Shadowed Promise

By Sunanda J. Chatterjee

"I bring bad luck to those I love," said Moyna.

Moyna's promise to protect her cousin's baby after riots in Bombay comes at a terrible cost. And now, to keep him safe, she must leave home and everything she's known to find a life in America.

Heir to a law empire in Beverly Hills, Sameer wants only two things: to become a politician, and to love Moyna. But Moyna insulates herself to protect others from her 'unlucky curse.'

At the cusp of political victory, Sameer faces increasing gun violence and death threats leading to an FBI investigation. But his greatest challenge comes when a shadow from Moyna's past threatens to destroy their future.

What hope do they have with the media hungering for a scandal?

A saga of friendship, redemption, and forgiveness, Shadowed Promise is a journey from blind faith to triumphant love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sunanda J. Chatterjee
• Release date: Jan 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9798215375907

Sunanda J. Chatterjee

Freelance author, blogger, and ex-Indian Air Force physician Sunanda Joshi Chatterjee completed her graduate studies in Los Angeles, where she is a practicing pathologist. While medicine is her profession, writing is her passion. When she’s not at the microscope making diagnoses, she loves to write fiction. Her themes include romantic sagas, family dramas, immigrant experiences, women’s issues, and medicine. She loves extraordinary love stories and heartwarming tales of duty and passion. Her short stories have appeared in short-story.net and induswomanwriting.com. She grew up in Bhilai, India, and lives in Arcadia, California with her husband and two wonderful children. In her free time, she paints, reads, sings, goes on long walks, and binge-watches TV crime dramas.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Dec 1992

---

IN A TINY LOW-CEILINGED flat in suburban Bombay, Moyna Sengupta fluffed a pillow and tucked the soft floral sheets into the sides of her cousin’s bed. Rambunctious Bollywood songs played on the living room TV. If only her uncle put on his hearing aid and turned down the volume… but who cared about her exam?

A rusty fan groaned overhead, churning the stuffy, hot air. Even in winter, the Bombay weather was oppressive. Moyna dusted Ponds baby powder down her clammy back and blew at the neckline of her faded blue salwar kameez, a traditional hand-me-down outfit from her older cousin, Tania.

The music program was interrupted and the TV squawked the breaking news: Riots have broken out in many parts of Bombay following the demolition of the Babri Masjid in the northern Indian town of Ayodhya.

Moyna’s hand froze. Tania was coming home for winter break from her college in Delhi! Will she reach home safely?

Then a selfish thought hit her: Will it affect my exam? She put away the Ponds bottle and crept outside the room she shared with her cousin. Lingering at the doorway, she craned her neck to listen. For once, she was thankful that her uncle kept the volume high enough for the neighbors to hear every word.

A rally involving a group of Hindu activists turned violent, and within hours, the entire mosque was demolished and turned to rubble. Activists claim that the mosque was built on the sacred grounds of the birthplace of Lord Rama, and is the site of an ancient temple of Lord Rama. The action has sparked outrage among Muslims and riots are feared around the nation. Several cities including Delhi, Ahmedabad…

Moyna offered a silent prayer for Tania. Come home safely!

Aunt Shobha called from the kitchen in her annoying sing-song voice, Moyna, are you still goofing around? Did you get the room ready? Use the new sheets. The aroma of fried hilsa fish permeated the flat. It was Tania’s favorite dish.

Moyna hurried back to her room and tied her long braid with a rubber band pulled off the Times of India. It’s done, Kakima!

Moyna always wondered how other cultures used the universal word ‘Aunt’ for the sister of the mother or the father, or the wife of a maternal or paternal uncle. In India, each relative in the complex family tree held a separate title. Bengalis called the wife of the father’s younger brother ‘Kakima.’ The father’s younger brother was ‘Kaku’.

And unlike other cultures where the title ‘aunt’ or ‘uncle’ came before the name, in India, it came after. So her aunt was Shobha Kakima rather than Kakima Shobha.

