Shoondor: American Princess

By Jennifer Braun

Anwyn Morgan, a naïve “missionary kid” takes you into her heart and mind unraveling her journey through a life of turning away from God and doing things her own way. She goes to India as the young bride of Benoy Guha to begin their fairy-tale marriage. He is handsome, rich and available. She just turned twenty-one and is eager for freedom and independence; a new beginning. Why wait?

Benoy has been away too long from his cultural upbringing and so forgotten the rules and regulations of living with parents. His mother takes an instant dislike to Anwyn. Who can blame her? When the two women first meet, Benoy is too timid to introduce Anwyn as his wife.

Locked in a space between two cultures, ethnicities and unsolved differences, Anwyn feels stifled living in a “joint family” system but tries hard to fit the mold of a meek, respectful wife. Benoy, who has reverted to a more orthodox lifestyle, struggles with her strong will and independent spirit realizing that along with depriving his mother the privilege of choosing his bride, he has perhaps made the wrong choice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Dec 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664212435

Jennifer Braun

As a missionary in India, Jennifer Braun had the privilege and honor of working with women and children from different walks of life. This work of fiction is a combination of many stories shared by the remarkable women she encountered during that time. Mrs. Braun has been writing articles, stories and speeches for many years and also helps people write their memoirs and trace their genealogy. She and her husband have two grown children and live in Wisconsin.

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Copyright © 2020 Jennifer Braun.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture marked (KJV) taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

ISBN: 978-1-6642-1242-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-1243-5 (e)

WestBow Press rev. date: 12/03/2020

CONTENTS

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty One

Twenty Two

Twenty Three

Twenty Four

Twenty Five

Twenty Six

Twenty Seven

Twenty Eight

Twenty Nine

Thirty

Thirty One

Epilogue

This book is dedicated to the many women

who shared their lives and stories with me,

and to my amazing husband and children.

PROLOGUE

He found her.

An icy volt of terror seized Anwyn as she stood before him helpless, shivering in her pajamas and bare feet.

This time there was no escaping him. Death at his hands was certain. He had promised her that the last time they were together. Her emotions ran wild, her senses dimming – dark, floating. Her fingers tingled, her heartbeats out of control; fear seemed to flow and ebb through every nook and cranny of her body.

I’ve been following you, he taunted. For how many days, she dared not ask. He’d waited for precisely the right moment and there he was. He still looked stunning, well put together. But he hadn’t come to rekindle any smoldering embers. He had come to settle a score.

I’ve been watching you, he went on. Where you go. Where you shop. How you play. What you do … everything. I’ve seen it all. There was more but she could not receive anything. A steam engine seemed to be thundering through her head. His face blurred through the hot tears flooding her eyes. Through a fog she heard him saying he had waited all evening, in a rented car, checking out her every move from across the street. She remembered then; she’d thrown a casual glance in the direction of the minivan when she returned home, but that was all. A cold rain had started to fall and she’d hurried to get the children inside - her daughter Anjoli with her best friend, Manjula who had come to spend the night. Manjula had celebrated her birthday earlier and the girls had returned with armloads of presents, excited to examine each one in detail.

Anjoli was eight, Manjula had just turned ten. My last year of being one number, she announced proudly, now I am ten – two numbers. The girls resembled twins in their matching sunflower nightgowns as they sat glued to Anwyn, one on each side, while she read them a bedtime story. Manjula’s parents were young Christians and Anwyn was teaching the girls how to pray and memorize Scripture. The verse that night was from Psalm 27:9 (KJV) Hear my voice when I call, Lord; be merciful to me and answer me, She kissed them goodnight, told them to get to bed, then retired to her bedroom. In their small, secure neighborhood, where everyone knew everyone else, no one bothered to lock their front doors. So it was easy for him to slip inside.

Alone in her room, a heavy-eyed Anwyn changed her clothes and got into bed. Tired from the day’s festivities, she soon fell asleep, but not before she read her Bible and thanked God for all His goodness and for the many wonderful blessings He had bestowed on her.

Shortly before midnight the faint smell of smoke wafted around her and she woke with a start. She sat up, and turned on the bedside lamp as a shiver darted all the way down her body. Something was burning. Oh no! She had installed good smoke detectors, so she was puzzled at their silence. It smelled like…no, of course not. How silly of her. But yes, it was the strong, distinctive smell of a cigarette. One with which she was familiar. But that was impossible. It was her imagination, a bad dream from which she had awakened. She was tired, sleepy and her brain was playing tricks. There was no way. She shook her head, trying to think clearly. Now wide awake, she softly tiptoed out of her room, checked to make sure the girls were okay and then came down the carpeted stairs just to assure herself all was well.

