The Dowry Bride (3 page)

She eyed the wall again. Could she scale it? The man was gaining ground behind her. She could feel his presence closing in. It was now or never. Clenching her teeth hard with the effort, she gripped the top edge of the wall, pulled herself up with one strong thrust and vaulted over it.

With a dull thud she fell into a garden of some kind, wincing as her bottom hit the hard ground and her arms and legs got scratched some more by low-lying plants. Swallowing against the sharp sting, she gave herself a moment to recover then tried to rise to her feet. She couldn’t—her legs were paralyzed rubber. Could she have broken a bone somewhere?

Setting all thoughts of injury aside for a second, she cocked her ears to listen for sounds. The hastening steps were unmistakable. He was coming! She’d made it over the edge not a moment too soon. Her pursuer had reached the spot where she’d been standing mere seconds ago, and come to a stop. She could hear his labored breathing clearly on the other side. Even the combined stench of his stale-liquor breath and body odor was wafting up and over the barrier.

Paralysis worked to her advantage, however, since she seemed to have frozen on the spot, although she hoped her own hard wheezing wasn’t too loud. Even the beat of her heart sounded like drumbeats. With any luck, the miserable bastard was too intoxicated to be able to hear well.

For what seemed like endless minutes, Megha heard the man inhale deeply. Did he know she was on the other side? Is that why he stood there, waiting for her to reappear?

She glanced about in panic, looking for an alternate escape route in case the man decided to scale the wall and come after her. A large house stood in the background, shrouded in dark silence. If there was a way around the house, she couldn’t see it. Thank God there was no sign of guard dogs. Maybe there was a garden tool or a piece of wood or something she could use to defend herself. But it was too damned dark to see anything. The fog was proving to be one hell of a nuisance.

“Kidhar gayi salee?”
she heard the drunkard murmur in Hindi. Where did the whore go?

So he didn’t know where she was! Megha exhaled a deep but quiet sigh.
Thank you, God!
The bum hadn’t seen her leap over the wall after all. Good thing she was wearing a dark sari. And the fog, which she had considered a curse a second ago, was proving to be a blessing in some ways.

She seemed safe for the time being. But she didn’t slump in relief or budge from her spot despite her temporary sense of reprieve. The man was still very much there. She could hear the profanities he kept grinding out and his cough, a deep, guttural, phlegm-packed sound typical of people who smoked
beedis:
tobacco leaves hand-rolled into tubes that resembled thin cigarettes. A
beedi
was the poor man’s cigarette.

After a minute, Megha’s brain thawed a little and her numb limbs seemed to come semi-alive. She flexed her hands, wondering if she would be able to climb back over the wall. What if that wretched beast decided to camp out right there for the night?

Another round of panic shot through her when something soft skittered past her feet. Snake? She was terrified of reptiles. Or was it a rat? She hated rats, too. Could it be the blood oozing from her injured foot that was attracting some kind of blood-sucking creatures? She sat still, hoping to play dead. Maybe they’d sniff and go away.

God, what had she plunged into—from the proverbial frying pan into the fire? Only, in her case, it was more like the fire to the frying pan. And how much longer could she hide out in some stranger’s garden? Daylight was only a few hours away.

Time was running out.

She listened, praying the vagrant would give up on her and leave, praying the night creature wouldn’t return with some of its friends to feast on her wounded foot, praying she hadn’t broken any bones and had the strength left to scale the wall once again, praying she could find a place to hide.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, the man started to stir. She waited till his footsteps began to fade away. He kept murmuring expletives under his breath and coughing, which in a way was to her advantage. It told her he was on his way back to the filthy hole he had emerged from. Only then did she crumple in relief for a few moments to think and plan her next move.

Now that the immediate danger had passed, it was hard to concentrate on rational matters. Exhaustion and pain were warring for attention in her body. Her eyelids began to droop from weariness. The thought of running aimlessly through the streets with an injured foot was becoming more and more repugnant. It was tempting to curl up in that bed of dirt, ignore the night creatures and drift into sleep—at least for a brief hour or two. But she fought the urge to rest. She couldn’t give in to weakness now, not after she’d come all this way. She had to concentrate, force herself to focus on what was imperative: saving herself.
Think, Megha. Think hard!

