Jaya turned away, her face red.
“We also need to decide what to do, Jaya. I came here for a break from medicine, but I’ll want to go back to it.”
“I know.”
“So, what are we going to do about us? About where we spend the rest of our lives?”
Jaya wanted to live out her life in India. It was familiar; it was comfortable. With both their incomes, they could afford a lavish lifestyle if they wanted. But Kovid had come here to take a break. He hadn’t intended to settle here. Jaya knew that. “We could let the girls finish the school year, then decide?” The schools had reopened only weeks ago. That would give her breathing room.
“Fair enough,” Kovid said.
Jaya’s heart sank. She’d heard that life in the US was seductive. That once you were there, you’d never want to leave. But what if you didn’t want to go in the first place?
“So,” Kovid said once they’d ordered. “Why did you not want to drive? Not that I mind. Well, in India, I do. But still.”
She sighed. “People are saying that I’ve emasculated you.”
“Oh, Jaya!” Kovid leaned forward and took her hand between both his.
The waiter smirked as he flipped the menus onto the table.
Jaya snatched her hand away.
“Sorry,” Kovid said in annoyance, after the waiter left. “I keep forgetting how conservative this place is. Where I can’t even touch my wife’s hand in public.”
“When you said ‘my wife,’ my heart fluttered.” She batted her eyes at him. “Does that make up for it?”
Kovid smiled. “You’re going to have to work at it.”
She smiled back.
The waiter smirked again as he thumped silverware on the table.
Kovid shook his head. “Shamed for smiling at my wife?”
“A smile is acceptable only if it is part of a conversation,” Jaya said.
“Whatever that means.” He picked up the glass of water, then put it back. “You want to ask the waiter for bottled water? I’d rather not risk death and destruction from stomach infection.”
“You wimpy foreigners,” Jaya teased.
“Ha!”
He turned serious. “Customers have dropped at the Centre, haven’t they?”
Jaya’s mood deflated. But reality had to be faced. “The first few days there was an uptick, so I thought that, perhaps, I could ride it out. Then I realised that they were coming only because of the scandal.”
“Do you think it’ll pick back up?”
“Not if I’m there.”
“What are your choices, then?”
“When I started up the Centre, Madhav’s friend, Raghu, helped with the logistics. He’s part owner of the place.”
“Do you think you’d want to sell your stake to him?”
“The reason we even got him involved was that he was struggling financially. He doesn’t have the money to buy me out.”
“Then what will you do?”
She sighed. “I’m thinking that maybe I can just give him the business. I’ll have to be careful to frame it as a favour to me. He can be touchy. And I’ve been looking for other ways to make up for that loss in income.”
Kovid reached his hand out, then, as if thinking better of it, drew it back. “Jaya, you don’t have to worry about money. We should probably sit down and discuss this at a later date, but physicians in the US do well for themselves. I have enough savings that I’m able to support us for sometime, even with no money coming in. And even more so in India, because the dollar-to-rupee conversion rate works in our favour. And the fact that you’re not paying rent or mortgage.”
Jaya nodded awkwardly. “Even so. I need to do something for me.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I told you about DDoS attacks once.”
“Really?”
Jaya laughed.
“You should see your face now,” she teased. “That’s exactly how I feel when you talk about your complicated medical procedures. At least, with carbon capture, I have some hope of understanding what you’re saying.”
He leaned back, crossing his arms against his chest. “Enlighten me,” he said with a wink.
The waiter smirked a third time. He leaned forward, placed garlic bread in front of them, then served the pasta.
Jaya wanted to smack her forehead. Or, maybe, that insolence off his face.
“What?” Kovid said. “I can’t wink, either?”
“Winking is considered a mark of low breeding. Girls are never allowed to wink. If boys do, they are reprimanded for their lack of class.”
“Can I look at you while we talk, or that isn’t appropriate, either?” Kovid sounded disgruntled.
Jaya’s lips twitched. “Romance is tolerated if the couple is young and unmarried, and eating at a foreign eatery like McDonald’s or Starbucks in a big city. Upscale places will do, too. The couple might still get in trouble for their behaviour, but at least it is tolerated. Public display of affection in married people isn’t really encouraged.”
“If you think this is PDA, I wonder what you’d think of the States,” Kovid said, reminding Jaya that he had a job and life waiting in San Francisco.
Divert your attention, she told herself wryly.
The waiter brought a small tray with curving handles. In it were two bowls, one containing slices of green chilli marinated in vinegar, the other soya sauce. He placed it in the centre of the table, looked at Kovid, then at Jaya, back at Kovid. Then he left.
“This goes with Italian food?”
“He’s just being petty now. This is for Chinese food.”
“Why do they have them in a place that bills itself as Italian?”
Jaya shrugged. “Chinese food is part of Indian culture. Not Italian. Other than pizza, that is. Perhaps the workers use it to mask the unfamiliar Italian taste?”
Kovid forked some pasta into his mouth. He seemed like he was weighing something.
“You don’t like it?”
“It’s very good. Its just that…”
“What?”
“It tastes nothing like any Italian I’ve eaten.”
