“Good for you, little sister,” Madhav said.
Shreya scrambled off Jaya’s lap into her father’s. Poor thing. These were her grandparents too.
Jaya’s heart was still racing. She forced down calming breaths. “She is so toxic, Anna. It’s taken me years to get to this point, but I realise that blood isn’t reason enough to continue with a bad relationship. Not if the other person makes you feel so bad about yourself.” She held Ananta to her, trying to absorb the young girl’s warmth.
Ananta hugged her mother hard.
Madhav looked at Ananta and smiled. “You know that you have a lot of people who love you, don’t you?”
Ananta’s hold on Jaya loosened. She smiled shyly at her uncle.
“Good,” he said briskly. “Never forget that. If Ammamma cannot make the time for you, it is truly her loss.” He turned to Nina and waved a finger at her in mock threat. “And that goes for you, too, young lady. Don’t forget you’re part of our family now.” He hung his head dramatically. “So, we’re forced to love you too.”
Nina giggled in her father’s chest.
“I should leave,” Madhav said, rising to his feet. He took Shreya’s hand in his. “Too much drama for one day.” He gave Jaya and Ananta a hug. Then Kovid and he exchanged a quick man-hug, thumping each other on the back.
Caught between the two men, Nina rolled her eyes and grinned.
* * *
“Your mother,” Nina said. “Wow.”
“Wow” summed it up nicely, Jaya thought wryly. The four of them sat in bed, Ananta and Nina on either side of Jaya, and Kovid on the far side of Nina.
“I always thought mothers were supposed to be there for you, no matter what.”
Jaya heard the grief in Nina’s voice and put her arm around the girl. “It doesn’t always work out that way, sadly enough.”
“Why is Ammamma so mean?” Ananta’s voice was small.
Jaya knew what she was really asking: why did her grandmother not love her?
Jaya kissed her daughter on the head. “She is an unhappy person, Kanna. She could choose to be happy, but she doesn’t. She not only makes herself unhappy, she sucks others into her unhappiness.”
“Is that why you kicked her out?” Nina asked. “Because she makes you unhappy?”
“No,” Jaya said. “That’s not why I did it. Everyone has their ups and downs. There are times when we’re happy, and there are times when we’re not. You don’t give up on a person just because they’re going through bad times. With my mother, though, it is all lows, all the time. She’s unhappy, and she makes sure you know it. It is very draining to be around a person like that.”
“Is that the kind of person you call ‘toxic?’” Nina asked.
Behind her back, Kovid raised an eyebrow.
“Sadly, yes. But the bigger issue for me is that the only person that is of concern to her is herself. You know what her favourite phrase is?”
Nina shook her head.
“‘What will people say?’ Nothing else matters other than what others will think of her. And even if they are not saying anything about her, she will convince herself they are. She is so used to being unhappy, she doesn’t know how to be any other way. You know what I think?”
“What?” Ananta whispered.
“Short-term sadness is one thing. Everyone goes through that. But, long-term, we need to choose. We can choose to be unhappy, or we can choose to be happy. I have so much in my life to be thankful for. My two amazing daughters—” She hugged them closer, “—my wonderful husband.”
“Just wonderful?” Kovid pretended to be wounded. “I’d have thought, awesome, at the very least.”
“Dad!” Nina poked him in the chest.
“I have an amazing brother,” Jaya teased, “who’s always been there for me.”
The girls looked up at Jaya, then Kovid, and giggled.
“And amazing grandparents. I’m fortunate to have had them in my life. And a nice-ish husband.”
Kovid made growling noises.
The girls giggled again.
Jaya continued, “I’m not going to waste my time over what I don’t have. I’m going to be grateful for what I do.”
Nina sat up and looked at Jaya seriously. “What if you want something, but you can’t have it?”
Jaya had the feeling Nina was talking about her mother. She said carefully, “It is natural to feel sadness for your loss. But it can help to recognise the good things you do have in life.”
