Lovesick

By Manu Bhat and Angela Aquila

The inspirational true story of an Indian woman who contracted HIV from her husband in an arranged marriage, suffered miscarriage and divorce…and how she refused to let the virus defeat her in her quest to find true love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Jan 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781684714520

Book preview

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Prologue

‘Aakash is HIV positive.’

Doctor Neetu’s words pierced me like a bullet. Did she just say that my husband had HIV?

The doctor turned towards me, her face deep with concern, and perhaps pity. I braced myself. ‘Manu, your test results have come back as ‘inconclusive’. We need to conduct more tests to find out if you have contracted the virus.’ She paused and redirected her matter-of-fact tone to my husband. ‘You also need to take more blood tests so that I can determine what stage the virus has reached in your system and treat it accordingly.’

‘And my advice to you, Manu. If we confirm that you have contracted the virus, do not keep the baby.’

The baby. The whole reason why we had been seeing Doctor Neetu in the first place. I was so happy when I became pregnant, imagining the life we would share together. My dreams of becoming a mum were finally being realised. But now I was, being told that I may need to eliminate every trace of the baby from my body. And that I have been infected with a deadly virus into the bargain. A shudder passed through me. The thought of killing my child was too unbearable to even contemplate.

We sat in stunned silence. Perhaps our results had been mistaken for another couple’s? You heard of that kind of thing happening all the time. Or perhaps the lab technicians didn’t perform the tests properly and made a mistake?

But the look on Doctor Neetu’s face made it clear. My heart was racing as she said, ‘I know this must come as a shock. I suggest that you support one another through this difficult time and spend some time talking together. And get some rest.’

She looked at me and once again adopted a more commanding tone. ‘On your next visit I want to speak with you alone.’

She began packing the medical documents scattered on her desk into a cardboard file, indicating that the consultation was at an end.

I wanted to stop her. I needed more information, I needed answers. Why did she want to speak with me alone? My husband and I had always come together. It slowly dawned on me that she had something to tell me that she didn’t want Aakash to hear.

I glanced at my husband, trying to gauge his reaction. He was slumped in his chair, his face expressionless. I waited for him to say something. But he couldn’t even look at me.

My mind spun out of control. How did he contract the virus? Was he sleeping around behind my back? Had he used drugs? And then the most alarming question of all hit me like a thunderbolt: did he know he had the virus before we got married, or was this something that happened after? The thought of Aakash marrying me and choosing to sleep with me while knowing he was infected made me feel physically ill. I shifted myself away from him in my seat. My husband was as much of a stranger as he was when my parents first introduced us.

CHAPTER ONE

The First Step

I gazed at the floor-length mirror in my granny’s spare bedroom, pleased with the image that was reflected back to me. The pleats of my stylish black silk sari embroidered with fine silver thread were tucked tightly around my waist and I’d draped the end carefully over my left shoulder. I adjusted it so that it tailed carefully, giving me an elegant, cultured look.

Although I didn’t usually use a lot of makeup I’d made a special effort on this occasion. My fair Kashmiri skin was covered with a light dusting of face powder. Black eyeliner circled my hazel eyes; mascara thickened my eyelashes, making them look deceptively longer than they were. I had applied a dab of glossy pink lipstick. I shook my thick wavy red hair so that it fell softly around my shoulders. I was wearing my favourite diamond earrings, and jangly gold bangles hung loosely on my arm. I couldn’t believe that I looked so grown-up and sophisticated! I wished I was a bit thinner, but I quickly pushed the thought out of my mind. I wouldn’t let negativity spoil the anticipation.

I glanced once again at my reflection, feeling attractive in my carefully assembled sari. I hoped that the man waiting in the living room would feel the same way about me.

It was roughly half an hour since Raj and his mother arrived on our front doorstep. I’d given them enough time to settle in the front room with my parents, so that they could get to know one another and establish where our family connections lay. As custom dictated, I stayed in my room. The chatter from the living room drifted up to me, increasing the nerves that had sprung up. I sat on my bed and waited.

Butterflies danced around my stomach, threatening to overwhelm me. I was feeling unprepared, unsure of what to expect. I had recently turned twenty-three, an age which my parents consider to be the right time to start searching for a husband. I’d completed my university studies and found a good job. I could now get down to the important and essential business of getting married. Any older than twenty-five and I would be considered too old by many men.

We arranged for this first meeting to take place in neutral territory, in my grandparents’ home. On paper Raj had a lot of potential. He was twenty-nine, Kashmiri, and worked as a computer engineer in the US. What more could I ask for? He had returned to India to find himself a suitable wife to take back with him. Someone who would easily be able to adapt to living in a new country. With my family’s history of constantly travelling and relocating around the country, I was sure that I could easily fit the bill. So far he looked promising. He was also the first man my parents had ever arranged for me to meet.