Gradually the cobwebs in her mind began to clear. An idea started to take shape as she squatted in the dirt: Kiran. He was Suresh’s cousin—Amma’s brother’s son. Maybe she could go to him for help. Although he was probably one of the most unlikely and unsuitable sources of assistance at a time like this, he was still a decent man, or he seemed to be. He had always been sympathetic and friendly toward her. He would surely not turn her away? Maybe she could borrow a little money from him. A few hundred rupees would be pocket change for a wealthy man like him. She would use the money to get on a bus to Hema’s house and then look for a job there. Afterwards, she’d find a way to return Kiran’s money.

Her mind made up, she carefully pulled herself to her feet, and sighed with relief when she realized her legs and back felt normal, except for a general soreness and the burning pain in her foot. No broken bones. She brushed the mud and rotting garden debris off her sari and with the same motion she had employed earlier, hoisted herself up and jumped over the wall. Once again she was back in the alley.

She stood still and glanced around her to make sure the man wasn’t holding vigil in a corner somewhere. Who knew what kinds of cat-and-mouse games the street bum was capable of? She stood still for a few seconds, her eyes and ears alert. Thankfully nothing happened. He was truly gone.

She started to run once again.

K
iran Rao drummed his long fingers on his car’s steering wheel while he grimly mulled over the night’s bizarre events. No matter how he examined the pieces of the puzzle before him, they continued to baffle the hell out of him.

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms to get the grittiness out. It was two hours past midnight and he’d had no sleep. He knew he looked unkempt in the slacks and T-shirt he had hurriedly pulled on, and a day’s growth of beard roughening his face.

Kiran had woken up at five o’clock the previous morning to prepare for an early conference call at the office and put in a long day at work after that. Fatigue was beginning to set in, but he was too keyed up to go home to his bed. Besides, he needed to find out the facts surrounding the mystery and his nagging sense of dread. He had to do what he’d come here to do. Until he found out the truth for himself, there would be no rest for him.

Although his car was parked some distance from his aunt, Chandramma Ramnath’s house, he could clearly hear the uproar inside the home. The two police constables who had arrived on bicycles were still in there, questioning the Ramnath family and taking notes, building a case against young Megha Ramnath, his cousin Suresh’s bride of one year, for spousal abandonment.

Megha had allegedly disappeared, deserting her husband and in-laws.

The front door of the house remained ajar, and a few curious neighbors, obviously disturbed and intrigued by the commotion so late at night, sat on their stoops, listening attentively. Before the sun came up in the morning, the gossip mill would be grinding out all the shameful facts of the Ramnaths’ story along with the embellishments: the pretty young bride had run away from her ugly husband and vicious mother-in-law. They’d probably shake their heads and wonder why such a lovely and refined girl had married into such a hideous and unsophisticated family in the first place.

Wasn’t that the question a lot of people asked? Kiran often speculated about it himself. As far as he knew, her father had fallen on bad times and couldn’t afford a dowry; therefore he had settled for the first man belonging to the right caste who’d take his youngest daughter off his hands.

Kiran couldn’t really blame Megha’s father for trying to do the right thing, but did the old man really have to do something that desperate without giving any thought to his daughter’s future? Had he even made an effort to look any further than the Ramnaths when he’d set out to find a suitable boy for Megha? There were surely other, more eligible young men who’d jump at the chance of marrying a girl like Megha. Instead, she’d been thrust into a dull marriage by her parents.

Somehow Kiran was convinced that Megha had been coerced into the marriage. She would never have voluntarily agreed to marry Suresh Ramnath of all people. Though Kiran held a certain amount of family loyalty for his cousin Suresh, he doubted if Suresh would ever qualify as the ideal husband. Suresh and he had practically grown up together and he knew him like a brother. Suresh was always an impassive, introverted man with no interest in anything but looking after himself. He had nothing to offer a wife emotionally, financially, or intellectually, especially not a wife like Megha. What a bloody awful situation for poor Megha!

Voices floated out the door once again, this time a bit louder. His aunt was always loud enough to be heard two streets away. Besides, Kiran had just come out of that house himself. He’d had more than enough of the emotionally charged scene, so he’d made a quick escape.

At the moment though, Kiran’s mind was on Megha. Where was she? It was hard to imagine she was gone. Sweet, beautiful Megha was nowhere to be found. It was so uncharacteristic of the bright, lively young woman he’d come to know in the last few months that he was still in doubt about her deliberately abandoning her family. Even supposing she had, a young and naïve bride with no money couldn’t have gone too far.

Her parents, who lived only a couple of kilometers away, had been contacted by the police, and apparently they were as stunned as everyone else. They hadn’t seen her or heard from her.

