Maple and Spice Read online

  Moushmi Biswas is a physician in the NHS. She lives in Wales with her partner, son and a naughty little dog. This is her first novel.

  Maple

  and

  Spice

  Moushmi Biswas

  Copyright © 2018 Moushmi Biswas

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Cover shows Amrita Sen: musician, designer and entrepreneur

  amritasen.com

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  Twitter: @matadorbooks

  ISBN 9781789011692

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  To Dillon

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  Acknowledgements:

  About the author

  1

  Monisha Bastikar was the most marriageable Indian woman in Vermont: twenty-seven years old, newly qualified as a doctor, and with no boyfriends current or previous. Prospects were usually good for female medics. They had recession-proof careers and guaranteed incomes, but there was a downside. After years of study, she had slipped into an age bracket considered less appealing, the late twenties. As she stared into her bedroom mirror, familiar fears crept in. Her celebration party was tomorrow and where were all the men?

  Each time an eligible bachelor from the community got hitched, her heart fluttered with wild panic. Last summer it was Rahul Acharya, the handsome accountant, who had eloped with his Vietnamese cleaning lady. Shock, horror! A few months later, Dr Ravi Sinha proposed to his new intern. Thump! Thump! Then, millionaire Vinal Verma finally abandoned his footlose and fancy free lifestyle and found himself a gorgeous Gujarati wife. Only Sohan Singh was left now. The dentist with a lifetime driving ban.

  “My daughter shall not be his taxi,” her mother had said. And with that the family’s proposal was instantly rejected.

  But it was no use being picky now. Her residency in Boston was just around the corner, and when it started, each year would melt away like snow on Mount Mansfield. What if she woke up one day and found herself lying in a heap alongside the untouchables of the marriage market? The dreaded thirty-pluses. Dear God, she would have to find someone soon.

  Monisha jumped as her mother entered the room. When Monisha saw the boxes of saris and sparkling jewellery arrive, she turned her face away.

  “What’s the point of making an effort when there are no available men?”

  “Presentation! Presentation!” cried Mrs Leela Bastikar, as she chose for herself a peacock-blue sari. “Mustn’t ignore it. Somebody there might know of someone suitable. Word of mouth is always best.”

  Monisha held up the floor-length skirt and cropped blouse of a cream-and-silver chanya-choli, and caught a nod of approval. But, as her mother’s eyes travelled upwards, across her face and to the top of her head, panic set in again. At five foot seven she stood neck and neck with most Indian men. Why did she have to be so darn tall?

  “WITH FLAT SANDALS,” shouted Mrs Bastikar before rushing off to practise her American pronunciations.

  “Now you look purr-fect!”

  As Monisha placed the outfit in her wardrobe, tears trickled down her face. Soon she would be abandoning the soothing magnolia walls of her bedroom for sterile space in an apartment at North End, five minutes from St Anthony’s hospital. At a whopping $1,150 a month.

  The comfortable sameness of the last twenty years would instantly vanish. The classical Indian dance lessons with big-bottomed Mrs Bhatia. Twirling on hardwood floors to sitar tapes. Ankle bells jingling. There would be none of that in Boston. No weekly dinner parties either. Samosas and cutlets to start. Parents raving about their sons and daughters. Pilau rice and chicken for the main course. Saturday Night Live to finish.

  She could almost smell the fumes of peaty malt whisky and cigarettes, see the women fretting over turmeric stains and hear the drunken laughter of men, drowning in Johnnie Walker and nostalgia.

  “America has skyscrapers and sidewalks, but India has a soul.”

  “Why are you here, then?” her father would ask. His best friend, Saurav Das, always came up with an answer.

  “Doesn’t the physics professor know that we’re all just greyhounds chasing a hunk of meat?”

  From childhood to adulthood, Monisha had always attended the gatherings religiously, though they were repetitive. Stifling even. But why get caught up in the chaos and spend Saturday nights in town, wobbling round in high heels, when there was a higher purpose? Her three shining goals: to become a wife, a board-certified physician and a mother of two.

  Monisha looked in the mirror again. Thump! Thump! She had to find a husband. Without a husband, two out of three of her life goals were unachievable, and unless she devised a whole new set of aspirations, she’d go down as a failure. Gulp!

  On the night of her party, the Belvedere Hotel was in full swing. Lake Champlain, its stunning backdrop, dazzled in the fiery glow of the setting sun. The foyer was crammed with taffeta-clad blondes, sipping cocktails. The Bastikars proceeded to the ballroom, where a ‘CONGRATULATIONS’ sign swung from the ceiling, propped up by multicoloured balloons. Each table was draped in gold cloth, and studded with tea lights and scented candles. At the back of every chair hung a droopy red organza bow.

