The Unexpected Son (11 page)

Bombay—1982

T
he toddler squirmed and wailed at the top of his lungs. “Shh,
chhup, beta,
” his mother said, shushing him. She managed to hold him tight against her chest despite his loud protests. If she let the little devil have his freedom, he'd be sure to run into the oncoming traffic.

Standing in the winding bus-stop queue, Vinita watched the young mother in front of her trying desperately to bring her toddler under control. The little boy looked about three years old.

He was quite adorable, despite the large quantity of scented oil his mother had slapped over his curly hair. He had a runny nose and a suspicious-looking wet stain on his shorts.

Vinita stared at the boy for a long time, until the red and white city bus arrived and picked up its passengers. As she climbed in, or rather got shoved into the bus along with the thick mass of fellow commuters, she somehow lost sight of the boy and his mother. But such was the nature of public transportation in a large metropolis.

Bombay was a harbor city that attracted the richest and the poorest of folks. It was India's equivalent of a cross between Hollywood and New York City, where movie stars and business tycoons lived in their high-rise palaces in perfect harmony alongside the shanty dwellers. No one begrudged the other their lifestyle.

In typical Indian fashion, everyone accepted their lot in life as their destiny. One's previous lives dictated what one ended up with in the present one. The rich moved around in their chauffeured imported cars while some drove their own vehicles, and the vast majority, like Vinita, used public transportation. The city had its own distinct rhythm.

Sandwiched on the narrow seat, between a large, sweaty woman and an elderly man, she craned her neck to catch one more glimpse of the boy. She heard his voice somewhere in the front of the bus, still protesting loudly about being confined. For some strange reason she had the urge to make eye contact with him, touch his smooth, coffee-colored face and watch his reaction—see if it would bring a smile to his lips.

Her son would probably have looked somewhat like that imp. If he had lived. But her baby never had the chance. The familiar tears pricked her eyes. She blinked them away. It wouldn't do to cry inside a bus filled with people.

It was her fault that her child had come into the world dead. She had refused antibiotics when the pneumonia struck, then she'd put off the surgery for hours, long after the doctor had recommended it. In her misguided effort to avoid hurting the baby, she'd done the very opposite: she'd taken away the only chance he'd had of coming out alive. She had more or less strangled him all on her own.

Waking up from the anesthesia and discovering that her baby was gone was the most devastating thing she'd ever had to face. After nearly nine months of protecting that child, she'd lost him. She'd blacked out immediately upon hearing the news. That hazy image of an infant floating near the ceiling while she was being prepped for surgery had been her son. She was convinced of that. It was her dead son's soul that was up there, saying good-bye to her.

She hadn't even had a chance to see him. Allegedly it was a miracle that she herself had survived. The severe infection combined with the trauma of surgery had nearly killed her. By the time she had woken up and become aware of her surroundings, the baby had been long dead and cremated by her family.

She'd grieved for her son for a long time. For a while she'd even sunk into a depression. But then, with Vishal's goading and her own will to survive, she'd gradually pulled herself together, and gone back to finishing up college and getting her bachelor's degree in statistics.

As Vishal reminded her occasionally, having no child was a blessing in disguise. She wasn't sure she agreed, but what could she have offered her son as a single, teenage mother? It would have been a struggle for both her and him. But she still missed her son, still grieved and prayed for his tiny soul. What would he have looked like? Every time she saw a toddler boy, she wondered about him.

Attending a college in Bombay instead of returning to Palgaum had been a wise decision, too. It had been her bossy brother's decision, but staying with him and attending a local institution had been the best balm for her battered spirit. It was far from Palgaum. And from all the ugly gossip her disappearance had spawned. And Som.

She never wanted to lay eyes on that horrible man again. She'd finally recognized that what she'd considered love was nothing but a serious case of lust mixed with hero worship. She'd been in love with the idea of being in love.

