The Unexpected Son (12 page)

“Why do you insist on telling every eligible man you meet about your…episode in college?”

“I prefer to be honest.” She quickly gulped the remaining tea and put her cup down. “Don't want any complications later.”

“They don't need to know all that,” her mother piped in. “If you keep telling them such things, nobody will marry you.”

Vinita shrugged. “Then I guess I'll have to remain single.”

“Stop talking such nonsense,” scolded her mother. “What kind of woman wants to be a spinster all her life?”

“A woman like me?” Vinita couldn't help needling her mother. Mummy could be so annoyingly self-righteous sometimes.

“Vini!” Vishal fumed. “We're sick and tired of your defeatist attitude. You're a perfectly intelligent girl, but you insist on ruining your chances every time you're introduced to an eligible man.”

“I can't help my past,” Vinita said, raising both her hands in a helpless gesture. But she sometimes wondered if she did indeed do it unconsciously to punish herself for her sins. “Besides, tell me exactly which one of those three men you picked for me was eligible.”

Vishal had the decency to avert his eyes. “I didn't know much about those men. They were recommended by my friends and colleagues.”

“Yeah, men perfectly suited for a girl like
me,
” she threw back at him.

“I'm sorry. But seriously, can't you keep your past to yourself? It's between us—family.”

“Everyone in Palgaum knows about my affair and my pregn—”

“No, they don't.” Her mother cut her off. The word
pregnancy
still seemed to stick in Sarla's throat. The term was not used in genteel circles. “Everybody thinks you had a serious health condition and now you're…cured.”

“It's a lie.”

Vishal slammed a big fist into the arm of his chair. “That's enough! When you meet this man tomorrow, you had better be on your best behavior. You are not to tell him anything beyond your education and your job, you hear?”

She glared at him. “Is that an order, Mr. Shelke?”

He sighed, long and loud.

“Okay, I'll try,” she conceded grudgingly. So she was to meet the man tomorrow. It wasn't much advance notice. “But what if he's looking for a pretty girl?” This fellow was an engineer from America, probably full of himself and convinced that he was a great catch in the marriage market.

“Put on some makeup. Go to a beauty salon or something.” Vishal waved away her feminine concerns with the typical nonchalance of a man.

As if it were that simple. A trip to the beauty salon could only do so much for an average woman. Only a miracle would make her pretty.

“And I brought a nice turquoise
bandhani
sari for you to wear when you meet him. Blue is a good color for you.” Her mother was already on her feet, heading for the bedroom, probably to retrieve the sari from her suitcase. She most likely had a matching blouse and petticoat made by their tailor, too.

Vinita watched her mother's back disappear into the bedroom. Some things never changed. A bride viewing, even in Vinita's case, had to be treated with the care and respect it deserved. Protocol demanded a quality silk sari with appropriate accessories, just enough makeup for attractiveness without garishness, and proper demeanor with subdued voice and downcast eyes.

Seeing no way to escape the plan that was already in motion, Vinita sank back against the sofa cushion and folded her arms across her chest. Different day. Different man. Different attire. Same damn agenda.

As always, her parents and brother had decided what she should do. When and how, too.

Now more than ever they were desperate to get her married, or
settled
as they preferred to call it. If her baby had been born alive, there would have been no question of marriage. But since there wasn't a child to worry about, they wanted her to forget her past and get on with her life. That way they could forget it, too, and get on with their own lives.

Besides, as long as she hung like a stale garland of wilted flowers around their necks, it would be hard to find a good wife for Vishal.

A single dark deed was akin to a deadly virus. It ended up contaminating the whole family, especially the sinner's unmarried siblings and cousins. And she didn't want to ruin Vishal's life along with her own. Another thing to remember was that despite her bitter feelings toward them at times, her family meant well. They cared about her. That much she knew for sure.

Well, she'd met three men in recent months. So what was one more? “Should I assume this fellow and his parents are coming to our flat tomorrow?” she asked Vishal. It was always like that—entire families arriving to see the girl put on display. They'd all gawk at her and ask silly questions.

“No parents this time. They live in Baroda,” Vishal replied. “His older sister and he are coming here tomorrow evening to have tea with us. She and her husband are local Bombayites.”

Something still bothered Vinita. “You still haven't told me anything about him. What's his name?”

“Girish Patil.”

“Hmm.” A nice, wholesome name with a solid ring to it. Leaning forward, she fixed her eyes on Vishal. “What's the catch? And don't tell me he's
respectable.
Mummy and Papa and you don't think I'm worthy of a truly respectable man. Everyone you've brought to my attention has had some problem or other. I want to know everything about this Patil fellow.”

