The Golden Son

  He and Leena cleaned up outside, using the pump. Anil hoisted the iron handle up and down, and Leena held her sari out of the way to wash her feet. Anil saw the skin above one of her ankles was severely contracted and mottled with red. The scar, from what must have been a second-degree burn, extended up her calf and disappeared beneath her sari. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision and looked up at Leena’s face. Her eyes turned away quickly, and she dropped her sari to the wet ground and stepped backwards. “Your turn,” she said, offering to take the pump handle.

  “W-will you stay for dinner?” he asked. “You’re welcome to bring your mother.”

  “Thank you, but she prefers to eat at home,” Leena said. “I should go.”

  Anil took a step after her. “You . . . you were a big help. Thank you. I’ll bring your things back tomorrow.” Leena smiled and brushed a strand of hair away before turning to leave. Anil watched her walk down the path, recalling Piya’s question about burn treatments months earlier.

  MINA PATEL stood at the window inside the gathering room, watching Anil clean his hands at the outdoor pump. He could easily have come inside to wash up, but he stayed out there because of Leena, who was now walking down the lane, the breeze lifting her sari behind her. A discomfort brewed inside Mina, edging out the pride she’d felt earlier in the day. How quickly her emotions could shift these days, without her husband’s rocklike presence at the center of her world.

  Yesterday had been one of the best days she’d had since Jayant had passed away. All of her children were around, in relative harmony with one another. Anil had shown great wisdom in managing some very complicated disputes. He’d begun to understand, as his father had, that he couldn’t solve a problem without understanding the people behind it, the dynamic of the family and the community. Jayant would have been proud to see Anil stepping into the role he’d always wanted for his son: healing ailments, both physical and unseen, in their community.

  But that was yesterday. Today, Mina had to look on while her son watched that girl walk down the lane, without any understanding of where she’d come from.

  Mina should have intervened earlier, as soon as she saw Leena here, helping Anil with his medical clinic. But she didn’t want to be inhospitable to a friend of Piya’s, and in some corner of her heart, Mina took pity on the girl.

  She stepped outside and approached Anil at the well, where he was drying off. “Son, I need to speak with you,” she said. “I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s not right for you to be so friendly with Leena. It’s one thing for Piya, she’s a girl. But with you . . . it doesn’t look good. There are things you don’t know—”

  Anil interrupted, holding his palm up. “I know about the marriage, Ma, if that’s what you mean.”

  “You don’t know, Anil, the kind of girl she is—the kind who would betray not only her husband and parents but yours as well. She let us down, Papa and I, after everything we did for her.” Mina drew in a deep breath and told him the whole story.

  SOON AFTER Anil had left for America, Leena’s parents came to the Big House on the last Sunday of the month, the day Jayant usually conducted arbitrations for the villagers. Although Nirmala and her husband were neighbors to the Patels, their interactions had been limited. As the Memsahib of the Moti Patel clan, Mina couldn’t be on familiar terms with everyone. Jayant had had more contact with Pradip, on occasions when they both sold their crops at the market in town. Jayant said he was honest and hardworking, and he seemed to have a fondness for the man.

  Leena’s parents had come to the gathering room on previous occasions but only to observe, so Mina was surprised to see them step forward for help that day. When Jayant greeted the man like an old friend, Mina knew her husband would be inclined to help him whatever the need. They wanted to marry off their daughter, but the only boy they could find was from a more prosperous family, one who rightfully wanted a greater dowry than Leena’s parents had offered. Nirmala and her husband were at odds over whether to accept the proposal and take on the debt of a larger dowry.

  “She is my only daughter, Sahib,” Leena’s father had said. “Naturally, I want the best for her. So what if it costs me more?” His wife was fearful of going to the moneylender, who had a reputation for unsavory practices and usurious rates. Nirmala was small-minded about money matters, as Mina had observed some women were, accustomed to managing household budgets with a tight fist. She had learned from Jayant that improving their farm yields or earning more for superior crops was better than counting grains of rice. Even so, in Mina’s mind, her husband was often overly generous with others.

