“You don’t have to—” Startled by the unexpected contact, she stopped. Face flaming, she moved sideways, terribly embarrassed at the impropriety.
Kovid didn’t seem to have noticed. His eyes were far away. “I’ve been thinking more and more about this. My parents made the choice to move to America. I was born there, I was raised there. But things have become divisive, as you know. My parents chose to return to India. For them, it was an easy choice. They grew up here.” He moved, brushed off pebbles, then settled again. “Actually, I’m being unfair. They might have grown up here but, for forty years, the United States was their home. When they moved back here, they left behind their home, their friends, their memories, their grandchildren. A part of them will always belong in a place where they felt so unwelcome that they had to make the difficult decision to leave. They had to uproot their lives and start over.” Kovid shrugged. “I can’t really complain, though. My parents had the choice. Unlike so many other people.” He looked troubled.
“Your father was an engineer.”
“A brilliant man with multiple patents for his inventions. He was so grateful to the States for all that he got from that country that he let people use his engineering patents for free. And Mom, being a doctor, donated so much of her time to free clinics.”
“Ramani aunty?” Jaya almost choked. “Did you say, ‘doctor?’”
At Kovid’s nod, she bit her lip. “I’m sorry, that came out wrong. I mean, she’s never mentioned it.”
“You mean, Dad would rather forget the whole unpleasantness of her being one?” His jaw tightened. “He married her, knowing how passionate she was about what she did. Then his ego got in the way.”
Not knowing what to say, Jaya stared at the flowing water. She thought of how Aunty was around Uncle—controlled, careful to never do or say anything that might displease him. Aunty’s lack of animation around her husband seemed a sad commentary, not just on the state of their marriage, but on marriage in general.
“I’m sorry. That’s not your problem.”
“That’s okay.” She cleared her throat. “Do you feel resentment?” She stopped, mortified that he might think she was criticising his parents’ marriage. In a rush, she added, “About America, I mean.”
“That my parents didn’t feel welcome in the place that was home for most of their adult life?” He looked at Jaya briefly. “Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know. Despite all the current tumult in my country, there are plenty of good people—black, brown, white—who make my life meaningful. Despite everything, I do feel at home there. I walk along the beautiful Embarcadero in San Francisco each morning as I go to work. Every once in a while, I jog up to the AT&T Park. I might take in a ball game or a concert there. Behind the stadium is a serene place where people often fish. When I jog on that narrow path, or when I hike in the Marin headlands, I feel at home.” He added emphatically, “I am home.”
“I can hear the love in your voice,” Jaya said.
“I left my heart in San Francisco,” he joked. At the blank look on her face, he said, “It’s a song.” He shifted on the ground to find a more comfortable position.
Jaya was amused. Both Aunty and he seemed to have trouble sitting on anything unpadded.
“I love the City. I love my work. But my mother worries when I travel outside of urban areas. Sometimes I’ll go there if my little patients can’t come to me.”
“You’re a doctor too?”
“A neonatologist. I care for at-risk newborns. Even in a rich country like ours, many people don’t have the means to access medical care. Once a month we offer free services. But my mother worries. She doesn’t want someone thinking that I’m out to steal their job.”
“How would you be stealing jobs if you’re offering free services?”
“Hate isn’t always logical.”
“That’s why they shifted back to India?”
“One of the reasons, yeah. They lived in the Bay Area, about forty-five miles from San Francisco. The changing political atmosphere worried them. Well, mostly Mom. But I can’t live my life like that. Constantly worrying about what might happen.”
“Why don’t you shift back? You’ll never be a foreigner here.”
“Maybe not on the outside. But my values, my life have been defined by my environment. Which makes this not my home. I’m just not sure I have it in me to settle into what will essentially be a foreign environment.” He paused. “I’m sorry if I came across as condescending. That wasn’t my intent.”
She was taken aback at how easy she found it to talk to Kovid. She’d worried that she was comfortable talking to Ramu, the vegetable seller, only because of his low societal status. She hadn’t liked what that might say about her as a person. She was relieved to know that it was the men she was interacting with—decent men, and not their caste, nor their place in society—that determined her level of comfort.
“You were being honest,” she said, in response to Kovid’s comment. She had a careful relationship with her father, almost a non-existent relationship with her mother, but she knew her brother would be there for her, no matter what. She had fought her share of fights against the system, she had resented the constraints it placed on her as a female. But she hadn’t ever felt a sense of alienation from the land that was her own.
If you didn’t have choices to begin with, and she had more choices than most widows, maybe you were better off without the resultant existential angst. It couldn’t be easy, feeling a sense of connection with a place that did not feel that same connection with you.
“What about Nina’s other grandparents?”
“They’re Estonian. Milena and I married against their wishes. They won’t have anything to do with me. Or with Nina.”
Jaya was taken aback. She thought back to her interactions with Ramani aunty. Aunty had carefully sidestepped questions relating to Nina’s mother. Jaya hadn’t pushed, attributing the older lady’s reticence to grief. Now she wondered.