Fear gnawed at Kiran as he speculated about Megha. Could she have been abducted? With her youth and movie-star looks she was a prime candidate for being kidnapped and sold into prostitution. What if right now she was being transported to some hellish brothel in town? Or worse yet, out of town? His hands gripped the wheel in frustration. What could he do to find her with no clues of any kind? The police were already doing their part, but they weren’t particularly bright or efficient or even dedicated to their task.

The DSP, district superintendent of police, was a close friend of the family, and Kiran was tempted to request him to start a more comprehensive investigation instead of depending on those two clowns in there. But that would make people wonder why Kiran was so interested in the case. He couldn’t afford to have anyone suspect why he wanted to be so involved in the matter of Megha’s disappearance. So he’d decided to say nothing—at least for the moment.

He shut his eyes and a picture of Megha rose in his mind: big, dark, trusting eyes surrounded by long lashes, a perfect nose, a smooth, fair complexion, a rosebud mouth, thick, wavy hair woven into a braid that fell to her waist, and the most heart-wrenchingly attractive smile.

An intelligent girl with a keen interest in literature, sports, world events and politics, Megha could hold her own in any intellectual conversation. Her eyes lit up with excitement whenever the topic turned to books and politics. She seemed to know so much about literature and the latest political scandals. Her life’s ambition was to become a journalist. With her natural curiosity and flair for words, she probably would make a first-rate journalist. If only she had a chance.

Megha was a tall woman but a bit thin. There were fascinating curves in the right places, though. Even in simple and inexpensive saris she managed to look neat and elegant. For some reason he always pictured her in an urbane setting. She had an aura of refinement and had never seemed to fit in with the Ramnaths. God, she was uncommonly lovely! And so incredibly cheerful.

She always had a kind word for everyone, even Kiran’s snobbish cousin, Kala, who never missed an opportunity to make snide remarks about Megha’s lack of expensive clothes or sophisticated accessories. Amma, who could put terror into people’s hearts and probably made Megha’s life a living hell, was treated with quiet respect by Megha. And that good-for-nothing, gutless Suresh somehow managed to earn affectionate glances from her. But how did she do it? How did she keep her spirit intact in the face of such gloom and tedium?

He was positive Megha was not the type who’d pick up and run from her family. Something terrible had happened to drive her away, or else she’d been taken against her will.

Kiran had been smitten with Megha since the day he’d laid eyes on her. It was on her wedding day. Like a fool he’d fallen in love with the girl who’d just become someone else’s wife—that someone else being his own cousin. At the wedding, Kiran had shaken hands and congratulated her and Suresh—pretended to wish them a long and happy marriage while envy for Suresh and lust for his gorgeous bride had plagued him all evening. Wow, what a girl! What an enchanting bride Suresh had bagged.

After the wedding, Kiran had tried hard to convince himself that what he felt for Suresh’s new wife was only infatuation, but every time he’d seen Megha she’d seemed more appealing. And every time his reaction had been the same: heartbeat rising, a tight feeling in his chest and abdomen. And the obsessive need to see her, spend time with her, perhaps touch her. As weeks turned into months, he was forced to admit that his feelings were beyond temporary fascination. His was no adolescent attraction; it was full-blown love with all its excess baggage.

And then there was anger, because Megha didn’t deserve to be married to a weak, spineless loser like Suresh—didn’t deserve to be treated like a personal slave by Amma. Talk about life being unfair! Thoughts of a rare illness striking and killing off Suresh had crossed his mind a few times, thoughts Kiran had quickly suppressed. How could he think such awful things about his cousin, the man he had played childhood games with, the boy he had looked up to when he himself was no more than a toddler?

It had bordered on hero worship then, because Suresh was four years older. Suresh could read sentences when Kiran could hardly master the alphabet. Suresh could do multiplication when Kiran could barely add and subtract. At some point, Kiran couldn’t say precisely when, he had surpassed Suresh academically and physically, and then continued to grow and run. That was when Kiran had recognized Suresh for what he really was: a weak, selfish and shallow man with little respect for others. He even suspected Suresh had some sort of mild mental affliction that made him so apathetic. Kiran wasn’t sure what he felt for Suresh—respect, brotherly affection, contempt, anger, pity? Lately, the negative sentiments had overshadowed the positive.

A plaintive wail coming from the direction of the house nudged Kiran back to the present. And with it came the worry and serious concern over Megha’s whereabouts once again. Was she gagged and bound? Was she in pain? Was she sobbing her eyes out in a dark hole somewhere? And the most frightening speculation of all: had she been molested and perhaps even killed? The questions and images that filled Kiran’s mind were deeply disturbing.

