sister-in-law. In old-fashioned Hindu households, one did not betray family, and especially not an elder.
After he’d dropped his parents off at their large, affluent home, Kiran had driven back to his flat. He hadn’t been able to relax or sleep. Something had nagged at him for hours, especially his mother’s last remark: Don’t do it, at least for the sake of family honor. Imagine the scandal.
What could be that scandalous? Was Amma planning to force Suresh to divorce Megha? If that was the case, then it would be a good thing—for Kiran. Megha would be free, and perhaps Kiran would have a chance to offer her marriage in the future. Of course, it was all conjecture at that point. And his parents would never condone his marrying a divorcee, especially one who had been previously married to his cousin.
But somehow he’d sensed that divorce was not what Amma had in mind. If not divorce, then what? He had no idea what she was contemplating, but the ominous feeling in his gut only escalated. Then there was that mysterious bit of information he had accidentally found in Amma’s bag recently. That, too, was something that kept bothering him. But would his aunt stoop to something that evil? It was hard to say.
Megha was in some sort of trouble. He was sure of it.
After considerable private debating, he had pulled on some clothes, hopped into his car and driven to the Ramnath home. It was well after one-thirty at night then and the town quite dead. In all the chaos no one had questioned his unexpected arrival at such a late hour and he was grateful for that.
The scene confronting him at the Ramnath’s made his stomach lurch: lights on; the door open; and two policemen in the house. And his aunt weeping! His immediate thought was that something had happened to Megha—either accident or illness. Or worse?
But after listening to what his aunt and uncle had to say, one thing was clear to Kiran. His instincts had been right. He’d sensed all night that something was wrong. And it was.
Megha was gone.
Chapter 5
Megha knew that Kiran Rao lived alone in a flat, and vaguely remembered the address: Gandhi Road. It was some distance from the center of town, a high-class suburb of Palgaum. Amma made a point of mentioning the address to her middle-class friends quite often—her wealthy and peerless nephew’s home. As far as Megha could recall, there was only one building on that street with multiple flats. The rest were plush, sprawling individual homes.
Without giving much thought to what time it was, she raced towards Kiran’s house. Her foot continued to throb, her head hurt, and her stomach kept churning, but she couldn’t stop. It was too risky. The police were probably combing the streets for her. According to the Hindu edict she was a runaway wife now, a common criminal escaping from the law. The thought pushed her forward. Besides, who knew how many other drunkards were lurking around, waiting to pounce on hapless women?
Despite having to run and hide every time she heard a vehicle or unusual sounds, it didn’t take her very long to find Kiran’s residence—a modern, three-story building sitting amidst a walled and landscaped compound. It had a parking area on the ground floor.
The compound wall was a couple of inches taller than she, so she stood on her toes and surveyed the complex. There was no sign of people. The parking lot was almost full, indicating that the residents were all home and likely asleep in their beds. Every one of the windows facing her was darkened. All she could hear were the typical night sounds: insects twittering and the very distant drone of trucks on a highway somewhere.
The bad part was that the compound was brightly lit and nearly every part of it was clearly visible. Tiny moths fluttered around the brass pole-lamps standing like sentries at attention around the building. Not a single dark corner was available in case someone were to see her. For the residents it was probably an asset, but to her it was a major problem.
Afraid that she might be spotted by a passerby, she hunched down and crawled along the length of the wall to the black steel gates, which fortunately stood open. Once again she made a careful survey of the surroundings. She wasn’t sure if there were security cameras or any of those fancy surveillance systems they repeatedly advertised in newspapers and on television. Who knew what kinds of advanced gadgets these types of neighborhoods used to keep the riffraff out?
What if there was a security guard for the building? She hadn’t thought of that when she’d come running here. Expensive buildings usually had one or more guards or gurkhas. Given her present condition, there was no way a guard would let her in. She crept up to the glass windows of the lobby and, positioning herself behind a croton bush, looked in. From where she stood she had a wide view of the entire lobby. It was bright and spacious—tan marble floors, recessed lights in the high ceiling, and a modern wall-hanging on the largest wall. But there was no sign of a gurkha anywhere.
She waited a few minutes to see if a gurkha would appear. When there was still no sign of anyone, she tried the heavy front door and miraculously it opened with no effort. Where was all the security she had expected? She entered the lobby cautiously and sighed with relief to find it empty. Then, for a few moments she froze, wondering if some sort of alarm would go off. It made sense that an electronic sensor or something would be on guard, if not a human being. But several seconds passed and nothing unusual happened—no whistles, bells, or buzzers.
Well, she’d made it so far. What next?
The marble floor felt cool and smooth under her feet—a relief after the hard, rough surfaces she’d been traveling. Looking around she spied the red sign marked Stairs and made her way towards it. She dashed up the staircase. Amazingly, in her heightened state of mind, she even remembered that Kiran lived on the second floor. She was panting again by the time she reached the landing. Holding on to the handrail, she bent over to inhale some much needed air and calm her elevated heartbeat.
There were only two flats there, one to the right and the other left, with a long, wrought-iron balcony running the length of the landing. It looked down on part of the concrete and landscaped area below and a portion of the street was visible. She turned to the flat on the right, anxious eyes scanning the nameplate on the glossy polished door. It was a name she didn’t recognize. Her heart slumped in disappointment. She ran to the second door and almost cried in relief. It read K. K. Rao. This had to be Kiran’s flat. Please God, please let it be Kiran’s flat.
She raised a hesitant hand to ring the doorbell. Although during the last several minutes it had made perfect sense, all of a sudden it felt strange to be standing here in the middle of the night. Earlier that evening, Kiran had said very little to Megha other than to compliment her on her cooking. Conservative Hindu families frowned on a young woman socializing freely with any men other than her husband. There had been lots of general chatter and noise around them, but there had been no interaction between Kiran and her. Now she was standing on his doorstep, desperately looking for help. How odd was that?
Overcome by doubts, she withdrew her hand from the doorbell. Although she’d had frequent contact with Kiran, she didn’t really know him well enough.
Under the bright overhead lights Megha looked down at herself and the slovenly picture she made. She knew she looked like a destitute woman. Her sari was crushed and muddied; her hands and feet were scratched and filthy from having traveled miles over dusty streets. Her injured foot was bleeding on the gleaming gray tiles.
With her sari she wiped her face to remove the dripping perspiration and any traces of dirt. Then she tucked the stray tendrils of hair behind her ears and smoothed down the rest. There was nothing she could do about her ruined sari. Despite her efforts to improve her appearance she knew everything about her said beggar.
Coming
