Daughters Inherit Silence

by Rasana Atreya

  With its billion-plus population, it wasn’t unrealistic to expect that, at any given time, there were millions of babies in India. Jaya had heard of infant mortality, and death from a lack of nutrition, but suffocation? Her daughter had slept in her bed, as had Jaya with her mother, and Jaya’s mother with her own before that, with each generation of ladies advised to keep the baby close. This not only resulted in more rest for mother and baby, but also better bonding between the two. Then again, Jaya was no doctor.

  Snigdha offered Jaya wine.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Really?” An elegantly arched eyebrow rose.

  “Yes.” Jaya was uncomfortably aware of being judged. Of, somehow, coming up short. She had no particular moral opposition to wine, not that an Indian lady from a traditional family would admit to such a thing. Middle-class moral values dictated that alcohol was for the depraved—or for the lower classes (the rich had their own rules). In Jaya’s case, not having grown up with alcohol, or the idea of it, she found that she didn’t like the taste.

  Snigdha offered a choice of wine or beer to the men, who were seated on barstools. Her husband took the wine and Kovid went with beer.

  “So, you’ll continue to let the girls share a room?” Snigdha didn’t seem to want to let it go.

  Neither Ananta nor Nina had asked for her own room, despite having a third bedroom. It gave Kovid and her a lot of pleasure to hear the girls whispering and giggling at night.

  Ananta and Nina might want their space, someday. But, for now, they delighted in being sisters. So, Jaya used a new phrase she’d learned in America. “Why fix what’s not broken?”

  “How they will develop their individuality? Why you South Indians do such things?”

  Jaya had been expecting such a dig because Snigdha seemed that kind of person. Nevertheless, it stung. “In India, it’s also common for siblings of the same gender to share a bed.” At this point, Jaya wasn’t sure if this was still a casual conversation.

  “I know,” Snigdha said, “Our parents made my two sisters and me do that. But now, I am knowing better.”

  Rajneesh, a senior developer in an IT company, added, “Sadly, the Indian mentality is still very backward.”

  Jaya suppressed a sigh. She’d urged Kovid to accept tonight’s invitation, hoping to make friends for the girls. Luckily for them, the daughter of their hosts was very sweet. The three had run into the kitchen multiple times, giggling and grabbing food.

  “So what do you think of the US?” Rajneesh asked.

  Jaya took a quick look at Kovid. His expression was non-committal. She wasn’t sure that she wanted to get into another round with the couple.

  “You don’t have to seek Kovid’s permission, you know.” Rajneesh smiled. “Here, in the US, we allow our women to have their own opinions.”

  The condescension was beginning to grate. These two were the kind of people who, having emigrated to the West, returned to India each Christmas, and looked down upon their friends and family as “natives.”

  “I don’t need permission from my husband, or anyone else.” Her voice came out sharper than she intended.

  “I didn’t realise it was this late,” Kovid said, coming to her rescue. “We should get going. Thank you so much for having us over.”

  “Surely, you don’t go to bed so early? Jaya, you don’t even work!”

  Rajneesh looked over her shoulder at the clock. “It’s early yet, and it’s the weekend. Come on, you guys!”

  Even the clocks in their house seemed to be in discord: none of them—not the oven, not the microwave, not the German Black Forest clock—were in agreement. The one thing Jaya could determine was that enough time had passed that they could politely take leave.

  “I’ve had a long day,” Kovid said.

  “We professionals know how that can be.” Snigdha smiled at Rajneesh and Kovid.

  Jaya thought back to Ramu, the vegetable seller in the village. She wondered what Snigdha would make of him: the dignity with which he conducted himself, tattered undershirt and all.

  “We should do this again,” Rajneesh said.

  Jaya smiled politely. The American expression, snowball’s chance in hell, seemed appropriate here.

  * * *

  Jaya looked over her shoulder. The girls were strapped in the backseat, fast asleep. There was an amniotic tranquillity to being enclosed in the warmth of the car with her family: her husband driving with quiet competence, the kids tired out from a good day, music playing softly on the radio.

