The Golden Son

  NIRMALA WAS finishing up the chapatis when Leena returned to the house and retreated to her room. Nirmala turned off the kerosene stove before stepping out the back door, where she saw Anil Patel walking toward a black car parked at the edge of their property. She felt her blood seethe as she marched outside, clutching the wooden rolling pin.

  “Namaste, Nirmala Auntie.” Anil pressed his hands together and bowed. He was grinning like a child.

  “Why have you come here?” Nirmala asked. “What do you want from us?”

  Anil took a deep breath, then another. “Auntie, I came to see Leena.” He paused for several moments, as if he’d forgotten how to speak.

  “You leave my daughter alone.” Nirmala rapped the rolling pin against her legs. “We don’t need any more involvement from your family.”

  “Please, Auntie. I know there was some dowry business between you and my parents, but it doesn’t concern me—”

  “Doesn’t concern you? That’s what you think?” Nirmala laughed and shook her head. “You listen to me—listen and then say it doesn’t concern you.”

  She started at the beginning, with the day everything changed, when she woke up to find the folded paper her husband had left on his pillow. He’d never had any formal schooling, but he’d learned to read and write enough to sell his crops in town. Since she’d been accompanying him to the market, Nirmala had learned a few numbers as well. On the paper was a hand-drawn map: it showed their home, the main road they took into town, and the market where they sold their crops. This was all familiar to Nirmala, but Pradip had also drawn a small square with an X on it, a few blocks from the town market. Below the map was written his name, and next to it a single number: 78,000. What did it all mean? She went to find him, searching first through the fields where he’d spent his life, and finally reaching the river where he’d ended it.

  “He couldn’t swim?” Anil’s face was pinched, the expression of a young boy who’d skinned his knee and was trying not to cry.

  “He was an excellent swimmer,” Nirmala said. “He taught Leena to swim.” Anil drew in a ragged breath. She looked out to the rolling hills on the horizon. “After what happened to Leena, I worried about the revenge he might take against those people. But my husband only exacted a punishment against himself.”

  Anil was shaking his head, his pinched expression threatening to burst open.

  “We brought him home. We held our own cremation. No one else came. We could not afford any ceremony. We were too ashamed to call the pandit. After the cremation, Leena and I went into town and found the place he’d marked on the map.” Nirmala paused, then continued in a softer voice. “It was the police station,” she said, looking up to see if he understood. “He was the giver of the dowry. As her father, full responsibility could be placed on him. And since he was dead, he could not be prosecuted. Everyone else—me, Leena, your parents who gave money—we could all be spared. He saved your father’s reputation, but did your mother ever acknowledge that sacrifice? No, of course not.” She exhaled slowly. “Seventy-eight thousand rupees, the price of my husband’s life.”

  Anil was rubbing his chin furiously, as if to wipe something away.

  “We filed the complaint,” Nirmala continued. “Leena gave her statement. That was when I learned the full extent of the evil she encountered in that house. She had to show them her wounds.” She swallowed against the tightness of her throat. “They took photos of each and every one.”

  “What happened?” Anil demanded. “They must have been prosecuted?”

  Nirmala smiled. For all his knowledge and travels, this boy didn’t understand how things worked. He still thought bad people were punished and good ones rewarded. He still believed in justice. “We filed the complaint,” she said. “They told us they would investigate. I don’t know if they ever did. Those scoundrels probably used our money to bribe the police to look the other way.” She shook her head. “But they never came back. My husband gave his life so we could be free.” Nirmala’s throat was tight, and her whole body ached for her husband. “I came to learn that he also paid back your parents the day before his death—all our outstanding debt. He decided he would rather take his own life than be diminished in front of the great Patel family. God knows how he got that money. I came to you, remember? I came for help, for mercy. Your mother refused to see me.”

  Anil had stopped fidgeting and was now quietly watching her.

