder, and she dived to pick up the phone. “Kiran! Oh God, Kiran!” she sobbed into the telephone.

“Megha, what’s the matter?”

“It…it’s Amma. She knows I’m here. She called earlier. She’s coming, Kiran! She’s coming to take me—”

“Shhh, stop it, Megha!” When she continued to babble and sob, he ordered, “Stop it! Listen to me. She’s not coming to take you. She tried to call me at the office and when she couldn’t reach me she called the house. After that she rang here again and this time she got me. You know how impatient Amma is when she gets something into her head—she refuses to give up. She’s looking for a lawyer and knows I have a couple of friends who are solicitors. So calm down.”

“She…doesn’t know about me then?”

“Not a thing. Now stop fretting and I’ll be home in a few minutes.”

“All right.”

“And Megha?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t bother with dinner tonight. I’ll bring home some Chinese food.”

“But I already cooked dinner.”

“We’ll use it up tomorrow. You like Chinese, don’t you?”

A tremulous smile came to her lips. He was trying so hard to make her feel better. He was the sweetest, kindest man she knew. She didn’t deserve his kindness. “I love Chinese food.”

“Good. Now cheer up. I’ll be home in a little while.” His deep masculine voice was so gentle he could have been talking to a baby.

“Kiran, thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He laughed. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

She hung up the phone. Indeed, what would she do without Kiran? Where would she be if it weren’t for him? Dead, she thought.

So, Amma was looking for a solicitor to free her precious son from a doomed marriage, was she? Megha broke into a chuckle. Suresh would get himself a divorce in a year or two. By slow degrees, the chuckle turned into hysterical laughter. Suresh would be free and so would she.

The laughter turned into sobs when reality began to sink in. Free to do what? Live with Kiran? Hardly! He would be the laughing stock of the Rao family and the entire community. Her latching onto him would be disastrous for him. His parents would surely disown him. As a divorced woman Megha would have no status in society, but she couldn’t drag Kiran down with herself.

The ring of the postman’s bicycle bell interrupted her thoughts. A few minutes later she heard the postman’s familiar footsteps on the stairs and then the sound of the mail being pushed through the brass slot in the front door of the flat and falling with a thump on the floor-mat in the entry foyer. When she was sure he’d ascended to the third floor, she went to fetch the post. There were several envelopes and a newsletter.

Tossing them on the kitchen counter, she went to wash her tear-stained face and comb her hair. A little after half an hour later Kiran walked in. Besides his packed briefcase he carried a plastic bag that exuded the enticing, distinctive aroma of Chinese food. “Megha,” he called softly after he shut the door. By mutual agreement, they kept their voices down as much as possible to keep the neighbors from hearing them.

She took the bag from him and carried it to the dining table. She was afraid of meeting his eye. The discovery about her feelings for him made her nervous. With her eyes downcast she asked, “So, how was your day?” She pretended to get busy removing the food containers from the bag.

Placing his briefcase on the chair, Kiran approached her. He retrieved a container from her hand and set it down. “Megha, look at me. Are you all right?”

Her slightly reddened eyes met his anxious ones. “I’m not sure. I still believe Amma knows I’m here.”

“She doesn’t.”

“I feel it in my bones. Where Amma’s concerned I have radar.”

“Even if she does suspect something, so what? If she wants to free Suresh so he can marry again, then she’s welcome to. I’ve given her the phone numbers of my lawyer friends.”

“That’s good.” She didn’t know what else to say. She lowered her gaze so he wouldn’t see the deep hurt in her eyes. To be used and discarded like rubbish by one’s husband—correction, to be disposed of as a handful of ashes, was not something to feel good about.

He laid a hand on her arm. “So you think that’s good?”

“Yes. Suresh can be free of me.” She brushed Kiran’s hand away and turned to attend to the dinner table. His touch disturbed her, sent a warm shiver through her body. It was tempting to lean into him, ask him to hold her in his strong, capable arms. Kiran held a certain animal magnetism for her that she’d never felt with Suresh. Right now, with him standing close, she wanted him so badly it was all she could do to keep her emotions under control.