She found him there, sitting on the sofa, arms flung out on either side as if to welcome her. Moonbeams gently glowing through the picture window played on his face, highlighting the silver strands in his dark hair.

She could smell the whiskey, the rum or whatever it was he had been drinking and realized her worst nightmare had come to pass. Fear and nausea rose as if to choke the cry of surprise bubbling up her throat. As he stared at her, smirking in mockery, she slowly began to accept the horror that he had discovered her hiding place. She found it difficult to breathe, her heart thumping in the silence between them. What would he do to her this time?

His stare was contemptuous as he smoked his favorite brand, dragging in the smoke leisurely then blowing it at her. His eyes, in the red glow of the cigarette, never left her face. He was enjoying this.

Hello Princess, he whispered in a low voice he knew could unravel her.

Be calm. Don’t panic. Think. She fought to take control of her body – cold and unsteady. Her prayer was desperate. O God. Don’t let him kill me. What will happen to my Anjoli?

On the wall hung a large ornate sword, a tribal weapon from Nepal. It had been a gift from her father. Anwyn turned her head slightly in the dimness, her eyes trying to gauge its distance from where she stood.

Now he laughed. No, sneered.

Are you thinking of using that thing on me? He shook his head, making a clucking sound with his tongue. You know you will never do it.

Get out! Leave my house at once. You have no right to be here. From where did those bold words come? She felt anything but brave. She felt exposed and unprotected, with danger staring her in the face. If only she’d had the sense to bring along her cell phone. She would have speed dialed an emergency number for help. She had to think quickly. Protect herself. There was no knowing what he would do when he was drunk. Her arms outstretched, she lunged for the sword.

He sprang up then and in one swift movement grabbed her by the shoulders. The weapon clattered to the floor out of her reach. The smell of alcohol fused with cigarette smoke had soured his breath, making her gag. But she thrust both hands at him, and summoned all her strength as she tried to push him away. Her hands were small and she was no match for him as he pinned her to the wall. She screamed as he struck her across the face, just like old times. Her legs collapsed and she fell in a heap at his feet.

Five years earlier she had found herself in the same position, on her knees, crouched in a bathtub, weeping. She had turned on the shower full pelt so the spray of gushing water would hush her cries, her shame and her fear of him. And as she sobbed that dark night, she prayed he would spare her life, she didn’t think she could live through another beating like that.

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With the passing of years and new beginnings she ceased living in fear. No longer were her prayers desperate, fervent pleas for help because at last she was free, secure and protected.

Until that night.

Now the very air around her seemed to carry the scent of danger and death. She was sure he had come to finish her off once and for all. This would be her last night alive. It had been her main charge in life to protect Anjoli, to wrap her in a blanket of safety so she would never know fear like her mother had known. But she had failed. What would happen to her cherished daughter?

She prayed to the Lord she loved with all her heart. Help me dear Jesus. Please don’t leave me … You are the only one who can save me. Help me … And she remembered the verse she and the girls had memorized earlier that night.

Psalm 27:9 (KJV) Hear my voice when I call, Lord…

The scuffling going on downstairs woke the children. Anjoli heard it first and shook Manjula awake, a finger to her lips. Shhh. The girls crept across the hall to Anwyn’s room. Her light was on but her bed was empty. Uneasy and concerned, they tiptoed out and stood still in the shadows at the top of the stairs. Hands clasped tight, their hearts thumping, Anjoli was first to see the struggling couple in the living room.

"Mummy! Mummy!" she shrieked. Then Manjula joined in and both girls began screaming at the top of their voices. The man paused in his assault and looked around the semi-darkness in the direction of their cries.

Still powerless on the floor, Anwyn’s heart filled with dread at the sound of Anjoli’s voice. She summoned all her strength and struck out with both hands at her assailant. Her arms encircled his ankles as she attempted to pull him down. She was no match for his strength and did nothing more than anger him further as he shoved her away.

Mummy, Mummy, Anjoli was wailing, screaming, terrified.