“I miss my mother but I don’t remember her, so I guess I’m okay with it. But since I have to recognise a good thing in my life, I’m glad Ananta and you are my family now.”
Ananta spoke up, surprising Jaya. “I’m happy your dad and you are part of my family.”
Kovid said, “You can call me Nanna.”
“Nanna was my other father,” Ananta said hesitantly. “Can I call you Dad, like Nina does?”
Kovid smiled and nodded.
“Mom was my other mother,” Nina said to Jaya. “Can I call you Amma, like Ananta does?”
Jaya’s throat flooded with emotion. “Amma and Dad. Sounds good to me.”
“But,” Nina said, “Is it okay to feel sadness that my grandparents live next door, but don’t want to talk to me?”
“It is,” Jaya said gently. “But it’s not your fault. It’s a choice they are making.”
Kovid had a stricken look on his face.
Jaya snaked her arm behind Nina’s back, took his hand, and held on tight.
* * *
Jaya rested her head on Kovid’s chest, drained from her parents’ visit and its aftermath. The kids were in their own room, fast asleep. Finally. The poor kids, they didn’t deserve this. What would the long-term impact on them be: both disowned by their respective grandparents?
“Thirty-seven, huh?” Kovid said.
“What?”
“You’re thirty-seven years old!”
Jaya narrowed her eyes at him. “After everything that happened today, all the drama, all the stress—that’s the thing that sticks with you?”
“Did you know I’m barely thirty-six?” He smirked.
Jaya swatted his side.
“I think it’s sexy, being bossed over by an old woman.”
“Old-er.”
“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.”
Jaya rolled her eyes.
“Oh Jaya, in the battle of wits, you’re so unarmed.”
Jaya laughed. She truly didn’t have a comeback. “So what did you think of my parents?”
The light in his eyes dimmed. “My own parents won’t have anything to do with me. I don’t think I’m qualified to comment.”
“I’m so sorry,” Jaya said softly.
“Nah,” he said, “I’m okay. If they don’t want to have anything to do with us, that’s their loss. That’s four sets of grandparents missing out on three lovely young ladies.”
But Jaya heard the ache of loss in his voice. She held him tight, wishing she could take on his pain. His parents were gone, leaving no word. The labourers kept the outside of the house in shape—sweeping, weeding, watering. But the doors to their house remained stubbornly locked.
39
Kovid
“I know you grew up in America, and so you have no sense of what it means to protect family honour.” Dad threw a furious glance at Jaya. “But her?”
Back after two weeks, and those were the first words out of his mouth.
“Dad,” Kovid warned, forcing down angry words. He didn’t know how much more Mom could take. She huddled in a corner, her arms crossed at her chest, eyes glassy.
Jaya and Kovid stood in his parents’ house, hoping to make peace. The day his new wife’s former in-laws walked away, was also the day her current in-laws had fled the village. How was that for irony?
And now they were back. And in no mood to forgive. Not Dad, that was for sure.
“Marrying a widow? Another man’s cast off?” Dad’s nostrils flared in lo
athing. “That, too, with a child? A girl-child? Are you out of your effing mind?” Pointing his head at Jaya, he said, “She saw a rich American sucker, a way out of widowhood, and grabbed at the chance. She threw a net to snare Diwakar. He, at least, had the sense to walk away. But you! You fell right into her trap.”
Kovid’s face hardened. “Are you implying I can’t think for myself?”
Dad moved his face so close to Kovid’s, their noses were almost touching. “That’s exactly what I’m saying, you sissy baby-doctor. Do you have a problem with that?”
Kovid clenched his fists so hard, the muscles in his arms corded. Father and son stood inches from each other, glaring at each other, breathing heavily.
“Tataiyya,” Nina called out tentatively. “Are you mad at Dad?”
Kovid jerked around. “Nina, honey. Go back inside, please. Now!”
Nina scurried back into the house.
“Ma?” Kovid said tentatively.
She opened her arms.