  “That didn’t go as expected,” Kovid commented.

  He did that often, Jaya had noticed. He made a comment without forcing conversation. Jaya could either take it forward or not. She’d noticed that in Jeff Alcosta as well. Maybe it was an American thing.

  “People have inherent biases. I find, the more opinionated they are, the less open they are to listening to any point of view different from their own. When Ananta was a baby, one of my cousins from America visited us. She was appalled that I’d pick my baby up each time she cried. She accused me of spoiling Ananta.” In the gathering dusk, Jaya looked at her husband. “How does one spoil a four-month-old?”

  “The cry-it-out theory has been around for a while. Cycles in and out of fashion.”

  “Do you agree with it, though?”

  “My mother volunteered her time at the hospital rocking at-risk newborns.”

  Jaya looked at Kovid, “You ever read those British novels, where the parents always insist that children must be seen, not heard?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “Being a widow in India is sort of like that. Only, you cannot be seen at socially auspicious occasions, either.” Jaya was conscious that she was rambling. But the evening had left her unsettled.

  Kovid reached across and threaded his fingers with hers, putting their combined hands on the gearshift.

  She closed her eyes, trying to infuse this contentment into her being: This man. Their daughters in the back seat. This moment in time.

  “I have an uncle,” she said. “A cousin of my mother’s. A successful businessman. When I was younger and hotheaded, he and I had endless arguments over equality for girls. Over the years, I realised that he had dug into his corner and wasn’t really listening. He would back off only when I conceded. I realised there was no point in engaging with him because he wasn’t looking for an honest back-and-forth; he just wanted validation of his own opinions. So I completely backed off. But that didn’t satisfy him either. He came after me, making more and more outrageous statements in an attempt to goad me into reacting. He went after Madhav too, because, you know Madhav. Always ready to jump in, if he thinks someone isn’t treating me properly. I learned a lot about the Hindu philosophy from my uncle.”

  Kovid laughed. “How’s that?”

  “I learned about detachment.” Jaya grinned.

  “To let go?”

  “In a sense. The way I understand it, detachment does not mean one has to bear the situation, while also being bitter about it. Nor does it mean that we tune out. If we chose to do the act—we completely immerse ourselves in it. Once we’re done with the act, we detach mentally. That is, we leave the act, in a sense. We don’t hold on to thoughts of that action anymore. Essentially, we leave the results to be played out by the Universe.”

  “Interesting.”

  Jaya smiled. “On the other hand, if there’s nothing we can do, we don’t waste mental energy over it. One of the premises is that mental silence is extremely powerful. It brings out the energy of the Universe within us. This isn’t the same as mental or physical inactivity. It is a conscious act where our minds are able to sharply focus. It’s like the magnifying glass gathering the sun’s rays, focussing the energy so well it can burn paper.”

  “I never thought of it that way.”

  “Madhav and I came to the conclusion that, in the scheme of things, this uncle was unimportant. The man had something in him that was lacking, so he tried to f
ill the void by attacking me. It got worse when I was widowed. As far as he was concerned, I didn’t have the social sanction to personal opinions, let alone the right to defend them. Avoiding him socially wasn’t feasible, so I let his comments flow through me. I trained myself not to react at all, to be above it all.”

  Kovid tightened his fingers on hers.

  Jaya said hesitantly, “I don’t know how good a friend Snigdha is. I hope I didn’t damage your friendship.”

  “Oh, no!” Kovid shook his head. “I’ve known her for a while, but we never interacted beyond work stuff. I happened to meet her near the coffee machine this morning and got talking. When she found that Nina and Ananta were both her daughter’s age, she invited us for dinner. It was one of those spur-of-the-moment things.”

  “Both of them seem to not care for South Indians. I wonder why they bothered.”