“What do you mean?” Jaya asked.
“Well,” Kovid chewed and ruminated. “I’ve eaten Italian in India, Chinese and pizza. The food is delicious, but nothing tastes like I expect it to. Everything tastes Indian.”
“I’m sure the Chinese say the same thing about American Chinese. And the Italians about American pizza.”
Kovid inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Fortune cookies are associated with Chinese food, but did you know they were invented in San Francisco? And the Mexican burrito? And McDonald’s in India, surprisingly enough, is amazing—especially their paneer burgers! I don’t care for the McDonald’s in the States at all, other than their coffee.”
“I have no frame of reference to how the rest taste, but I certainly believe that of pizza, because Domino’s pizza is so different from what the roadside vendors serve up on their mobile carts. The cheese is different for one. And you know why they use ketchup on pizza in roadside stalls, or in no-name shops?”
Kovid shook his head.
“Because ketchup in India is called tomato sauce, and everyone knows tomato sauce goes on pizza.”
He laughed again. “Marrying you was the best thing I did, Jaya Rao.”
Jaya blushed. After they finished eating, she said, “They serve tiramisu. I’m told it is very close to authentic. You want to try it?”
“Yeah.”
As they waited for the dessert to arrive, Kovid got serious. “I’m sorry my arrival disrupted your business.”
“I could have made it easier on myself and not spent the time with you.”
“Why did you?”
“Because I wanted to.”
As they smiled at each other, the waiter slammed the tiramisu in front of them, struck a pose and smirked.
“I give up,” Kovid said into his tiramisu.
44
Nina wrapped her arms around her father. “I had such an awesome time, Dad.”
Jaya smiled. This child talked only in superlatives. Both girls had spent the night at Madhav’s, and he had just returned them safely. From the look on his face, not a moment too soon.
Ananta stood behind Nina, a look of longing on her face. Kovid seemed to realise that as well, because he gently nodded to her. She walked over shyly, and let him put his arm around her. She leaned her head on his shoulder.
Madhav raised his eyebrows at Jaya.
Jaya smiled, her eyes damp. Much as Ananta adored Madhav, she needed a father.
Nina had had enough of the hugging. She took Ananta’s hand and dragged her inside the house. Shreya skipped behind them.
Madhav shook his head. “I think I’ve lost my hearing. These girls…”
Kovid raised the cup he had in hand. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Nah. Your wife will make me get my own, and I’m not up to it.”
“I can make you one.”
“You American men,” Madhav complained. “Ruining it for the rest of us.”
Jaya rolled her eyes.
“Thanks, but no thanks.” Madhav dragged a chair and sat down. “I know people are going to the town for Internet access,” he said, sobering. “Have you guys thought long term? Whether you’ll continue staying here, or shift to America?”
“I’ve been putting off thinking about it,” Jaya admitted.
“I’m glad you brought this up,” Kovid said. “The first thing Jaya and I should do is adopt each other’s daughters. We should do that regardless of the move. What do you think?”
Jaya nodded. That hadn’t occurred to her at all.
“Do you want to, though?” Kovid asked her. “Move to America with me?”
“It scares me,” Jaya said. “Things are so virulent there. It feels so unsafe. You know, when we were growing up, our father held up American Presidents as examples of how to conduct one’s self in public. Ronald Reagan and Bill Clinton, my father admired them both. But now…”
“Yeah. But California is very different. It’s more diverse. It is more accepting.”
“Since we got married, I’ve been keeping an eye on it. Recently an African American lady was stabbed on a local train. Apparently, it was racially motivated.”
“Is it that much safer here, though?” Kovid asked. “The daily insinuations you deal with, the social ostracism because you didn’t do what the society told you was acceptable. Village councils disallowing girls from using cellphones because they might use it to talk to boys. Tightly restricting what they can, and cannot do. Banning jeans because they might tempt boys.”
“That isn’t happening as much in the South,” Jaya said unconvincingly. “It’s mostly in the North Indian villages.”
“Maybe not those exact things. Maybe not as a village-wide decision. But little things. Sivanna telling you that you’re sending out the wrong signals to men because you drive a car. People boycotting your place of business because they don’t approve of your remarriage.”
Jaya’s shoulders slumped. “I’ve been putting it off because I don’t really want to leave my brother behind. Good or bad, this is my life, and I know how to deal with it.”
“I don’t want to force anything on you, Jaya. But I’m not sure where we go from here. My work’s in the States. My life is there. Yours is here. How do we do this?”
45
Jaya
After days of being cooped up at home, the kids were getting antsy. There were only so many board games they could play, only so many TV shows they could watch, only so many games they could play on the iPad.
“Why don’t you girls go outside to the municipal park?” Jaya suggested.
Madhav and Shyamala had brought Shreya over for Deepavali, breaking a long-standing tradition. The festival was always celebrated in the house Madhav had inherited from their grandparents, both when they were alive, and after.
Nina and Ananta exchanged looks.
“What if no one talks to us?” Nina asked.
Jaya kneeled and held out her arms to both girls. The longer they hid out at home, the harder it would be to face their friends.