  Jayant listened patiently to both Nirmala’s concern about the financial burden, and Pradip’s worry over his daughter’s future. Here, Mina recalled her husband digressing into his beliefs about the dowry system. As Jayant pointed out, although the practice had been banned by the government decades ago, he could not think of a marriage that had taken place without some kind of gift from the bride’s parents. The very silver thalis on which he enjoyed special meals, with the Patel name and their wedding date hand-engraved in tiny Gujarati script around the edge, had been a gift from Mina’s parents. The dowry used to be a well-intentioned practice, meant to bolster the economic security of girls at the start of their married life. It was a shame the way the original purpose of the dowry had become twisted through the years, Jayant explained—the way some greedy families appropriated resources intended for the bride.

  Leena’s parents waited patiently during this discourse. Even before Jayant delivered his opinion, Mina knew what he would say. Her husband had made clear his disdain for moneylenders. People often came to him with financial troubles, and he’d seen many of them fall prey to the threats and violence of those swindlers. As Mina expected, Jayant said he wanted Nirmala and Pradip to provide the best for their daughter without having to worry. He would loan them the additional money himself, without interest. It was not a small sum either—fifty thousand rupees would take several years to pay off. Leena’s parents were appreciative, rightfully so. Her father even offered the Patels the most honored seats at the wedding.

  MINA TASTED a sour acid in her mouth when she’d finished the story. In the impending night, a guard dog began to bark in the distance. “So you see, son, we’ve done a great deal for them, for Leena. More than most people would do. Without our generosity, her wedding would not have been possible. Because of your father, that girl got a better marriage than her parents could afford.” The emotions were now stirred up within Mina, her heart aching anew at the loss of her husband.

  “But Leena did not honor that generosity. She brought shame on her parents and spat on our kindness.” Mina did not need to say more. Her son knew what it meant for a woman to be put out of her marital home, for a marriage to end in disgrace. It was a stain that girl would carry for the rest of her life, but one Mina would not allow to spread to her own family.

  ANIL FELT his mother watching him carefully for a reaction. He replaced the bucket under the well and slowly toweled off his arms and feet, anger swelling inside.

  “I just want you to be careful, Anil,” Ma said. “For your own good. When you come back next year, we’ll begin looking for a girl. I’ve already been getting inquiries.”

  “Well, Ma, you won’t need to worry about that,” Anil said.

  “Good.” She patted his arm. “I knew you’d understand.”

  “No, you don’t understand.” The words he’d been deliberating over came tumbling out. “I’m not coming back next year. I’m applying for a fellowship in interventional cardiology. If I get a spot, and I hope I do, I’ll be there for five more years.”

  Anil disregarded the look of alarm on his mother’s face; perhaps he even took some small pleasure in it. He explained the specialty and its advanced technology in enough detail to overwhelm her, to quell her forthcoming questions. He described the new research project he was undertaking—omitting that he still needed to find a sponsor, one of the many things tha
t had slipped after the attack on Baldev, and resolving to redouble his efforts when he returned. “Don’t you see, Ma? This kind of medicine would have saved Papa’s life,” Anil said. “He would have wanted me to do this.”

  Ma shook her head slowly. “Don’t tell me what your father would have wanted. Your father was a great man. If he were still here, none of this would be happening.” She waved her arm through the air. “I don’t know what’s happened to you, Anil. I don’t know who you are anymore. I’ve done everything for you, and now you’re doing this? You can’t just rewrite the past to suit yourself.” Ma turned abruptly and climbed the porch steps.

  Anil exhaled deeply, feeling a strange relief at hearing his mother verbalize his own sense of guilt. When he closed his eyes, he pictured Papa at the head of the table in the gathering room, adjudicating the matter of Leena’s marriage. Even after he opened them, the idea continued to haunt him.