  “I was taken aback at that,” Kovid said. “Because that’s not been my experience at all. I grew up with a North Indian kid. Baldev Singh. His father embodied Sikhism in his calmness, his compassion. Every weekend, the family went to the gurdwara. I was de facto part of their family, so anytime I was over, which was a lot, I was expected to go. Baldev’s dad was my role model for how a father should be. Anyway, after the gurdwara, we’d head to the langar, where we were expected to help out in the kitchens. The amazing thing about these langars is that they never turn anyone away. They offer food free of charge.”

  “I guess we ran into the wrong kind today.”

  “You’ll find those people across races and genders. I’ve had run-ins with a few.”

  “I’ve always wondered,” Jaya said, “why Sikh names are gender neutral.”

  “Because Sikhism is a reformist religion. Their faith tells them that what men can do, women can, as well.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Jaya said. “I had a Sikh friend in Hyderabad when I was growing up. Their family saved the best food for the boy. Milk was withheld from her because she would get married and go away to a different family, so why waste something so nutritious on her? Unlike her brother, who would grow up and take on the responsibility of his parents as they aged.”

  “I don’t think that’s religion as much as it is patriarchy.”

  “Hmm. Hindu philosophy is more about bettering yourself as a person. In all the rituals we do, it is the man who is the primary. The female has a supporting role. Always. I like that their religion allows them to strive toward the higher goal of gender equality.”

  “Don’t all religions?”

  “I suppose.”

  “My understanding is that Santana Dharma seeks to define the very essence of every single being, animate or not. So, the dharma of sugar would be to be sweet, and so on.”

  Sanatana Dharma, meaning “way of life” and relating to the customs and traditions from the Indian subcontinent, was the original term for Hinduism. Jaya sighed. “You’re right, of course.”

  “I’m not trying to deny your experience, though.”

  Jaya smiled briefly. “I never thought you were.”

  “So,” Kovid asked, “when you were widowed, you were shut out from religious functions?”

  “Not shut out. Most people were kind. But there are always the hidebound. And that was hard, because many social events that are related to naming ceremonies for infants, for housewarming, etc., also involve a religious element. Anything religious forces widows to the fringes. You want to be part of society, but are afraid to.” She leaned against the door and looked at Kovid. She heard the click of the door being locked and smiled. Trust Kovid to keep them safe. “You know my deepest regret, had I remained a widow?”

  “What?”

  “I’d have been considered inauspicious at my own daughter’s wedding.”

  Kovid squeezed her hand. “I’m so sorry,” he said softly.

  Jaya smiled. “Luckily, that’s no longer a worry.”

  “Had I not married you, would I be sidelined too?”

  “Ha! You’re a man. If you didn’t remarry, you’d be able to get away with an unstitched blouse piece on your thigh. A stand-in for your wife.”

  “A lie-in, you mean. Unstitched blouse pieces cannot stand.”

  “I can’t stand them, either.” Despite herself, she laughed.

  Kovid smiled. “We’ll make an American out of you, yet.”

  Earlier in the day she had commented on the American ability to joke casually with strangers, something that Jaya found herself unable to do because it was so far out of her experience. In India you did not make eye contact with strangers, not if you were a female. Not, especially, if you were a widow.

  This morning, an older man had made a funny comment at the grocery store. By the time she thought up a suitable comeback, he was long gone. Maybe Kovid was right. Maybe all it took to be American was to sharpen your comeback skills.

  “I don’t appreciate Snigdha and Rajneesh’s behaviour,” Jaya said, bringing the conversation back, “but I cannot deny that casual racism is pretty common at home, too. I’ve had close relatives ask Ananta to her face how come she doesn’t have her grandparents’ colour.”

  “I had a friend called Shawn,” Kovid said. “African American guy. Brilliant physician.”

  “Had?”

  “Long story. I’ll tell you another time.” He turned to Jaya briefly. “What do you see when you see African Americans?”

  “A race? People who share common ancestry with Africans?”

  “Exactly. You see one race. But Shawn told me that many African Americans have a skin-colour hierarchy. Just like us.”

  “What you’re saying is that when people of other races look at Indians, they aren’t differentiating between medium brown 1 and 2?”