For their friends and extended family, her parents had made up some story about a malignant tumor in Vinita's abdomen. She had supposedly needed surgery and specialized treatment in a hospital in Bombay. At the moment she was allegedly in remission. But she was continuing to live in Bombay at the suggestion of her doctor—in case of a relapse.

She doubted if anyone believed that ridiculous story, but her parents were convinced it had worked. Maybe it had. But the result was that she was permanently branded as a cancer patient. On the rare occasions that she was surrounded by family, she had to put up with the pitying looks and the clucking from aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins. She was referred to as
bicharee
Vini. Poor Vini.

In some ways, the arrangement had worked for her, though. She had graduated at the top of her class from a large and reputable university. And now she was working as an actuary at an insurance company. She'd been promoted lately, too. She had a nice career going for herself, something she might not have had if she'd returned to Shivraj College. A year or two more and she would have enough money saved to move into her own flat. She could almost taste the tangy sweetness of that independence she'd craved for so long.

Getting off the bus at her usual stop, she took a deep breath. It had been stifling inside that bus, the air filled with the mingled odors of sweat,
attar
or perfume, cigarette smoke, and diesel fumes.

She walked carefully along the footpath to avoid the street hawkers selling their gaudy shirts, footwear, plastic knickknacks, and kitchenware before reaching the building where she and Vishal lived. Exiting the lift on the fifth floor, she pulled out her key and approached their flat, located halfway down the long corridor.

Hearing voices coming from inside the flat, she stopped to listen. It sounded like Vishal had arrived home before her. And he had company. This was most unusual. He generally worked much later than she. She always came home to an empty flat.

Curious, she tried the doorknob, and it turned. She let herself in. And stopped short.

“Mummy!” Vinita stood still. Apparently she'd interrupted a conversation between Vishal and her mother. Vishal was in mid-sentence when she'd walked in.

Vinita hadn't seen her mother in several months. But now here she was, sitting on the maroon sofa in their small flat, holding a teacup like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Sarla's pink-and-blue print nylon sari was neatly draped over her lap and her hair looked like it had been recently combed and pulled back in its usual bun. The coat of powder on her face and the red dot on her forehead looked fresh, too. It all pointed to the fact that she'd been here a while—long enough to freshen up—and brew a pot of tea.

“What are you doing here?” Vinita asked bluntly, her gaze bouncing between her mother and Vishal.

Vishal sat in the chair across from the sofa, serenely sipping his tea. “Mummy's come for a visit, Vini.”

Obviously.
But why hadn't Vinita been told about it? Their mother had never before arrived here unexpectedly. In the rare event that she came to attend a family wedding or something of that nature, Vinita usually knew about the visit weeks in advance.

“It was unexpected,” explained her mother. She didn't rise to hug Vinita or anything. Instead she patted the seat beside her, as if this was a daily routine for them. “Come, sit, Vini. Have some tea. I made a cup for you.” There was an empty cup beside the teapot on the wooden tray sitting on the coffee table.

Despite her mother's obvious attempts at making it seem cozy and relaxed, Vinita could sense the mild undercurrent of tension in the room. This wasn't a casual visit. Her mother was here for a reason. And Vishal knew about it. He had clearly left work early and fetched their mother from the airport. He was still in his office attire—white shirt, tie, and black dress pants.

The vibrations of conspiracy were palpable between those two.

Nonetheless, Vinita discarded her sandals near the door and walked barefoot to the sofa, pretending indifference. “You didn't answer my question, Mummy,” she reminded gently.

It was over five years since the day her mother had discovered Vinita's pregnancy, and yet the aloofness between the two of them lingered. Her mother had dutifully come down to Bombay and seen Vinita through childbirth. She'd waited on Vinita with unexpected tenderness during her convalescence, encouraging her to stay in bed, seeing to her every need.

