Secret Daughter

by Shilpi Somaya Gowda

  The train slows as it approaches the station, and Jasu jumps onto the platform, glancing at his watch. Even after his walk, he will arrive at the factory before seven-thirty, as he has done every morning since starting this job. He will see the foreman who has, once or twice, even offered Jasu a lukewarm cup of tea that was left unwanted on the bosses’ tray. Jasu goes to work like this, six days a week, from early morning to well after nightfall. He does what he is told and rarely takes a break, even when the other men go outside to smoke. When he comes home at night, he stinks of sweat and his body is sore. His days now are more grueling than the fieldwork back in the village. But Jasu doesn’t mind. They are on their way to a better life.

  KAVITA WASHES THE LAST STAINLESS STEEL DISHES. EVERY MORNING when she arrives at her employer’s luxurious flat, the breakfast dishes are her first duty. She takes her orders from Bhaya, the head servant, who has worked here so long that Memsahib’s instructions to her are partial sentences, understood only by the two of them like some secret language. Bhaya also has the preferred responsibilities of going to the market and overseeing the cooking, while Kavita washes dishes and does most of the cleaning. They go about their chores quietly, and when Bhaya speaks to Kavita, it is usually to ask her to add an item—durum wheat flour, masoor dal, cumin seeds—to the market list Kavita keeps in her head. Although she may not be able to read or write, Kavita has an excellent memory for words, and Bhaya has come to rely on her for this.

  It is surprising how much of a mess two people can make, even with their children grown up and rich enough to live elsewhere. Sahib and his wife use several little cups and bowls for each meal, not like the single thali Kavita is used to. Bhaya is just as bad, using a different vessel to cook each dish. Sometimes, Memsahib will wear three different saris in one day, leaving the worn ones along with discarded petticoats and blouses strewn across the bed. Her jewelry, however, she takes great care to always replace in the locked metal cabinet. Each day, Kavita carefully irons and folds the saris and returns them to the cupboard. People drop by to visit often, and Sahib and Memsahib have guests at almost every meal. Bhaya always makes enough food for at least six people, which means enough leftovers for both servants.

  Kavita heard about this job from Bhaya’s sister, who lives down the hall from them on Shivaji Road. It is not the kind of work Jasu wants her to do; he would prefer instead she take in sewing. But this job pays seven hundred rupees a month. And the flat is spacious and beautiful, with cool marble floors, sturdy wooden furniture, and a large kitchen. It is a nice place to spend her days, even as a servant. Most important, Bhaya allows her to leave in the afternoon to pick Vijay up from school and bring him back here while she finishes work.

  Early afternoon, after the heavy midday meal, when it is hottest outside and the ceiling fan beckons, is the one time of day Bombay finally slows down. Cabdrivers turn down their meter flags and stretch out in their backseats. Servants in Memsahib’s six-story building lie on bedrolls, lining the open hallways and the stairwell landings. Even the doorman sitting in the lobby nods off. Kavita sees him there with his head hanging forward, chin on chest and drool at the corner of his mouth, when she returns with Vijay. Kavita has never been one to rest during the day, so this arrangement works out well. Today, Bhaya has asked her to pick up some paneer on the way to Vijay’s school. After stopping by the market, Kavita consults her watch. There is just enough time for a detour. If she walks quickly, she can make it. No lingering today.

  Ten minutes later, out of breath, she reaches the familiar iron gates of the orphanage. She puts her face up to the metal bars and looks through them, to the red-lettered sign on the door. The sounds of laughter come from behind her and she spins around. A parade of children, two abreast and ascending in height, moves toward her. Quickly, she scans the faces of the little girls, searching for one that matches the memory etched in her mind. One girl smiles at her, but her complexion is too dark. Another one looks about the right size, but her eyes are dark brown. The children wear clean clothes, she notes as they pass her. They appear to be well fed, they look happy. Much too quickly, the last of the children walk through the iron gates and rush into the building. There is never enough time.

  She must be in there somewhere. Of course, there are other possibilities, the ones that haunt her at night—Usha sold off as an indentured servant, or dead from starvation or disease. And this is precisely why Kavita keeps coming here, hoping to see a little girl with her eyes, so she can put an end to the thoughts that torment her.

  Suddenly, she remembers the time. Vijay.

  She walks quickly across the street. She’ll only be a few minutes late. It is a nice day, perhaps she’ll buy some fresh coconut water for them to share on their walk back. As she approaches the school, she can hear the raised voices of young boys who play in the yard after school. But today these voices sound angry rather than playful. Kavita begins to walk faster as dread builds in the pit of her stomach. When she arrives, she sees books strewn about the yard and a group of boys clustered near the brick wall of the school. She hurries to unlatch the metal gate and throws it open, now running as fast as possible in her sari. As she draws closer, she hears the boys’ taunts.

