Last Piece of Me: Living Lies Literary Fiction Series, #2

2. KALPANA

May 1986, Bhubaneswar

THE scratching at the door grew more and more insistent until Kalpana realised that the noise was not a part of the dream that she was having.

‘I’m awake,’ she whispered, blinking into the darkness.

The scratching ceased and Kalpana heard the faint sound of footsteps moving away from the door. She rolled across the mattress, careful not to wake her sleeping companion, and eased herself to her feet in the centre of the room. After a few minutes her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and in one fluid movement she pulled her tattered nightdress up and over her head. Freed from its sweaty confines, she compressed the nightdress into a tight ball and began to smooth out the creases of the simple salwar kameez that she wore beneath it. When her hands passed over the front pocket, she felt the smooth outline of the Ganesh murti that she had stowed there before going to sleep. She had forgotten all about it, but feeling the small statue beneath her clothes gave her a sense of strength, and closing her eyes, she offered up a prayer for safe passage.

A loud moan sounded within the room, and filled with panic, Kalpana’s eyes flew to a mattress by the door, where one of the other servants had rolled onto his back. The man continued to writhe around, seeming unable to find a comfortable position to sleep in, and Kalpana’s pulse began to quicken, fearing that his incessant wriggling would cause the others to stir. Paralysed at the centre of the room, she didn’t know what she would do if they discovered her fully clothed in the middle of the night, but eventually the man settled into a foetal-like position and the room was silent once more.

Her heart still racing, Kalpana tiptoed across the floor, her dainty feet easily able to pick out a path between the haphazardly laid mattresses and sleeping bodies. When she reached the door, she felt along the wall for the tasselled ends of her shawl and tugged sharply at the material until it slid off the hook into her hands. She draped the shawl twice around her shoulders and looped the remaining length loosely over her head, tucking the ends neatly into the folds that surrounded her neck. She had nothing more to take with her, and after a cursory glance around the room, she eased the door open and slipped quietly out into the courtyard.

The night air was hot and humid, making it difficult to breathe, but the kitchen was only a few metres away and the door had been left ajar, just as he had promised that it would be. Relieved by the sight of it, Kalpana closed her eyes again and offered up a quick prayer of gratitude; so far, everything was going to plan.

She crouched down low and blindly felt about in the dirt for her sandals. She knew hers from the others because the front strap had come away so many times that it was now held in place by layers of thick brown tape. Feeling the smoothness of the tape beneath her fingers, she plucked her shoes from the darkness and, hugging them to her chest, stole quickly across the courtyard to the kitchen.

Once inside, Kalpana carefully pressed the door shut, praying that the bolt wouldn’t make too much noise when it clicked into place. She had never been inside the main house at night before, and devoid of the usual cacophony that the staff produced there during the day, the kitchen seemed eerily quiet. Placing her sandals on the floor, she spread the nightdress evenly atop the nearest counter and crossed the room to where the refrigerator stood humming quietly in the darkness. She pulled back the door and reached inside, foraging between the jars and containers until her fingers found the two parcels of food that she had hidden there earlier.

Crossing back to the other side of the kitchen, she laid the parcels in the centre of the nightdress and wrapped them protectively in the tattered material, knotting the sleeves together to fashion a small carrying handle. Her heart was racing again and her conscience was so replete with guilt that Kalpana almost wished she would be caught and punished. Feeling ashamed, she returned to the refrigerator and rearranged the contents until they were exactly as she had found them, erasing all evidence of her petty theft before closing the door. Grabbing the makeshift bag from the counter, she stooped to collect her sandals from the floor and passed through a narrow arch into the hallway of the house.

With the faint hum of the refrigerator left behind, the hallway seemed even quieter than the kitchen had. Not wishing to make a sound, Kalpana held her breath while she navigated the winding corridor towards the front of the house. Though it was pitch black, she knew the layout well, and Kalpana swerved expertly from left to right, avoiding the lavish marble tables that jutted out from beneath the darkness and leaping over creaky floorboards that she knew would give away her position.

Completing the final turn, she was about to emerge at the foot of the sweeping central staircase, when a loud crash up ahead stopped her in her tracks. Glued to the spot with fear, Kalpana felt the little hairs on the back of her neck stand on end as she instinctively hugged her possessions to her chest.

‘Bhagwan!’ she heard a familiar male voice exclaim in a loud whisper.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Kalpana relaxed her arms and crept along the underside of the staircase, emerging from the shadows at the centre of the foyer.