Run, darling! Anwyn’s voice came out in a croak. She prayed her daughter could make sense of what she was saying. Manju, go and get your mother. And your dad. Go, go. Don’t come down here. Run. Run quickly. As fast as you can. Hurry.

Shut up! he yelled. Be quiet.

He knelt down on her body to prevent her from rising, looking around for the children.

But the little girls had already slipped out the back door, running in fright.

Priya and her husband Alex had just paused their late night movie so Priya, heavy with child could take a bathroom break. With Manjula spending the night next door, they were enjoying some quiet time alone. Alex was reaching for the bowl of popcorn when he heard his daughter’s voice screaming his name in the night. A Chicago police officer, he sensed at once that something was terribly wrong. Grabbing his revolver and flashlight he dashed to the door, his heart beating, his adrenalin racing. He raced down the porch steps, shining a bright beam through the fog in the direction of his daughter’s screams. He saw Manjula stumbling up the path; her eyes held a terror he had never seen before. The rain had soaked her clothes hampering her movements. A trembling Anjoli inched along a couple of feet behind her.

Daddy, Daddy, there’s a strange man in Aunty Anwyn’s house. Daddy, come, come. She clung to her father as he hurried to her, gathering her in his arms. She was trembling and buried her face into him, her cries turning into a mumble. But Alex had already assumed something horrific was going on next door.

By then the commotion brought Priya out on the porch. Oh my …! Children! What is happening?

Alex turned to her. Stay inside, honey, he said urgently, putting his daughter down and giving her a gentle nudge towards her mother. Then he reached out to Anjoli, again guiding her in the direction of his wife.

Go, he said. Manju, Anjoli, go inside at once. All of you get inside and stay there. Priya took Anjoli’s trembling hand. The little girl stood petrified, sucking her thumb, oblivious of the cold rain coming down.

Alex! Look! Over there … Priya pointed to a blurry figure approaching them in the misty darkness. Someone is coming this way. Alex! Be careful…

Alex ran across the yard to the house next door. Barefoot and without a jacket he was soon soaked as he punched a number into his cell phone. Go inside, he called out to Priya. Stay there. Sounds like a break in. I’ve called for backup. Help is on the way. Any second now.

Placing an arm around each child Priya led them indoors, pulling off their wet clothes and wrapping each of them in a blanket. Shock was slowly setting in now, with Anjoli almost catatonic. Her breathing was labored as she clung to Priya, her brown eyes wide, terrified.

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As the figure approached, Alex let out a cry. Anwyn had stumbled out of her house calling out to the girls, tripping and staggering her way to her friends next door. But she didn’t make it and collapsed just as Alex reached her. She was soaking wet and her clothes were torn. In the wet glow of the street lights he saw her eyes – they were in deep pain. Her long hair hung in wet streaks down her face. One arm dangled limp and lifeless as Alex tenderly picked her up. Her body was clammy and cold, shaking violently. Shielding her in his arms, he gently stroked away bits of wet grass and gravel from her face, just as the squad cars and ambulance pulled up and the medics rushed out.

Neighbors were awakened, some came out into the street concerned and curious, full of questions, wanting to help. Other sleepy little eyes watched inquisitively from their windows. Everyone on the street knew the quiet, mild mannered music teacher. Whatever had happened?

Anwyn moaned softly as a blanket was placed over her and needles were quickly pressed into her soft skin. One mud-covered hand hovered over her neck, searching for the small cross and chain. She hadn’t removed it ever since Granny placed it there. She had been a young girl then, a new bride, full of optimism and joy, confident in the marriage promises she and Benny had made to each other. She had loved him with all her being and couldn’t imagine life without him. But the chain was gone and so was the man who probably ripped it off.

Please … please, she whispered as the tranquilizer took effect and her swollen eyes began to close. Anjoli … he’s taken her away…

No one has taken anyone. We are here. We have her. She is safe with us. Don’t worry. Alex assured her, his blue eyes shining with unshed tears. All will be well dear friend. Just rest now. But Anwyn had already passed out.

Oh my friend. My dear, dear friend, Priya wept as the ambulance sped away with Anwyn. Alex had come back inside to change his clothes. He would follow in his car, she would stay behind with the children. They both loved Anwyn dearly. She and little Anjoli were like family. Anwyn and Granny were the ones who had brought Priya and Alex together. How often they had sat laughing together, sharing stories about their younger days.