  “Village boy! Gawar!” they chant.

  “…Why don’t you go back to your village and play with the other chickens!”

  Kavita pushes her body between the boys and sees Vijay on the ground, leaning against the wall, his legs scraped with blood and his shirt ground with dirt. She rushes to him and cradles his head. “What is the matter with you boys? Have you no shame? Get out of here. Go, now! Before I beat you myself! Go!” she screams, waving one arm at them while holding her son’s head with the other.

  They scurry to retrieve their bags and run down the street, still laughing. She turns to her son to assess the damage. His lower lip is swollen, there are scuff marks on his cheek and tears coursing down his face. She sits down and pulls him onto her lap so she can hold his whole body in her arms. She rocks him and feels the wetness on his shorts and inner legs. “There, there, my sweet child, everything will be all right.” Even while she speaks these words as calmly as she can manage, her eyes scan the school yard and the street beyond its gate for other dangers, which seem to come in new forms every day in this strange city.

  November 1997

  I wish you were here to help me.

  I’m supposed to write a biography of myself for eighth-grade social studies, but I don’t know where to begin. I don’t know where I really came from. Whenever I ask my mom, she just gives me the same story—they picked me up from the orphanage in India when I was a baby and brought me to California.

  She doesn’t know anything about you, or why you gave me away. She doesn’t know what you look like. We must look like each other, and I bet you would know what to do with my bushy eyebrows. My mom doesn’t like to talk about this stuff at all. She says I’m just like everyone else now and it shouldn’t matter.

  My dad tried to help me find some photos for my project. He took out this old album with black-and-white photos and tissue paper between the pages. There were pictures of him in his cricket uniform and his uncle riding a white horse at his wedding.

  He told me about the kite-flying festival that kids in India have in January, and the colored paint they throw for that holiday in the spring. It sounds like a lot of fun.

  I’ve never even been to India.

  25

  OVERDUE

  Mumbai, India—1998

  KAVITA

  KAVITA TASTES THE DAL AND ADDS MORE SALT TO COMPENSATE for the thinness of the lentil soup. She prepares two thalis of rice and dal, putting a small bit of mango pickle on Vijay’s to add some flavor to this basic meal they have had so often lately. They eat alone, because Jasu is working late again. He’s been adding extra hours nearly every day and taking on others’ shifts. It took many months for him to find work again after the raid on the bicycle factory closed it down. They were forced to borrow from t
he moneylender in order to pay the chawl rent and Vijay’s school fees until Jasu found a new job at a textile factory. Now, it seems every paisa they earn goes to the moneylender, yet half the amount is still outstanding. They have been late with Vijay’s school fees, and now with the rent as well. They hoped the landlord, Manish, would be tolerant, since they’ve never given him a problem in the eight years they’ve lived here. But rents are rising all over Mumbai, and Manish is eager to get rid of old tenants so he can rent the place out for more.

  “What did you learn today in school, Vijay?” Kavita looks forward to hearing about this all day.

  “Same things, Mummy. Multiplication, exponents. The teacher says I have to properly learn those things to catch up with the others.”

  “Achha,” she says slowly. She carries her empty thali to the sink and busies herself with cleaning the dishes so her son will not see her eyes water. It is her fault. Vijay has been working with her in the afternoons at Sahib’s house for the past several weeks. When one of Sahib’s regular messenger boys fell ill, Memsahib asked if Vijay could fetch her blouses from the tailor. She paid him fifty rupees and asked him to come back the following day. Since then, he has been delivering packages every afternoon, time he used to spend on schoolwork. She and Jasu decided it would do no harm if it helped them pay off the moneylender. She now realizes this was foolish. They have compromised their son’s education, his only chance at a better life, all for a few hundred rupees. She scrubs furiously at the hardened rice grains on the bottom of the pot.

  The front door opens. “Hello.” Jasu stops to tousle Vijay’s hair, then heads to the kitchen, where Kavita is heating his dinner. “Hello, chakli.” He wraps his arms around her from behind and rests his chin atop her head. “Mmmm. Dal-bhath,” he says, sniffing at the food. “Good thing my wife is such a good cook she can make dal-bhath so many different ways.” He grins as he walks over to Vijay, patting his belly. “Heh, Vijay, aren’t we lucky your mother is such a good cook?”

  The momentary lightness is interrupted by loud banging at the door, followed by Manish’s fierce voice. “Jasu? Heh, Jasu! I know you’re in there. I can hear your fat, lazy footsteps over my head. Open up right now, or I’ll break this door down.”

  “What is that scoundrel doing here at this hour?” Jasu strides toward the door and throws it open to reveal Manish, his hairy belly protruding between his worn undershirt and drawstring pants. There is a week’s growth on his face, his eyes are bloodshot, and he smells of liquor. Kavita grips Jasu’s forearm, hoping the pressure of her hand will restrain his reaction.