  Monisha surveyed the scene before her. It seemed an awful lot of fuss for nothing. But she could never have stopped her mother and father from celebrating, for it was every Indian parent’s dream that at least one of their children would enter the medical profession, the noblest of them all, and amongst the Bastikars she was the first doctor.

  Her brother Swanker walked past her, carrying an incense stick and a bunch of carnations. He knelt before the statue of Saraswati, the go
ddess of learning and placed both at her feet.

  “That’s my boy!” cooed Mrs Bastikar, rushing over and pinching his cheeks.

  Monisha rolled her eyes. ‘Good old Swanker.’ Perpetual party animal. Blundering through engineering school between retakes, but still the apple of his mother’s eye. And his send-off would be even better than this one.

  As the night sky descended, the guests assembled in the ballroom. The evening began with a short prayer, after which Mr Vinod Verma, president of the Indian Cultural Society grabbed the microphone. As usual, there was feedback.

  “Good evening ladies and gentlemen-entlemen. Thank you-ank you to those who have made their generous, tax-free donations to our society-iety.” The screeching noises forced him to pause. “We are gathered here today-ay to celebrate Monisha’s achievement. We wish her a long and successful career-eer in medicine. Congratulations to Leela and Amit Bastikar for raising-aising such a beautiful, brilliant daughter-aughter. Best wishes to you Monisha-isha.”

  Monisha blushed as she collected a bouquet of red roses. Champagne glasses clinked. Kebabs and canapes were guzzled down. After dinner, the newly qualified ‘Doctor Bastikar’ floated across the ballroom like a cream-and-silver cloud, periodically pausing to make small talk with guests. Eventually, she caught her mother speaking to the president.

  “I’ve asked around Leela, but I couldn’t find anyone willing to come forth,” said Mr Verma through wine stained lips.

  “No one at all?” asked Mrs Bastikar. “Cousins, brothers, friends, nephews… no one?”

  “One or two… But they wanted proper Indian girls.” His eyes lowered gradually, ultimately settling on his shiny, new brogues. “And, er, slightly younger.”

  Monisha noticed the sudden flash of anger on her mother’s face. Her ears pricked up.

  “But she’s a doctor now, Verma-ji, and more Indian than the girls back home.”

  Mr Verma shook his head. “They all become Americanised, Leela, however much you try to save them. They go to college, get boyfriends… they drink… they smoke in secret… and most of them are not even virgins!”

  Leela Bastikar hissed loudly and began marching towards her daughter. “Monisha. Come here and talk to Mr Verma!”

  The eavesdropping was over. Monisha took slow, hesitant steps over to the president.

  “Do you drink alcohol?” asked Mrs Bastikar, punctuating her words with a piercing stare.

  Monisha shook her head, “I’ve tried wine once or twice.”

  “Do you smoke?”

  Vinod Verma shifted uncomfortably in front of the two ladies.

  “Mom, you know I don’t. What is this?”

  Mrs Bastikar cut in, her voice deafeningly loud. “Have you ever had a boyfriend?”

  “You know I haven’t.” Monisha was beginning to feel queasy.

  “HAVE YOU EVER SLEPT WITH A MAN?”

  The sentence echoed through the ballroom. A clique of sari-clad women lifted their heads. Immediately, she felt Vinod Verma’s snake-like eyes upon her.

  “NEVER!”

  “You are indeed a good Indian girl, Monisha,” said Mr Verma, before dashing off towards his friends.

  Monisha glared at her mother, her face now beetroot red. But Mrs Bastikar simply turned her back and began walking swiftly, towards the waiters. Thankfully, Monisha found a side door, through which she managed to slip out. Going down a flight of steps, she found her way into the luxurious Belvedere bathrooms.

  The spacious disabled cubicle contained a white wicker chair. Monisha hiked up her skirt and plonked herself on it, fuming. Everything was so futile! Attending dinner parties. Avoiding drunken nights out and boyfriends. Protecting her reputation. For nothing! No man was interested. What was the point of being good when nobody believed you?

  It seemed like years before she was back in the safety of her bedroom. In front of her dressing table mirror, she sat. Mascara-soaked tears dripped down her face. At the sound of short, arthritic footsteps down the corridor, Monisha shot up and dried her eyes.

  Mrs Bastikar knocked on the door. There was no response. She cautiously entered the room.

  “How could you embarrass me like that?” Monisha scowled.

  Mrs Bastikar walked across the room, picking up mascara-stained tissues off the floor as she went.

  “That silly ass needed to be taught a lesson.”

  Monisha sighed.

  “At least he was honest. There is no one.”

  Her mother placed both hands on her shoulders.