Please, please dear God, don’t let her die, Priya prayed through her tears. She has gone through so much … how much more?

A few hours earlier they had all been around the table enjoying a light supper after Manjula’s birthday celebration. She could still hear Anwyn’s voice, her happy laughter. Her dearest friend, Priya loved those times when they sat remembering their youthful adventures and escapades.

Anwyn’s gentle voice. Reminiscing. Often sharing secrets with Priya from the personal journal she had kept for many years. Back to those early days, when it all began.

ONE

O n a beautiful day in June, it seems like in another life, I left my home in Chicago and boarded a plane to India. I was traveling to Calcutta, eight thousand miles away, as the young bride of Benoy Guha. He was handsome, intelligent, fun to be with and he had been my husband for the last two weeks. We met seven months earlier, when my father invited him to our home to share a Thanksgiving meal. Sitting across the table from each other, it was definitely instant infatuation. We began meeting in secret soon after and within a short time had fallen madly in love.

He had come to America to obtain an MBA, all expenses paid by his company, an American airline with an international branch in Calcutta. The time had come for him to return to head up that office. And since we could not bear to be parted, I was going with him. It was exciting to be traveling overseas. I was about to have time of my life.

My friends had told me I was really fortunate to have landed such a good catch. That my husband was to die for. And he was taking me to a colorful, romantic place - rich in culture, mystery and intrigue.

So, eager for my new life, I tried to envision the glories that awaited me as I sat in a packed airplane that smelled of onions, confined to a seat next to my husband who was sound asleep. His beautiful head rested on my shoulder, his face touching my neck. I loved the soft weight of his hair on my skin. Even asleep, he was striking, his face seemed to have been carved by a skillful artist. He had a perfect nose, and strong bone structure. His lips were full and smooth; his liquid brown eyes, when he looked at me, were intense and mysterious. His skin was the color of warm honey, without any scars or blemishes. How physically perfect he was.

I leaned my head to softly touch his. I couldn’t get enough of him. I was still in awe that Benoy had actually married me! It had been a battle with my Godly parents, especially my mother who had always called the shots. But we had prevailed and I had become his wife. It was still hard to believe. I whispered my name to myself, Anwyn Guha. Mrs. Benoy Guha, Mrs. Anwyn Guha. The sound was sweet and delicious as I savored those words that belonged to me alone.

Finally after tiresome delays and stopovers and what seemed an endless cab ride from the airport, we finally arrived at the Guha home in Behala, twelve miles out of Calcutta.

My first impressions as I looked out of the taxi window are hard to describe. Perhaps it was because of the falling rain adding to the chaos, but the streets we drove down were unruly and in a frenzy. I saw people in various kinds of clothing – western, Indian, women in dresses, others in burkhas, men in suits, others in loin cloths, children in shorts, others wearing nothing at all. The roads were paved but there were potholes everywhere – the driver seemed to know them all and swerved around them. Everyone seemed to be driving in the same lane, pushing in wherever there was space. The air was filled with sounds of human voices, car and bus horns as well as a strong smell of diesel exhaust. Pedestrians, bicycles, cars, motorbikes, men pulling rickshaws, bulls pulling carts piled with an assortment of merchandise, farmers herding goats and sheep and then yes, the well-known cows and bulls meandering through the maze.

Benny was explaining, pointing out landmarks but my ears weren’t listening as my eyes tried to take in this extraordinary new world in which I found myself.

It was still raining when we stepped out of the taxi. The wet scent of dust and raindrops invaded my lungs, pressing down, making me cough. The driver gallantly held an umbrella as he opened the cab door for me. I thanked him then immediately stepped into a muddy puddle. Oh phooey! I muttered under my breath, as I shook and jerked around my sodden feet. I looked around for Benny but he had moved to the trunk of the cab waiting to unload our suitcases. For a fleeting moment I felt annoyed that he had left me standing there, but pulled myself together. He was excited to be back, to have come home after being away so long.

I looked up at a nondescript, once whitewashed apartment building. My eyes scrolled over seven storeys of discolored, gray cement blocks with handkerchief sized balconies. Poles protruded from many of them, balancing a variety of sarees, blouses, shirts and dhoties flapping like bright flags. A small brown and white cow stood at the gate chewing on a dry leaf. It interrupted its early morning meal to look up at us as if it recognized Benny.