I was fairly confident that a marriage would come out of it. It was my destiny, my karma. My parents’ marriage was arranged. They were each other’s first potential match and they married soon after their first meeting. It was very much a case of happily ever after.

I had always loved hearing this story from my mother and had imagined that I would also encounter a similar fate. This meeting would be my first step towards my future happiness as a married woman.

Worries swirled through my mind. I wondered if he would like my sari. Had I overdressed for the occasion? Having lived for so long in the US, perhaps he would have preferred me to wear something a bit less traditional, something more casual? Would he find me attractive enough?

I began to imagine what Raj looked like. I hoped he was handsome, someone I would be proud to be seen with. But my most important criterion was that he was a nice man. ‘Manu, the looks will fade with age, but his character will stay forever,’ my mother was always counselling me. ‘Handsome is that handsome does.’

My reverie was broken by my mother’s voice calling me. The butterflies surged up in a final wave and I struggled to settle them back down. I made one last tight tuck to the pleats around my waist and, as gracefully as I could, entered the living room, where I was confronted by the sight of my suitor and his mother sitting calmly beside him in her own green silk embroidered sari, sipping milky tea.

The butterflies returned with a vengeance, making me want to leave the room, but I remained, trying not to fidget with my sari while my parents introduced me.

‘This is our daughter Manu,’ Mum said proudly, standing beside me with her hands resting gently on my shoulders.

All of a sudden I felt embarrassed to be the focus of everyone’s attention. It seems incredible that we were meeting to investigate the possibility of a marriage. I greeted them politely, exchanging namastes before demurely seating myself on a sofa next to my father, a place which my parents had purposefully left vacant for me. It was important to appear to be polite but not too forward in this first meeting. What his mother thought of me was just as important as the impression Raj would take away.

I forced myself to lift my eyes and subtly looked at Raj while he answered a question my father had put to him. I was pleasantly surprised at how handsome he was. He was tall, with a chiselled face, thick curly hair and brown eyes. I took in his choice of clothing and liked what I saw: he was wearing a stylish black suit. In the looks department my parents had chosen well. He was more handsome than I could have dared imagine. So far, so good. But, more importantly, would he have a great personality to match? Would we have anything in common?

Raj was seated on a sofa nearest to me, giving us the opportunity to chat while our parents discussed other matters. While we attempted to get to know one another, Mum busied herself serving more tea and pakoras, savoury pastries, to Raj’s mother. With a glance she subtly directed me to move to the dining table so that Raj and I could talk more easily. The living room was open-plan so the dining table was within easy view of those seated in the living room. I was embarrassed that our parents would be able to observe us as we talked, but quickly did as my mother suggested. I demurely tucked the skirt of my sari under me as I sat down.

‘So, what do you do for a living?’ Raj asked politely in an attempt to open the conversation. He made eye contact with me as he spoke and I liked his sense of confidence.

‘I work as a manager in an American call centre,’ I explained. Maybe the American connection would catch his attention.

The conversation began to flow easily. I was delighted to learn that not only was Raj easy on the eye but he was also easy to talk to. The talk meandered around visual platforms, software and the latest developments in computers before morphing into hobbies and interests. Raj appeared to be as much of a computer geek as me. We could not be more compatible, I started thinking to myself. Raj was passionate about reading and travelling, too. Could it be possible that he was finding this meeting just as enjoyable as I was? He appeared to be naturally affable so it was hard to tell with any certainty.

‘We’ve had a lovely time but it’s getting late now and we should be returning home,’ Raj’s mother said.

Despite my parents’ feeble yet polite attempts to encourage them to stay everyone knew that the meeting had achieved its purpose. All parties had gathered the information they need in order to make an informed decision. Mum and Dad helped them to collect their bags, put on their jackets and saw them off.

Once Raj and his mother were gone I felt like jumping and screaming with joy. There was nothing that he lacked, and from the excited chatter of my parents I could tell that they felt the same. Better still, we clicked. It was more than I could possibly have hoped for.

My mother turned to me with a wide grin on her face. ‘That went well, beti. I’m sure we will hear from them very soon. Both your father and I think he would be a great match for you, not to mention a wonderful son-in-law. What did you think?’

The answer must have been clear on my eager face, but I said, ‘I wouldn’t mind if we took it further.’

That night I lay in bed waiting for sleep to overcome me as my mind continually went over the events of the evening. Visions of me dressed in a beautiful red wedding sari, with a fine gold chain from my ear to my nose ring, and the look of happiness on Raj’s face fuelled my imagination.

