Leela's Book Read Free

leant back in her seat. Who could have sent the poem to the paper? Surely not Vyasa. She shuddered at the thought of the man, with his seductive smile, his hair pulled back behind his head, his eyes that had a habit of softening when they rested on women he favoured. For years she had put him out of her mind, had tried to forget his brusque, confident way of speaking in public, and those whispered confidences, so striking in their contrast, which he had used like a charm on Meera. But now Hari was forcing her to remember. More than that, he was forcing her to be part of Vyasa’s family. As they flew onwards through the sky, ever nearer to Delhi, Leela asked herself why she had allowed Hari to persuade her to return to the land she grew up in – when for years she had worked so hard to forget it.
    She remembered the moment when Hari broke the news. It had been typical of him – of his sense of efficiency, of his dread of coming face to face with her displeasure – to choose a cellphone conversation as the means of imparting something so momentous. It was half past eight in the morning; she was walking her usual circuit through Central Park. ‘I’ve reached the office,’ Hari said, and Leela knew at once that he had something important to tell her. ‘I’ve just heard some interesting news,’ he said. ‘The father of my niece Sunita’s fiancé, the man she is marrying just before Diwali, a huge society wedding in Delhi, is—’
    ‘Who?’ Leela interrupted.
    ‘Professor Ved Vyasa Chaturvedi,’ Hari finished at last. ‘And he is speaking tonight at the New York Public Library.’
    ‘What?’ Leela stopped walking, the phone still pressed to her ear, bewildered by hearing that man’s name in Hari’s mouth.
    ‘He’s giving a lecture,’ Hari said, confident now that he had her attention. ‘On the Mahabharata. It’s just the kind of thing you like, isn’t it, Leela? He’s a very well-known professor. And his son is marrying my niece.’ He paused, evidently pleased with the effect of this revelation. In the silence that followed, Leela turned this new information over in her mind. It seemed implausible that Hari had only just found out about this wedding. What else was he plotting?
    Indeed, when Hari spoke next, he sounded nervous. ‘There’s something more I have to tell you, Leela. My nephew, Ram – Sunita’s brother. I need someone I can trust to manage the business. I am making him my heir. He is such a good boy. I know that you’ll like him. You will like him, won’t you? He’s a hard worker, an ideal son.’
    ‘Your heir? A son?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Hari, growing excited. ‘It would make a change to fill our lives with young people, wouldn’t it, Leela?’
    And the old, assertive Hari returned: ‘It is not so unusual for brothers to take each other’s children. We could go and collect him. We could move back home. Back to India. I want to live there, Leela. We could move into your house on Kasturba Gandhi Marg. We could all move there together. You, me and Ram. We will be like a family together.’
    Leela had stood looking up through the grandeur of those tall, silent trees in which she had instinctively taken comfort when she arrived in this city, remembering the deal they had done when they married: that she would emigrate with him, bringing all her culture and poise to bear on his business, and that he, in return, would never ask about the time before they were married, would never – above all – force her to return to India. Like many of their compatriots, Hari pined for the place he grew up in; yet for twenty-two years he had honoured this arrangement.
    Hari was still talking. ‘I would go to the lecture myself,’ he said, ‘but I have an important dinner this evening. Can you go instead? I’d like you to meet him.’
    ‘Who?’ she asked, still disbelieving.
    ‘Professor Ved Vyasa Chaturvedi. We should get to know him, now that he’s going to be family.’
    And so the