went to Cannes with her best friend, Rita, and I went home to face my family’s questions.
THE EVENT THAT CAUSED AN IRREPARABLE RIFT IN OUR MARRIAGE occurred the next year, when my parents wanted to visit. I tried to discourage them, offering to travel home again, but they were longing to see my fancy new flat-and my fancy new wife. When I told Naina, she shrugged and said that they could come if I really wanted it, but she wasn’t going to have them staying with us. I could put them up at a hotel. Not to worry, she would pay for it.
Those of you familiar with Indian traditions will realize what an insult that was to my parents-and to me. But I couldn’t say anything. Naina’s last sentence made me aware of how beholden I was to her. It was her flat I was living in, her food I was eating. Even the job I held was due to her father’s string-pulling. I was ashamed that once I had considered these indications of good fortune.
The next day, I stayed back in my office after work; when the other employees left, I phoned my parents to inform them of what Naina had decreed. They did not express the hurt they must have felt. They told me not to worry; they would come another year when it was more convenient. But I knew the truth. They were proud people; they would never ask to visit again. My mother added that she had made a box of Maisoorpak, my favorite sweet, and that she would mail it to me. She hoped Naina would like it. After I hung up, I sat with my head in my hands. When I could no longer escape the fact that I had made the biggest mistake of my life by marrying Naina- yes, I confess it-I started to cry.
That was when someone knocked on the door. A hesitant female voice asked if I was okay. It was Latika, our department’s accountant, who had been working late. Passing by my office, she had heard my sobs. Her concern made me break down further. She fetched me water, rummaged through her handbag and found me a handkerchief to wipe my face, and told me things would surely look better in the morning. I told her I didn’t think so. Before I knew it, I began pouring out my marital troubles. She pulled up a chair and listened, not trying to offer any solutions.
I couldn’t help noting how different Latika was from Naina. She was no beauty, but in her simple sari and minimal makeup she exuded a glow. If Naina was a flashing disco light, Latika was the moon in a misty sky. Behind her glasses, her eyes were understanding, and I felt that she knew the meaning of struggle. The handkerchief she gave me was frayed at the edges, and I was impressed that she hadn’t minded sharing it with me even though I would see this. The act made her seem at once brave and vulnerable-and real in a way that most of the people I had been mingling with recently were not.
I must have talked to her for half an hour, moving from my anger toward Naina to the subject of my parents and how much they had sacrificed for me. In return Latika told me that her parents had died in a train accident a couple of years earlier. She still missed them every day. Her only remaining family was her younger brother, whom she was putting through college.
When I apologized for having delayed her and offered her a ride (I drove a BMW that my father-in-law had given me and that-until that day-I had been rather vain about), she refused. The buses were still running, and the bus stop was right across from the ladies’ hostel where she roomed. But I insisted, pointing out that it was raining. We sprinted through the rain across the empty street to the parking garage. We were soaked and laughing by the time we reached the car. An hour back, I wouldn’t have believed that anything could have made me laugh on this day. As I drove Latika to her hostel, I felt that, perhaps to balance out my misfortune, the universe had offered me a friend.
I’m not sure when our friendship metamorphosed into love. Neither of us had intended it. Latika considered the husband of another woman out of bounds. When she figured out what was happening, she tried to push me away in distress. But what had blossomed between us was too strong to resist. Still, our relationship never became physical-Latika insisted on that. We understood the necessity of secrecy. At work we pretended we were no more than colleagues. But each day after work, for one precious hour, we went to movie theaters, that old refuge of sweethearts in crowded Indian cities. We chose buildings with small screens and poor air-conditioning because they would not be as crowded. We went to a different one each day and sat in the back of a darkened hall, holding hands and whispering. As the months passed, we dared to dream of a future together in a city far from this one, a future that would include my parents and her brother.
I went to my boss and, in confidence, requested a transfer to a smaller branch in the south of the country-for family reasons, I told him. He advised against it, warning me that it was a huge step back from which my career would never recover. I didn’t care. My ambition, once a conflagration, had become a mild hearth fire. The day my transfer was approved, I asked Naina for a divorce. I pointed out that we were incompatible. She loved parties and shopping, holidays in expensive locales, and running the high-end boutique she had opened recently. The things I cared for-my job, my friends, my books, my family-she found dreary. Why not admit we had both made a youthful mistake and go our own ways?
Naina stared at me, eyes wide with shock. For a moment I thought she looked stricken. Then she stalked into her bedroom and slammed the door. In a few seconds I could hear her voice, low and furious, on her phone- probably bad-mouthing me to one of her girlfriends. I didn’t care. I felt a great lightness at having taken this step toward my freedom. I went to my own room-we had started using separate bedrooms some months back, and though we still had physical relations, those times were rare. Using my personal line, I called Latika and told her what had transpired. She was a bit scared but mostly excited-she already knew about my transfer. We decided we would talk more after work.
The next morning I was in my office, fine-tuning details for the visit of a Ghanaian minister, when I heard a commotion. Stepping out, I saw four policemen hurrying Latika down the corridor. Her hair was disheveled and there were streaks of dried tears on her cheeks. She shot me a wounded, accusing look as she passed me. My heart began pounding. I grasped the arm of a policeman and asked him what the problem was; he shook me off, saying he was not at liberty to discuss details. The corridor was filled with employees who stared and whispered, enjoying this bit of drama. I wanted to run after her, but the presence of those staring eyes stopped me. I went back into my office, where I summoned my office boy. From him I discovered that early that morning the police had arrived with a warrant for Latika. Apparently, a large sum of money was missing from accounts that Latika managed, and she was suspected of having embezzled it. She was being taken to the central police station for questioning.
I grabbed my briefcase and started for the stairs. I intended to rush to the police station and do what I could to help Latika. I was certain she was innocent; this mistake could be cleared up soon. But on the way, my boss’s secretary, an older woman who had been with the company for many years and was privy to high-level secrets, stopped me. My boss wanted to see me. Immediately.
I told her I needed to leave right away on a personal emergency, and that I would see him as soon as I got back.
She shook her head. “If you don’t see him now, you may not have a job when you get back.”
Her tone stopped me. I followed her into my boss’s office. He didn’t waste time with niceties. “I got a letter from high-up this morning,” he told me, “stating that your transfer has been revoked.” He did not explain. Instead, he suggested that I return to my room and focus my energies on the Ghanaian minister.
When I stepped out, I had to hold on to the secretary’s desk. My head was whirling. In less than an hour, my world had fallen to pieces. What was going on?
The secretary looked at me with wry sympathy. “Looks like you’ve made someone powerful very angry. If I were you, I’d make amends fast. And I’d stay away from Latika.”
Understanding flashed through me. Naina hadn’t called a friend last night. She had called her father, and he had struck with the immediate intelligence of a hawk that knows how best to mortally wound its prey.
I left my briefcase on the floor of the secretary’s office and drove like a maniac to Latika’s hostel. I bribed the gardener and learned that an hour before, the superintendent had received a phone call. When she hung up, she was very agitated and had Miss Latika’s belongings packed and brought to the gate. She instructed the gatekeeper to give them to Miss Latika but not let her into the hostel. Soon afterward, Miss Latika had shown up in a police van. She had picked up her things and told him she was leaving the city. One of the policemen had stopped her from saying more. She had given the gardener a ten-rupee note as baksheesh when she left. Folded into the note was a letter for a gentleman named Mangalam.
More money changed hands. I got the letter. It consisted of only one sentence:
