A Scandalous Secret. Jaishree Misra
shuddering at the massive old ranihaars and pendants that Sharat’s mother often wore to family weddings. Furthermore, it was her firm opinion that the keys to the locker that housed the famed antique collection of the Lucknow Chaturvedis should now be rightfully handed to the family’s only daughter-in-law, which of course was Neha. For her part, Neha had always resisted this notion, not merely because she had plenty of jewellery already – both her own as well as pieces bought for her by Sharat over the years – but also because she considered it extremely unbecoming to squabble over things as inconsequential as keys to bank lockers. Neha, who was far more interested in contemporary art, preferred to spend her money on paintings and artefacts to furnish her elegant home with, rather than squandering it away on jewellery she hardly ever wore. She decided to change the subject quickly before her mother embarked on the habitual harangue.
‘Our party went off very well,’ Neha remarked, realizing that her mother had forgotten all about it, even though she had mentioned it a few times in the past few weeks.
‘Oh yes. You had your party. Who came?’
‘Well, the usual crowd mostly. One starts running out of different people to call in a place like Delhi! But the Home Minister was there this time. And spoke very positively to Sharat about his chances of getting a seat in the next election.’
‘Achcha? Where will it be, his seat?’ her mother exclaimed, her face finally losing its dissatisfied expression. Neha smiled. Perhaps Sharat’s political prospects would finally provide common ground between her parents and in-laws! She tried to imagine all of them together in a campaigning vehicle before hastily dismissing the thought.
‘Well, Sharat’s hoping for one of the South Delhi constituencies, naturally. But everyone wants those and they don’t usually get given to political novices. At this stage, he’ll take what he gets.’
‘That is very wise,’ her mother said, adding grudgingly, ‘Luckily, however unsophisticated his mother may be, she has somehow brought up a most sensible boy.’
Neha did not have to think up a response to that as the tea service made a timely arrival, brought out by Bahadur, who had worked with her parents since she was a child. Neha enquired after the old cook’s family back in Nepal before turning her attention back to the dogs who had perked up at the sight of food. The trolley was elaborately laid out with bone china quarter plates and lace-edged linen serviettes, as was customary in her mother’s house, and, with the fuss of pouring and serving, the conversation turned to more general matters.
Neha, thinking again about the arrival of the letter from England, realized suddenly why she had never got around to confiding in her mother, even as a nineteen-year-old. She looked at her mother’s prim figure and pursed lips as she poured the tea and realized, with a suddenly very heavy feeling, how little her mother had changed over the years. Neha knew there was little point in looking for help and sympathy now, all these years down the line and with so much more to lose. It would be counterproductive and, besides, given her parents’ age, Neha could not discount what the shock of discovering they had a secret granddaughter could do to them. No, she would have to face this by herself. And face it as bravely as she could. Blinking back a sudden rush of tears, Neha bent over to feed two very excited boxers an unexpected bounty of chocolate cake.
Swiftly gathering herself together, Neha took the cup of tea her mother was holding out. ‘Shall I call Papa and see where he’s got to?’ she asked.
Her mother glanced at her wristwatch. ‘Hmm, by now he should have left the greens. Yes, call him if you’re short of time.’
Neha flipped her phone open and clicked on her father’s name. ‘Haanji, Papa, where are you? I’m at Kailash Colony, having tea with Mama. Okay, good, I’ll wait.’ She slid the phone back into its case and picked up her tea cup again. ‘He’s not far, just at the Moolchand flyover,’ she said.
Neha talked to her mother about the usual things, her mother filling her in on the family gossip regarding a cousin’s acrimonious divorce before moving on to the difficulty she was having in finding a good driver and her own health problems. Their subjects of conversation never changed very much, Neha having long trained herself to keep things innocuous. When her father arrived, she got up to give him a relieved hug. Her relationship with her genial father had always been much warmer but, with retirement, he too had developed a general complaining air that left little room for genuine communication.
‘How was the golf, Papa?’
‘Good, beta, good,’ he responded, sinking into a chair with a groan and taking the cup of tea his wife was offering him. ‘And how are things with you and Sharat? Did your party go well?’ he enquired.
‘Sharat’s going to get a South Delhi seat,’ Neha’s mother cut in.
‘He hopes he’ll get it, Mama,’ Neha clarified. ‘The Minister was only promising to talk to the PM. Nothing pukka yet.’
‘That’s what this country needs,’ her father said, ‘more educated and upstanding people like Sharat coming into politics. That’s the only way we can get all the goonda elements out. Look at the way they behave in Parliament – did you see those scenes on TV yesterday? Throwing chappals and chairs at the Speaker – ruddy shameful! Can you imagine any other Parliament in the world allowing such a thing? The whole lot of them should be sacked, I say.’
The conversation stayed in that vein and, an hour later, returning home from her parents’ house, Neha felt exhausted. Increasingly, her communication with her parents was ceasing to be meaningful, their conversations skimming only the surfaces of their real feelings. But how could she blame them? It was she who had first introduced lies into their relationship.
‘The course was too tough for me, Mama, I just could not cope’ … ‘I was homesick and … and there was a gang of girls that was bullying me … yes, bullying me … no, I don’t want to go into all that … leave me alone, please!’
Tears, recriminations, it went on for weeks, all through the summer holidays, Mama and Papa obviously hoping that I would change my mind by the time term was due to start again. But I held out – I had no choice – and, gradually, the nagging stopped. Mama had scoffed at all my excuses, even as I wept in her arms. What had really hurt, though, was that even if there were moments when Mama perhaps doubted the veracity of my story, she never once stopped to ask the actual reason for my hasty return home. She had never really been able to cope with strong emotion. Everything in her world needed to be neat and immaculate: not just inanimate things like her home and its furnishings but her marriage, her daughter’s prospects, her very emotions. But, they had to relent finally …
The literature department at Lady Shri Ram College was good, taking me into their second year on the basis of my having spent a year at Oxford. They were impressed, clearly, and mystified at my having chosen to come back. But they too bought my story about having been bullied. ‘Great Britain is very racist, I am told,’ the Head of Department said, looking sympathetic. ‘It was in fact so bad, she actually fell sick,’ my father said, waving his arm in my direction, where I sat huddled on a metal chair. The weight I had lost, both during and after my pregnancy, bore that out. I was all skin and bones then and the principal needed no more persuasion. I could finally say goodbye to my Oxford dream.
Neha looked out of the window of her car, not seeing the Delhi traffic or the crowds or the late September sunshine falling on the windscreen. She was far away, back in her college days, remembering how she had kept her head down and completed both her BA and MA, topping Delhi University in her final year. It had been no effort, immersed as she had been in her books at that time. Getting the gold medal had led to an offer to teach in the faculty but Neha turned it down, having by then met Sharat through Ramu Uncle, a family friend. Sharat and she had met only a couple of times before the formal marriage proposal came – it was all very handy, given that they were both Chaturvedis with all kinds of family ties that went back generations. Neha’s parents were overjoyed and there was no reason to let them down again. It was, after all, what Ramu Uncle described as ‘a most advantageous match’.
She now looked down at her beringed fingers, the