The Midnight Rose (3 page)

Ari followed his great-grandmother’s eye line out to the mountains beyond the window. “It’s a beautiful view,” he said, for want of something better to say.

“Yes, and it’s why I stay here, even though my daughter disapproves. One day soon, I’ll travel upward, way beyond those peaks, and I’ll be happy for it. I will see many people there whom I’ve mourned in my life. But of course, as it stands”—Anahita’s gaze landed on her great-grandson once more—“not the one I wish to see most of all.”

“How do you know he’s still alive?”

Anahita’s eyes reverted to the skyline, then she closed them wearily. “As I said, it’s all in my story.”

“Of course.” Ari knew he was dismissed. “So, I’ll let you rest, Nani.”

Anahita nodded. Ari stood up, made a
pranaam
, then kissed his great-grandmother on each cheek.

“Good-bye, and I’m sure I’ll see you soon,” he commented as he walked toward the door.

“Perhaps,” she answered.

As Ari made to leave the room, he turned back suddenly on instinct. “Nani, why me? Why not give this story to your daughter, or my father?”

Anahita stared at him. “Because, Ari, the story you hold in your hands might be my past, but it is also your future.”

Ari left the room feeling drained. Walking through the bungalow, he made for the coatrack by the front door, underneath which his briefcase sat. Stowing the yellowing pages inside it, he continued into the drawing room. His grandmother Muna approached him immediately.

“Why did she want to see you?” she asked him.

“Oh,” Ari replied airily, “she doesn’t believe her son is dead and wants me to go and investigate in England.” He rolled his eyes for full effect.

“Not again!” Muna rolled her own eyes equally dramatically. “Listen, I can show you the death certificate. Her son died when he was about three. Please, Ari”—Muna laid a hand on her grandson’s shoulder—“take no notice. She’s been going on about this for years. Sadly, it’s an old woman’s fantasy, and certainly not worth wasting your precious time with. Take my word for it. I’ve listened to it for much longer than you. Now”—his grandmother smiled—“come and have a last glass of champagne with your family.”

•  •  •

Ari sat on the last plane from Bagdogra back to Mumbai. He tried to concentrate on the figures in front of him, but Anahita’s face kept floating into his vision. Surely his grandmother was right when she’d told him Anahita was deluded. And yet, there were things his great-grandmother had said when they were alone—things she couldn’t have known about him—which had unsettled him. Perhaps there was something in her story . . . maybe he would take the time to glance through it when he arrived back home.

At Mumbai airport, even though it was past midnight, Bambi was there at Arrivals to greet him. The rest of the night was spent pleasantly in his apartment overlooking the Arabian Sea, enjoying her slim young body.

The following morning, he was already late for his meeting, and as he packed his briefcase with the documents he needed, he removed the papers Anahita had given him.

One day I will have time to read it
, he thought as he shoved the manuscript into the bottom drawer of his desk and hurriedly left his apartment.

One year later

. . . 
I remember. In the still of the night, the merest hint of a breeze was a blessed relief from the interminable dry heat of Jaipur. Often, the other ladies and children of the zenana and I climb up to the rooftops of the Moon Palace, and make our beds there. And as I lie there gazing up at the stars, I hear the sweet, pure sound of the singing. And I know then that someone I love is being taken from the earth and gently cradled upward . . .

I awake with a start, and find myself in my bedroom in Darjeeling, not on the palace rooftops in Jaipur. It was a dream, I think, trying to comfort myself, disoriented, for the singing still continues in my ears. Yet I know for certain I am conscious.

I try to recover my senses and realize what this means: if I’m in the present, someone I love is dying at this moment. As my heart rate increases, I close my eyes and scan my family, knowing that my second sight will tell me who it is.

For once, I come up with a blank. It is strange, I think, as the gods have never been wrong before.

But who . . . ?

I close my eyes and breathe deeply, calmly, listening intently.

And then I know. I know for certain what I’m being told.

My son . . . my beloved son. I know it is he who is finally being taken upward.

My eyes fill with tears and I gaze out of my window, looking up to the heavens for comfort. But it’s night and beyond my window is only blackness.

There’s a gentle knock at my door and Keva enters, concern on her face.

“Madam. I heard you weeping. Are you ill?” she asks as she crosses the room and stares down at me, taking my pulse at the same time.

I shake my head silently, while she reaches for a handkerchief to dry the tears that have fallen down my face. “No,” I say, comforting her, “I’m not ill.”

“Then what is it? Did you have a nightmare?”

“No.” I look up at her, knowing she won’t understand. “My child has just died.”

Keva stares at me in horror. “But how did you discover that Madam Muna is dead?”

“It is not my daughter, Keva, but my son. The one I left behind in England many years ago. He was eighty-one,” I murmur. “At least he enjoyed a long life.”

Again, Keva looks at me in confusion, and puts a hand to my forehead to see if I have a fever. “But, madam, your son died many years ago. I think that perhaps you were dreaming,” she says, as much to convince herself as me.

“Perhaps,” I say kindly, not wishing to alarm her. “But nonetheless, I would like you to make a note of the time and the date. It’s a moment I don’t wish to forget. For you see, my waiting is over.” I smile weakly at her.

She does as I request, noting the time alongside the day and date on a piece of paper and handing it to me.

“I’ll be fine now, you may leave me.”

“Yes, madam,” Keva replies uncertainly. “Are you sure you’re not ill?”

“I’m sure. Good night, Keva.”