  TWO DAYS later, Leena sat on the floor of the drawing room, replacing the misshapen pottery pieces on the shelf. She traced the rim of a cracked drinking cup that had held cotton balls; she balanced the wobbly bowl they’d used for discarded syringes. Pieces deemed futile had nonetheless found purpose. Over the last few days, she’d seen people from all over Panchanagar and beyond, many of them for the first time since she’d gotten married. If she’d stopped to think before climbing those steps to the Big House’s porch, she might have worried about facing them. But none of the villagers she treated at the medical clinic had shown signs of disapproval. It was something Leena had noticed about people who were suffering: their vulnerability seemed to make them more caring—or perhaps just less concerned—about the circumstances of others.

  Anil had helped her gain back some measure of respect. He hadn’t shunned her after learning about her marriage, yet it was clear he didn’t know everything. Piya had kept her word and told no one, not even her brother. Leena knew there was a risk in telling him now, but he deserved to know the truth. She settled onto her bed, her knees folded in front of her and her notepad resting on top of them, and she began to write.

  NIRMALA WALKED past Leena’s room, watching her daughter from the corner of her eye. She could tell Leena was crying, though she never made any sound when she did; it was the way her daughter pressed her fingertips to the outer corners of her eyes, as if her kajal were smudged. It pained her to see her daughter without any of the joy and spirit a young person should possess. Leena deserved happiness, but she wouldn’t find it with Anil Patel. That boy was no good for her, not even as a friend, as Leena insisted he was. There were things about that family Leena didn’t know, and which Nirmala had resolved never to tell her.

  The Patels had gladly participated in the arrangement of her marriage, accepted credit for their role, then turned their backs once the marriage went bad. When Nirmala had gone to Mina to beg for mercy from the crushing burden of their debt after the extortion began, the woman had refused to see her—sending her son out in her place. Nirmala had brought her most precious sari as an offering—to appeal, one mother to another, for the well-being of her only child. And Mina Patel had handed her heartbreak over to a mere boy. The humiliation of it stung to this day. But there was no need to burden Leena with this ugly truth; the girl had suffered more pain in the last few years than many adults did in a lifetime. Nirmala had wiped the tears from her daughter’s face, had treated her injuries until they healed. Now she was afraid this Patel boy was opening those wounds all over again.

  23

  FOR THE FIRST TIME, WHEN ANIL LANDED AT DFW AIRPORT IN late July, no one was there to receive him. Baldev was still recovering in the hospital; Mahesh was unable to leave work. And his time with Amber now felt like a hundred years away, in another lifetime when they were both much younger. Still, Anil scanned the watchful waiting crowd at the airport. He felt a yearning he hadn’t experienced since leaving Dallas. As he anticipated the empty evenings and lonely bed ahead of him, the loss was palpable; he was overcome with the thought of being alone again. But this is the way it would have been, he realized now, if he and Amber had tried to build a life together—the two of them alone in the world, without her family, without his. It was a life he could no longer imagine.

  Anil stepped outside into the blinding sun. Even the heat was different in Texas, its own phenomenon, unrelenting from early May through late September. Not that anyone spent much time outside in the Dallas summer: they all scurried between their air-conditioned homes, cars, and offices. Playgrounds and fields stood largely empty as families flocked to well-chilled shopping malls and movie theaters.

  Anil was accustomed to hot weather in India, but that was heat of a different nature. In Panchanagar, the early mornings were cool and the ground was coated with dew. Later in the day, occasional breezes rustled through the palm and coconut trees. And on the hottest days of late summer, the skies broke open with monsoon rains, drenching the parched land along with anyone caught outside. In India when the heat was unbearable, relief usually came through nature, or people retreated to their beds for long afternoon naps. In Texas, nobody waited for nature to deliver such relief; they produced it themselves with small armies of air-conditioning units outside every building. In July, the hospital was so cold, Anil often had to wear a sweater under his white coat.

