The Unexpected Son (4 page)

Vinita felt something flutter inside her breast as she watched him draw the smoke deep into his lungs, then exhale very slowly, like it was the most sublime experience he'd ever had. In that instant she almost envied that cigarette he smoked with such total reverence.

“I see,” she said.

“Glad you understand.” The breeze disturbed his hair and he lifted a hand to tame it.

To be honest, she didn't
understand.
She understood even less the joyful little thump in her chest at watching him do something as simple as rake his fingers through his thick hair.

She and Prema usually walked together to and from college. However, this afternoon Prema had gone home early with a headache, and Vinita was alone. “What did you want to talk about?” she asked, a little out of breath because she felt an insane urge to stare at him. Stare at his sculpted body.

His charcoal gray pants were trendily tight and his black shirt hugged his torso like a second skin. His hair was a little long and the sideburns bushy—all part of the latest in campus chic, and a trend started by the latest and hottest Hindi movie idol, Amitabh Bachchan. Even the scowling, angry-hero look was the Amitabh stereotype. The quintessential cigarette was also a fashion statement.

“I never thought I'd catch you alone,” Som said, tossing his unfinished cigarette on the ground and grinding it with the heel of his gleaming, pointy-toed shoes, adding to the hundreds of other butts already littering the footpath. “You're always with Miss Swami, your bodyguard.”

“Prema Swami's my friend, not my bodyguard.” Vinita tossed him an icy glare, in spite of the unexpected spurt of pleasure that shot through her at discovering that he had been trying to contact her after all.

Nevertheless, she started walking at a brisk pace. Her pulse was still scrambling, but at least the shaking was under control. The tears had dried up, too. By the time she reached her house, in about ten minutes, she'd be back to normal. She had to be.

He started striding beside her, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Folks were still staring at them. Young men and women like Som and her, walking beside each other, drew unnecessary attention. Besides, many of the shopkeepers on that street knew her parents and a few were her father's clients.

She couldn't risk being seen with Som, especially outside the college walls. At least on campus, girls and boys could socialize under the pretext of exchanging class notes and discussing homework. Besides, during the past two weeks she had managed to convince herself that Som was not a chap she should fraternize with, for all kinds of reasons. She could write an entire page of reasons.

“I didn't mean to belittle your friend,” he apologized. “It's just that I always see you with her—sometimes with a whole group of friends.”

“I prefer not to walk alone. I like walking with a friend.”

“In that case
I'll
walk with you. And we can talk.”

“About what?”

“Friends can talk about anything.”

“But we're not friends.” She turned briefly to face him as she repeated what she'd said the other day. “We have nothing in common. Even our mother tongues are different.” At that moment, for some odd reason, she wished she had something in common with him. He was such an interesting man.

He gave her one of his rare smiles, making her already compromised sense of balance wobble dangerously. “Didn't I say we could remedy that?”

“You did?” When had he said that?

“Don't I get a little credit for making you feel better after what that wild mob did to you?”

She groaned inwardly. He had certainly kept her from passing out or falling apart by showing up at the right time and distracting her. But it looked like he was going to use that little incident to his advantage. “I'm very grateful for the emotional support and the handkerchief.” She looked at the balled-up piece of fabric in her fist. “I'll return it after it's washed.”

“Keep it. It's yours,” he said, with a dismissive gesture—like a movie star offering a wide-eyed fan a small souvenir.

“So, what is it you wanted to discuss?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You want me to do your homework or something…to return the favor?”

“Homework?” He erupted into sardonic laughter, drawing the attention of more passersby. “I don't have homework. But I'm sure you've noticed that.” He looked at his wristwatch, a surprisingly plain watch with a brown leather band. “I had something else in mind. Why don't you join me for that cup of coffee?”

“I can't.” Coffee with him? All by herself? Her father would have a fit if she dared to indulge in such behavior. More than her father, it was Vishal, her brother, who was protective of her to the point of strangulation.

She suspected that Vishal liked playing the role of big brother. That way he could justify his bossy attitude, and get grateful looks from their parents on top of it. It saved them the trouble of disciplining her. Besides, a brother, especially an older one, more or less played a paternal role when it came to looking out for the women in the family. It was a brother's duty to protect his sister. The good thing was, he lived in Bombay now and couldn't watch over her that closely.

In any case, she wasn't planning on telling anyone in her family about the scary episode a few minutes ago. They'd keep her locked up in the house if they found out. If they ever learned that a boy, a Kannada one at that, had touched her shoulder and held a long conversation with her in clear view of the public, they were certain to become upset.

As it was, her family barely tolerated her close friendship with Prema. They just couldn't understand why she had to pick a Kannada girl for a best friend, when there were so many Marathi girls she could befriend.

And now here was Som, talking about going out for coffee like it was an everyday occurrence. That was another thing—drinking coffee instead of the traditional tea that most Palgaum folks consumed. Sipping coffee from large, thick ceramic mugs instead of ordinary cups and saucers was the trend lately. Coffee was what Americans drank, so it was more sophisticated than the colonial custom of drinking tea. British traditions were passé, while American habits were worth emulating.

“Aw, come on,” he teased. “It's only a harmless cup of coffee. Besides, I'm buying.”

“It's not
that.
My parents don't like me socializing with boys,” she confessed.

“Your parents don't mind you going to a café with your other friends, I'm sure.”

“My other friends happen to be girls.”

He shook his head. “Gender really shouldn't matter.”

“It's not that simple…at least with people like my parents.” She tossed him a challenging scowl. “I'm sure your parents are the same way.”

It was no secret that his parents were orthodox Lingayats, a sect belonging to the Vaishya business caste. Just because they were rich and popular on the club scene didn't mean they didn't adhere to their conservative traditions in their home. Rumor had it that they all wore their traditional
lingams
, the sacred symbol of Lord Shiva, on a thread underneath their fancy clothes. The Koris were
zamindars
—landed gentry—with vast ancestral tracts of farmland.

