The Sari Shop Widow Page 4

  Anjali walked up to the pantry, poured a bowl of cornflakes and a glass of orange juice.

  Setting the washed pot in the dish drainer, her mother dried her hands and studied Anjali. “You were out late last night.”

  “I…saw my friends after a long time…and we talked.” Since when had lying come so easily to her? After her return from seeing Kip, once again, she’d sneaked up to her room. She had tried to convince herself that she wasn’t hurting anyone. Both Kip and she were single; they were free to enjoy each other with no strings attached. And this was America, where consensual sex between responsible adults was the norm. However, sleep had still eluded her.

  “You don’t look all that well.” Her mother’s assessing look lingered on her.

  “I’m okay, Mom. You’re the one who looks beat.”

  Usha took off her apron and sank into the kitchen chair opposite Anjali’s. “Jeevan-bhai is enough to make anyone weary.”

  Anjali poured milk over her cornflakes and added a spoonful of sugar. “Why don’t you eat some breakfast? It’ll make you feel better.”

  Ever conscious of maintaining her figure, Usha shook her head. “Every morsel makes me fat. Ever since that hysterectomy, my metabolism seems to have shut down. I think I’ll have another cup of tea instead.”

  “You drink too much tea and don’t eat enough. It’s not good for you, Mom.”

  “Oh, stop fussing about my diet, Anju. Do you want a cup of tea or not?” When Anjali shook her head Usha got up and walked toward the foot of the staircase to call out to her husband. “Mohan, do you want a cup of tea?”

  “Yes,” replied Mohan from upstairs. Moments later he strode into the kitchen, shaved, showered, dressed, and smelling of his favorite cologne—some inexpensive brand bought at the drugstore. In his peppy walk and the way he pulled the chair out and sat down with the morning paper, Anjali could detect an air of expectancy.

  Usha placed a mug of tea before him and got one for herself. “What time are you leaving for the airport?” she asked him wearily.

  He checked his wristwatch. “In about fifteen minutes.” Lowering his newspaper, he peered at Usha through his gold-rimmed glasses. “Don’t worry so much. He has changed a lot in the last few years. Jeevan-bhai is almost seventy-seven now—more flexible.”

  Usha took a slow sip of the fragrant spiced tea. “Jeevan-bhai’s not likely to change, no matter what his age.”

  Perhaps trying to avoid a confrontation with his peeved wife, Mohan quietly drank his tea and returned to reading the paper. A little later he put on his shoes and went out the front door.

  Anjali and her mother exchanged a silent look. The show was about to begin.

  An hour later, the sound of the car pulling into the driveway had Anjali and Usha rushing to the entry foyer. Anjali smiled inwardly when she noticed her mother taking a quick peek at herself in the framed mirror hanging on the wall. As far as she could see, her mom looked perfect.

  Usha had on a butter-yellow sari with a daisy print. Today she wore her old-fashioned mangalsutra, the necklace that symbolized marriage in the Hindu culture, and old-fashioned diamond cluster earrings. It wouldn’t do to wear any of the delicate, contemporary jewelry that her mother favored. Jeevan-kaka did not tolerate married women in the family wearing anything but traditional garb. They were supposed to take pride in the Kapadia name.

  Somewhat nervous herself, Anjali wore a sensible pastel blue salwar-kameez suit that covered most of her arms and legs. The kameez was a loose shirt that hung below her knees, effectively making her look shapeless. The salwar pants and the chunni, the matching boa-like accessory, were modest, too. The outfit was in direct contrast to her usual form-fitting slacks, skirts, dresses, trendy blouses, and snug sweaters.

  Her father didn’t approve of her wardrobe because she was a woman on the wrong side of thirty-five, and her marital status had to be considered. But that didn’t stop her from enjoying her slim and youthful figure.

  People always told her she looked ten years younger, and it felt good to wear clothes that suited her. Besides, the owner of a fashionable boutique couldn’t afford to wear frumpy clothes. She had to set the right tone for the business.

  The front door opened and her dad walked in, carrying two large suitcases, his face aglow. “Usha, Anju, Jeevan-bhai is here,” he announced cheerfully.