Shobha Kakima had married Ajoy Kaku, who was considered below her family’s status; she was a Lahiri Brahmin, while the Senguptas were the lower baidya caste. Not that it made any difference in their daily lives, but Kakima wore her fair skin as a badge of superiority.

Kakima’s voice sounded again. "And please wear something nice. You’re onath, but you don’t have to be alokhhi."

Moyna winced. Onath: Orphan. Alokhhi: Misfortune, bad luck. No matter how many times she heard them, the words pierced her heart.

When Ajoy Kaku had brought her to Bombay, Moyna was just seven years old, scared, lonely, and sad. As soon as Kakima opened the door, she’d said, "Be grateful we took you in after your parents died. Who does that these days? You’re noshter goda."

Much later Moyna discovered what the words meant. Noshter goda: Root of destruction.

She’d missed Tania, the only one who cared. Moyna remembered sleeping on a thin cotton mattress on a wooden plank balanced over two metal trunks until Tania made Kaku buy a second-hand cot.

Given the similarity in their appearance, the girls were introduced to outsiders as sisters, Moyna being a younger, smaller, and darker version of Tania.

Did you hear me? yelled Kakima.

Moyna ignored her and glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Even after ten years, the resemblance was uncanny, except for her larger eyes and fuller lips. They had matching elbow scars from a bicycle accident when Moyna was eight years old. She remembered the sting of the rough concrete on her grazed elbow, when she’d cried, Oh, Ma, it hurts!

Her aunt had scolded her. You don’t have a Ma. Your curse consumed your parents. Tania’s arm got a home-made sling and a Band Aid, but Moyna’s wounds healed without assistance. Still, both bore matching scars.

It was ten-year-old Tania who’d told her, It’s not your fault the bus driver lost control. It was raining. And there’s no such thing as a bad omen.

Moyna wanted to believe Tania. How could anyone harbor bad luck? Kakima blamed Moyna for the heavy monsoons that flooded the streets, disrupting trains and bringing Bombay to a halt the year she arrived. But Bombay was known for heavy rains and got back on its feet soon enough. Tania’s pet cat ran away, but Moyna suspected that the neighbor’s dog was involved. Kakima screamed when Moyna broke the idol of Ganesha, the elephant God, but it was an accident.

Now the riots! Kakima would no doubt blame Moyna.

Kakima stormed into the room in her coarse cotton kaftan, her dark glossy hair tied in a bun, a khunti ladle in her hand. Are you deaf and mute? Let me see the room. And what are you wearing? What will people say? They’ll think we treat you badly.

Moyna drew herself to her full height and turned to her aunt. It’s Tania’s. She gave it to me.

Kakima groaned and scrunched her face. Look how you strut! As if you own the place. It will be easy for us to find a match for Tania. She’s fair, pretty, and polite. But you… you’re always talking back. Dressed like this... I pity the man who marries you.

Moyna rolled her eyes. Not again! With Moyna’s dark complexion and sharp tongue, she’d benefit from learning the skills of a good housewife. Her near-perfect grades didn’t matter; indeed, they hindered her chances of finding a groom. Tania’s perfect, Kakima! You don’t need to remind me every day!

Ungrateful child! The smell of burnt fish made her pause, as she sniffed the air like a hound and rushed back to the kitchen.

Outside, Moyna heard her uncle rustle through the newspaper. "Chaa hobe na ki?"

Moyna scoffed. The literal translation of his words was: Won’t tea happen? But what he meant was: I want tea. Now!

Since retiring as an office clerk two years ago, he spent all his waking hours in the easy-chair by the window, his feet up on the three-legged stool, demanding endless cups of tea, admiring his wife’s cooking and poring over every page of the newspaper. From time to time he’d adjust his hearing aid and shout out the headlines: City is in riots, Shobha.

Kakima said, I told you we should have stayed in Kolkata. This is no place for us.