To Mum’s amusement the next day I hovered near the phone, hoping and praying that his mother would ring with good news. But apart from more mundane calls, the phone remained silent. As it did for the next five days. Custom once again called the shots and dictated that it was the boy’s family that had the upper hand. They must take the first step; we were at their mercy.

But after five days my parents were surprised that they had not received a phone call from Raj’s mother, indicating how they felt about the meeting and perhaps suggesting that we take it further. The waiting was torture. I felt like grabbing the phone and smashing it against the wall.

My father finally suggested that a sufficient period of time had passed and we should take matters into our own hands.

I sat nervously on the sofa while Mum made the call to Raj’s mother. It took no longer than fifteen minutes before she returned to the living room. I could see by the disappointed look on her face that the news was not good.

‘So what did she say?’ I demanded impatiently.

Mum paused before answering. ‘I’m sorry, beti. He isn’t interested in taking it further with you,’ she said softly.

This was not what I was expecting. ‘Did she say why? I thought it went well.’

‘Apparently he doesn’t like your red hair very much.’ Mum seemed reluctant to say this, turning away. Not on my behalf, but that Raj and his mother could bring themselves to proffer such a pitiful reason for rejecting me.

I was insulted that Raj could ignore important indications of compatibility for such a superficial consideration. Had I imagined our connection? I felt like grabbing the phone and begging him to give me one more chance, promising to dye my hair black, but I quickly admonished myself. Why should I change such a small physical characteristic for a man who could think so superficially? What an utter jerk! Who needed a man like that anyway? But deep inside I knew that my anger was just a mask for the hurt and pain of rejection I was feeling.

CHAPTER TWO

Our Kashmiri Community

My childhood and adolescent memories were inextricably woven into the colourful tapestry of traditions, customs and festivities that defined my Kashmiri heritage, forming the very fabric of my being. I was born and raised within a family that celebrated the essence of our cultural identity on a daily basis. We lived and breathed our heritage as a matter of both pride and honour.

Although every member of my family was born outside of Kashmir, we frequently socialised with other Kashmiri relatives and friends in our community. Despite our enthusiasm for embracing and upholding our traditions, my family was in the somewhat incongruous position that none of us could actually speak the Kashmiri language. Even my closest relatives living in Srinagar, my nana and nani, grandad and granny, did not speak the language: our dominant languages were English and Hindi, which we all spoke as native speakers. This is because our ancestors migrated from Kashmir so long ago that as they became adept at integrating themselves into the Indian societies in which they found themselves, their original language eventually fell into disuse.

They came in the sixteenth century during the reign of Aurangzeb to what is today known as the State of Uttar Pradesh. Throughout the Islamic period of rule in the Kashmir valley, hundreds of Hindu and Buddhist temples were destroyed, resulting in a mass exodus of Kashmiri Pandits fleeing to various regions of India in a desperate attempt to escape persecution. From the time they left their homeland, these Kashmiris became known for the cultural, intellectual, literary and political contributions they made to the Indian society into which they eventually integrated.

The Kashmiri footprint in India extended far beyond the world of poetry, literature and culture: in the legislative and political arenas the Kashmiri Pandits further exerted a powerful influence. Several Indian states located in northern and central India such as Patiala, Jaipur, Jaisalmer and Ratlam have been governed by Kashmiri Pandit prime ministers, also known as dewans, who would go on to play a prominent role in British India. Numerous Pandit lawyers and administrators gained political importance through the Indian National Congress in Independent India. Indian leaders who were Kashmiri Pandits included the first Prime Minister of India Jawaharlal Nehru and the third Prime Minister, Indira Ghandi. Rajiv Gandhi, the seventh prime minister of India, was also half Kashmiri Pandit. The government of India has effectively been led by leaders of Kashmiri Pandit origin for more than half of the political life of the country following independence. Reflecting on the history of my people it is no small wonder that I can’t help but feel a sense of pride for my ancestors who have preceded me and for all the contributions that they made to the world around them. They serve as a shining example of the type of person I also strive to be.

My family links are present even in the literary world. Brij Narayan Chakbast, a famous Kashmiri poet who wrote in the Urdu language and whose soulful works are revered by lovers of Urdu literature on a global scale, happens to be distantly related to my brother-in-law’s family. His ardent love for his homeland was eloquently embodied in his poetry when he wrote: ‘How exceedingly hospitable is the land of Kashmir. Even the wayside stones offered me water to drink.’

I agreed wholeheartedly with Chakbast’s exuberant description of the country of my ancestors. Every year I would accompany my family to Kashmir, a place with an abundance of untouched, natural beauty. Everywhere you looked there was something