Free Where the Secret Lies by Malika Gandhi Page B

going to bed so soon?’
Mohan took Anjali’s free hand.
    ‘I am
tired Mohan ji, perhaps you should sleep, it is late.’
    Mohan
patted the empty seat beside him. ‘Please, come and sit with me.’
    ‘What
is it Mohan ji?’ Anjali put the candle down.
    He
took both her hands in his and looked down at their joined fingers.
    ‘I’m
sorry to keep you. You should be with your family.’
    ‘Why
are you speaking like this? Are you alright?’ asked Anjali, concerned.
    Anjali
broke the silence when Mohan did not speak.
    ‘I am
not kept by you. It was my choice to stay.’
      ‘I love you Anjali ji. From the first day, I
saw you; I have been unable to take my eyes off you. I think about you all the
time. You are so beautiful.’
    Anjali
kissed his palms. ‘You are beautiful too, in your heart and out.’
    ‘Tomorrow
we shall get married Anjali ji. We will have our first night and we shall be
husband and wife. Will you marry me?’
    Anjali
gasped. ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘I
can’t imagine my life without you in it. Will you be my wife?’
    ‘Yes, I
will be your wife,’ Anjali cried.

 
    Mohan and Anjali married in an isolated
temple. There was no priest to cite the rituals, only a statue of a god and
goddess to bless them and that is all they needed.
    Mohan
brought a small box of vermillion – a red powder added to the bride’s parting, a
garland each and a mangal sutra – an Indian necklace of black and gold

  beads, all needed for a Hindu marriage and closing
two souls as one.
    Anjali
dressed in a red and white sari and wore red and green bangles, a tradition
that followed Gujarati
    marriage customs. She had no
jewellery of her own and neither did she borrow the ones left behind at the
haveli. Mohan dressed in an ivory Indian suit and Anjali felt her heart stop
for a moment.
    The
two bowed to the god and goddess and adorned each other with the garlands.
Mohan led Anjali around the fire, taking her hand. On the fourth round, Anjali
stepped ahead of Mohan, signifying an oath that if death came first, she would
take his place. The last ritual was adorning Anjali with the mangal sutra and
the vermillion. Mohan and Anjali were now married.

TWELVE

 
    ‘Memsahib,’ the maid addressed
Anjali at the door of her bedroom.
    ‘Yes
Namrata?’ Anjali finished weaving her hair into a plait and picked up her
powder pack.
    ‘Saab
would like to speak to you.’
    ‘Tell
Saab he may come.’
    ‘Yes
Memsahib.’
    Anjali
began to powder her face when the maid left. She applied dark kohl under her
eyes and added a little lipstick to her lips.
    Why
did Mohan send a message to her through the maid? It was very unlike him. Just
as she finished putting on her make-up, Mohan knocked on the open door.
    ‘Mohan
ji, since when did you start sending messages through Namrata?’ Anjali stood up
from her chair and gave Mohan a mock annoyed expression, hands on her slim
hips. Mohan laughed.
    ‘I
wanted you to feel like a Memsahib, my dearest.’
    ‘You succeeded.’
    Mohan
came in and wrapped his arms around his wife’s waist, kissing her neck. ‘I have
a surprise for you.’
    ‘Are
you going to give me a clue?’ Anjali asked, smiling through the mirror at her
husband.
    ‘Wear
the lovely pink and silver sari and pack a few clothes for us. We are going on
a trip and we will be staying for a while.’
      ‘Where are we going and when are we leaving?’
    ‘Tonight
we leave and you will find out where very soon,’ Mohan replied, smiling.

 
    The thought of travelling in India
after a long time awakened Anjali’s desires to see the new country in a new
light, without any threats of abduction, rape, or murder. The thought of a new
adventure with Mohan excited her.
    Dressed
in the sari he gifted her, she added matching bangles, a bindi, and her mangal
sutra. Last of all, she added red vermillion powder to her parting. Anjali
touched her earrings and stared at her reflection in the mirror – indeed, she
did look like a