  “We did everything on our own,” Nirmala said. “I pulled my husband’s body from the water myself.” She clenched the rolling pin with both fists now. “Leena and I carried him back from the river. We cremated him ourselves. No one came. No one helped us.” She gestured to the land around them. “And we rebuilt our lives, stick by stick: this home, our land, Leena’s business.” She watched Anil, waiting for the meaning to sink in. “My husband paid the last rupee of our debt to your mother before he took his life. We are free from your family and that’s how we will remain. We don’t need anyone, understand? The great Patels have given us more than enough help for one lifetime. We are still recovering from your family’s generosity.” She stepped close enough to smell his pungent sweat. “So leave here. And leave us alone.”

  29

  ANIL STOOD IN PLACE, A DROPLET OF SWEAT TRICKLING DOWN the back of his neck as he watched Nirmala Auntie return to her house. His driver was leaning casually against the hood of the Ambassador, probably having heard every word of the conversation. “Let’s go,” Anil barked. “Rest time over.”

  “Where now, Sahib?” The driver spat betel-nut juice on the ground.

  Anil slammed the car door. Where now? His family wasn’t expecting him. He could easily have the driver take him back to Ahmadabad to catch the next flight to Dallas. Or hop on a plane down to Goa to drink cocktails on the beach with Baldev. Both of those alternatives would be easier than the one he knew he had to face. “All the way up the road.”

  “ANIL!” MA cried when he entered the Big House. Eyes wide, she rushed over and grabbed his face between her palms before pulling him into an embrace. “But when? Why did you not tell us you were coming? Where did you come from?” She looked past him out the front door, but the car and driver were gone. It was the quietest arrival to Panchanagar he’d ever made.

  “I came from Leena’s house,” Anil said. “I asked her to marry me and come to Dallas.”

  The smile drained away from his mother’s face. She let go of him and stepped back, clutching herself with her own arms. Her face contorted a few times, then went blank as a mask.

  “Ma, listen, you don’t know what happened.”

  “I know everything that matters. That girl brought shame upon her family, and she disrespected your father.” She spat out the last words, turned and moved toward the kitchen.

  Anil followed her. “She didn’t walk out on her marriage,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “And her husband didn’t throw her out. She had a good reason.”

  A sharp noise of protest emanated from Ma’s throat. “What reason?” She went into the dark cellar and yanked on a chain, illuminating the single bulb overhead. From the bin, she began picking up onions one by one, sloughing their papery skins onto the cellar floor.

  Anil followed her into the cellar, which was scarcely big enough to hold both of them. “Ma, he tried to kill her.” Anil spoke in a low voice, feeling as if he were betraying a confidence. “He doused her with kerosene and lit her on fire.”

  Ma stopped fussing with the onion in her hands. Her expression was inscrutable except for a twitch at the corner of her eye. “She told you that? And you take it as truth, simply because someone said it?” She turned away.

  “No. I saw it,” Anil said. “With my own eyes. Severe burns, all the way up her leg.” Ma swiveled to look at him, her face shocked by the implication. Anil closed his eyes and shook his head once. “When she was washing her feet at the well, the day we held the medical clinic outside. I saw it then. It’s true, Ma.”

  Ma studi
ed his face for a moment, then marched out of the cellar and unloaded the onions onto the kitchen counter. She smoothed the front of her sari with both palms. “I can’t believe such a thing could happen. That boy was from a good family.”

  “They treated her like a servant, Ma,” Anil said. “Worse than a servant, like a slave. Like a dog. They worked her to the bone and they beat her, and they burned her—”

  “It is not possible!” Ma interrupted, her voice climbing to an unnaturally high pitch. “Your father looked into the family himself. He had excellent judgment in these matters.”

  Anil drew in a breath. “What do you mean, Papa looked into the family?” The idea of his father meeting Leena’s husband was at once intriguing and horrifying. “He went to their home?”

  “No, they came here,” Ma said. “The groom and his father. They sat right out there.” She nodded toward the gathering room. “They wouldn’t even take tea, only water. They brought gifts, a box of very good sweets. Your papa said they were well-mannered and kind. He had excellent judgment in these matters,” she repeated.