Moyna knew how much Kakima resented Kaku’s decision to take the job in Bombay almost twenty-five years ago. He’d done it to spite his older brother—Moyna’s father—who’d begged him to stay and help in the family farm in Purulia. Just because he’d moved out of rural Bengal, Kaku considered himself superior to his older brother, and Kakima picked up on it.

Kaku said, Some rascals demolished the Babri Mazjid. There’s violence everywhere.

Kakima yelled from the kitchen, They built the mosque on the ancient Ram temple. Serves them right.

Kaku said, We should let bygones be bygones. At least someone’s praying there. Why destroy a place of worship? Doesn’t it make us just like them? On and on, he extemporized.

Kakima mumbled, and Moyna heard the sound of water gushing from the faucet into the tea kettle.

She sighed. Tania might be happy with the life her aunt led, catering to her family’s every wish, but Moyna wanted a real career. She didn’t care to perfect the art of making soft, fluffy rosgollas, delicious as the syrupy cheese dumplings tasted. Creating the aromatic but pungent mustard-fish Kakima made so well held no charm. And marrying a suitable Bengali boy with a college degree and a stable government job wasn’t her dream. It was Tania’s dream.

She opened the dusty little window to let in cool air. A calendar swung on the nail, making an arc on the blue chipped paint. Outside, the grey exhaust from BEST buses and the din of the traffic, the weaving auto-rickshaws and the shrill horns of two-wheelers, was as usual chaotic, but it helped make her resolve even stronger.

I need to get away from here.

To get to a quiet, clean, and open place where she could pursue her studies in peace, where she’d be judged on her own merit, and not compared with her prettier, fairer cousin. Where she’d be independent, where she’d finally belong. And maybe one day she’d have a family of her own.

She sat at her cramped desk by the window and flipped open the Barron’s Guide. The SAT was a week away, and she was well prepared. All she needed was a scholarship to one American college. Just one. And she’d escape the invisible noose around her neck, the chains that cubby-holed her into the lower middle class in an oppressive and intrusive society. She would take the money her parents had set aside for her wedding and leave this life for a better one.

Outside the window she heard loud arguments, and sneaked a peek through the curtains. One man yelled, "Keep your Allah to yourself! The other man said, Hindu temples will burn!"

To her horror, a rock flew through the window and hit her shoulder, sending lancinating pain down her arm. She clutched her shoulder, slid to the floor, and crawled to the window for a better look, as someone pulled the men apart.

Moyna’s heart hammered against her ribs. Riots are so close to home! No one’s safe!

But the crowd scattered after a while, and peace descended once more. Closing the window made the room dark and stuffy, so she left it open.

She went back to her book, wondering if her classmate Karan was studying for the SAT too, three buildings down the street. Kakima doubted her ability to attract a boy, but seeing her with Karan angered her; in their shabby but conservative neighborhood, reputations mattered. And when Karan visited their flat more often than society deemed appropriate, Kaku forbade her from seeing him again. The budding romance aborted before it began.

Moyna was half-way through a thirty-minute test when the doorbell rang. Her uncle’s chair creaked as he rose to open the door. She took a deep breath and tapped her pencil on the book, preparing herself for the barrage of insults her aunt would shower on her, as she compared the two girls she’d brought up. "Look how pretty she is…"

She bit her lip, torn between wanting to see Tania after so many months, and dealing with Kakima’s caustic tongue. It took all her willpower to stay rooted to her chair.

She heard the door open and craned her neck to listen to Kakima gush over Tania.

To her utter surprise, Kakima wailed like a hurt creature, a primal sound of agony and fear.

Kaku shouted, Who did this to you?

Moyna thudded the book shut and rushed into the living room.

Tania panted at the doorway, heavy with child. Dropping the suitcase by her side, Tania crossed her hands in front of her protruding belly, trying to hide her shame, as everyone spoke at once.