  As if they needed reminding. The house had been buzzing with nothing but Jeevan Kapadia’s arrival for the past few days. And the suitcases! They were the size of mature hogs, which didn’t bode well at all. Her uncle was here to stay a long, long time.

  Expecting to see the roly-poly Jeevan-kaka following on her father’s heels, Anjali’s jaw dropped when a considerably slimmer man walked in. She heard her mother draw in a shocked breath.

  Good Lord, who was this man?

  He had Jeevan-kaka’s eyes, his shaggy, squirrel-tail eyebrows, and bulbous nose, but this man was only two-thirds his size. His khaki pants were about two sizes too large and were bunched up and held together at the waist with a thick black belt. He had lost more hair than ever and his once-smooth face looked wrinkled. One tooth on the bottom was missing, too. Talk about age catching up. Five years had made an astounding difference.

  Then he spoke to her mother. “Ahh, Usha! Kem chho? How are you, little sister?”

  It was her uncle all right. For a slimmed-down man, the voice was still robust and commanding. It had suited the chubby Jeevan, but not this one. Whatever happened to make him lose weight? Maybe he’d gone on some kind of diet and exercise program?

  Anjali watched her mother flash her most cordial smile and bend down to touch Jeevan’s feet in the conservative way of greeting an elder. So she followed her mother’s example and did the same. It’d be best if she played the passive little Hindu woman—for the moment.

  Grinning from ear to ear, Jeevan-kaka first blessed his sister-in-law and then caught Anjali in an exuberant hug. She nearly got smothered in the embrace, her nose squashed against his soft cream cotton shirt and the smell of his basil-scented cologne.

  He held her away from him for a second and studied her, his shrewd black eyes seemingly taking in every inch while Anjali tried not to squirm. “Anju, how big-big you have become. Looking lovely-lovely also, huh?”

  Well, at least he thought she looked lovely. And thank goodness, big in his vocabulary meant grown-up. She had news for him: she’d become a voting adult some nineteen years ago.

  Just as she thought the surprise and the official welcoming ceremony were over, and they could now settle into the routine of having her uncle around for the next several weeks or months, another shock followed.

  A strange man came in through the door, a giant suitcase in each hand. Anjali’s head snapped up to study him. She could almost feel her mother’s back stiffening alongside her own.

  He certainly didn’t look like the average cab or limo driver. He was tall and broad-shouldered. With her eye for fashion, the first thing Anjali took in was his attire. He wore an open-neck tan shirt and tobacco dress slacks, both beautifully tailored and very expensive looking. The shoes were glossy brown wing tips. He had smooth white skin. His hair was dense, dark, and neatly groomed. A scar was visible just beneath his left eyebrow, making the eyelid look swollen. His eyes were…gray.

  He couldn’t be Indian—not with that complexion and those eyes. And yet, there was something very Indian about him. Anjali could sense his Indian-ness, sniff it. One Desi could always spot another.

  “Come inside, Rishi,” Jeevan-kaka ordered the man, beaming at him.

  Rishi? It was an Indian name, Sanskrit for sage or wise man.

  “Put the suitcases down and meet everyone, beta,” instructed Jeevan-kaka. Although beta meant son, most often the term was used affectionately for a child of either sex, so it probably meant nothing in this case. Jeevan-kaka’s sons were about this man’s age, especially his youngest, but none of them were this fair or impressive looking. And none was called Rishi either.<
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  Something odd came to mind. Jeevan-kaka couldn’t possibly have a love-child, could he? The old man was even more puritanical than her father. She couldn’t picture him fathering an illegitimate son. But then, his wife, Chandrika, was unattractive, and there was a remote possibility that Jeevan-kaka could have strayed. Although why any woman in her right mind, no matter how desperate, would go for Jeevan was beyond Anjali’s imagination. Nonetheless he was loaded, and money was a magnet to certain types of females.

  The stranger put the suitcases on the floor and dutifully joined his palms to greet Anjali and her mother in the traditional way. “Namaste,” he said with an accent she couldn’t quite place. He had an interesting baritone voice.

  For a split second her mother’s eyes connected with hers and Anjali clearly saw the look of puzzled wariness in them.