‘Vivek,’ she whispered, trying to alert the young man to her presence.

He was tall and handsome, his sepia hair slicked back against his head and parted neatly at the side.

‘Kalpana,’ he said, smiling as he peered over his shoulder at her.

He finished securing the large duffle bag that he had been wrestling with and stood to greet her, enveloping her so tightly in his arms that she could feel the breath being squeezed from her body. The tension in her shoulders melted away and Kalpana buried her face in Vivek’s chest. She felt safe when he was around, as though nothing and no-one could trouble her, and now that they were together she felt more confident about what lay ahead.

They remained locked in their embrace for several minutes, drinking in the scent of one another with little regard for the heat that they were generating until their clothes began to stick to their skin.

‘Careful,’ warned Kalpana, pulling away, ‘you’ll squash the food, isn’t it?’

Vivek chuckled and hugged her close again, pressing her deeper into his chest. At only five feet tall, she was hardly a match for him, but she tried with all her strength to push him away.

‘Always being silly, isn’t it?’ she chastised, finally breaking free.

‘I don’t care about the food, Kalpana. I can always buy more food. I only care about you,’ he whispered, tenderly stroking her long raven hair.

Kalpana blushed, but she knew that Vivek could not see the rosiness spreading across her cheeks in the dark. She ought to be accustomed to his romantic ramblings by now, but a part of Kalpana still couldn’t believe that Vivek had chosen her, a simple housemaid, to be his bride.

Educated in Britain and the sole heir to his father’s fortune, Vivek was good-looking and sophisticated, intellectual and witty, and he could have had any woman that he desired. Kalpana had seen women come and go from the house, women more beautiful than her, more graceful, and certainly more intelligent, but Vivek’s eyes had never wandered and his enthusiasm had never waned.

She had watched him charm visiting suitors and their eager parents, while she served chai and sweets and then faded into the background as she had been taught. She had listened afterwards while clearing their cups as Vivek systematically rejected each woman, reeling off a list of their imperfections and shortcomings, much to his parents’ dismay. And she had pretended to sympathise with his mother when she complained to Kalpana that she might never see her only son married.

Yet these complaints had paled in comparison to the uproar that ensued when Vivek announced his intention to marry Kalpana. Voices were raised, items were thrown in frustration, and Vivek’s grandmother had wept inconsolably for days. The scruffy young girl from no family of note, who served their food and cleaned their clothes, would never be permitted to marry into their family, much less to bear their grandchildren.

Believing herself to be a loyal and well-liked worker, Kalpana had been surprised by the strength of the family’s reaction to the news, but she had been even more surprised by their proposed remedy. If it hadn’t been for Vivek threatening to leave the family home, then she would have been dismissed from her duties and thrown out onto the street alone. At the time, Kalpana hadn’t believed that he would go through with it, for it was one thing to dabble in romantic notions of eloping into the night, but quite another to leave behind the comforts and spoils of a pampered and promising life. Yet Vivek had been unwavering in his resolve, and his parents had deemed it too risky to call his bluff.

Kalpana had been allowed to stay on the condition that she did not interact with Vivek at all, a condition which they had both accepted, believing that they would be able to continue sneaking around as before. But Vivek’s grandmother had taken it upon herself to follow their every move, and the situation had soon become untenable. Their distance, coupled with the mounting tension in the house, had brought them full circle, and this time Kalpana and Vivek had decided to leave together of their own accord.

‘You are sure about this, Vivek?’ she asked.

‘Certain.’

‘You are not having to go. You can staying here with your parents, isn’t it?’

‘How can I stay here without you? I promise you, once I’m gone they’ll realise that we are serious about each other. Then you’ll see. They’ll be calling us both back,’ he answered confidently. ‘Now, where are your things?’

‘I … I don’t have any things,’ Kalpana mumbled, shrugging her shoulders and staring down with embarrassment at her dirt-covered feet.

‘Nothing? Nothing at all that you would like to bring with you?’ Vivek continued, seeming surprised.

Kalpana felt a small jolt in her stomach, reminded once more of their differences. Vivek would never understand what it was like to have nothing. He couldn’t. His father provided adequately for all of the servants, but the things that they used were not their own, much less to remove from the house.

‘I am arriving in this house with nothing. Now I am leaving it with the same,’ she croaked, tears filling her eyes.

