A Scandalous Secret. Jaishree Misra

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СКАЧАТЬ subsequent examinings, Sonya had doodled absent-mindedly on the margins which were now covered in pictures of stubby little aeroplanes and, for some odd reason, the repetitive image of a spiralling tornado.

      Had she been overly melodramatic, Sonya wondered as she cast her eye over her scrawly writing. Perhaps the tone she’d adopted had turned just a tad too aggressive? It wasn’t entirely made up of course, because Sonya did feel genuinely hurt and angry with all that she now knew of her adoption. In her more logical moments, she knew it was crazy to feel so angry, especially given what an ace set of cards life had dealt her since she was adopted by Mum and Dad. But that didn’t take away from the fact that life could have been dire, thanks to the actions of the woman who had given birth to her.

      To prevent her runaway thoughts from messing up her head again, Sonya got up and turned on the radio. She did a few energetic toe-touches and stretches to Michael Bublé and sang along, trying to lighten her mood. She smiled at her reflection in the mirrored wardrobe. By working herself up into such a tizz over India, perhaps she was merely living up to the name her father had given her when she was six: Drama Diva. He often had a little dig at Mum as well while he was at it, dubbing her Drama Queen and calling them both his Deeply Dramatic Duo. He was a fine one to talk, given how teary he had been of late; almost as bad as Mum. Of course it was all due to the India plan, and poor Dad wasn’t as expert at masking his feelings as he seemed to think. With a mere five days to go before Sonya’s departure, both her parents had taken to behaving as though they were acting in a Ken Loach weepie, welling up at the silliest of things and quickly blinking away tears that they thought Sonya hadn’t seen. Of course, Sonya understood all the reasons for which her darling mum felt threatened by her going off in search of her real mother but it was really so unnecessary, given how poorly Sonya thought of the woman who had given her away.

      Sonya danced her way to the photograph that hung above the writing bureau, taken on her sixth birthday. She looked at her six-year-old self, standing before a Smarties-encrusted chocolate cake, flanked by her parents, both of whom were wearing silly paper hats. They looked so happy. As though that smiling threesome, caught in the camera lens, was the only thing of any importance in the whole wide world. Sonya’s heart did another guilty flip. She hated the thought of causing her parents distress. She had been quite shocked when she had overheard Mum remark to Dad that what they were going through was about the most painful thing that had happened to her since the string of miscarriages she had endured in her twenties.

      It was an instantly sobering thought and Sonya stopped dancing to return to the window seat. After another last glance at the photocopied letter, she slipped it back under the mattress. She had also kept a copy, imagining – perhaps dramatically – the kind of events it could set off; legal proceedings even! If that was the case, she certainly didn’t want to be caught out, unable to remember what she had written. Not that she was frightened or anything – after all UK laws did actively encourage people to rediscover the details of their birth. But in the end, the final draft had been secretly photocopied on Dad’s scanner in his den before she had stuffed it into an envelope. She had sealed it before she could stop herself and then cycled like the clappers down to the post office on the High Street to make sure she did not change her mind. But, although it had been sent in haste, Sonya knew – hand on heart – that she had thought long and hard about the possible consequences of taking this step of contacting her birth mother. It was quite honestly the most difficult decision she had ever made in her life but Sonya had eventually made it, comforted by the sheer numbers of other adoptees who had done the same thing. All the information on the internet (and there was lots of it) had strengthened her, and left her with a strange sense of entitlement. There were so many blogs and websites that told her it was her right to know what had happened in her past. That past was hers and no one else’s but, at the moment, all she had was a great gaping hole in her head and in her heart. When she was small, Mum and Dad had tried to tell her everything they knew about her adoption, but everything they knew was in fact pitifully little. They had, for instance, told her that she had an Indian mother but had no idea why she had given her up, or what had happened to her since. They knew that her father was white, English or Scottish, but there was absolutely no more information on him, not even a name. There were times when Sonya had wanted to scream in frustration and other times when, rather dramatically, she wondered if perhaps Mum and Dad were deliberately covering up her story because it was either really sordid or really exciting. And then, sometime around the age of thirteen, Sonya had simply stopped asking. All her questions had ended at the same old cipher and so there was little point. Especially when there were so many other things to focus her mind on at the time: bodily changes and intense crushes, a whole host of new areas to feel messed up about!

      Now that Sonya was eighteen, however, and given more right by law to investigate her past, everyone else simply had to understand that this trip to India was something she had no choice about. She had to discover the circumstances of her birth and it was now almost as though forces stronger than her had taken over, compelling her to embark on this treacherous path.

      Chapter Three

      By midnight, Neha was so exhausted by her hostess duties that she could feel her legs begin to buckle under her. Yet, she managed to keep smiling as she bid goodbye to Kitty Singhania, an erstwhile beauty queen who had gone on to found a hugely successful cosmetics empire.

      ‘Sorry I have to leave early, darling. But don’t you go forgetting my lunch at the Taj next week!’ Kitty instructed, in that admonishing tone that was her trademark.

      ‘Have I ever forgotten your birthday, Kitty darling?’ Neha purred as she hugged her guest lightly and kissed the air on either side of her face.

      Kitty acknowledged her rejoinder with a laugh. ‘I must admit, you never do, darling Neha. Always the first to call on the day. Well, thank you again for a fabulous party. You and Sharat really do know how to throw a bash. Oh, and thank you for introducing me to André – it really would be wonderful to break into the French market. I hope it works!’

      After Kitty’s white Audi had swept out of the gates, Neha nodded at the security guards who were swiftly and diligently closing the large black exit gates that led on to Prithviraj Road. The Chaturvedi household’s security normally subsisted on the presence of just one elderly Gurkha at the entrance but extra guards and police personnel were always drafted in on party nights to ensure the safety of the many VIPs who would attend. It was one of Neha’s worst nightmares that something unfortun ate would happen when her house was full of celebrities and millionaires and it was not for nothing that the Inspector General of Delhi’s police force was always a valued guest at her parties too.

      Tonight, however, all that was the last thing on Neha’s mind. It was as if the letter hidden in her cupboard upstairs had taken on some kind of ghostly form that had been floating about all night, creeping up on her at unexpected moments to mock and taunt her as she tried to engage with her guests. Neha stopped with one foot on the broad marble step that led up to the veranda, taking in great gulps of the heady scent of the creeper that hung abundantly over the roof. The fragrance of jasmine was meant to have a calming effect, according to her yoga instructor who sometimes held her sessions out here on the veranda, but nothing short of a strong tranquillizer would work today.

      Sounds of merrymaking still filtered through the doorways as Neha’s raw silk curtains drifted in the breeze: chatter and laughter and the clink of china and cutlery as guests helped themselves at the lavish buffet tables in the dining room. From the pergola at the far end of the eastern garden, the Divakar Brothers’ live performance was just audible: thin strains of the sitar playing a melancholy raga over the more robust notes of a harmonium.

      ‘Please, please help me stay strong and calm,’ Neha thought in desperation, imagining what all the people who were currently enjoying her hospitality would think if they read that letter right now. Not having any children of their own, the scandal of a secret child would rock Neha and Sharat’s world and destroy Sharat’s political СКАЧАТЬ