I leave the matter in your hands.
Best Regards & Blessings,
A well-wisher
Setting the letter aside for a moment, Vinita rose from the bed. The cool air in the room seeped right through the soft flannel of her pajamas, giving her goose bumps. Her bare toes curled the moment they touched the cold wood floor. Shivering, she padded over to the window and threw open the blinds. Crossing her arms, she tucked her freezing hands under her armpits.
The daffodils growing in the front yard were a blaze of heartwarming yellow. The blue and white hyacinths provided a lovely contrast to them. Her bulb plantings from last fall had been worth the effort.
Her neighbor, Doris, was pushing a wheelbarrow filled with seedlings from the garage to the area beneath her bow window. Vinita couldn’t help smiling at the sight of her neighbor’s industrious little body hobbling as fast as it could to keep up with her agile mind. At seventy-two, Doris was a bundle of energy, despite her arthritis. She put women half her age to shame. Her neat clusters of flowers and rows of lush vegetables were a delight.
Looking on the sun-drenched landscape and Doris’s short, gray curls lifting in the chilly wind as she parked her wheelbarrow and pulled on her gardening gloves, Vinita stood in silent contemplation.
Who was this nameless letter writer? And why had he or she chosen to remain anonymous? Something about the message was disturbing.
How could someone spring something like this on a total stranger? Whose son were they talking about, anyway? Was it possible the letter was mailed to her erroneously? But what if it wasn’t a mistake and she was indeed the intended recipient?
Was this someone’s idea of a sick joke? But then, why would they spend over forty rupees to mail something all the way to the U.S. as a mere prank? Everything about the letter spelled serious intent. This was no hoax. And yet it made no sense.
The author appeared to be educated. The writing was clear and precise. And the old-fashioned salutation and blessings at the end meant the person was older than Vinita. The writer couldn’t be a practical joker.
Of course this was a gaffe, she reflected. It had to be. She had no son. Her only child was Arya—her bright and impetuous twenty-three-year-old daughter.
Turning away from the window, Vinita picked up the perplexing letter once again and tapped it against her palm. Should she trash it and let it go? Or perhaps she should wait until her husband returned home and discuss it with him?
On second thought, that would be a terrible idea. She couldn’t afford to bring up anything that even remotely involved her past. Not now. Not ever.
Maybe she could talk it over with Arya? Bad idea again. Her daughter would be the last person to understand any of this, especially Vinita’s past.
The past! Something dark and vague flickered in her brain. Could it be…? Don’t let your imagination run away from you, she reprimanded herself. And waited for her heartbeat to settle into its natural rhythm.
Whom could she turn to for help in solving this puzzle? She began pacing the length of the room, hugging herself to stave off the mild shivers racing up and down her body. But it helped very little.
This was ridiculous. Ordinarily she wasn’t an excitable sort. But here she was, turning into a nervous puddle over a simple letter.
She pulled her husband’s plaid robe from where it hung over the bedpost and slipped into it. It smelled like him—soap and his brand of deodorant—the comforting scent she loved and breathed in each day. She could have used a calming hug from him right about now, feel his hand smooth her hair.
Twenty-five years of marriage and she still missed him dreadfully when he was away from home. Had he remembered to take his blood pressure medication? Had he remembered to pack enough underwear to last him the entire trip?
Pulling the robe tighter around herself, she stopped and read the letter a third time. It did mention her older brother, Vishal—her only sibling. And that was another mystery. How and why did the writer assume her brother knew anything? Besides, the letter was mailed from Mumbai, while Vishal lived in Palgaum, a town in southwestern India, where she and Vishal were born and raised.
Was it possible her brother knew something about this? Maybe he could shed some light on the mysterious message and its equally enigmatic writer, the well-wisher.
She glanced at the bedside clock. It would be early evening in Palgaum. Picking up the phone, she took a couple of deep breaths and dialed her brother’s number.
Two sharp rings and he answered, sounding pleasantly surprised to hear her voice. “Vini! How come you’re calling on a Saturday?” She usually called on weeknights because weekends were too unpredictable, packed with social commitments and household chores.
“Because what I have to say couldn’t wait,” she replied, sounding curt even to her own ears.
“Is something wrong?” he asked, wariness making his voice sound like a low rumble.
“I don’t know yet.”
As he started to respond, Vinita cut him off. “I just got this really strange letter from someone in India.”
“What letter?”
“It mentions something about a son…my son—”
“What?”
“—and that he has leukemia…” She trailed off. She didn’t know how to explain it all. The whole thing sounded preposterous.
There was a long silence before her brother spoke again.
“Good God!” Vishal’s voice was a stunned whisper.
Chapter 1
Palgaum, India—1976
The applause lasted a few seconds before fading. For Vinita it was an evening to remember. She’d rehearsed for this one occasion, the grand annual college gala, for many long weeks. And all that preparation had been worth it, if only to hear the pleasant sound of hundreds of hands clapping in unison.
She took her final bow before the appreciative audience with humble grace, her hands joined in a namaskar. Remain humble when accepting praise, was what her nritya guru, her dance teacher, emphasized to his students. To be able to dance skillfully was a gift, a privilege. It was not to be used for satisfying one’s ego. Humility. Always.
The instant the heavy, faded curtains closed on the stage, she exhaled a quick, hard breath. Then she ran backstage, her ghoongroo, the traditional dancing bells tied around her ankles, making a racket. She waded through the folks standing in the wings, waiting for their cue calls. She heard the emcee’s voice on the microphone, announcing the next item on the program.
While she made a beeline for the women’s dressing room—her long braid, intertwined with jasmine strings, swinging like a pendulum—she realized she was wheezing audibly. It was a demanding routine she’d just completed.
Sweat ran down her face and arms. Voices swirled around her, spoken in whispers so as not to reach the microphones on stage. Now that the much-awaited yet much-dreaded performance was over, everything that had happened became a blur—the blinding footlights; the quick surge of anxiety as the curtains parted and the hush settled over the sea of faces in the audience; the melody of the South Indian dance music; and minutes later, the final, frantic rhythm of her recital’s finale synchronizing with the crescendo of the instruments.
It was all so familiar, the galloping heartbeat and the urge to take cover and run. And yet every presentation was a fresh new experience to be savored—if it was executed perfectly, that is. And today it was.
The evening’s program was packed,