Kovid hugged her hard. With an arm around his mother, he held his other hand out to Jaya.
Mom held them both and wept.
Dad stalked back in the house. Before he slammed the door behind him, he said coldly, “Stay on your wife’s side of the wall. You are no longer welcome in this house. Not you. Not your daughter. Not your goddamn wife.”
* * *
Jaya and Kovid walked along the tarred road to the temple. Kovid had suggested going there as a couple, hoping, for Jaya’s sake, to put speculation to rest. She appreciated his efforts on her behalf, wishing it were that simple. For any puja to be done, the name and lineage of the husband’s family—or, in case of an unmarried girl, the father’s family—would be required. Two lineages from two different husbands—who did that?
The twin villages of Lingampally and Gopanpally knew her; they knew her father, her grandfather, his grandfather. And because they did, they also knew Anant’s family. There was no escaping lineage.
“As far as society is concerned,” Jaya said, trying to get past his naïve optimism, “I belong to Anant’s family. That’s what the three knots signify, you know. The ones the groom ties behind the bride’s neck in a traditional wedding ceremony. It is to remind the couple that their union is physical, mental and spiritual.”
“The three knots also refer to the groom’s promise to care for his wife, and never hurt her through thought, word or deed. The manasa-vaacha-karmana trilogy.”
Jaya raised her eyebrows.
“Google.” Kovid grinned.
Jaya laughed. “We’ll make a traditional Hindu of you, yet.”
“Ha! You have your work cut out for you. Growing up, we were not the most traditional of families, both because there weren’t as many Indians in the Bay Area, and because Mom volunteered a lot of her time at the hospital.”
“The signs were always there,” Jaya said. She just hadn’t been looking.
“What signs?”
“That she was more than what she claimed to be. I remember a time when Ananta tried to cross into your parents’ yard by climbing over the wall. She fell on her head. Your mom stayed the night in my house so we could watch for signs of concussion. Yet, she never said a word.”
“Her competence as a physician makes Dad insecure. He worries that the world will judge him for forcing her to stay at home, for not allowing her to use her skills. As he should.”
Jaya didn’t know how to respond to the anger in Kovid’s voice. But she understood it. That friend of hers in Hyderabad? The one who taught at an engineering college? She and her husband had both applied to teach at an IIT.
She’d been offered the job.
He hadn’t.
To save her marriage, she’d turned down the chance to teach at one of the world’s most elite technical institutions; it affected her marriage nonetheless. Eight whole years, and her husband couldn’t let go of the resentment.
Perhaps his mother was the reason why Kovid didn’t seem intimidated by her tech skills. Many of the men who came to the computer centre often got aggressive when they needed her help. Society taught men that they should always be greater than women—in age, in height, in educational qualification, in their professional successes. She knew, firsthand, the toll it took on the men who ran short of this perceived ideal, and on the women who were forced to step back to make this not so.
Kovid gave a short laugh. “You know the irony? They met when Dad took his father to the hospital for emergency surgery for his father. Mom was the surgeon.”
“She went to America before marriage?” Jaya was shocked. It was unusual now, but back then, it would have taken on scandalous proportions: an unescorted girl going off to the “immoral” West.
“She grew up in Hyderabad with her Uncle’s family. Her parents died when she was very young. So when she asked to go to the States for her medical specialisation, they were happy to wash their hands of further responsibility.”
“She left for America, hoping for a better life.”
“She ended up with my father, instead.”
Jaya thought of Aunty on that cot in her courtyard, where she sat each day, chopping vegetables with arthritic hands. Jaya had suggested to Aunty that, maybe, she should get the maid to chop vegetables. Or even buy pre-cut vegetables from the supermarket.
“What nonsense!” Srinivas uncle had snapped. “Those things are for women who have no time for their families.”
With no indication that she’d heard the exchange, Aunty had continued to dice the carrots.