  “Not this time, Ma.” Anil gently shook his head. “They manipulated him. They were only after the money. If he’d gone to their house, he would have seen it was in shambles and no one was working their fields.” Anil watched his mother’s profile, the continuous twitching near her eye. “Ma, it wasn’t a marriage, it was a scam. The dowry was all they were after. If Papa hadn’t given the money, they never would have agreed to the match and Leena never would have been in danger.” Anil paused. “It was a mistake, Ma. Papa was wrong.”

  His mother spun toward him with fury glittering in her black pupils. In one quick movement, her hand flew out and she slapped him hard across the face. “How dare you?” she spat in a loud whisper. “How dare you blame him?” Her eyes bore two holes into him. “You think you know better than your father? You think your judgment is equal to his?” She held his eyes as firmly as if she had his chin in her grip, then pushed past him and left the kitchen.

  Anil touched his own hand to his cheek where it burned with the imprint of hers, then turned and followed her into the gathering room. “Isn’t that what you expect, Ma? When all these people come here and ask for my opinion, when I make decisions about their lives?” He slapped his hand on the table. “It’s fine for me to make judgments about other people, but not us?”

  Ma stood with her hands on the back of Papa’s reading chair. Anil closed his eyes and felt them burn before opening them again. “Look, Ma, everyone makes mistakes. I’ve made plenty.” His voice rose in an impatient crescendo. “My mistakes have killed people. Patients have died because I screwed up. My best friend was nearly beaten to death because of a girl I dated. That was my fault.” When his mother’s eyes filled with tears and shock, Anil nodded. “Yes, that’s right, Ma. I had an American girlfriend, and I had a full relationship with her.” He slumped into another chair and rested his head in his hands. “Leena’s not the only one with a past, Ma. I’m not sure you’d like my history any more than hers.”

  Ma moved away from Papa’s chair and toward the front window, her back turned to Anil. From the rise and fall of her shoulders, he could tell she was breathing deeply.

  “All I’m saying is, Papa wasn’t perfect. He made mistakes like the rest of us.” Anil stood and took a few steps toward the window but did not reach out to touch her. “His intentions may have been good, but this decision was wrong. Leena almost died. Her family was ruined financially.” Anil’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “Her father killed himself to save them, to pay you back.”

  Ma stared out the window, a deserted look in her eyes. “You don’t have to marry her out of guilt, Anil.”

  “No. It would be out of love,” Anil said, waiting a few moments for her to take this in. “But Papa still made a bad decision, Ma. And we have to make it right.” First, do no harm.

  “I don’t know what’s happened to you, Anil,” Ma said. “You’ve lost your way. After your father died, you should have come home and stepped up to your responsibilities like a man. Instead, you’re disgracing his memory. You should be ashamed.” She climbed the staircase and disappeared behind her bedroom door.

  ANIL FOUND Piya in her room, sitting on her bed with an oversized sketchbook propped up against her knees. On her nightstand sat a tray of watercolors and a cup of muddied water. She was leaning forward, the tip of her nose a few inches from the paper, making precise flicking motions with a thin brush.

  Anil stood in the doorway for a few moments, then knocked lightly on the door frame. Piya looked up, her face marked by surprise. “Anil?” She stood up, overturning the water cup at her elbow. “Shoot,” she said, righting the cup and stepping over the puddle on the floor. They moved toward each other and embraced. Not for the first time, Anil felt a pang of gratitude for his younger sister. “Bhai, what are you doing here?” She kissed his cheek, where Anil could still feel the sting of his mother’s hand.

  “My roommate Mahesh got married in Ahmadabad last weekend. It was a last-minute decision to come for the wedding,” Anil lied. “I didn’t know if I could get the time off.”

  “Did you see Ma? Oh God, you must have given her a heart attack.” Piya grinned and sat back down on the bed, tucking her legs under her. She moved the large sketchbook aside to make space for him.