  ANIL WANDERED through the empty apartment, expecting to find something changed in his absence, which felt much longer than ten days. The kitchen counters were bare, and only two teacups stood in the draining rack. The fridge held a single carton of milk, past its expiration date. There were none of the usual plastic tubs filled with leftovers of Mahesh’s vegetable curries. Anil hoped the man wasn’t starving himself out of guilt.

  Baldev’s room looked chaste without the Bollywood starlet posters. His parents had returned to Houston a week ago, after his surgeries were complete and he’d been transferred to the rehabilitation ward. They had to get back to the gas station they owned, which had been operating in their absence under the watch of employees they didn’t fully trust. They couldn’t afford to stay away any longer, particularly with the medical bills they now faced for Baldev’s hospital stay. Anil thought of his friend in the ward reserved for those with the most broken bodies, those who needed additional time and help to heal. He felt the impulse to leave the apartment—his suitcase still standing at the front door, his body stiff from the journey—and drive straight to the hospital to see his friend. But then he pictured Baldev’s limbs in casts, his face bruised, his eyes unavoidable, and Anil decided to wait until morning, when he was due at the hospital for his shift.

  Anil unpacked his suitcase and retrieved from one of the outer pockets the prescription bottle containing chai masala powder that Ma had pressed into his hand before he left. His mother never wasted anything: the bottle had once held beta-blockers Anil had brought back from Ahmadabad to treat Papa’s angina.

  The first sip of Ma’s chai always reminded Anil he was home, and he longed for some now. On this visit, he’d followed her into the kitchen, watching how she crushed a nub of gingerroot and tore fresh mint leaves into the simmering milky liquid, sometimes adding lemon-grass or cloves. He opened the bottle to take a sniff. How could this dusty beige powder possibly deliver the flavor he craved?

  As he waited for the milk to simmer, Anil looked around his living space. It was drab and lifeless, its beige walls, blinds, and carpets all merging into a single undistinguished backdrop for their scant furnishings. A temporary home. Anil spooned tea leaves and a sprinkling of masala into the pot, and while he waited for the color to take hold, he looked at the prescription bottle. How strange to be holding this same bottle bearing his father’s name, now across the ocean and filled with spices ground by his mother in the brass mortar that had belonged to his grandmother.

  He pulled a teacup out of the kitchen cabinet and examined it. The cup was clearly made by machine, smooth and identical to the three others in the cupboard. It was perfect, not beautiful. It did not have the thin ridges imprinte
d by Leena’s fingertip, the small swirl at the bottom, the evidence of her hands, her touch. He closed his eyes, felt himself sitting so close to her, he could smell the jasmine woven into her hair. The person Ma had portrayed—the one who had walked out on her marriage and dishonored his father’s generosity—was not the same woman who had shown him her flawed work and helped him bandage wounds at the Big House, nor the brave girl he remembered from childhood. Anil was troubled by the thought of Papa’s involvement in Leena’s marriage; he could not stop speculating about what his father had known. And he could not stop thinking of Leena.

  He imagined her now, sitting on her terrace, molding lumps of clay into beauty. How would it feel to create magic with your hands, to experience the power of your craft? Was it even possible for him? Anil didn’t measure his mistakes in misshapen pots but in death certificates and weeping relatives, in the pained, desperate eyes of a patient he was unable to help.

  Medicine had once seemed like a noble profession, but most of the time it was messy and imperfect. Anil had not anticipated the interplay of power between doctors, or the reality that some patients inspired him to give his best and others, he could now admit, did not. He had not imagined the guilt he would carry from making a bad judgment call that could never be undone.

  Those days he had spent treating patients in Panchanagar were tiring but ultimately satisfying. But was it better than the work he did at Parkview? Did he belong where he could strive to do his best, or where he could do the most good?

  When the tea was ready, Anil took his first sip standing there in the kitchen. It wasn’t as richly flavored as Ma’s chai, but it wasn’t too bad either. He couldn’t detect any mint, but he clearly tasted cardamom and cinnamon. Some elements survived the journey better than others.