Shobhan Bantwal - The Unexpected Son

As always, I offer my initial prayer of thanks to Lord Ganesh, the remover of obstacles.

My heartfelt appreciation goes to my warm and supportive editor, Audrey LaFehr, who has placed her faith in me again and again. Special thanks to Martin Biro and Maureen Cuddy, consummate professionals who make my writing career a pleasure.

The friendly and dedicated editorial, production, public relations, and marketing folks at Kensington Publishing richly deserve my gratitude and praise for a job well done. I look forward to working with you on my future projects.

To my agents, Stephanie Lehmann and Elaine Koster, I thank you for your invaluable help and guidance at every step. I would not be here without you.

I am greatly indebted to four talented doctors, Shilpa Hattangadi, Anil Kagal, Ajit Divgi, and C. J. Lyons, for patiently answering my medical questions. Any inaccuracies and/or mistakes that may appear in this book are entirely due to my own lack of understanding and not these very committed and helpful medical professionals.

The Writers Exchange at Barnes & Noble in Princeton, New Jersey, and the Writers Group at the Plainsboro Public Library deserve my thanks for their insightful comments and suggestions. I offer a grateful hug to my many other friends, who are my cheerleading group.

And last but not least, to my super-supportive family, especially my husband, Prakash: I am deeply grateful to have you in my life and for putting up with my idiosyncrasiesand for loving me in spite of them.

T here was something odd about it, despite its plain and inconsequential appearance. Vinita gazed at the mystery envelope for a long moment, weighed it in the palm of her hand. Her instincts were prickling. It went beyond mere feminine intuition.

She didnt receive any letters from her family in India anymore. Cheap long-distance telephone rates and e-mail had put an end to that somewhat antiquated form of communication.

The smudged postal seal on the envelope read Mumbai one of Indias largest and most populous citiesa place Vinita was very familiar with. The envelope had that typical India lookmultiple postage stamps in various colors and sizes; thin brown paper; and the sealing flap placed over the vertical edge, unlike the American-style horizontal edge. But it didnt look like the occasional wedding invitation or the quarterly statements from the bank where she and her husband maintained a small account in rupees.

There was no return address, but it was sent to her attentionneatly hand printed. She slit it open with her finger and eased out the contentsa single sheet of white, ruled paper. Her hands shook a little. She wasnt sure if it was anticipation or anxiety. Or both.

The message was briefa few lines penned in blue ink. She scanned it quickly, trying to ignore the tingle crawling up her spine like the cautious progress of a venomous spider. The subject matter was bizarre. The writers name was missing. The trembling in her hands edged up a notch.

Only minutes ago, it had looked like any ordinary Saturday morninga day to recoup after five hectic days of poring over spreadsheets, memos, and databases till her eyeballs ached and her back turned stiff as cardboard.

This morning, lying in bed, through drowsy eyes shed watched the first shimmering rays of sunlight poke their fingers through the window blinds. The sound of the wind whistling through the pale green spring foliage was a sign of a brisk but sunny April day.

May, her favorite month, was right around the corner. The dogwoods and azaleas in the neighborhood, weighed down by fat, succulent buds, attested to that. Spring was always such a buoyant season, so full of promise. It had brought a contented smile to her lips.

Reminding herself that it was time to emerge from the warm cocoon of the down comforter, shed sat up in bed, stretched like a slothful kitten, and leaned back against the headboard. Shed managed to grab more than two extra hours of sleep. Her reward for waking early on weekdays.

Her husband was on a business trip to Detroit, and wasnt due to return until the following week, so she had the weekend to herself. Shed planned to indulge herself by brewing a cup of scalding masala chai strong tea delicately laced with her own blend of five spicesinstead of the usual coffee-on-the-run she drank on weekdays at the office. Then she was going to eat lunch at the taco place and do some shopping at the mall.

Working late the previous evening had prevented her from looking at the mail right away. Exhausted, shed tossed the stack of correspondence on the nightstand, eaten a quick meal of leftovers, and gone straight to bed.

Now, as she sat on the bed in her aqua print pajamas and checked the mail before getting dressed, she wondered if the weekend of self-indulgence shed been looking forward to was already beginning to wilt and curl at the edges. The tacos and the shopping spree no longer appealed.

Who could have sent her the odd message? An old friend? An acquaintance? She blew her disheveled bangs out of her eyes to read it again, more carefully this time. Perhaps there were clues she had missed the first time.

My dear Mrs. Patil,

I am writing to tell you about your son. He is suffering from myeloid leukemia. Many years ago, I made a promise that I would never reveal anything about him, but this is a serious matter. A bone marrow transplant is his last hope. My conscience will not allow me to let a young man die without having a chance to try every possible treatment. Your brother may be able to give you all the details.

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 couldnt help smiling at the sight of her neighbors 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 Doriss 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 wasnt a mistake and she was indeed the intended recipient?

Was this someones 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.