fault …”
“Vikkoo,” his mother replies in a high tinkly voice like Lata Mangeshkar. “Anupam doesn’t understand the business. It takes practice.” Her eyes sidle to a gilt-framed mirror, and she examines her taut skin and symmetrical features. She lifts a languid fingertip; the manservant refills her glass of Cabernet.
“Everything is my fault?” says Anu.
“Sport, Anupam, your
sport
—that’s what Vikas needs.” Mr. Kohli means her unstinting support of Vikas’s objectives, not Vikas’s of hers. “Don’t think Vikas is some ordinary man,” says he, staring owlishly at her. “I spent years apologizing to the West for being from a poor nation, for India’s so-called backwardness. But Vikas—his very name means progress!” Lalit Kohli’s forefinger traces the rim ofhis glass, lifts and wags at Anu. “Anupam, do less ‘me-me’ and more thinking of the
en-tire
femily.”
“Family, Dad,” says Vikas.
“Don’t you correct your elders.” Mr Kohli swivels back to Anu. “And you, Anupam, you be more adjustable.”
“You can see that your son hits me, but you’re saying
I
should be more adjustable?”
“How many years will it take before you learn how to please him?”
“Come, we’ll go shopping. I’ll buy you some makeup, a few new saris,” Pammy Kohli says, as if she’s talking to Chetna. “I have a lovely pendant for you. It glitters just like your eyes.”
If Anu hadn’t visited the lawyer that very day, she would have given way to an urge to scream and scream. She, Anu, who volunteered for national social service instead of the Cadet Corps in college, who vowed to live a life of service, is being placated with jewellery. She should have become a nun when Sister Imaculata offered the chance in school. Then her parents couldn’t have married her to Vikas and this wouldn’t be happening.
In the master bedroom, Vikas takes her in his arms, takes her chin between thumb and forefinger and apologizes. He tells her he had to shout at her to please his parents—he didn’t really mean the things he said, he was only trying to explain why the swami had not graced them with his presence for dinner. He releases her chin.
Lord Jesus and Lord Ram, give me strength
.
She does not run but walks to the bathroom, with as much dignity as she can muster. She collects her toilet articles. She walks to Chetna’s room. Slowly. Puts them down. He has not followed. She returns to the master bedroom to collect a salwar-kameez.
Don’t look, don’t look at him
.
One sideways glance. He’s lying across the bed, head propped on one hand, paging through
Hindu Society Under Siege
. He looks up, a wounded expression in his murky eyes. “Oh, she’s sulking!” he says. “I know you can’t resist me, darling—you’ll be back soon.”
A valid assumption—she has returned before. For Chetna’s sake.
Vikas sniffs as if at the scent of her fear. He puts his book down and reaches for the phone. Anu dodges, in case the receiver sails through the air. Vikas laughs and waves it at her before thumbing it.
In Chetna’s room next door, she locks herself in. A locked door and her rosary have often helped her make the best of things. She lies down fully clothed, Chetna’s cricket bat at her side.
She prays with as much faith as Father Pashan, but in a Hindu way.
Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy names …
Dadu brought Father Pashan to her bedside two years ago, after her accident. The doctors had said she was dying, and Purnima-aunty and Sharad Uncle had come to Holy Family Hospital to say their last farewells. Mumma was trickling Ganges-water over Anu’s bandages. Her father invited Father Pashan to say the rosary. Restore her to us, Dadu said, and you can baptize her.
Between Hail Marys, Father Pashan would comb through his hair with his fingers. And after many repetitions, she was no longer looking up at him doing that, but felt herself floating, looking down at a priest praying
“Vikkoo,” his mother replies in a high tinkly voice like Lata Mangeshkar. “Anupam doesn’t understand the business. It takes practice.” Her eyes sidle to a gilt-framed mirror, and she examines her taut skin and symmetrical features. She lifts a languid fingertip; the manservant refills her glass of Cabernet.
“Everything is my fault?” says Anu.
“Sport, Anupam, your
sport
—that’s what Vikas needs.” Mr. Kohli means her unstinting support of Vikas’s objectives, not Vikas’s of hers. “Don’t think Vikas is some ordinary man,” says he, staring owlishly at her. “I spent years apologizing to the West for being from a poor nation, for India’s so-called backwardness. But Vikas—his very name means progress!” Lalit Kohli’s forefinger traces the rim ofhis glass, lifts and wags at Anu. “Anupam, do less ‘me-me’ and more thinking of the
en-tire
femily.”
“Family, Dad,” says Vikas.
“Don’t you correct your elders.” Mr Kohli swivels back to Anu. “And you, Anupam, you be more adjustable.”
“You can see that your son hits me, but you’re saying
I
should be more adjustable?”
“How many years will it take before you learn how to please him?”
“Come, we’ll go shopping. I’ll buy you some makeup, a few new saris,” Pammy Kohli says, as if she’s talking to Chetna. “I have a lovely pendant for you. It glitters just like your eyes.”
If Anu hadn’t visited the lawyer that very day, she would have given way to an urge to scream and scream. She, Anu, who volunteered for national social service instead of the Cadet Corps in college, who vowed to live a life of service, is being placated with jewellery. She should have become a nun when Sister Imaculata offered the chance in school. Then her parents couldn’t have married her to Vikas and this wouldn’t be happening.
In the master bedroom, Vikas takes her in his arms, takes her chin between thumb and forefinger and apologizes. He tells her he had to shout at her to please his parents—he didn’t really mean the things he said, he was only trying to explain why the swami had not graced them with his presence for dinner. He releases her chin.
Lord Jesus and Lord Ram, give me strength
.
She does not run but walks to the bathroom, with as much dignity as she can muster. She collects her toilet articles. She walks to Chetna’s room. Slowly. Puts them down. He has not followed. She returns to the master bedroom to collect a salwar-kameez.
Don’t look, don’t look at him
.
One sideways glance. He’s lying across the bed, head propped on one hand, paging through
Hindu Society Under Siege
. He looks up, a wounded expression in his murky eyes. “Oh, she’s sulking!” he says. “I know you can’t resist me, darling—you’ll be back soon.”
A valid assumption—she has returned before. For Chetna’s sake.
Vikas sniffs as if at the scent of her fear. He puts his book down and reaches for the phone. Anu dodges, in case the receiver sails through the air. Vikas laughs and waves it at her before thumbing it.
In Chetna’s room next door, she locks herself in. A locked door and her rosary have often helped her make the best of things. She lies down fully clothed, Chetna’s cricket bat at her side.
She prays with as much faith as Father Pashan, but in a Hindu way.
Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy names …
Dadu brought Father Pashan to her bedside two years ago, after her accident. The doctors had said she was dying, and Purnima-aunty and Sharad Uncle had come to Holy Family Hospital to say their last farewells. Mumma was trickling Ganges-water over Anu’s bandages. Her father invited Father Pashan to say the rosary. Restore her to us, Dadu said, and you can baptize her.
Between Hail Marys, Father Pashan would comb through his hair with his fingers. And after many repetitions, she was no longer looking up at him doing that, but felt herself floating, looking down at a priest praying
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