  “Nonsense, Monisha. There are millions of men in India. You can take your pick!”

  Millions of men? Now that was a comforting thought. Maybe her dream could become a reality: a wedding at the Mumbai Taj. Real sitar music echoing through the grand ballroom. The delicate scent of rose petals and jasmine. There she would be, sitting like a queen on the bridal throne next to her tall, handsome, dignified husband.

  All she had to do now was go and find him.

  2

  It was half past five and the café was buzzing with office workers. The counter was stacked with magazines, each one plastered with pictures of Princess Diana. Monisha tucked a copy under her arm and ordered a cappuccino. She took a seat by the window and nervously thumbed through the pages. Now and again she lifted her head, looking for Tina. How on earth would she break the news?

  Twenty excruciating minutes later, Tina arrived. Armed with clipboards and legal files, she brushed past the suited men. Despite being polar opposites, they’d been best friends throughout school. Monisha, the mild-mannered swat and Tina, a brassy red-head who was always battling something. Usually it was alcohol, anorexia or yet another boyfriend. But, despite the drama, she sailed effortlessly through every exam, while Monisha toiled night and day. A cursory glance at a few cheat notes would earn her firsts in English language and literature and eventually a place in law school.

  “This better be good,” said Tina, squinting deeply at her friend after they’d exchanged hugs. “Seeing as you dragged me out here before finals.”

  Her eyes were reddened from all-night cramming. This wasn’t the time to make small talk. That sinking feeling was beginning again. Monisha took a deep breath.

  “I’m going to India to get married.”

  A shocked silence lingered for a while. Tina eventually raised her eyebrows and began a barrage of questions.

  “Seriously? Wow! When? Who’s the guy?”

  “I leave on Friday. I haven’t met him.”

  The creases on Tina’s forehead coalesced into a giant frown. “Oh, so it’s going to be one of those arranged marriages.”

  Monisha folded her arms. That was downright condescending from her best friend.

  “I know you’ve talked about it, but I never thought you’d go through with it,” said Tina.

  “My mother is in Mumbai, shortlisting.”

  “Shortlisting?” The frown changed shape. “Like a recruitment firm? What about the single Indian guys here? Surely they’re better than a bunch of strangers!”

  “But there are no Indian guys here,” replied Monisha. Sohan Singh didn’t count. Tina’s words jarred her a bit. Choosing from a bunch of strangers, that’s what it amounted to. Millions of strangers really.

  Monisha sat up straight and wiped the corners of her mouth. “I get to go out with a few guys my mom has picked and if we like each other, we both come to a decision.”

  Tina wasn’t going to give up lightly.

  “Based on how many dates?”

  Monisha’s initial confidence began to wither. She knew the plan, but hadn’t yet fleshed out the details. How many dates would it take? She’d have to act swiftly, trust her instincts and reject the men she didn’t like straight away. But what if the guy was nervous and not at his best on the first date? And if it took several dates to get him to unwind,
would that mean less time with the others? Oh God! How was she going to do this?

  Tina tapped her fingernails onto the table as she waited for an answer.

  “I don’t know, but I’ll be there for a whole month.”

  “One month to decide? You can’t be serious!”

  The waitress came over to gather their trays. Monisha ordered a hot chocolate. Tina’s questions were leaving a slightly bitter taste in her mouth.

  “Well, after residency starts I won’t have time, then I’ll be too old and Indian men don’t want you if you’re over thirty.”

  “But what do you want, Monisha?” asked Tina, giving her a stare that could have cracked her head open. Monisha gazed dreamily out of the window.

  What did she want? What did she want?

  She wanted to get married in the traditional Indian way, raise a family and specialise, of course.

  “Well, I want marriage and kids too… eventually,” said Tina. “Whatever happened to meeting someone and falling in love?”

  Monisha screwed up her nose and cut off her friend mid-flow.

  “That’s the American way and fifty percent of the time it ends up in divorce… and pays for your Porsche!”

  Tina chuckled at the irony. It was stats like that which would certainly keep her in business.

  The waitress arrived with more hot chocolate and placed it smack bang on Diana’s dejected face.

  “What type of guy are you looking for?” asked Tina, changing the subject.

  “Indian, Brahmin… a medic with good prospects here,” said Monisha, without batting an eyelid.

  Tina stared harshly. “And they say Americans are racist!”

  She bit her lip when she realised how it must have sounded. Her mother was the one for stereotypes. She was always harping on about white men leaving their wives and black men taking drugs.

  Monisha jumbled through her explanations. She wanted to keep the family happy and make life easier. Tina moved in closer.

  “Don’t you want to know what he’s like in bed? What if he has… er, problems?”