My husband shielded me from the animal, and led me up some steep narrow steps into a windowless lobby. A dusty, potted plant stood dejected at the bottom of the stairs, thirsty and forlorn. Cigarettes had been stubbed out in the dry soil around it; the floor was littered with dead insects. A strong smell of disinfectant hovered above us. Benny led the way up the stairs and I followed in my wet, slush filled shoes.

I had put on my finest outfit, shoes, stocking, the works. After all I was going to meet his family. I wanted to make a good impression. Now my shoes were leaving muddy patches on the stone steps but I need not have worried. No footwear was allowed inside, so thankfully I removed mine and so did my husband. We left them on a small mat at the entrance. Benny kept watch as I removed my muddy stockings before we entered.

His home turned out to be a small, oppressive apartment. The sour smell of stale cooking oil hung in the air. Under bare carpeting, gray cement floors, cracked and chipped from the heat, felt cool under my bare feet.

Benny’s solemn-faced mother was on a sofa in the dim drawing room. His father sat in a dilapidated wheelchair, blank-faced and silent. His chin rested on his chest as he stared at his feet. An older woman with short, cropped white hair was massaging his hands. She was Benny’s grandmother who later became my ally and close friend.

When we entered the room, his mother looked up at us in wide mouthed amazement. There before her stood a young girl holding hands with a man. When she realized it was her son; she leapt to her feet screaming. She was a large woman with powerful vocal chords.

Oh my …! Benoy! I remember my first impression was that she spoke English. Benoy! Beta. Is it really you? She clutched her heart. I can’t believe it. What a surprise. You are here. When did you come? Why did you not say anything to us? Her words came out in a stream of questions while the two others looked on, their faces a blend of bewilderment and disbelief. She cried out and wept as she flung herself at a grinning Benny who bent down to touch her feet. By the amused look on his face he was very pleased he had taken everyone by surprise.

I smiled too, somewhat nervous, not knowing what to expect. I waited for Benny to introduce me. But he didn’t – not right away. I felt something of an interloper, no one seemed to notice me as the conversation switched to Bengali; of course I could not understand a word. Here was Gaytri, my new mother-in-law … bawling all over her son. I am a small made person but not invisible. I tugged discreetly at my husband’s sleeve and he turned to look at me but said nothing. I gave him a severe stare.

Ma, this is Anwyn, Benny finally said, Anwyn Morgan.

Morgan? I had changed my name. No one knew that better than he did. I waited for more. They knew we had married recently. So Benny had assured me. His mother gave me a cursory nod and then turned her attention back to her son.

I’m his wife, I wanted to blurt out but Benny was saying something to his mother. I heard the words chai and coffee- he was asking for refreshment and my mother-in-law went off to see to it.

My father-in-law seemed to come alive when his wife left the room, lifting his head and smiling at us. His skin was pale and had lost its firmness, his body was thin and frail. He was handsome though, an older version of Benny. And his hazel, almost green eyes seemed to be dancing. He was dressed in comfortable, white cotton pajamas and a baggy kurta with faded yellow food stains scattered on it.

Benny bent down and touched his father’s feet. Once again I was introduced simply as Anwyn Morgan. They exchanged a few words and I listened to hear the word wife, or married, but nothing came forth. His father looked up at me and stretched out a hand. It was cold and emaciated but I took it in both of mine and gave it a gentle squeeze. I wanted so badly to make a good first impression.

Hello Miss Morgan, his voice was cultured and polished. How are you?

Benny’s grandmother had a gorgeous smile, beautiful teeth. She came forward to greet me. Taking a tip from Benny, I bent down to touch her feet. But she would not allow it. She pulled me to herself in a warm hug. She smelled of baby powder, her breath like cardamom.

Welcome, welcome Miss Morgan, to our humble home, she said, also in perfect English.

Thank you, I replied. Please call me Anwyn.

You’re American, she beamed, do sit down, she waved her hand towards a sofa. You must be tired. Let me go and help to make us all some tea, she said. We’ve already had our bed tea and our maid servant will be here any minute to make our breakfast. I’ll help get things started. Would you like tea or coffee? I know Americans love coffee, but we have some excellent long leaf Darjeeling tea.

Oh, tea please, I said, feeling better. She padded off and I asked Benny if I could use the bathroom.

Come with me, he said, placing an arm around my waist and leading me out of the room. I was glad to have him to myself, even for a few minutes. I had to find out why he had introduced me in