  Who was this man? Anjali tried to take a few silent guesses. He certainly didn’t look like any of her other cousins. Maybe he was a friend of Jeevan-kaka’s?

  Her father solved the mystery to some extent when he said, “Usha, Anju, this is Rishi Shah, Jeevan-bhai’s business partner from London.” But then he immediately proceeded to drop another bombshell. “Rishi will be staying with us.”

  Anjali’s mind went into a tailspin. It was bad enough that her autocratic uncle had arrived, but he’d also come with a partner. And since when had her independent-minded uncle decided to take on a sidekick? And if he had, how come it wasn’t some older man like himself? Instead here was someone who looked young enough to be his son—even a grandson.

  As good hosts, Mohan and Usha welcomed Rishi Shah and Jeevan into their home and ushered them into the living room. As Anjali followed them she happened to notice the younger man’s gait. He seemed to favor his right leg a little—an almost imperceptible limp.

  Jeevan-kaka cast a glance around the room before settling on the old blue couch. “You need new paint on the walls, Mohan.”

  Anjali exchanged another look with her mother. He’d been here all of two minutes and already he was voicing criticisms. But he was right. The walls did need a coat of paint. Nothing escaped those coyote eyes.

  “How about some hot chai, Jeevan-bhai?” asked Usha, obviously trying to steer his attention away from the walls.

  “No, Usha, chai does not agree with me these days. You can make me a hot cup of masala doodh—nonfat milk with saffron, cardamom, a little bit clove, and almond paste.”

  Her mom’s brow settled into a troubled frown. Anjali could almost see the thoughts churning in her mind. Almonds, saffron, cardamom, and a hint of clove to be ground fine and added to boiling skim milk. Jeevan’s crazy demands had already begun. Thank goodness they happened to have skim milk in the house because of her mother’s strict diet.

  “What would you like to drink, Rishi?” Mohan smiled at the stranger, clearly trying to be an attentive host. Maybe Mohan could feel the negative vibes emanating from his wife and daughter and felt he had to do something to intercept them, stop them from reaching their guest.

  Rishi Shah was busy checking out the house, his gaze wandering over every painting, photograph, pillow, and carpet fiber. He looked up when addressed. “Something cold would be welcome, if you don’t mind, sir.”

  Then she recognized the accent. British, very clipped and proper—the Queen’s English. How interesting was that? And he’d addressed her father as sir.

  “Cola is okay?” her father asked, and the man nodded, looking as serious as ever.

  While her parents escaped into the kitchen to fill the drink orders, Anjali sat stiffly in one of the chairs, preferring not to raise her eyes. Her uncle always had that effect on her.

  Jeevan-kaka chuckled, sounding smug. “Rishi, what did I tell you, huh? Our Anju is lovely or what?”

  Anjali slowly lifted her head to look at Rishi Shah and saw him nod silently at Jeevan-kaka’s comment. Her uncle telling a stranger to agree with his biased opinion about her looks was embarrassing. Then the man looked across the room at her, his assessing eyes intense beams of gray that rattled her a little.

  He would’ve been a good-looking man but for the unsmiling mouth that made him seem cold and remote, like a monolith standing alone, distant, watchful. Intimidating. She wondered what his real opinion of her was. From his expression she could tell nothing.

  Perhaps to keep the conversation going, Jeevan-kaka asked her about her work and where she had traveled in recent months. That was easy. She loved her work and her travels and she told him about all she’d been doing. Only after she’d finished talking about her latest trips to India and Bangkok did she realize she was babbling and using her hands to carry on an animated dialogue. Suddenly sensing Rishi Shah’s solemn gaze on her, she lapsed into silence.

  “So, when are you getting married again, beta?” asked Jeevan-kaka.

  She cleared her throat. “Excuse me!”

  “You need a good husband. You are now what, thirty-five?”

  Discussing her age was outrageous enough, but to question her about remarriage was crass. Why was the older generation so hung up on marriage? However, when it came to her uncle, there was nothing she could do but give him a straightforward answer. “I’m thirty-seven, Jeevan-kaka. And I don’t plan on marrying anytime soon. I’m too busy.”