Vivek was at once by her side, wrapping her in his arms and whispering soothing words of comfort into her ear. She didn’t know why she was so overcome with emotion, because she had no particular affinity to the house. In Kalpana’s eyes, the only thing of value was Vivek, and he was leaving with her. There was little to be melancholy about, but it struck Kalpana that she had felt overwhelmed by emotion many times in recent weeks, often weeping at the simplest of things.

‘Vivek?’ she whispered, her hazel eyes peeking up at him from beneath the tears.

‘Yes, Kalpana?’

‘Where we are going?’

‘I don’t know exactly. We’ll walk to the city, and then, when it is light, we’ll take a bus to Puri. We’ll be far enough away from here and I should be able to find work there quite easily. We might have to settle just outside of the city to begin with; it will be cheaper while we are getting to our feet. But you don’t have to worry about any of it. I will take care of everything. I love you, Kalpana, and I promise, as long as we are together, everything will be okay.’

Kalpana hugged Vivek tightly, her tiny arms barely stretching around his waist. She loved him dearly, and she was grateful for the sacrifices that he was making on her behalf. He was a good man, a strong and decent man, who had fought for her even though she had not once asked him to, and she believed in every word that he said. As long as they were together, everything would be okay.

3. CATHERINE

February 1987, London

SWEEPING through the front door, Catherine slammed her keys down angrily on the hallway table. Her whole body raged with indignation and it was all that she could do to keep from throwing her handbag at the wall.

‘Cathy, please, try to calm down,’ panted Arthur, rushing up behind her.

‘Keep trying? What the hell is it that he thinks we’ve been doing for the last twelve months?’ she blasted.

She shrugged off her coat and threw it over the bannister, the tail end dripping rainwater all over the parquet floor. The hems of her trouser legs were soaked through and her hair had grown wild from the dampness outside. Everything about her was out of control and even Arthur seemed afraid to approach her.

‘Did you hear the way that he was speaking to me?’ she continued angrily.

‘Darling, Dr Richards was only trying to—’

‘He was so … so … patronising.’

‘Cathy, please—’

‘As if he knows what this feels like. As if he knows how this feels for me,’ she bellowed.

Catherine waited for Arthur to respond, her face growing red and her chest heaving with the full weight of her anguish, but Arthur continued to stand before her, epitomising calm. The lack of response only irked her further and, spinning around, she made off in the direction of the kitchen, wittering away in the hope that she might eventually rouse some sentiment in her husband.

‘Did you see it, Arty? Did you see that picture of his family on the desk? All their smiling, smug little faces, I mean really! How inappropriate and unprofessional for someone who spends his days telling people that they should keep trying,’ she ranted.

Arthur remained mute, and in her frustration, Catherine began to bash her way around the kitchen. She wrenched two large glasses from a dust-covered shelf and a bottle of red wine from the rack beneath the sink, slamming the cupboard doors shut as she went. The noise echoed around the kitchen while she wrestled with the corkscrew, but knowing better than to interrupt her, Arthur slid quietly into a seat at the table and waited for her to finish.

Eventually, the faint pop of a cork being expelled from a bottle sounded and Catherine filled her glass, the steady ruby stream seeming to placate her. She pressed the glass to her lips and quickly drained the contents, before filling it again and pouring the second glass for Arthur. Her breathing slowed and her face became less flushed, the wine appearing to have a cathartic effect, but the agitated look remained in her eyes. She placed Arthur’s glass on the table before him and leant back against the counter, her arms folded across her chest while she sipped moodily at her own wine. Arthur reached for the glass and began to twirl the stem in his hand, but still didn’t utter a word.

‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’ she demanded, after ten silent minutes had passed.

‘I’m not sure that that’s going to help,’ he answered, nodding in the direction of Catherine’s empty wine glass.

‘Arty, please don’t start. It’s been a very long day.’

‘I’m just saying. The doctor recommended that you limit your alcohol intake. It might help.’

‘I’ve been limiting my alcohol intake for the last twelve months and look where that’s got us,’ she said bitterly.

‘Cathy, I am merely saying that we’ve got to do everything in our power to maximise the chances of conception. You heard what Dr Richards said,’ he continued calmly, lifting his glass to his lips.

Catherine felt her blood beginning to boil again.

‘I did hear what Dr Richards said, Arty, yes. I heard him say that after twelve months with no result, we just have to keep trying. I heard him say that twelve months isn’t really that long. And I also heard him say that after all the poking around they did in there, not to mention all the tests that they did on you, that there isn’t actually anything wrong with either of us. So excuse me if I am just a tad frustrated and need one measly glass of wine to take the edge off of what has been a rather trying afternoon.’

