Each morning, after a long bath, Amma put on loads of Fair & Fabulous skin cream, then covered it with a thick layer of face powder. The fairness cream had done precious little to help her dark and rutted complexion, but she continued to use it generously. Then she prayed devoutly before the altar in the kitchen, with its rows of silver idols and pictures of Hindu gods and goddesses and saints. Megha had always admired Amma’s devotion and her capacity to recite by memory so many Sanskrit verses from the scriptures. Too bad the piousness didn’t extend to other areas of Amma’s life.
About four months after Megha came to live with the Ramnaths her outings with Amma came to an abrupt stop. Amma turned against Megha with unexpected vengeance. To this day, Megha hadn’t figured out what it was she had done wrong. Amma was loving and affectionate with her brothers and their respective families, fawned over them even. With her husband and children she could be a bit stern and unyielding. But with Megha her attitude was bitter contempt combined with angry reserve.
There was only one occasion Megha recalled when she had disobeyed Amma, and that was when she’d gone to the neighbor, Sharifa Hamid’s, house to help out when Sharifa had suffered an acute appendicitis attack. Amma had never forgiven Megha for setting foot in a Muslim household and then returning to taint their pure Hindu home. The already fragile relationship between the two women had crumbled completely then and Megha’s position had been downgraded from contemptible daughter-in-law to domestic servant.
Megha was still Amma’s enemy number one. And Megha didn’t even know why. Granted, her father hadn’t paid the dowry money yet, and she had failed to produce a grandchild as expected, but both the problems weren’t entirely her fault, were they? Surely nothing she had done was so severe a crime that it had to be punished by death?
After stewing for a while over all the injustices she’d suffered, rebellious thoughts slipped into Megha’s mind. Why had she put up with the Ramnaths’ despicable treatment of her all these months? Why had she let Amma look upon her as her personal doormat? Why had she allowed Suresh to use her body nearly every night and then ignore her the rest of the time?
Well, she wouldn’t tolerate it anymore! She was no weakling. She was capable of not only fighting back but giving in equal measure. She had a perfectly good brain, didn’t she? She’d teach those mean, ugly bastards a lesson. Not today, perhaps not tomorrow, nor even next year. One day in the future she’d deliver her own brand of justice and watch the surprise leap into their eyes. At the moment she had no idea how she’d do it, but given time, she’d know what to do.
Never having hated anyone with such passion, Megha didn’t quite recognize the strong tide of feeling rising within her. But it was potent, bitter. It took her a few moments to realize what the emotion was: Revenge. Two, or rather, three could play the game of wreaking misery on somebody else.
Finally, overcome by exhaustion and with the pain pills easing the throbbing in her foot, she fell asleep, but not before making a resolution to get even with Suresh and Amma Ramnath.
M
egha woke up with a sore feeling, like the bone-deep aching that comes with the flu. Gritty-eyed, she squinted at the bedside clock then sat up in alarm. 9:37 AM! What was she still doing in bed? Why hadn’t Amma woken her? She looked at the empty space beside her on the bed. Where was Suresh? And why were the street noises so subdued this morning as compared with the daily din of automobiles, bicycle bells, rickshaws, the clanging of the
doodhwalla’s
milk cans and people’s incessant chatter?
Her sleep-addled brain took a while to remember she was in a strange bed. Then, as the faint scent of Kiran’s aftershave met her sensitive nostrils and she felt the soft, luxurious sheets beneath her legs, it all came back to her. And along with it came the sense of panic once again.
Telling herself to calm down, she stretched, then stood up, and winced when her body tightened in pain, especially when her bandaged foot hit the floor. The pain shot all the way up to her upper thigh. Carefully examining the sheets, she found two ugly blood stains, dried to a rusty shade of brown. She’d have to wash the sheets thoroughly before leaving the flat. A closer look at the floor showed the stains there were gone. When had Kiran come in and cleaned up that mess? Poor man, he was probably disgusted with having her as a guest in his home. Well, hopefully she’d be gone within the next hour or two.
Megha studied the room with curiosity. What she’d failed to notice the previous night in her dazed state of mind, she noted now. The slate blue curtains on the window were closed, but there was a narrow gap where the two panels came together and the bright morning sun threw enough light into the room to illuminate it.
The bedroom furniture was made of rich, dark rosewood, with the headboard, the bedside table, the dresser and matching mirror all coordinated. Megha ran her fingers over the headboard’s rim, admiring its smooth curves and glossy finish. Nice. Next to the window a computer sat on a rosewood desk with a crammed bookcase beside it. Most of the books were about engineering, computer systems and software design. There were a few novels—John Grisham, Tom Clancy, Stephen King, and James Patterson—typical male tastes in fiction.
Two extra wide
almirahs
or armoires, also made of rosewood, sat against one wall. It was a utilitarian and simple room—a man’s bedroom, but again, decorated in excellent taste. Kamala Rao’s hand was unmistakable.
