Jenny
Jenny
Jenny sits staring at the telegram in shock. She replays the message again and again in her mind.
“Jenny. Your father has died. But due to extenuating circumstances it is best if you do not attend the funeral as per the request of your mother. A future letter will be sent detailing the dispersion of his estate.
My deepest condolences,
Edwin Starkey, Starkey Law Offices”
He’s dead.
Her father.
Why had no one sent her word that he was sick? It wasn’t that hard to send a telegram as evidenced by the one she’s holding in her hand. It was delivered to Delhi through contacts of Bheem’s that were still in the city and then sent to the forest.
She sniffles and wipes her eyes, going back to when she was five and she had just learned her grandfather was gone.
“Jenny?”
Oh no, not now. She turns to see her husband standing in the doorway, hair damp from his bath and wearing loose linen pants. “What’s wrong?” He asks.
Those deep brown eyes that captivated her the first time she saw them full of concern and love make her break down. The telegram flutters to the floor as she falls along with it, sobbing into her hands.
She barely registers that she’s been picked up but then she realizes that Bheem is sitting on their bed with her ensconced in his broad arms and his hand is gently stroking her hair.
“Nā mallepūvu, what’s wrong? Please tell me, darling. I hate seeing you cry,” he says in his tender voice that rumbles softly from his chest.
She whimpers again and buries her face into his warm chest, feeling the slight tickle of his chest hair against her nose. “My father died,” she says.
“Oh, priyatamā, that’s horrible! Do you need to go to England?”
“That’s the even more horrible part!” She gasps, a fresh bout of tears streaming down her eyes. “My-my mother doesn’t even, doesn’t even want me there!” She sits back a little and wipes her eyes. “The lawyer said ‘due to extenuating circumstances’, but that’s translated as to she’s disappointed in me and doesn’t want me to be there to embarrass her. Her dirty little daughter who married a barbarian!”
Bheem can’t help but growl angrily. “Barbarian, eh? That’s the teapot calling the kettle black!”
“…that’s the wrong saying, Bheem,” says Jenny suddenly giggling weakly through her tears. But she get’s where he’s coming from.
Bheem smiles though. “It made you laugh didn’t it?” He pulls her into his lap and wipes her tears from her cheeks. “My love, who cares what she thinks? It’s your father and you have a right to be there.”
She sighs and lays her head against his shoulder. “Well…I don’t know. London would be so different from the one I remember before I came to India. I’d be a stranger there.”
The tiger of the jungle strokes a comforting hand down her back. “If you don’t want to go, that’s all right.”
“I, *sniff*, I do at the same time. Father was the only one who kept in contact with me when I decided to stay here.”
Bheem takes her chin in his hand and lifts it up to gaze down at her. “Whatever you decide, I’ll be behind you one hundred percent, bangaram.”
She smiles and gives him a gentle peck. “Thank you. I love you.”
“And I love you, nā mallepūvu…tell me about your father. What was he like?”
“He…he loved to take photographs. The camera that I had at the market when we first met?”
“I remember. Was that his?”
“Yes, he gave it to me as a going away present. ‘Take plenty of pictures, dear. It’s the adventure of a lifetime and you must document it,’ he told me.”
“He wasn’t like Governor Scott, was he?”
“Oh no of course not. He was the youngest…”
And that’s how the rest of the afternoon went: Jenny sharing stories about her father while Bheem sits patiently and asks questions.