Arthur let out an exasperated sigh and pushed back his chair, standing to comfort his wife.

‘Cathy, I know that you’re angry—’

‘I’m not angry, Arty.’

‘Alright, not angry, upset. I can see that you’re upset. But drinking yourself into oblivion isn’t going to change anything,’ he said, circling her waist with his arms and trying to kiss her cheek.

Catherine stiffened at his touch and turned away.

‘Cathy,’ he chastised.

But she couldn’t bring herself to look her husband in the eye. She was upset and she hated that Arthur knew her so well that she wasn’t able to hide it. It was easy at work: she was Dr Catherine Rutherford, specialist paediatric registrar and lauded researcher. To display personal emotions would be considered unprofessional, so she simply didn’t indulge her thoughts or feelings during the day. Amongst friends it was even easier, the veneer well-rehearsed: she was fun-loving, high-flying Cathy, the woman who always got what she wanted and consequently never had a reason to feel down. But Arthur could see through all of her guises, and looking into his eyes only reminded her that she had failed to make them a family.

‘I just don’t understand why it’s not happening for us,’ she mumbled, staring up at the strip-light and still refusing to meet Arthur’s gaze.

‘Look,’ he tried after a time, pulling her rigid body towards him and burying his face in her neck, ‘we received good news today. The fact that there is nothing wrong with either of us means that we still have a chance. You’re going to get pregnant, I know you are.’

Catherine let out a long sigh and placed her empty wine glass onto the counter, at last turning to face her husband.

‘When, Arty? When am I going to get pregnant?’

She was tired of pretending that she was stronger than she felt. The endless months of disappointment had slowly eroded her optimism, and as Arthur began to stroke the back of her head, Catherine finally stopped fighting herself. Her body went limp in his arms and he rocked her gently back and forth while she sobbed into the collar of his starched shirt. After months of holding her emotions back, the relief was instantaneous, and Catherine cried freely, thankful that Arthur was there to comfort and support her.

‘I’m sorry, Arty,’ she said, once the last of her swells had subsided.

‘What are you apologising for?’

‘I know that you don’t like it when I get emotional.’

‘I’m just never sure what to say, that’s all.’

‘I don’t think there is anything to say,’ she replied, shrugging her shoulders.

Arthur nodded, but there was an understanding present in his eyes that Catherine had never seen before. It was as though breaking down in front of him and revealing her insecurities had somehow made him more accepting of the fact that she was human and vulnerable, just like everyone else. For the first time in their relationship, Catherine felt able to share with her husband the one thing that she had always feared he would judge her for.

‘Arty?’

‘Yes?’

‘I need to tell you something.’

‘What is it?’

Catherine took a deep breath and swallowed hard.

‘I … I did something when we first started dating. Something that I’m not exactly proud of.’

Arthur released Catherine from his grip and held her by the shoulders at arm’s length.

‘Please don’t say what I think you’re going to say,’ he whispered hoarsely.

The warmth in his eyes had disappeared, and instead a look of consternation had taken possession of his face. For a moment Catherine considered keeping quiet, but she knew in her heart that now was the right time. The weight of the secret had borne down on her for over a decade, and with their current struggles, it only seemed fair that she let Arthur know the truth.

‘Arty, I was pregnant and I needed not to be,’ she said, hurrying the words out of her mouth all at once.

A look of disgust crossed Arthur’s face and Catherine began to panic.

‘Was it … was it mine?’ he asked.

‘Arty, of course it was yours! Who else’s would it be?’

She reached forward to take a hold of his forearms, but Arthur relinquished his grip on her shoulders and waved her hands away.

‘Thank God,’ he said, catching his breath. ‘When you said that you needed not to be pregnant, I thought that maybe you’d been unfaithful.’

Catherine’s brow furrowed in bewilderment. This was not how she had anticipated that Arthur would react; he seemed to be focusing on entirely the wrong thing.

‘What about what I did, Arty?’

‘What about it?’

‘Well, don’t you have some sort of opinion about it?’

‘My opinion doesn’t matter,’ he replied succinctly.

‘Of course your opinion matters.’

‘It really doesn’t,’ he insisted, reaching for his wine glass and taking a long slow sip of the ruby liquid.

Catherine was baffled.

‘Arty, you do understand what I’m saying, don’t you?’ she asked, placing her hands on his glass-wielding arm to prevent him from drinking any more.