The tension between them at the moment was palpable. A sidelong glance showed his hands clenched into fists by his sides. Did he feel the strange vibes, too? Or was he only being his usual concerned and helpful self? She could have sworn she’d seen a quick flash of something in his eyes a moment ago. Harini’s conjecture came to mind once again.

Abruptly Kiran moved away to get washed and changed before dinner. She sighed in relief. Another minute of him standing inches away from her would have been her undoing.

She quickly set the table. In a few minutes he came out, dressed in black shorts and a bottle-green T-shirt. Late evening stubble had grown on his cheeks and chin. The dark shadow made him look manly and appealing. She felt the urge to reach out and touch his face, feel the roughness against her palm. Everything about him screamed Man—the exact opposite of Suresh.

And that made it more dangerous for her to be around Kiran.

Putting on a cheerful smile she said, “Okay, let’s eat this delicious meal before it gets cold.”

They ate mostly in silence, with a few polite words thrown in. But he kept glancing at her, as if to read her thoughts. “What else is troubling you?” he finally asked.

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Megha,” he urged, “tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s crazy really. That silly cat, Kuppu, begged me for food and affection all the time, but I miss the fat little rascal. I hope they feed him regularly. He was a thin, miserable thing before I started taking care of him.”

“How about if we get a kitten to keep you company?”

“Oh, no, please! Pets are too much trouble anyway.” Besides, she wasn’t planning on staying here forever. A pet would somehow make this weird arrangement seem permanent. She couldn’t risk that.

After dinner, Megha cleared the table, put the leftovers away in the refrigerator, and washed the dishes while Kiran picked up the day’s post and took it to the drawing room. He settled down on the couch to read it like he did every evening. Several minutes later, when she emerged from the kitchen, she saw him frowning over an envelope. “Something wrong?” she asked him.

He merely continued to examine the envelope. “Strange,” he said, his brows still pulled in a knot.

“What’s strange?”

“This envelope. It’s addressed to you.”

Instant terror leapt into her throat. “It can’t be!”

He held it up. “Here, take a look.”

She gulped hard. Someone had located her whereabouts and written her a letter! “No…no…you open it,” she said, trying to keep her hands from shaking. It had to be from Amma. Megha found it hard to move, but dragged herself towards Kiran.

He grasped her by the wrist and forced her to sit beside him. “It’s yours, Megha.” He thrust the envelope in her hand.

She continued to stare at it for a long time.

“Come on, Megha, you have to open it some time.” His voice was stern, almost paternal.

His words shook her out of her trance. She tore open the envelope, sure that something evil was going to jump out at her. She had read bizarre stories about exotic poisons, tiny bombs and even killer spiders sent to destroy people through harmless-looking letters.

Her hands trembled so much she thought the envelope would fall out of her grip, but it didn’t. She gingerly lifted the flap and looked in. All she saw was folded paper, so she pulled out the sheets and unfolded them. Something fell into her lap, making her flinch. She picked up the rectangular piece of paper, afraid to look at it but drawn to it anyway. Gazing at it for a moment, she looked up at Kiran. “It’s a check,” she whispered, “made out to me.”

“Really?”

“Uh…for a hundred—” Her head was reeling. “Oh God…hundred thousand rupees!”

“One
lakh
rupees!” He looked stunned. “Read the letter.”

“I wasn’t expecting a letter or a check.” She set the check in the space between them and glanced at the two-page letter, her eyes traveling at once to the end for the author’s name. Her jaw fell. Appaji! It was quite lengthy, too. Had he somehow discovered her hideaway? And if so, why had he not made a phone call? Was he the one who told Kamala and Amma about her? There was only one way to find out.

It was written in a small, neat hand on two sheets of ruled notepaper.