Vishal's gaze wavered. “He's divorced.”

“Aha!” That explained it. Some of it, anyway.

“He was married to an American woman. They were divorced two years ago.”

The truth was slowly coming out. “Why?”

“How should I know?” Vishal gave a shrug and rose to his feet. He stacked the empty cups and teapot on the tray. “All I know is what our uncle told Mummy and Papa. Girish Patil is the nephew of Kedar-mama's insurance agent.”

“Hmm,” she grunted again. One of those complicated threads that ran through the fabric of their vast matrimonial network. It also meant Patil was an unknown—a man who lived halfway across the globe. He could be a wife beater…or an alcoholic…just about anything. Her eyes followed her brother to the kitchen. “Does he have children?”

“No,” he replied. She heard the sound of the cups and teapot being placed in the sink.

“Thank goodness,” she murmured to herself.

Other than the divorce, the man sounded like a better prospect than the others she'd met so far. Much better.

So why were her feminine instincts whispering that her mother and brother were hiding something from her?

G
irish Patil was not perfect. Far from it. She could clearly see now what it was her family had been keeping from her.

Fidgeting with the tassels on the edge of her
pallu,
the long end of the sari that swept over the left shoulder and draped over the back, Vinita managed to steal a few hasty peeks at the man who was here for the bride viewing.

He had a longish face, with high cheekbones. He wasn't bad looking, but he could have used a few more strands of hair along the receding hairline. He was dressed conservatively in neat gray trousers and a blue and white checked shirt. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses he had dark, intelligent eyes.

What startled her was his right hand, which he extended to Vishal for a handshake. The index and middle fingers were missing. Not entirely missing; they were short stumps.

She glanced at Vishal. He didn't seem surprised at all. So Vishal knew about it. And he'd chosen not to mention it to her. She brushed aside the brief flash of anger for the moment. She'd confront Vishal later.

Then Girish Patil pressed his hands together to wish Vinita and her mother a respectful
namaste.
Vinita returned the gesture, but her eyes remained glued to his hand. When he caught her staring, she looked away quickly, hot embarrassment rising into her face.

Things weren't going all that well, despite her family's efforts to make the occasion pleasant. Her mother had slogged away in the kitchen making
kheema samosas
—deep-fried turnovers stuffed with spicy minced meat. They had come out perfect—plump and crunchy and golden.

Vishal had brought home a variety of colorful
mithai
—sweet-meats. The usual Hindu hospitality was on full display—the ingratiating, bride-viewing kind. Laughing at the guests' jokes, attempting to impress them with the best china cups and teapot, and pressing food and drink on them were mandatory on such occasions.

Patil's sister, Mrs. Rohini Sitole, dressed in an elegant Venkatgiri sari, was trying her best to smile a lot and not ask too many questions. Her husband, Kishore Sitole, was a general surgeon, and a man of few words. He seemed disinterested in Vinita and the purpose of their visit, but appeared to be captivated by the
samosas
and tea, which of course thrilled her mother.

In spite of the camaraderie, the occasion felt forced and unnatural. Vishal and her mother were trying too hard to please.

But then, this was hardly a standard bride viewing with a never-married man coming to meet a blushing virgin. He was a divorced man and she was…a used item. He had two missing fingers, a fact she couldn't ignore. She was allegedly a cancer survivor, something
he
couldn't ignore.

She had to admit Girish Patil seemed like a civilized man, much more polite and well-spoken than the other chaps she'd met. He seemed at ease in their home, too. Of course, underneath that veneer a nasty personality could be lurking, but the overall image was that of a gentleman. He apologized profusely for arriving late, a mere five minutes, and later thanked her mother for serving what he called
superb
Indian tea.

Living in America for some years was probably responsible for his outward gloss.

He asked Vinita a few questions about her education and career. She answered with caution. Vishal was sitting across from her, the warning spark in his eyes as bright as a traffic light. She would have liked to talk to Patil alone and tell him the truth. She disliked deception of any kind, especially after the lesson she'd learned from hiding her affair with Som from her family. She'd paid a steep price for lying to them. To this day, her fractured relationship with her parents showed the fault lines.

She didn't want to make that same mistake again.

As the awkward evening came to an end, she didn't quite feel the familiar sense of relief settle over her. This time she hadn't told the truth to this man. He had probably mistaken her for a nice Marathi girl from an old-fashioned family.