Megha glanced at herself in the mirror and nearly sprang back in shock. The scratch on her chin was a red diagonal scab. Her hair was sticking out in various directions. The scratches on her arms and legs matched the one on her chin. The T-shirt and shorts looked crushed now. All of the previous night’s events came flooding back into her mind, once again bringing with them grief, hopelessness, and fear.
She returned to the bed and sat on its edge for several minutes, trying to get a grip on the turmoil of emotions. Now that the sun was shining and it was a new day, her situation didn’t look any more promising than it had the previous night. If anything it seemed worse. She was in a lot of pain and hiding in a stranger’s house. She was still a woman with no home and no family. And not a single rupee to her name! A good night’s sleep was supposed to refresh her mind, allow her to think of some way out of this mess, but her brain still felt dead.
What the hell was she going to do?
Rising from the bed for the second time, she went to the window and drew the curtains aside a little. There was a small park-like enclosure with a children’s play area across the street. Child-size swings, a see-saw and two slides were separated from the adult-size benches by a large sand-pit. At the moment the park was empty except for two men trimming the hedge along the perimeter. The occasional car, scooter, bicycles and pedestrians moved back and forth on the street below. The traffic on this street was sparse compared with Cantonment Galli. It seemed blissfully quiet here. No wonder she’d slept so well.
Turning around, Megha headed back to the mirror. Her eyelids were swollen from last night’s weeping. She had cried and sobbed until there were no more tears left. But the crying had been cathartic to some extent, although thinking about it now brought an embarrassed flush to her face. She’d made an utter fool of herself in front of Kiran.
She wondered what she could do to tame her wild locks. Finding two combs on the dressing table, she picked up the sturdier one to draw through her hair. The tangles were hard to smooth out because she’d gone to bed with damp hair, but she managed to bring some semblance of neatness to it by braiding it.
Looking around for her clothes, she realized she had left them in a heap on the floor by the washer. In her strange getup she was diffident about stepping out of the room. She was convinced she looked like the little beggar boy in the bazaar, except, unlike him, the clothes she had on were expensive. Both shirt and shorts had the Polo logo embroidered on them.
No longer able to hide in the bedroom, she tiptoed to the door and carefully opened it wide enough to poke her head out. The fragrance of fresh coffee greeted her and she breathed in deeply to inhale the mouth-watering aroma.
“Good morning.”
Startled, she turned her head to follow Kiran’s voice coming from the drawing room. He sat on the sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his big, bare feet parked on the coffee table. He held a writing pad in one hand and an uncapped pen poised in the other. Dressed in fashionably faded jeans and a navy T-shirt, he looked freshly shaved and bathed. Kiran’s pleasantly casual attire made Megha feel even more ill-at-ease about her own. She smiled at him but didn’t step out of the room. “I guess you didn’t get any sleep, huh?” she asked him, hoping he wouldn’t notice the embarrassing warmth seeping into her cheeks.
“I managed to get some.” He gazed at her face for a moment. “I noticed you slept soundly.”
“Hmm. I didn’t even realize you came in and cleaned the floor.” She offered him a rueful smile. “Sorry about making you do all that.”
“No problem,” he replied cheerfully. “Hope the bed was comfortable.”
“Need you ask? It’s the most luxurious bed I’ve ever seen.”
His grin was amiable, making her feel less awkward. “Are you planning to come out of there anytime soon?” he teased.
“I can’t come out. I feel funny in these clothes. They’re very nice, mind you, but I look silly in them.”
“Is that right?” He continued to look amused.
“Okay, I’m embarrassed to come out,” she finally admitted.
“I saw you in those last night, remember?” Kiran’s eyes sparkled with mischief.
She wrinkled her nose at him. “I remember.”
“Come on out—I made fresh coffee.” The jesting grin flashed again, showcasing his fine set of teeth.
The promise of coffee made her stomach rumble in response. She was starving. Arms tightly crossed over her chest to hide what she considered her nakedness underneath the clinging softness of the cotton shirt, she stepped out. Last night, under the dimly sophisticated lighting, it hadn’t seemed that bad, but now, in the bright sunlight streaming in through the dining room window, she felt exposed. “I think I’ll go brush my teeth,” she mumbled and made a dash for the bathroom.
Inside the bathroom she found a little surprise. On the marble countertop she saw her sari, blouse, petticoat and underwear sitting in a neat pile—washed, dried and folded. They smelled wonderfully clean. When had Kiran managed to do it? Between that and cleaning the rug and floors, had the poor man slept at all?
The inexpensive cotton of her once-white undergarments had long ago turned to a dull gray from constant washing. Oh dear, Kiran had touched her bra and knickers! It didn’t feel right that a man other than her husband had handled her most intimate garments. If her mother ever found out about this, she would faint from the sheer shock of it.
Turning away from the clothes, she took care of the necessities, then carried her folded clothes back to the bedroom and changed as quickly as she could. She knew Kiran’s eyes had followed her as she’d darted across the dining room. She was also sure he’d grinned at her silliness.
Feeling a little more relaxed in her own clothes, she managed to enjoy the simple breakfast of buttered toast and mango jam Kiran prepared for her. The gnawing hunger in her stomach began to ebb. The coffee was excellent. She felt like a spoiled kitten with all this attention he was heaping on her. God, this was so much better than home.