Arthur sighed and returned the glass to the table, before taking Catherine by the wrists and staring deep into her troubled blue eyes.

‘Catherine, I understand perfectly well what you are saying. However, if my opinion mattered to you then you would have consulted me at the time. Therefore, my opinion is not of any importance.’

Catherine blinked several times in quick succession; Arthur was angry with her. It was a rare occurrence, but over the years she had learnt to recognise the telltale signs in his behaviour. Detesting confrontation, he would try to adopt a pragmatic approach, rationalising in his head whatever act or statement had caused his anger to flare up, before delivering a carefully worded and composed explanation to whomever his anger should be directed at.

‘Arty, it is important and I’m sorry. Please don’t be angry with me,’ she whispered. ‘It wasn’t the right time for either of us. You had only just started your antiques business and I wasn’t even qualified yet. I thought that I was doing the right thing for both of us.’

Arthur remained unmoved, staring blankly into his wife’s eyes.

‘Arty, please, say something. I feel horrible for having kept it from you, but I was afraid that if I told you then there might be a chance that you’d want to keep it. I know that we agreed to wait and I shouldn’t have doubted you, but it’s always different when there’s an actual baby there. People can change their minds and I just couldn’t risk it. I wasn’t ready, but now we’re struggling and I can’t help thinking that maybe I ruined our only chance,’ she wailed in one continuous stream.

‘I’m not angry,’ Arthur replied coldly.

Catherine was growing tired of the charade. Arthur never wanted to criticise or blame her, but for once she wished that he would; it might help her to feel less inadequate if he didn’t think that she was quite so perfect. She held his gaze, her blue eyes intent on extracting a response appropriate to her revelation.

‘Catherine,’ he said with a sigh, ‘let’s just drop this, okay? I am not angry with you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to sit in the living room,’ he concluded, striding towards the doorway.

Catherine didn’t know what to do. The secret had gnawed away at her for years, but Arthur seemed content to dismiss the incident and their conversation as though both had never happened.

‘Arthur, wait, please,’ she said, reaching forward to grab the back of his sweater as he arrived at the door.

Arthur whipped round with such vigour that it threw her off, and in his eyes was a fury that drilled straight through to Catherine’s core.

‘How could you do that to me?’ he yelled into her face, his breath hot and thick on her skin.

Catherine stepped back in alarm.

‘I … I’m sorry, Arty. I know that you’re cross with me and you have every right to be. It was our child and an abortion is—’

‘I don’t care about the abortion,’ he raged. ‘I just want to know how you could keep a secret from me? You’re supposed to be my wife!’

‘I know, you’re right, and I’m sorry. I just—’

‘We’re supposed to tell each other everything, Catherine. No secrets.’

Catherine looked sheepishly at the floor.

‘I do tell you everything, Arty. It was just this one thing … and I have wanted to tell you for so long … but I didn’t know how. Surely you can understand that?’ she pleaded.

Arthur’s face contorted oddly, and when he spoke his voice emerged spiteful and low.

‘As a matter of fact, I can. So while we’re talking about things that are difficult to say, let me be honest with you. I don’t care about the abortion, Catherine, because I’m not fussed about having children. I am happy to try, because I know how much having a family means to you, but if it doesn’t happen, then it doesn’t happen, and to tell you the truth, I like our life just the way it is. So there, now we’re both as bad as each other,’ he finished, and without waiting for a response, Arthur stalked out of the kitchen.

4. KALPANA

February 1987, Uttarpur

THE women swarmed around Kalpana, making more noise than she was making herself, and though she was grateful for their assistance, their presence heightened the anxiety that she already felt. Immobilised by the pain, she lay on her back with her knees bent and her legs spread wide, but she was past caring about the fact that she was exposed to everyone in the room. Various women had poked and prodded, inspected and inserted, until it seemed that the only person who didn’t know what was going on between her thighs was Kalpana herself. At the first signs of birth the women had rallied together, fetching clean cloths from the line and setting water to boil on the stove. Yet once they had laid everything out in preparation, they had turned their attention back to each other and to the discussion of village gossip.

Kalpana wished that they would stand outside, if only to keep from blocking the gentle breeze that occasionally filtered through the open door. The house was not designed to hold so many people, and the compacted bodies were trapping in heat, causing stale odours to intermingle with each other until the air was thick and stained sour. She gripped the sheet that covered the mattress beneath her and curled her head