As the guests got ready to leave, Girish Patil did something odd—and unexpected. He motioned to Vishal to step outside into the corridor with him. “Vishal, may I please talk to you alone for a moment?” he asked.

Vishal looked flustered for an instant before he nodded. “Certainly.”

The two men walked out the front door. Vinita noticed they were about the same height, except Patil looked older and stouter than Vishal.

None of the other men had asked to have a private conversation with Vishal or her parents. This time, since her father wasn't here, Vishal was taking on the role of responsible male.

While the men talked in whispers outside the door, Rohini Sitole chatted with her mother, and Kishore Sitole gazed out the window. A minute later, the two men returned. It was a very brief conversation. Vishal frowned slightly while Patil's expression remained unchanged. It was hard to tell what had transpired.

Had Patil rejected her right away? Well, what was one more rejection? It stung a little, but she was getting used to it.

Once again, her eyes remained fixed on his right hand when he said his
namastes
to them.

As soon as the door closed on their guests, Vishal turned to Vinita. “He wants to see you alone.”

A spark of electricity buzzed through Vinita. How interesting! That's exactly what she wanted, too. This business of family meeting family, and everyone watching everyone else with hawks' eyes was stifling.

“What?” Her mother looked scandalized.

Vishal stroked his chin, like he was trying to make sense of it himself. “He says he'd prefer to talk to her alone. He asked for my permission to take her out to dinner tomorrow night.”

“What did you tell him?” demanded Sarla.

“I said yes. He'll pick her up at seven-thirty tomorrow,” Vishal replied. “He seems like a decent fellow, Mummy. I'm sure Vini will be safe.”

“It's not her safety I'm concerned about.”

Thanks a lot.
Vinita scowled at her mother. “Then what exactly are you concerned about?”

“What will people say? A single girl going out with a stranger? Does he think this is America, asking a girl for a date?”

Vinita gave a cynical chuckle. “I'm not the average single girl.” She wasn't exactly a
girl,
either. She was a little past her prime by their strict standards. “I'd like a chance to talk to him.”

“Don't be silly,” admonished Sarla.

Surprisingly, Vishal was the one who backed her up. “Mummy, let her go.” But he issued Vinita another stern warning. “Don't say one unnecessary word. Don't ruin your one good chance, you hear?”

With great reluctance Vinita nodded. But she didn't make a verbal promise.

Later, as she looked at herself in the mirror, she wondered what the man from America had seen in her. The beauty salon had done a creditable job with her face. The makeup was just right. It had enhanced her more appealing features while downplaying the unattractive ones. Her plucked eyebrows looked shapely enough, and the sari her mother had picked out for her was an excellent choice.

It could be the man liked the way she looked. On the other hand, he could very well be getting ready to inform her that he wasn't interested. Maybe that's how they let a person down in America—quietly and privately. If that's what it was, then she had to give him credit for showing sensitivity and discretion—something the other men had lacked.

She folded the sari into a neat rectangle and put it on a hanger along with the blouse and petticoat, and hung it in her steel
almirah
with the mirrored doors. Then she examined all her other saris hanging in a row. What should she wear for tomorrow's dinner appointment? Or should she call it a date? Although she'd had dinner in restaurants a few times with Som, those occasions hadn't been dates. They were clandestine meetings, constantly plagued by the threat of being discovered.

This was different. A sophisticated man from the U.S. was taking her to dinner—with her brother's knowledge and blessings. She had to look her best. And dignified. She had to make sure she didn't make a fool of herself, even if he was going to tell her she wasn't right for him.

What did one talk about on a date? She knew nothing about baseball, or American fashions, or anything else about the culture, other than what she'd seen in Hollywood movies and read in books.

How did one behave with a man who was used to foreign ways? She had noticed his accent and choice of words—an odd but interesting combination of Indian and American.

As she made her decision about which sari she'd wear, the image of his peculiar right hand flickered in her mind. Was it okay to ask him about it, or would it be considered offensive? And then there was his divorce. She couldn't be sure if it was proper to question him about that. As far as her knowledge went, asking about someone's age and their salary was considered impolite. But goodness knew what rules of etiquette they had about discussing divorce. And missing digits.

Nonetheless, she had a right to know about his past and present. It was always considered a man's prerogative to ask questions about a potential wife, so why couldn't a woman have the same privilege? On the other hand, he had an equal right to know about her past. It didn't matter what Vishal or her parents said. She would tell him. It was the right thing to do.

If he rejected her because of that, she'd have only herself to blame.