The thought of home gave her a sudden jolt. That miserable place in Cantonment Galli was no longer her home. In fact, she had no home anymore. She had run away from her husband and she was no longer welcome at her parents’ house. She was homeless. A wave of self-pity brought on the urge to start weeping again, but she suppressed it. Feeling sorry for herself wasn’t going to get her anywhere. Besides, Kiran was already swamped with her tears and her innumerable problems. She took a few deep breaths and forced herself to calm down.
Looking for a suitable topic to break the awkward silence between them, she glanced at Kiran. “I thought you’d be at work by now.”
“Remember I told you last night I was going to take the day off?” He poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and sat across from her at the table.
Recalling it through last night’s turmoil, she nodded. “Thanks for washing my clothes. How did you manage it so quickly?”
He shrugged. “I have a washer and dryer.”
“You didn’t have to do it, Kiran.”
“Don’t look so guilty. I didn’t do much.” He watched her thoughtfully while she ate. “Megha, I’m trying to make a list of all the things you’re going to need right away. You’ll have to help me here. I don’t know anything about women’s clothes or toiletries.” He pushed the pad and pen towards her.
She chuckled as her eyes traveled down the sheet of paper and the extensive list he’d drawn up: lipstick, mascara, rouge, foundation, face powder, saris, blouses, footwear, undergarments, comb, brush, beauty products. That’s where the list ended for now. There were question marks next to two of the items: undergarments and beauty products. She suppressed her urge to laugh, but a second later a giggle erupted and she placed a demure hand across her mouth. It wasn’t right to laugh heartily or giggle before a man—it would be considered unsuitable behavior for a young woman, in essence flirting.
She looked up to meet his amused gaze. His lips were twitching. All at once they both burst out laughing. She didn’t care about proper behavior at that moment—it felt wonderful to laugh with someone who had a sense of humor. She hadn’t laughed wholeheartedly in months.
He was the first to recover. “Told you I don’t know much about girly things. Why don’t you make your own list?”
She confidently crossed out the first five items. “These are totally useless to me. I don’t use any makeup. The rest looks okay.”
Kiran’s brows shot up. “No makeup at all? Then how do you manage to look so beautiful all the time?”
“Who says I look beautiful all the time? Right now my eyes are swollen from crying and sleeping too much, and the scab on my chin is turning to an ugly shade of brown. As for my arms and legs, I can’t bear to look at them.”
He parked his elbows on the table and rested his face between his cupped hands. Leaning forward, he studied her face. “The scab on your chin is minor and will be gone in a day or two. Your eyes are dark brown with a wide black rim around the irises,” he declared. “That’s why I’d assumed they were black.” He let his gaze dwell on her face for a few moments. “I don’t see any swelling. Your eyes are just as big and pretty and mysterious as they always are. Your cheeks are glowing, too. Sleeping late agrees with you.”
Her cheeks were probably pink because of the blood rising into her face and neck. “You’re very kind, Mr. Rao.” She laughed, flustered by his close scrutiny, but genuinely pleased by his compliments. Then the pleasure was replaced by serious distress as she considered the list lying between them on the table. “Kiran, how am I going to pay you back for all this? I don’t have any money.”
“I don’t want to be paid back.”
“I can’t accept things from you,” she argued. “It’s…not right.”
“Why not? We’re family, and families help each other.”
She shook her head, unable to accept his explanation. “But still…”
“Besides, I can afford it.” He pushed the list forward again. “Now, go ahead and add whatever you like. I’ll see that you get them,” he announced, with typical male confidence.
Megha looked at him reflectively. Kiran was a manager at a major corporation and probably accustomed to issuing orders. But she didn’t mind his bossiness somehow. It was rather endearing, especially because she knew now that she could trust him and he was trying so hard to help her. She started to add to the list. Hairpins, sanitary pads…
He rose from the table, but pivoted on his heel as a sudden thought struck him. “Why only saris? Why don’t we buy you some
salwar-kameez
outfits, Megha?” he said, referring to the two-piece outfits with a shirt and matching drawstring pants topped with a long, flowing, boa-like piece that fell across the shoulders. They came in a variety of styles and fashions and colors that went from simple and plain to stylish and elaborate, loose and modest to tight and outrageously revealing.
“I’m a grown woman, Kiran, and married. I can’t wear girlish outfits. Besides, they’re expensive. I can’t let you spend that kind of money on me.”
“Sure you can.”
“Then you have to promise me something. You have to let me repay you for whatever you spend on me. Otherwise, I won’t let you buy anything for me.”
“Oh, stop it, Megha! I won’t take any money from you.” He glanced at her speculatively. “But if you insist on paying me back…maybe you can in other ways.” A suspicious scowl from her brought an amused grin to his face. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Megha Ramnath! And stop looking at me like that. My intentions are entirely honorable.”
Megha felt foolish when he put it like that. “I’m sorry—I’m still on edge.” How could she have doubted his intentions in the first place? Last night, even when she was at her most vulnerable, he had been the perfect gentleman.