So Nina had lost not only her mother, she’d also lost the history on her mother’s side. Jaya wondered if that was why she worked so hard at being liked, at fitting in. Jaya felt intense sadness for the young girl, suddenly realising that, for all Nina’s chatter about her father, she never brought her mother into any conversation. Was it because she was aware that her mother was part of a life that could never belong in India?
Jaya also found it curious that this wasn’t common knowledge. She might not feel the need to dig deeper, but the villagers did: everyone felt entitled to know everything about everyone else. By rights, everyone in the village should have known the antecedents of Kovid’s late wife, three generations on either side. Perhaps the villagers had left Uncle and Aunty alone out of respect for their deceased daughter-in-law?
“What are you going to do about Nina? Let her be raised here or take her back?”
“Part of me wants her raised here. But I also miss her terribly. I don’t want her to grow up without both parents. There’s also the other part, though. With everything that’s going on in the States right now, I worry for her.”
Now that she thought about it, Nina did have Caucasian features. Jaya had overlooked that, attributing her fair skin to Ramani aunty. “Would she be considered white there?”
“Did you know Barack Obama had a white mother?”
Jaya nodded.
“In the States, mixed race is always a downgrade. Not that I care, but you asked.”
“Why is that? I know it’s not the same in South Africa.” She’d learned that from the comedian Trevor Noah’s book.
“It comes from the American South. From the days of slavery, from when they came up with the one-drop rule, which meant you were considered black if you had even one drop of black blood in you.”
In India, fairness of skin counted for a lot too, though your caste also came into consideration.
Jaya’s cellphone chirped. She looked at the time. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I do need to get back to the office.”
>
“Please.” He hurried to his feet, holding out a hand to help her up.
Jaya flushed.
“Oh.” Kovid withdrew his hand awkwardly. “Sorry.”
Jaya rested a hand on the boulder and pushed herself up.
Kovid dug out his cellphone. “Would it be appropriate to exchange phone numbers? My father has applied for a local number for me.”
Jaya faltered for a second, before saying, “Of course.” They exchanged numbers, and Jaya turned to go. Then she hesitated. “I don’t know if talking has helped you resolve anything. But I spend an hour here each Tuesday, if you want to talk.”
“I appreciate it.”
Stupid, stupid, stupid. As Jaya walked back, she wondered what had possessed her to volunteer that last bit of information. After that fiasco with Diwakar, she already was on probation with the village, sort of a last-chance warning. If someone came across the two of them sitting like this, talking so freely, her reputation would be the least of her concerns. Hopefully, Kovid understood the local mores enough that he would not show up again.
What concerned Jaya was that she’d been able to talk to him so comfortably. Why this man? Why now? She had no answers.
Shrugging her worries aside, Jaya quickly walked back to the Centre.
22
Jaya
In many ways, life in the villages remained disarmingly innocent. Friends of the same gender—even young men—held hands. In cities, and sometimes in towns, globalisation was rearing its head: ugly or not, time would tell.
Jaya smiled in pleasure as Nina and Ananta swung their hands in unison, heading to a friend’s house. The mother was a Kuchipudi dancer who was choreographing one of the night’s many dances for the Vinakaya Chavithi festivities. The girls would dress up in the lady’s house before heading back here for their performance.
As she stood at the pandal, helping set out white plastic chairs, Jaya sent up a prayer for sending a friend into Ananta’s life.
Traffic had been cordoned off, redirected through the narrow lanes of the village. At the evening prayers, about sixty people were expected, tonight and each night, though not always the same people. There were always more on weekends and on the last day, when the idol, along with men and kids, was loaded up on to the trailer attached to the tractor amidst prayers, dancing, and drums—on its way to the nearest water body, and subsequent immersion.
Srinivas uncle and Ramani aunty sat in the second row of chairs, waiting for the festivities to begin. The forty-five minutes of prayers would be starting soon.
Jaya wondered where Kovid was, then immediately chastised herself for the thought.
Many chose to sit on the rug laid out in front, choosing to pray traditionally. Wanting company, she opted to sit with the older couple.
Jaya was saddened that after eleven years in the village, she didn’t have friends who, if she picked up the phone, would show up, no questions asked. She missed being married for many reasons, one being that widowhood had rendered her socially invisible. Another reason for her lack of friends was her “excessive” education. Many girls had what was dismissively called “pelli chaduvu,” the bare minimum college degree—a Bachelor of Arts—so they could be married off to a man earning decent money. This rule, and The Perfect Lady rule, applied only to the middle class, the upper and lower classes making up rules as they went along. For this reason, it made the lady doctors and engineers and lawyers stand out in rural areas.
The priest switched on the mic. Lured by the prayers, devotees started to stream in, decked out in their best silk saris, their gaudiest gold and diamond jewellery. Her brother, Madhav, settled in one of the chairs she had saved for him and her sister-in-law. Next to him, Prakash uncle and Paavani aunty smiled their greetings.
Jaya leaned closer to her brother. “I don’t see Shreya.”
“She found Ananta.”
“Where’s Shyamala?”
“We’re sponsoring the prasadam tonight. She and a few other ladies are setting it up on the side.”