Tania? said Moyna. When... who?

Kakima said, Who is the father, Tania?

Kaku said, You got married without telling us?

Tania stared at them with wide doe eyes and burst into tears, burying her face in her hands. I can’t talk about it.

Kakima wrapped her daughter in a tight embrace, led her into the master bedroom, and closed the door. Kaku’s face was flushed with anger and disappointment. He clenched his jaw, slipped his feet into old leather sandals by the shoe-rack, and slammed the door on his way out.

Moyna clapped her hand to her mouth at the sudden, almost deafening silence, as if she’d experienced a bomb blast. She stared at the closed doors, the front door through which her uncle had just stormed, and the bedroom door behind which Tania and Kakima were now talking in hushed tones. You can’t blame me for this, Kakima.

She overheard Tania’s sobs and Kakima’s muffled words. Her ears perked up when she heard her name. She crept to the bedroom and put her ear to the door. Kakima was saying, I’d expect Moyna to do something like this, not you! What are we going to tell people?

When I found out, Ma, it was already too late.

She heard her aunt pacifying Tania. Feeling guilty about eavesdropping, she took Tania’s suitcase to their room, and shoved it under her bed.

How could this happen? Their old-fashioned society shunned unwed mothers. Tania knew that better than anyone; she was the one who followed rules, while Moyna was the one who broke them.

Did Tania marry secretly, or was she forced into a situation she couldn’t control? Who was the father of her child? She would have had access to abortion in Delhi, so why didn’t she opt for one? Perhaps she loved this man and he abandoned her.

One part of Moyna felt thrilled that this time, it was Tania who had disappointed Kaku and Kakima, but another part felt pity for her cousin’s disgrace.

Moyna shivered in the muggy room. She shut the window and drew the curtains to block prying eyes from her family’s shame, as the lunch turned cold in the kitchen, untouched.

When the doorbell rang, Moyna ran to answer it. It was their neighbor, the elderly Mrs. Baswani, holding a bag of vegetables. My son and his family canceled their trip to Bombay because of the riots. Take these. I’d bought too many. She peeped inside the house. Did I hear Tania’s voice earlier?

When Moyna didn’t answer, she said, People are stocking up on groceries. Everyone’s afraid.

Moyna put the vegetables in the kitchen and returned to her book. A bruise formed on her shoulder, but she told no one. Time heals everything. But how could it heal their family?

Tania’s pregnancy would change everything. Moyna wondered what they would tell people; in their culture, being pregnant out of wedlock was a stigma far worse than being seen with a boy. Tania’s hopes of getting married to a suitable Bengali boy were shattered. And with it, perhaps Moyna’s dreams of going abroad; she’d be expected to help out at home.

After two hours, Kakima appeared with red-rimmed eyes, looking grim and grey, like she had aged years in just a few hours. There will be no talk about this.

Despite Kakima’s admonition, Moyna tried to discuss it with Tania, who brushed her away each time, bursting into tears.

But Moyna persisted.

One night when she found Tania alone, Moyna asked, Who’s the father? Do we know him?

Stop harassing her, Kakima called from her bedroom.

Moyna’s voice dropped to a whisper, Tania, I hate to see you like this. What can I do to make you feel better?

Come here! Tania took Moyna into a tight embrace. Maybe one day I’ll tell you everything. But for now, just let it be, okay?

As Moyna held her cousin, she felt the baby move. She giggled. Tania, it kicked me.

Tania clung to her. You need to pursue your dreams, Moyna. Study hard.

I’m going to stay and help you raise the baby. Moyna’s eyes must have given away her dismay.

Tania shook her head. No. You have your whole life ahead of you. You need to… get away from all this. Pursue your dreams. Make me proud.

Moyna nodded miserably. Even through her own angst, Tania had a way of making her feel better. Tania, the only one who cared about her. And Moyna could do nothing to ease her suffering.