Amma claimed that her thoughtless daughter-in-law had run away from home for no apparent reason. Putting on her best distraught mother-in-law act for the policemen, Amma was bawling with all her might. “My husband and I love Megha like our own daughter,” she claimed, her wide face crumpling in what appeared to be genuine pain. “How could she run away from us? We want her to come home. Please find her,” she’d pleaded. Amma was currently continuing the farce with remarkable aplomb. She’d even managed to redden those fearsome eyes to make her grief seem authentic.

But Kiran knew better. Amma wasn’t capable of love, at least not the kind she claimed she held for her daughter-in-law. No doubt Amma had a deep capacity for affection and loyalty to her own flesh and blood. She was generous and kind when it came to her brothers and their families.

Kiran was Amma’s only nephew and the object of her fondness and adoration. In her eyes he could do no wrong. He was bright, handsome, wealthy, and just about the most eligible young man in the state, if Amma were to be believed. She often compared her own puny and pasty-faced son to Kiran in the most crude manner. It left Kiran embarrassed and, despite his mild disdain for Suresh, feeling sorry for him. Poor Suresh’s ego was put through the shredder again and again, and no man deserved that, not even Suresh. But despite Amma’s pounding, Suresh had managed to survive in that strange household.

Survive
was the key word for anyone who had to live with Amma. Was it survival that had forced Megha to vanish? Had she been abused by the Ramnaths and couldn’t tolerate it anymore? The thought of what she might have suffered at Amma’s hands made Kiran wince. What about how Suresh may have treated her? As the popular proverb went, still waters could run very deep. Megha had always smiled a lot, showing the rest of them a happy and contented bride’s face. Had that been a façade?

Only minutes ago, Kiran had noticed Suresh sitting silently in a corner, dressed in disheveled blue pajamas, eyes downcast, clasping and unclasping his hands while his mother talked to the police. He had spoken haltingly when questioned by the men. Claiming he had woken up to find his wife missing, and searched for her everywhere in vain, he had gone back to staring at the floor.

Amma’s husband, Vinayak, on the other hand, looked genuinely distraught. He hadn’t said much, other than to mention that he’d been asleep until Amma had awakened him with the grim news that Megha’s bed was empty and neither she nor Suresh could find her anywhere. Uncle was a decent man, but he was henpecked, and keeping his mouth shut was his way of dealing with his aggressive and bossy wife. Amma had her husband tucked firmly under her thumb.

Cousin Shanti, Suresh’s younger sister, blinked, as always, through her thick glasses and serenely answered the policemen’s questions. Very little seemed to affect Shanti, the poor, simple soul. She lived in her fantasy world of poets, playwrights and authors—the world of English literature, her first and only love. Only names like Shakespeare or Chaucer or Whitman seemed to stir her to life. Neither Megha’s presence nor her absence would mean much to Shanti. In fact, due to Shanti’s detachment from reality, she seemed to be the only one who didn’t cower under Amma’s intimidating gaze.

Going back in his mind to earlier that evening, Kiran tried to recreate the scene in the Ramnaths’ home. He and his parents and his other uncle, together with his wife and two daughters, had been invited to dinner at the Ramnaths’. It had been for no special reason other than to socialize as the close-knit family often did, or so it had seemed in the beginning. His folks were extremely family-oriented.

Had there been any signs in Megha’s behavior to indicate this mysterious disappearance? He attempted to analyze her actions minute by minute except for the time she’d been alone in the kitchen. Nothing had seemed extraordinary. She’d been her usual cordial self.

The only thing unusual he’d noticed was that Megha had looked thinner and there were faint shadows around her eyes. In fact, he’d wondered what was wrong, whether she’d been ill. He could tell she had been working hard—her hands, with their narrow, tapering fingers, had looked a bit rough and red.

He’d also observed that she had hardly eaten any dinner. She had cooked a delicious meal and fed them well, but since Kiran was always so finely tuned to her actions and reactions, he’d noted that she’d practically skipped the meal herself.

Then his mind wandered to that odd episode after dinner. Amma had dispatched the men, namely, Kiran’s father, his two uncles, Suresh, and himself on a long walk. “You men should go take a nice walk and digest the rich meal, you know. And Suresh needs the exercise to build some muscle.” When the older men had put up some resistance, she’d firmly pointed out, “Walking is good for the prostate also, no? And the three of you are getting old. Go, go walk!”