Excerpt of The Unexpected Son by Shobhan Bantwal

Prologue

There 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 didn’t receive any letters from her family in India
anymore. Cheap long-distance telephone rates and email had
put an end to that somewhat antiquated form of communication.

The smudged postal seal on the envelope read Mumbai—one of
India’s largest and most populous cities—a place Vinita was
very familiar with. The envelope had that typical “India”
look—multiple 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 didn’t look like the occasional wedding invitation or
the quarterly statements from the bank where she and husband
maintained a small account in rupees.

There was no return address, but it was sent to her
attention—neatly hand-printed. She slit it open with her
finger and eased out the contents—a single sheet of white
ruled paper. Her hands shook a little. She wasn’t sure if it
was anticipation or anxiety. Or both.

The message was brief—a 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 writer’s name was
missing. The trembling in her hands edged up a notch.

Only minutes ago, it had looked like any ordinary Saturday
morning—a 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 she’d
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, she’d sat up in bed, stretched
like a slothful kitten, and leaned back against the
headboard. She’d 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 wasn’t
due to return until the following week, so she had the
weekend to herself. She’d planned to indulge herself by
brewing a cup of scalding masala chai—strong tea delicately
laced with her own blend of five spices instead of the usual
coffee-on-the-run 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, she’d 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 she’d 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.

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 erroneously mailed to her? But what
if it wasn’t a mistake and she was indeed the intended
recipient?

Was this someone’s 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 ...