Life in the Sengupta household shuddered back to a routine, with Kaku having endless cups of tea and shouting out headlines about the riots, Kakima cooking and cleaning, Tania lying around in the house, eating for two.

And Moyna cocooned herself in her books.

§

The evening news showed gory pictures of dead bodies and angry hordes: This will be a year of infamy in the history of Bombay.

Moyna looked up from her Barron’s Guide to see the same reel playing on a loop: the mob brandishing knives and swords as the entire country watched with helpless fascination. Everyone had an opinion, but no one offered a solution. The reporter said the riots had killed Hindus and Muslims alike all around the city, and a curfew was in progress in parts of Bombay.

Kaku sipped his third cup of tea in his easy-chair and tut-tutted, as if the riots were the only thing wrong with his perfect world.

What about your unwed pregnant daughter, Kaku? Moyna wanted to ask. Was no one worried about getting things ready for the baby? A pram, a bassinet, diapers, clothes? Or did they plan to give it up for adoption? She felt a pang of pity for the poor baby, discarded like an orphan while its mother was alive.

Tania had moved to her parents’ room. Her suitcase lay under Moyna’s bed, untouched, for Tania was now wearing her mother’s kaftans. Kaku had moved into the girls’ room, relegating Moyna to the living room cane-sofa, since she studied long after everyone went to bed.

On the morning of her SAT exam, Moyna chewed on a day-old roti with mango jam for breakfast. In an hour, she would take the local train to the examination center out in the city. That no one showed concern for her safety didn’t surprise her.

She sighed, as the aroma of fried fish emanated from the kitchen once again. Just from the smell, she could tell it was rui fish curry, with red chili and cumin paste. Kakima was a skilled cook and had taught Moyna well.

A large bowl of freshly made rosgollas cooled on the dining table. Moyna finished her breakfast and glanced at the kitchen door. Kakima seemed busy. Hiding a smile, Moyna grasped a rosgolla floating in its hot syrup, popped it in her mouth, and licked her fingers. She knew that Kakima counted the juicy, sweet dessert balls each time she passed through the dining room. But the risk was worth it. She licked her lips and got up to shower before the exam.

The TV reported on areas of Bombay under curfew. Her exam center was open. For a moment she felt afraid for her safety and her heartbeat quickened. She said to no one in particular, I’m sure I’ll be fine.

What? said Kaku, peering over his glasses.

I can take a taxi to the exam center. The taxi-stand was just around the corner, and since cabs were expensive, they reserved the rides for emergencies. Riots counted as an emergency.

Kaku looked out the window, took a sip of tea, and said, It seems calm in Chembur. Train should be fine. He stared at her evenly, almost challenging her to react.

Stung by his lack of concern, she hung her head and got up. Would you let Tania out alone?

Plucking out another rosgolla from the bowl she thought, "This could be my last."

She glanced at the TV once more, where the gore and destruction continued; burning buses spewed grey smoke, shattered windows glittered on the ground. Throngs of angry men in long kurtas stormed through streets, shouting, Allah-hu-Akbar!

Chapter 2

Dec 1992

---

IN A SMALL ONE-BEDROOM FLAT three buildings down the street, Karan Singh filled the jug beside his ailing mother’s bed. Water, Ma?

His mother shook her head. He looked at her body, wasted by cancer, in constant agony caused by tumorous growths surrounding the nerves in her belly. Growing from the pancreas, it began its treacherous journey through the body, weakening her frail form, strangling her desire to eat, or even move. Cure was impossible. He wanted to take her to Tata Memorial Hospital, but she refused to spend his father’s meager pension, insisting that he use it for his studies.

She’d spent the few last days in and out of coma. After her death, which was predicted within the next few days, he’d have no ties to Bombay. His father’s pension would hold until he was twenty-six. He’d need a small sum through his studies in the National Defense Academy until he became an army officer. His late father, an Army havildar, died in the line of duty while posted to the