  Jeevan’s bushy eyebrows rose high. “What does busy have to do with marriage? Every girl has to be married at a proper age, otherwise how will she have children?” He made a dismissive gesture with his hands. “Life is always busy, Anju. You should settle down, beta. Finding a good husband is the best cure for everything.”

  “But I’m not ill. Widowhood is not a disease.” Anjali tried to keep her voice even, but her distress was beginning to rise. A stranger was sitting in the room, watching her, listening to her uncle’s discourse on marriage, and specifically her private life.

  But a quick glance at the man sitting next to him surprised her. A hint of hilarity flashed in his eyes. He seemed amused by her response to her uncle’s opinionated remarks. So, he had a sense of humor hidden under that aloofness, did he? Her own lips twitched in response.

  Her uncle wiggled his eyebrows and grinned. “I can find you a nice-nice Gujarati man. Our town has some rich men who are looking for a pretty wife like you.”

  “Thanks, Jeevan-kaka, but I’m not interested. If I change my mind about marriage in the future, I’d like to find my own man.”

  “You have modern ideas.” Jeevan barked out a patronizing laugh. “So when are you coming to the farm, beta? You are going all over India but you’re not coming to see me and Chandrika.”

  Anjali took a cleansing breath and smiled at her uncle. At least he was off the subject of marriage. “Perhaps next time. You know how it is when most of my business is in Delhi and Mumbai.” Traveling to his remote farm near Gamdi, a few miles outside the city of Anand, wasn’t easy.

  “Oh yes, I know all about business demands,” he said, rolling his eyes.

  With another agreeable nod Anjali subsided into silence. All this time Rishi Shah had merely sat in his corner, not having said a single word, but she could feel the discomfort emanating from him. With his exclusive clothes, his fancy accent, and his cool reserve, he looked out of place in their small, suburban home with its well-worn furniture, the lingering odors of spicy food, and its ten-year-old carpeting and paint.

  But if he didn’t want to be here, why had he bothered to accompany her uncle?

  Thankfully her father arrived with a glass of soda for Shah, who accepted it with a word of thanks. The awkward silence was broken by her father and uncle starting a conversation. She made a convenient escape to the kitchen to help her mother.

  Usha turned a troubled gaze toward her. “Not only does he come with enough clothes for an entire year, he brings a guest in the bargain,” she whispered.

  “Hmm,” agreed Anjali. They both watched the milk in the pan come to a rolling boil while another pan brewed the strong tea with its aromatic mixture of spices. “Who is he? I me
an, what’s he to Jeevan-kaka other than a business partner?”

  Shrugging, Usha stirred the milk with a long-handled spoon. “How should I know? I just met him. Did you notice how fair he is?”

  “And the eyes—they’re a rare shade of gray.” Those eyes were amazing. Anjali brought out cups and saucers and placed them on a tray. “And Jeevan-kaka treats him like family, not a business associate.”

  “I noticed that. I hope that young man is not as difficult as your uncle, or I’ll have two big problems on my hands.” Usha strained the tea into three cups and poured the masala milk into another.

  “Since he’s planning to stay with us, which room does he get?” Theirs wasn’t a big house and guests always created a bit of a problem.

  “Nilesh’s room. Where else can I put him?”

  Anjali stared at her mother. “What about Nilesh?”

  “I’ll have to ask him to move to the basement, on the sofa bed.”

  “But that’s not fair to Nilesh,” protested Anjali. “You should at least ask him first.” Nilesh’s room was next to hers. That meant some stranger was going to be sleeping in the bed some ten feet away from her—separated by a wall, of course. But the thought was unsettling.

  In the living room, her father, Jeevan-kaka, and Shah were deep in conversation about the store. Her eyes went to Rishi Shah. He was explaining something to the two men. He was very articulate. Where was he educated? England? Some upscale English school in India?

  Jeevan-kaka lifted his cup and sniffed suspiciously. Then after a single cautious sip he closed his eyes tight and grimaced. “Uh-oh! Usha, did you put sugar in this? I am a diabetic now. I cannot take sugar.”

  “I’m sorry, Jeevan-bhai,” murmured Usha. “I had no idea you were diabetic. Should I make another cup without sugar?”

  Jeevan shook his head. “I will finish this, but next time, remember, no sugar in anything.”