Читать книгу A Scandalous Secret - Jaishree Misra - Страница 10

Sharat walked towards the breakfast room, humming a jaunty tune. Last night’s party had been an unqualified success and the icing on the cake had been the Home Minister’s promise as he’d left. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll have a word with the PM,’ Vir-ji had said, leaning out of the window of his liveried car. ‘Leave it with me for a few days, Sharat. And keep your fingers crossed – there are many vying for the same seat, you know!’

It had been less than a year ago that Sharat had first voiced his ambition of becoming an MP to a few friends with political connections and, even though he knew what an asset he would be to any party, the haste with which the Congress party had opened its doors had been astonishing. Now, from his very energising conversation with the Home Minister last night, it was clearly only a matter of time before the offer of a safe seat came. One of the South Delhi constituencies would be best, Sharat thought, areas where the educated newly rich were desperate to see the face of politics change for the better. And better he would make it, that he was sure of. It was a natural calling, to be mindful of the welfare of other, less fortunate people. He had insisted on egalitarianism even as a child: persuading his mother to give away his clothes to the cook’s son before he had even outgrown them and preferring to play cricket with the children of their factory workers rather than Scrabble and caroms with Shashi, his sickly and rather snobbish cousin who was Sharat’s only companion in the family home. Most of all, he was fortunate to have money from the cloth mills started by his grandfather and didn’t see the need to waste his time building up more wealth, especially when there were no children to pass it on to. Even his cousin, Shashi, was childless.

‘Morning, sweetheart,’ Sharat said, his voice cheery as he saw Neha’s figure already seated in her customary swing chair that overlooked the blooming flower beds in the garden. He noticed in a glance that she looked exhausted. ‘Still recovering from last night, eh?’ he enquired, unfurling a yellow gingham napkin over his lap. When Neha only muttered a response, Sharat looked at her more carefully. She really didn’t look very well. At thirty-seven, she was still a very attractive woman, with creamy smooth skin and a trim figure, but this morning her skin was sallow and there were grey shadows under her eyes. It was also unusual to see her still in her dressing gown, rather than in the exercise gear she usually wore for her walk around Lodhi Gardens. ‘It was a fabulous party, thanks in no small measure to you,’ Sharat said, leaning over to plant a big wet kiss on Neha’s cheek. Helping himself to a cinnamon bagel from the toast rack, he proceeded to spread a generous smear of butter on it, grinning as he saw Neha wince visibly. Neha did enough exercise for both of them, Sharat sometimes said jocularly, content in the knowledge that he was blessed with a naturally thin frame. Of late, however, Neha had been at him to stay off the fatty foods because of the slightly high cholesterol count that had been revealed in his last six-monthly checkup. But Sharat really did love the raisin and cinnamon bagels that Neha bought for him from the Hyatt bakery, and a bagel without butter was worse than poories without aloo. ‘Carbs and fat, a marriage made in heaven, just like ours,’ he sometimes teased.

‘You’re unusually quiet, Neh. Are you okay?’ Sharat asked, turning in his chair to face his wife as he took a sip of coffee and chewed on his bagel. ‘Didn’t you think it all went wonderfully well yesterday?’

Neha finally roused herself, sitting up from her slouching position. She swallowed a mouthful of coffee and put her cup down before speaking. ‘It did go very well. No, I’m fine, Sharat, just a bit tired.’

‘Well, you won’t have to do this for another six months,’ Sharat said, unscrewing the pot of marmalade. ‘By the way, I’m thinking of going off to Lucknow for a couple of days.’

‘Oh, when?’

‘Well, if I can get on the evening flight, I may even go today. It’s important for me to go see the old boy and get his blessing, given what the Home Minister said last night. I may even ask him to contribute to the campaign. Which I think he’ll readily do. Want to come?’

Neha thought for a minute before shaking her head. ‘No thanks, Sharat. But I may get away for a couple of days myself.’

‘Anywhere special? You were talking about Damascus and Samarkand the other day, weren’t you?’ Sharat enquired.

‘Not right now, that’ll take some planning. No, I was thinking of a week in Ananda up in the Himalayas, actually. Or any other decent spa within easy reach. I’ve been longing for some R&R for a while but it’s been one thing after another, as you know,’ Neha replied.

‘Ananda’s a great idea, sweetheart,’ Sharat said. ‘You love it there, don’t you? I must say I was worried at the thought of you wandering around Samarkand on your own. Let’s do that together some other time, yes?’

‘Well, Sandhya went on her own to Samarkand and Tashkent, and said it was fine. But, yes, I’d rather go there with you. There’s no hurry …’

‘For now, Ananda will be the best break and do you some good before the winter sets in too. And I’m happy for you to indulge, seeing how little I care for all that alternative yoga-shoga stuff myself! Get Chacko to book it for you today.’

Sharat left the house in a flurry of phone calls, still talking into his BlackBerry as he got into the back seat of his Mercedes. As was customary, Neha stood on the step watching his car leave the gates to be swallowed into the morning traffic on Prithviraj Road. If she could only tell Sharat about the letter … Over the years, she had grown used to telling him everything, even the tiniest details collected over the day. But this was different. This was a revelation that would shatter his world … rob him of every last ounce of love and trust he had for her …

Neha turned and returned indoors, her steps lethargic and heavy as she climbed the sweeping stairs up to her bedroom on the first floor. She locked the big teak door behind her and then, almost as though pulled by a magnetic force, made for the cupboard where the letter lay. She had not been able to reread it since it had arrived yesterday but she had thought of virtually nothing else. Her sleep had been broken by strange dreams in which she was wandering through a paediatrics ward full of screaming babies.

Using the big bunch of keys that was almost always tucked into the waistband of her trousers or sari, Neha unlocked the outer doors before opening the safe that housed her jewellery when it was taken out of the bank vault. She had tucked the letter behind a stack of cheque books and could see a corner of the white envelope sticking out from under the large blue velvet case of her antique pearl choker. Holding the letter to her chest, Neha climbed back into bed and pulled the silk razai over herself. She read and reread the words, running the tip of her forefinger over the childish writing and the name ‘Sonya’, before starting to cry. At first, she cried quietly, sobbing softly into balled fists, the letter lying now in her lap. Then, helplessly, as the tears grew more copious, Neha tried desperately to muffle her moaning and hiccupping by holding a pillow over her face. It was the kind of weeping fit she had not indulged in since she was a child. The floodgates had opened up and Neha – strong and controlled and always in charge – was back to being a frightened and confused teenager all over again.

The thin blue line on the home pregnancy kit was unmistakable. Could it be faulty? Please, please, let it be faulty! It had to be wrong! This was not how pregnancies happened, surely. But someone was outside the toilet now, awaiting their turn. Must hurry, get rid of the evidence, stuff it into the bin, cover it up with lots of tissue, pull the flush and get out before anyone realizes something’s wrong!

I emerged from the toilet, and my life was changed. I was a child no more because I now had a dark secret. Nothing like the kind of secret children keep. A big and terrible secret that would need to be covered up, like that pregnancy kit in the bin, hastily shoved under soiled tissues and detritus.