Kovid said now, “She volunteered thousands of hours to help people in other ways. Sometimes, she did not get back home in time to light the lamp in front of the Gods. We had friends and relatives timing their visits so it was dusk. They’d peek at the altar to see if the Gods had been prayed to. Many times she’d be running late, no chance to shower, no time to light the lamp, because she had to whip up a meal for us. My father demanded that food be on the table by 7:00 p.m. sharp, and that we be all seated and ready to eat. Her choices were to be mocked as godless by relatives and friends, or suffer the consequences of a delayed dinner.”
Jaya wondered if there was all that much of a difference between the life of a married lady, and that of a widow. As a married lady, her new mother-in-law’s life was choreographed by her husband; as a widow, Jaya’s by her former father-in-law. For all the gut-wrenching grief that followed the death of her first husband, for all the limitations it placed on her socially, it did grant Jaya the freedom to live her life on her own terms.
“Unfortunately,” she said, “there’s always more pressure on ladies. Religion has become more than just devotion to God. It is also important that we be seen displaying this devotion for public consumption. I like the American concept of keeping your religious beliefs private. That way you’re not judged on a sliding scale of devotedness.”
“Yeah.”
“Ladies have to get up earlier, be bathed and ready before stepping into the kitchen to prepare food that will be offered to the gods as prasadam. Any lady who deviates from this norm is labelled, judged, and tried in the court of public opinion.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“I can’t complain, really. I had the education that allowed me to support myself.”
“I’m glad you had that.” Kovid put a hand on her arm. “I wish Mom did, too.”
“Why do you think Uncle wouldn’t allow her that?”
“Control. It always comes down to control. If she were making money, if she were independent of him, he wouldn’t be able to direct how she spent her time, and his money. You know, men who seek to control women? Even men as highly qualified as my father? They’re basically insecure. They’re lacking in self-esteem.”
“I feel bad for Aunty. She’s such a good person.”
Kovid sighed. “Yeah.”
They reached the line of shops selling flowers and sweets. Many of the bigger ones employed children to entice devotees to their shop. Kovid waved a boy off a
nd sat on a cemented bench, still talking. “Sometimes I wonder about the point of all the rituals. When lighting a lamp before God is more important than rocking premature, motherless infants who need the human touch. That she chanted the Lalita sahasranamam as she did so didn’t seem to matter. What was more important was that she be seen doing it.”
“Is that what Aunty did? Rock babies?”
“Yeah.”
“Is that why you became a doctor? A neonatologist?”
“Is that obvious?” He smiled wryly. “Dad thought if you weren’t an engineer from IIT, or MIT in the States, you might as well not exist. He hated the thought that I became a wimpy baby doctor. But Mom is a phenomenal woman. It makes me angry that he denied her her life’s dream.”
“I’m so sorry,” Jaya said.
“So,” Kovid said, “I don’t care if you don’t use my name. I don’t care if you make more money than I do. All I ask is that you be happy to spend the rest of your life with me. What I don’t want is for you to bide your time till you can be released from the burden of this life. Like Mom does. If the village forever associates you with Anant, so be it.”
“Oh, Kovid,” she said softly.
“I’d give you a quick kiss,” Kovid said, “but I’d rather not get beaten up for it.”
Jaya laughed, sniffing. “Kovid?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m very glad we’re married.” There would be the awkwardness with her new brother-in-law to deal with. Someday. But for now, Jaya was happy.
He nodded in that graceful way of his, a smile hovering on his lips. “Me too.”
As they removed their shoes, ritually washed their feet, and walked up the stairs to the temple, Jaya was apprehensive. Kovid was a good man, but he didn’t understand how things worked here in the village. Just because he was forward thinking, didn’t mean the villagers would thank him for it.
They stepped over the threshold, right foot first.
Kovid rang the bell hanging overhead.
There were other people in the temple, grouped together in family units. Jaya winced. She had picked this time, hoping they wouldn’t run into anyone else. But the three families present—fellow villagers who wouldn’t meet her eyes—she knew them all.
Daughters Inherit Silence Page 17