Shreya wiggled in.
“Isn’t it lucky that the three of you have each other?” Jaya said.
“Come,” Shreya said. “Let’s not be babies. If they don’t play with us, we will also not play with them.”
The adults exchanged amused glances as the girls headed out.
Madhav frowned at the coloured pattern in the middle of the courtyard, made from different chalks. “What on earth it this?”
“A peacock prancing in a field of mango patterns, or so I’m told,” Kovid said. “Nina and Ananta copied it off the Internet.”
Madhav walked around it, considering it from different angles. “You guys need to face up to something.” His face was serious. “Neither of them will ever make a living from their art.”
Jaya boxed him on the arm. “Be nice.”
Kovid laughed.
She handed the men a bottle of oil, cotton wicks and earthen lamps. “Get to work,” she mock-ordered them. “Come Shyamala, let’s sit back and watch them do the work for a change.” After an entire day spent making sweets, snacks and other specials, they’d earned the rest.
Bickering good-naturedly, the men carefully poured out oil into each of the lamps, put the wicks in, and lit them. Kovid carried one inside, to place before the gods. The rest they distributed around the muggu pattern on the floor, on the short-wall between Jaya’s house and Kovid’s parents’, and on either side of the doorway.
“How come only one wall is half-height?” Kovid pointed to the other wall, which went up all the way to the ceiling, making the courtyard seem lopsided.
“Those neighbours are more private. They chose to raise the wall when they bought it seven years ago.” For which Jaya remained grateful.
On the other side of the half-height wall, Kovid’s parents’ house was dark. Earlier that day they had called for the taxi and loaded up their luggage.
Kovid’s eyes flicked there briefly.
Jaya wished she could set things right for him. But who was she fooling? She couldn’t make things right for her daughter: Jaya’s father had called earlier in the day to wish them a happy Deepavali, but her mother had not cared to talk.
The girls came back, squealing. “It looks SO pretty,” Nina squealed.
Shreya clapped her hands.
Ananta smiled in pleasure.
“Everyone is bursting crackers on the street,” Shreya said. “Can we please do it, now? Please, please?”
“Bring that box.” Madhav pointed to a carton by the side.
The girls tore it open and their faces fell.
“Only these many?” Shreya wailed. “Everyone else has SO many!”
Madhav knelt, so he was eye-level with his daughter. “Remember, we talked about this? That too much pollution isn’t good for our lungs?”
“But everyone is doing it!”
“How about we get through our pile, then walk around, enjoying what everyone is doing? After all, is it important who does the lighting? It still looks pretty, doesn’t it?”
Shreya looked at her father for a moment, then, perhaps knowing a lost cause when she saw it. “Fine, but let’s finish up so we can still get to watch everyone else.”
“Doing the right thing isn’t easy, is it?” Kovid said.
Jaya nodded, wishing it was okay to lean her head against her husband’s shoulder.
* * *
Deepavali was truly the festival of lights. After they were finished with their own crackers, they’d walked around in their locality, waiting near each doorway to make sure no crackers were lit, no bombs casually tossed out onto the road. Then Madhav and Shyamala took all the girls home, probably to give Kovid and Jaya time to themselves. She really appreciated her brother- and sister-in-law’s thoughtfulness.
As Kovid and she walked home, the America decision weighed heavily on her. They’d not been able to come to a decision about their joint futures. This meant neither knew where to go from here. Jaya didn’t want to leave the village, and Kovid didn’t want to live in the village; not long-term anyway. America was a whole different experience, one she wasn’t sure she was ready for. She followed their news, like much of the rest of the world. What she read and saw worried her.
Besides, she liked having her brother close by. She liked that if she couldn’t get home on time, one of the teachers or neighbours would ensure her daughter stayed safe. They might be uneasy around widows because the societal structure was built to accommodate only married ladies once past a certain age, but society wouldn’t fail them in times of need. They would invite the widow’s child home and keep an eye on her till her mother got home.
She remembered a time when Ananta was four years old. Her in-laws were visiting their older daughter to pacify her in-laws for some perceived transgression of hers. Jaya had driven to a town two hours away. She was offering training sessions in cyber security to college students. She wrapped up the session by noon. Pickup from school was at 2:45 p.m., so she had given herself plenty of time. Then a truck overturned on the highway. Traffic in both directions came to a standstill. Madhav and Shyamala were holidaying in Austria. In a panic, she called the school, reaching a clerk she didn’t know. He calmed her down, promising to ask his wife to come to the school so the two of them could walk the little girl home.
The clerk called Jaya, had her talk to his wife, and then had her talk to Ananta. Then they took Ananta to Jaya’s house so they could wait for her there. As they were walking towards Jaya’s house, an elderly couple, three doors from Jaya, smiled at Ananta as they stepped into their own house.
The clerk and his wife found that the older couple knew of Jaya (“that poor widow”), had seen her and Ananta around, though they’d never talked. If you lived on the same street, the same locality, everyone knew about everyone. When the clerk explained the situation, the elderly couple immediately offered to watch Ananta till her mother returned.
Daughters Inherit Silence Page 19