Matter of fact, Vinita's information came from a reliable source. Prema's family was well acquainted with the Koris. Everything Vinita knew about Som Kori's private life came from Prema.

“Sure, they're old-fashioned, but they don't get involved in my social life,” Som explained. He looked at his watch again, then raised a brow at her. “So you want to join me for a cup of coffee or not? Do I have to beg?”

Recalling the way his hard hand had pressed into her shoulder, Vinita felt her cheeks burning. She was ashamed to admit to herself it had felt good, very good—like a branding iron, but without the pain. His invitation was tempting, too. His smug yet gently mocking variety of begging was even harder to resist.

Most girls would be thrilled to receive an invitation to have coffee with Som. No boy had ever invited her before. Now here was this college idol asking her, and instead of doing happy cartwheels, she was riddled with doubts. Why? Because he was a playboy. He was a
pukka badmaash.
A thorough ruffian. He smoked and drank alcohol, too. Plus, he was a dud when it came to academics.

And that reminded her of something else. “How come you're walking today instead of driving?” He was usually behind the wheel of his car, a sleek, black-as-kohl Ambassador.

“I knew you'd probably refuse to get into a car alone with me.”

“You're right.” She managed to raise her eyes and meet his gaze. “Why me?” There were a dozen beautiful girls salivating over him on any given day. So why was he asking a studious girl like her, a girl who'd be rated average on her best day?

He didn't pretend to misunderstand her question. “Because you're an attractive and bright girl,” he replied, shooting an arrow of desire right through her middle with those odd yet mesmerizing eyes of his. “Isn't that reason enough?”

“Most certainly,” she said with a wry laugh. She knew she was bright. But attractive? She tossed him a
you're such a liar
look.

“I'm serious, Vinita,” he insisted. “Why would I lie to you?” His expression was candid, his eyes wide and guileless.

Well, from a certain angle, her profile wasn't too bad, she supposed. She had a decent figure and nice hair. So maybe he wasn't lying…Just maybe. What was the harm in having one small cup of coffee? As long as her family didn't know about it, it wouldn't hurt them. And it wasn't like she was having some wild affair with Som or anything.

After another moment of hesitation, she stopped in her tracks. “Okay.”

“Good,” he said, his face relaxing.

“But I can't stay long. My mother's expecting me home soon.”

“Why don't we go to Bombay Café? It's close by,” he suggested.

At the next intersection, they made a right turn toward the café instead of the usual left Vinita would have made to go home.

The wizened old beggar who had made a home for himself on the footpath outside Bombay Café stuck his hand out for alms. He looked like a skeleton clad in a tattered shirt and pants. His cheeks stretched like crepe paper over his cheekbones and his beard was nearly long enough to reach his belly. Despite her feelings of deep sympathy for his condition, Vinita looked away, embarrassed at being stopped by a panhandler.

Beggars were everywhere—too many for even the most generous souls to sustain. No matter how much one gave, it was never enough. Most of them harassed citizens by falling at their feet, tugging on their clothes, and following them around until their quarry capitulated from sheer mortification and gave something. This old man wasn't all that tenacious, and yet she couldn't help turning her gaze away to avoid his hollow eyes.

But Som stopped beside the beggar. Vinita couldn't help but stop, too. She looked at Som, wondering what he planned to do.

He surprised her when he dug into his pocket, pulled out a coin, and placed it in the beggar's outstretched hand. It brought a tired but grateful smile to the old man's haggard face.

“
Ram-Ram
, Kori-saheb,” the beggar murmured, pocketing the change and raising his hand to his forehead in a gesture of gratitude.

So, Som was generous in his own way. And the old man knew him by name. That, too, was a revelation. She was learning some interesting things about Som. But then, what was a single coin to a man who drove an Ambassador?

Once again she became aware of people throwing curious glances at the two of them. What would they say about a strictly raised Marathi girl like her walking with a Kannada chap—a notorious one like Som Kori? And especially in the volatile climate of their town, where extremism seemed to be mounting instead of diminishing after nearly thirty years of independence from the British?

The earlier doubts came tumbling back, but she quashed them by telling herself this was a one-time thing—a simple cup of coffee with a…friend.

Nonetheless the blood racing in her veins at the thought of sitting at a table with him wasn't the kind of reaction one would have to a friend. That, too, she brushed aside as first-time nerves. Once she had that first sip of delicious, frothy coffee, her pulse was sure to settle into its normal pattern.

A minute later they entered the cool café, with its black marble floors, shiny wooden tables, red upholstered chairs, and ultramodern light fixtures. The aroma of coffee and biscuits filled the air. It stood apart from all those plain, boring tea shops scattered around town.

Som whispered something to the solicitous waiter who jumped forward to greet them. It was obvious the waiter knew him well and was eager to please a favored customer. He addressed him as Som-saheb.

In seconds they were seated at a quiet, discreet booth, away from probing eyes. The booth was even curtained to ensure privacy. How accommodating was that? And exactly how many girls had sat inside that booth with Som, their skin tingling with anticipation?

Fortunately the place was almost deserted, maybe because it was late afternoon, when the sun was still beating down and most people didn't drop in for coffee and tea. In a couple of hours, however, once the offices closed and the sun went down, the crowds would pour in. For the time being, Som and she more or less had the place to themselves.

“See, this is so nice and relaxing—nothing to worry about,” declared Som, leaning back in his chair, looking entirely too comfortable. Like he owned the place. Maybe his family did own the place.

Vinita was tongue-tied. She wasn't exactly shy, but this kind of socializing was different. “I must look terrible after what happened earlier,” she remarked, just to break the awkward silence.