  Anil sat on the end of the bed, leaned against the footboard, and closed his eyes. His mother had never laid a hand on him. He’d witnessed her anger many times, but always directed toward others.

  “Oh God,” Piya continued. “The kitchen will be total madness by the crack of dawn. You know she usually starts cooking an entire week before you come? She must be beside herself.” Piya, seemingly delighted about this prospect, rocked back and forth to get comfortable.

  “She slapped me.” Anil pulled at a loose thread in the bedspread, watching it pucker. “Ma. She slapped me across the face just now.”

  Piya’s eyes grew large. “Oh, shit. The golden son has fallen. What happened?”

  The thread broke in Anil’s fingers. He ran his palm over the surface of the bedspread, searching for another loose end. “Leena.”

  Piya leaned back against the pillow. It was a while before she spoke. “I could see it last summer. At the clinic, the way she looked at you.”

  “She did?” Anil looked up. “You did?”

  Piya nodded. “Anil—”

  Anil held up a hand. “I know everything,” he said. “It doesn’t matter to me. I want to marry her. I asked her to come with me to Dallas.”

  Piya rocked backwards on the bed and looked up at the ceiling. “Oh, Anil. Why do you always have to choose the difficult path?”

  “What, you don’t approve either?” Anil asked, an edge of anger creeping into his voice.

  Piya shook her head. “No, it’s not that. Just be careful, bhai. She’s been through enough.”

  The volume of the crickets chirping outside escalated. Piya went over to the window and cranked it halfway closed. Anil picked up her sketchbook from where it sat next to him. Underneath was another book, a thick volume resembling one of his textbooks. “Complete Guide to Ayurvedic and Homeopathic Medicine?”

  “Yes.” Piya smiled. “Actually, it’s quite interesting, the number of natural remedies that have been proven to work. I bet you could even learn something, Doctor Sahib.”

  Anil handed the book back to her. “I’ll leave that expertise to you.”

  “People kept coming here, you know,” Piya said. “Last summer after you left. Word spread about the clinic, and people traveled here from sixty, seventy kilometers away. That one man, whose son was born without a proper ear? He came every day for months. So I started to look things up.” She tapped the cover of the reference book. “I helped a few people, not too many.”

  Anil stayed in his sister’s room, talking with her until after midnight, when he was finally tired enough to sleep. Walking down the hallway to his own room, he saw the lamp on through the cracked d
oor of his mother’s bedroom. Several hours later, when Anil got up for a glass of water, the same light was still burning.

  MINA PATEL sat cross-legged on the floor of the small alcove adjoining her bedroom. In addition to the altar containing statues of several gods and goddesses and the framed picture of her guru, was a portrait of her deceased husband. It was not one of the photos taken shortly before his death, when his face was sunken and his eyes held a look of defeat. Nor had she chosen, as some widows did, a picture from his youth, in which he looked more like a movie star than the man she woke up next to every morning. Mina had selected a picture of Jayant in his early forties, in the prime of his health and life. That was how she preferred to remember him: after he’d become comfortable in his leadership of the farm and other family duties.

  Jayant was not always the confident man others saw. In the beginning, when his father had first asked him to serve as the family arbiter, he had been uncertain a lot of the time. They used to discuss cases together—at night when they lay in bed, or on long afternoon walks through the fields when everyone else was resting. Mina helped him think through the marital disputes or find solutions between siblings who fought. In time, Jayant developed his own way of talking to people and solving their problems. People listened to him, they trusted him. He had a gift.

  And yet, if what Anil had said was true . . . If that other family had convinced Jayant of their decency only to secure the big dowry? Mina recalled the way they’d praised Jayant’s farmland and his expertise, the elaborate box of sweets they’d brought, the gold coins she hadn’t mentioned to Anil. Her husband had always enjoyed such admiration. Had he allowed it to affect his judgment in this case?