Jaya nodded, settling in for the duration. She would have helped her sister-in-law with the food, but she wanted a good spot to watch the girls’ performance.
“Hi,” Kovid said, brushing past on his way to the chairs on the other side of his parents.
Eyebrows rose.
Jaya flushed in embarrassment, grateful for her brother’s presence. Though she did not glance in Uncle’s direction, she sensed his displeasure.
“Who’s he?” Madhav whispered.
“Nina’s father,” Jaya whispered back.
“American. That explains it.”
Jaya snorted out laughter, resigning herself to being the focus of more gossip.
* * *
The puja was over, and the prasadam offered to God and guests. The tone of evening switched from devotional to raucous, as music from movies took over.
“Time for us to head home,” Srinivas uncle said to Ramani aunty. Aunty looked reluctant, knowing that Ananta and Nina would be in the group dance. But she followed her husband out.
Uncle, and to be fair a few others, felt that religious functions should be just that—no children gyrating to film songs—Telugu, English or Hindi. She suspected Kovid had something to do with Nina’s participation tonight. On this, she was in complete agreement. She’d rather that her daughter have the chance to bond with other girls, feel more connected to the community, than sit the event out. She, however, did not appreciate that many of these songs were overly suggestive, and therefore inappropriate for young girls. Fortunately, tonight’s choreographer was a classical dancer; she’d been careful in her song and dance selection.
Jaya watched as Aunty hurried out after her husband. The values of Nina’s grandparents remained in a curious time-wrap. They still talked and behaved like people from forty years ago. Perhaps, in an effort to hang on to their identities in far-off America, they’d continued to practise the traditions of their youth.
Meanwhile, in India, people and traditions both had moved on. She couldn’t imagine not being able to sit comfortably in a public setting as a widow, enjoying a public event, being an engineer, a business and car owner, in charge of her own life. There was the inevitable gossip, but she was able to live her life—not expecting to be dressed in white and shorn of hair, out of temptation’s reach for the male members of her husband’s family. Though, in some parts of India—Kashi being a notable example—such things were still the norm for ladies without means.
After Aunty and uncle left, there were two empty seats between her and Kovid. Please, please, please, she prayed, don’t let Kovid come and sit next to me. Luckily, Madhav preempted it by shifting over. He reached sideways, introducing himself to Kovid.
* * *
After the performance, Kovid and the girls walked ahead with Paavani aunty and Prakash uncle. Jaya, Madhav and Shyamala followed.
The street lights came on, only to flicker out from an unscheduled power outage. The dark lane was alive with the sounds and smells of night. In the houses lacking compound walls, dinner preparations were visible to the street outside, lit by the rechargeable tube lights that automatically came on during a power cut.
On the road, Madhav turned the flashlight on his iPhone on. “Nice guy,” he said, pointing at Kovid. “More sense than his brother, that’s for sure.”
“He worries about his daughter,” Jaya said. “He’s trying to figure out where is best for her, India or America.”
“Sometimes, having too many choices can be as difficult as having too few,” Shyamala said.
There was truth to what her sister-in-law said. Jaya lived in the village because she made the choice to live closer to her brother, but she’d not had too many choices. “I think my neighbours wish that they were living next to a more traditional lady,” Jaya said.
Madhav snorted. “Your husband passed away more than eleven years ago, you’re decent enough to support your in-laws. What more do your neighbours want? For you to give up your
job, sit sadly under the staircase, and chop vegetables to mournful music all day?”
Jaya and Shyamala laughed. What Madhav was describing was the stereotypical Bollywood/Tollywood depiction of widows in the movies of the '70s.
Madhav smiled down at his wife.
Watching her brother with his wife made Jaya happy for them. But it also highlighted her own loneliness.
She had been married off at twenty, a pencil-tick off her parents’ list of responsibilities. Legally, she’d been an adult. Emotionally, she wasn’t quite sure. About herself, or about her twenty-four-year-old husband. Anant was a good man, but their relationship never progressed beyond a shared bedroom in a two-bedroom apartment. All decisions, major and minor, were routed through her father-in-law. All conversations were “family” conversations that necessitated no input from her. All outings—to family functions, to restaurants, to movies—were group activities curated by her father-in-law. The movie had to have a religious or moral component to be deemed viewable. The restaurant had to have South Indian vegetarian tiffins to be deemed acceptable.
She’d thought she’d had a happy marriage. She was beginning to understand that she’d been a bystander in her own life.
“Hey!” Madhav wrapped an arm around Jaya’s shoulders. “You okay?”
Jaya nodded. It startled her to realise how much she’d adapted to nonverbal communication after marriage. It was a hard habit to break.
The streetlights came back on.
Jaya blinked at the sudden transition from dark to bright.
Kovid stood at the gate to her house, Nina clinging to his waist.
Ananta leaned against the wall.
Kovid rested an elbow on the wall, looking down at Ananta, a teasing look on his face.
Ananta was giggling, her face aglow from the attention. Madhav was the only other person who gave her daughter the fatherly attention she craved.
Jaya’s heart overflowed with gratitude that Kovid had made the effort for her young daughter.
Daughters Inherit Silence Page 9