LITMIR.BIZ

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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 ambitions and, surely, their marriage too. It was too terrifying to bear thinking about.

      Neha looked up at the moon, large and heavy, rising through the gulmohar trees. Such a perfect night. Delhi had seen off the last of the monsoon rains and was now starting to cool in readiness for the winter. But Neha could not derive any of her customary pleasure from the soothing breezes that were carrying in lush smells from her garden. Instead, for the hundredth time since the letter came, she imagined the emergence in her near-flawless world of the secret that she had managed to hold on to for eighteen years. Public knowledge that she’d not only had a child before marrying Sharat, but had gone on to abandon it, would tear their lives apart on so many different levels. Not merely because everyone would discover what a hypocrite she really was, but also because Sharat would no longer be able to present their marriage in the manner he loved: a gracious young couple who were pillars of the establishment and could always be relied on to help all their friends and acquaintances progress with their own hopes and ambitions.

      Neha clutched her stomach as it twisted in a painful spasm again. It had been doing that all evening – it could be due either to hunger or anxiety, she couldn’t tell. She usually ate a bowl of daal with a chapatti before any of her parties; a bit of useful ‘hostessing’ advice that Jasmeet had imparted years ago. Today the letter had caused her to forget this useful ritual. She tried to massage the pain away and, with one hand still resting on her flat stomach, Neha considered the painful question of her childless marriage suddenly: a thought she had not dwelt on for some time now. Of course, she remembered it off and on but not with the kind of anguish that was assailing her right now …

      Standing in the shadows of the flower-bedecked pillars, Neha bent over and let out a long, low moan. She had not felt sadder in a long, long time than she did tonight. Although Sharat seemed to have come to terms with their childlessness in his own way over the past few years, for Neha it had remained the biggest irony of her life. For one, he knew nothing of the child she had already had. But Neha had lived with that anomaly mocking her all these years: how, indeed, could it be anything but fair that Neha should be punished with a childless marriage for having given away the baby that had been born to her all those years ago?

      She saw again the untidy handwriting in the letter, the girlish signature that ended in a flamboyantly curling loop. ‘Sonya’…

      Stumbling on the steps leading up to the veranda, Neha gripped the back of one of her wicker chairs, trying to steady herself. Another burst of laughter emerged through the French windows and, for one horrible moment, Neha felt as though everyone at the party was laughing at her. She had to sit down for a moment; clear her head before going back in there with a smile on her face …

      Sinking onto the chair, Neha tried to contain her runaway thoughts. The baby … the baby she had given away had not even had a name.

      ‘It’s best you don’t go choosing a name, my dear. Because, you see, harsh as it sounds, it’s crucial you don’t bond with the child. Now that the decision’s been made to give her up, you see. Naming her will only create a bond. So will breast-feeding. I’ll fetch you a pump and you can expel your milk into that. We’ll give it to her in a bottle. Your decision has been made; it’s best to let her go …’ The room had swum around, causing the hospital counsellor’s face to disappear for a few seconds into the grey murk …

      Was that why Neha had never been able to see her baby as having any human potential at all? She had followed all those instructions to the tee, refusing to bond with the child who would never be hers. And, later, she had quite deliberately never thought of its welfare, or kept track of its age and possible circumstances. That was the only way to survive the experience. Only she knew the reasons for which she had taken that decision. It was not one she would make today but, at that tender age, she had been a different person. Except, who

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