  “What?”

  “Shades on the hair-colouring chart.”

  Kovid laughed.

  Jaya thought of all the skin lightening bleaches and fairness facials that were aggressively marketed in India. Personal growth was assured, though it wasn’t the evolved, higher-plane, Hindu-philosophy kind. This left the dark-skinned Indians feeling like second-class citizens. “What a waste, isn’t it? Expending energy over things that should not matter?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jaya said, “I’ve come to a point in my life where I’d rather have no friends than make small talk with people I don’t care to spend my time with.”

  “Life is too short to do it any other way.”

  Being able to talk with Kovid about things, from the mundane to the spiritual, was one of the strengths of their marriage. Jaya thought about her life with Anant. The inability to talk of anything of depth had made for a lonely marriage. Anant had been a victim too. He was so controlled by his father that it left him with no room for independent thought. She tightened her grip on his hand. “I have all I need right here, Kovid.” Even as she said it, she was embarrassed. Mushiness was for movies.

  Kovid squeezed back. “Me, too. I just didn’t expect it to come out of a shotgun wedding.”

  “Shotgun wedding?” Jaya scoffed. “You wanted to marry me.”

  “Who said anything about marriage? Sure, I was attracted. But I had no plans to get hitched till your brother threatened to beat me up.” He sounded grumpy.

  Jaya rolled her eyes in the dark, but Kovid laughed anyway.

  54

  Jaya

  Jaya stared at the Bay Bridge, puzzled. Where were the birds? Even in a densely populated place like Mumbai—12.8 million at last count—there were almost enough birds to drown out the populace. And Yosemite: gorgeous as it was, where was the wildlife? The Indian outdoors could be a cacophony of sounds and colours and movement—screeching monkeys, scampering squirrels, squawking birds of multiple hues.

  She’d once met a Norwegian writer who lived part time in India, heading to Norway each winter. Jaya asked him why he didn’t reverse his stays. After all, winters in India were a lot warmer. He’d told her that the intense experience that was India—the colours, the sounds, the smells—aft
er a while, he felt overwhelmed. Winters in Norway, with its wide swathes of snow obscuring shapes, leaching colour from the landscape, resulting in miles of nothingness—that’s what he needed before he could take a fresh stab at India.

  Restless, Jaya rearranged the cutlery in the drawer. No milk to boil first thing in the morning, none to cool down so Ananta could have a glass of it before school. No dishes to arrange in plates-full of water, so ants wouldn’t get to them. No running after the gas fellow to make sure he replaced the cylinder of cooking gas on time. What did people here do all day, sealed in their private spaces as they were?

  Kovid had suggested she join Meetups. She’d jumped on the idea and signed up for a cybersecurity meetup. When Jaya talked to Americans, though, she was conscious of her dressing style, of her strong Indian accent, of her lack of awareness of all things local. Perhaps she’d join Toastmasters too and improve her speaking skills.

  She’d also signed up for a clipper card for the public transit and was learning to navigate both MUNI and BART. She’d been to the gorgeous public library, which, interestingly enough, had books in Hindi and Telugu.

  The girls had settled into a routine. Jaya walked them to school and back. She cooked, she cleaned.

  Now, what?

  * * *

  Six months in the United States, and Jaya was beginning to discern a pattern. There were two kinds of Indians: ones who didn’t make eye contact, and ones who did. The first kind was the self-conscious Indian.

  The second kind had eyes that constantly sought out fellow Indians and, upon meeting them, smiled widely, saying, “You Indian?”

  In under ten minutes, you knew their history, and they managed to ferret out yours. With these kinds of Indians, a near-instant sense of familiarity was generated, based not on personal knowledge, but on values and experiences of a shared culture. Here, the state you came from, the language you spoke, didn’t matter as much. Of course, there was the unspoken assumption that you spoke Hindi.

  As she stood at the counter at the 7-Eleven, the Indian cashier—he of the second kind—chatted away, smiling frequently.