But the minute Vinita had begun to recover, her mother had hastened back to Palgaum. Although the two of them had been cooped up together in the small flat for three weeks following Vinita's delivery, they'd never had any meaningful conversations. It wasn't all her mother's fault, though. Vinita had been so depressed, she'd shut everyone out of her life—especially her mother.

More recently, Vinita and Vishal had gone home to Palgaum together for Diwali, the holy festival of lights. The visit had felt wooden and uncomfortable, and she'd had very little conversation with her parents. Vishal, on the other hand, had managed to keep the conversation going, pretending everything was as it should be. He was a good talker. And a diplomat when necessary. Someday he'd make an outstanding businessman.

After all these years, well after Vinita had picked up the pieces of her life and settled into a good career, the disappointment and condescension in her mother's eyes remained to some extent. Even now, it was as if an invisible wall stood between the two of them, a wall crumbling in places, but never torn down and discarded. Both of them seemed to stumble over the fragments, not quite able to touch each other.

Her mother stared at the floor for a second before replying. “I had to come because there is a marriage proposal for you. It came up rather suddenly.”

Vinita sat down on the sofa and smoothed the pleats on her sari. She needed a second to absorb the information. “I see,” she said. That explained why Mummy was here. Vinita glanced at her brother. “You knew about this?”

“Only since yesterday, when the boy's family confirmed that he wanted to meet you,” he admitted. “Like Mummy said, it was unexpected. Mummy was lucky she could get a seat on the plane at the last minute.”

“Why isn't Papa here, then?”

“One of his major clients is being audited by the revenue fellows tomorrow,” her mother offered. “Tax problems.”

“Ah.” She knew all about the dreaded income-tax authorities and their audits. But that didn't matter. At the moment, she wanted to know more about this bride viewing her mother had made the journey to Bombay for. “Who's the chap coming to view me this time?” She arched a cynical eyebrow. “Is he blind, lame, or an ex-convict?” Or worse, a tired old man with no job, no libido, and no teeth.

“None of those,” answered Vishal, sounding annoyed.

“Then he probably has very little education and works in the rice fields somewhere?” She couldn't help the bitterness in her voice. Every time her family found her a match, he was considered suitable for “a girl like her.” She was tired of hearing it. She could very well be wearing a sign across her chest announcing her “non-virgin and sullied” status.

Her relatives, who allegedly didn't know about her pregnancy and thought she was a cancer survivor, also considered her not very marriageable material. So they, too, suggested the most undesirable men for her—the discards. A sickly and pathetic woman like her, a
bicharee,
had to be grateful to have a husband. Any kind of husband.

“No,” answered Vishal to her caustic query. “He lives in America. He's a mechanical engineer with a good job.”

Vinita's eyes went wide for an instant. She waited, watching her mother pour tea into the empty cup. There had to be a catch. Educated male engineers with good careers were prized in their society, and even more so if they lived in the U.S. When no other information came forth, she looked at Vishal. “So what's wrong with this fellow?”

“Nothing. He's a respectable chap, according to Kedar-mama,” he said, referring to their mother's brother, who lived in Baroda.

Vinita nearly smiled. Respectable was a neat little term that encompassed any number of perceived virtues, but also covered up a lot of flaws. At least three
respectable
men had been proposed for her in the past eighteen months. All three men had had serious handicaps. One was a recovering alcoholic; another had a degenerative eye disorder that was slowly making him blind; the third was a widower with a Down syndrome child who needed a nursemaid-cum-mother.

But it was ironic that all three men had considered themselves highly eligible. After Vinita had talked frankly to them about her past, they'd disappeared—never to be heard from again.

Not that she cared all that much. She was glad to be rid of those men. Besides, she was content with her single status—for now. Unlike many women her age, she was becoming financially self-sufficient. She didn't need a husband.

She accepted her cup of tea and took a sip. It was tepid. “So when do I get to meet this
respectable
man?”

“Soon.” Vishal pointed a warning finger at her. “And don't you spoil it this time.”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”