When she leaves the room, I take a pen from my bedside table and write a short letter to accompany the time and date of my son’s death. I also pull out his tattered death certificate from my bedside drawer. Tomorrow, I will ask Keva to put them in an envelope and address it to the solicitor who is charged with handling my affairs once I pass over. I will ask him to telephone me so I can give him instructions as to whom to send the envelope when I die.

Closing my eyes, I wish for sleep to come now, for I suddenly feel desperately alone here on earth. I realize that I’ve been waiting for this moment. Now my son has left me, it is finally my turn to follow him . . .

•  •  •

Three days later, at the usual time in the morning, Keva knocked on her mistress’s door. Getting no initial response was normal; Madam Chavan often dozed late into the morning these days. Keva busied herself with the housekeeping for another half an hour. She returned to knock again, eliciting further silence from inside the room. Now, this
was
unusual, so Keva opened the door quietly and found that her mistress was still fast asleep. It was only after she had opened the curtains, chatting to her about nothing, as was her habit, that she realized Madam Chavan was not responding.

•  •  •

Ari’s cell rang as he was driving in the chaotic Mumbai traffic. Seeing it was his father, to whom he hadn’t spoken in weeks, he pressed the button on his phone to take the call on speaker.

“Papa!” he said brightly. “How are you?”

“Hello, Ari, I am well, but . . .”

Ari could hear the somber note in his father’s voice.

“Yes?” he asked. “What is it?”

“It is your great-grandmother Anahita. I’m sorry to tell you that she died in the early hours of this morning.”

“Oh, Papa. I’m very sad to hear that.”

“We all are. She was a wonderful woman and will be greatly missed.”

“Yes. At least she lived a long life,” Ari said in a consoling tone as he steered around a taxi that had drawn to a sudden halt right in front of him.

“She did. We’re holding the funeral in four days’ time, to allow the family to gather for it. Your brother and sister are attending and everyone will be there. Including you, I hope,” Vivek added.

“Do you mean this Friday?” inquired Ari, his heart sinking.

“Yes, at midday. She’ll be cremated at the
ghaat
in Darjeeling with family in attendance. We’ll arrange a memorial service for her later, as there are many people who’ll wish to attend and celebrate her life.”

“Papa,” Ari groaned, “really, Friday’s impossible for me. I have a prospective client flying over from the States to talk to me about my taking over his software contract. It would take the company from loss to profit overnight. With the best will in the world, I can’t be in Darjeeling on Friday.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. “Ari,” his father said eventually, “even
I
know there are moments when business must take second place to one’s family. Your mother would never forgive you, especially as Anahita made it obvious at her birthday celebrations last year that you were special to her.”

“I’m sorry, Papa,” Ari said firmly, “but there’s simply nothing I can do.”

“And that is your final word?”

“That is my final word.”

Ari heard the sound of the receiver at the other end slamming down.

•  •  •

Ari was in a euphoric mood when he arrived home the following Friday night. The meeting with the Americans had gone so well that they’d shaken on the deal then and there. He was taking Bambi out tonight to celebrate and had popped home to his apartment to shower and change first. He picked up a letter from his pigeonhole in the lobby and took the elevator to the sixteenth floor. Inside his apartment, he tore open the envelope as he walked into his bedroom and read the contents of it.

Khan & Chauhan Solicitors

Chowrasta Square

Darjeeling

West Bengal

India

2 March 2001

Dear Sir,

On the instructions of my client Anahita Chavan, I have forwarded this envelope to you. As you may already know, Madam Chavan passed away a few days ago.

With kind regards and sympathy,

Devak Khan

Partner

Ari sat down on the bed, realizing that, due to his excitement about the meeting and preparing his team for it, his great-grandmother’s funeral that day had completely slipped his mind. He sighed heavily as he opened the envelope the solicitor had enclosed, doubting that his parents would ever forgive him for not even contacting them today.

“Well, so be it,” Ari told himself grimly as he unfolded the piece of paper inside the envelope and read the letter attached to it.

My dearest Ari,

When you read this, I will have passed over. Enclosed are the details of my son Moh’s death. The exact date and the time. And also, his original death certificate. As you will see, the dates do not correspond. This may not mean anything to you now, my dear boy, but in the future, if you do decide you wish to investigate what happened to him, both may be of relevance.

Meanwhile, until we meet again in another place, I send you my love. Always remember that we are never truly the masters of our destiny. Use your senses to listen and I know you will find guidance.

Your loving great-grandmother,

Anahita

Ari sighed. He really wasn’t in the mood either for his great-grandmother’s hocus-pocus or to think about how angry his parents currently were with him. He didn’t want anything to dampen his good mood tonight.

Running the water in the shower, he flicked on the CD player by his bed and stood under the showerhead listening to the thumping music.

Dressing in one of his hand-tailored suits and a shirt, he turned off the music and was about to leave the bedroom when Anahita’s letter caught his eye. On instinct, he refolded the pages back into the envelope and put it in the drawer with the yellowing manuscript. Then he switched off the lights and left the apartment.

R
ebecca Bradley pressed her face to the window as the plane descended toward London. The patchwork quilt of different hues of green shimmered as if with early-morning dew on this beautiful summer’s day. As the city began to appear beneath her, the sight of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament reminded her of Toy Town in comparison with the soaring skyscrapers of New York.

“Miss Bradley, we’ll be taking you off the aircraft first,” the stewardess informed her.

“Thank you.” Rebecca managed a smile in return. She reached into her shoulder bag for the large pair of black sunglasses which she hoped would mask her exhaustion, although it was unlikely there would be photographers waiting to greet her. She’d needed to get out of New York fast, so she’d called up the airline and changed her original flight for an earlier one.