  “Manish, it’s late. What is so important it cannot wait until morning, heh?” Jasu’s voice is firm, and he begins to close the door.

  With surprising speed, Manish raises one flabby arm to block the door. “Listen, you lazy bastard. You are two weeks late with the rent, and I won’t stand for it anymore,” he shouts.

  Jasu stands blocking the half-open doorway, shielding Kavita and Vijay behind him. “Manish bhai,” he says, his voice softening, “I will pay. Have I ever failed you in the eight years we’ve lived here? I’ve had some bad luck with my job lately and…it will just take a little time.”

  “Time? I don’t have time, Jasu. You are stealing that money out of my pocket, you hear?” Manish waves his fist in the air. “You think you’re the only ones who want this apartment? There is a line of people from here to the ocean waiting for this place, and all of them are ready to pay on time. I can’t wait for you, Jasu!”

  “Manish bhai, please. You can’t throw us out. This is my family we’re talking about.” Jasu opens the door wider to reveal Kavita and Vijay. “You know us.” His voice strains to sound respectable. “I promise I will get you the rent. Please, Manish bhai.” Jasu holds his palms together in appeasement. Kavita holds her breath.

  Manish shakes his head and exhales loudly. “Friday, Jasu. You have until Friday, that’s it. Then you’re out.” He turns and waddles briskly down the hallway, prompting cockroaches to scurry out of his path.

  Jasu locks the door behind him. He lays his forehead against the closed door and sighs deeply before turning around to face them. “Greedy bastard. We’ve paid that man on time every month for eight years.” Jasu strides back to the kitchen. “We put up with his filthy toilets and water shut-offs at all hours, and not once did we complain.” He waves his fist at the door. “And now, he’s ready to throw us out over nothing. Bastard.” Jasu takes the thali from Kavita’s shaky hands and strides back to the kitchen to sit down. “He’s lucky I don’t take care of him.” He puts a bite of dal-bhath in his mouth and chews vigorously.

  “Why don’t you, Papa?” Vijay says, standing at the entrance to the kitchen.

  “What?” Jasu says, without looking up from his food.

  “Why don’t you do something to keep Manish from getting mad and coming by here all the time? He came yesterday and Mummy was scared…”

  Kavita sees the frustration and disappointment in her son’s eyes, and knows Jasu will see it too. “Come, come, it’s nothing. I wasn’t scared. Papa has handled it, achha? Now come, finish your studies,” she says, gesturing to his books and papers scattered on the floor.

  “What, Vijay? What would you like me to do? That man is a scoundrel. He takes advantage of hardworking people. There’s nothing else to be done,” Jasu says, now shoveling large mounds of food into his mouth.

  “I don’t know, Papa, do something. Give him the money. Fight with him. Do something. Anything. Something besides begging.”

  Kavita draws in her breath quickly and moves instinctively toward her son. Suddenly, Jasu is on his feet again, and in a single stride he stands over Vijay, waving his fist. “Watch your mouth! You think you’re better than your father, because you know how to read your fancy books at school? I break my back every day for you. You know nothing!” Looking down at his half-eaten dinner, he kicks the thali, making a clanging sound. “I’m sick and tired of dal-bhath.” He turns to walk away. “Sick and tired.”

  Kavita follows him down the hallway. “Jasu, he’s just a boy. He’s doesn’t know what he’s saying.” She watches him shove on his chappals. “Where are you going?”

  “Out. Away from here.” He slams the door shut behind him.

  Kavita stands for a moment, staring at the closed door. She feels her fear percolate into resentment toward all of them—Manish, Jasu, and Vijay—for the anger they spray around like petrol, turning the landscape of her life into scorched earth. She breathes deeply before turning to face her son. He’s just a boy.

  “Vijay,” she says, holding him firmly by the shoulders. “What is wrong with you? You must never speak to your father like that.” Vijay bores into her, a steely expression in his youthful eyes. “Listen, Papa will take care of this.” She touches his cheek with the back of her hand, noticing the facial hair beginning to sprout on his face. “You mustn’t worry about these things, beta. You should focus on your studies.” She leads him back by the arm to his books.

  Vijay twists his body out of her grasp and violently kicks at his books on the floor. “Why? Why should I study? This is a waste of time. Don’t you see? Where does this get us, Ma? You tell me to work hard. But it gets us nowhere.”

  She watches him turn and walk onto the balcony, the only place in the tiny chawl where he can retreat for some semblance of privacy. Such big dreams, just like his father. When did her little boy start carrying the worries of a man? Without bothering to undress, she climbs into the bed she shares with Jasu, buries her head in the thin, musty pillow, and cries, hardly making a noise. She lies awake in the dark for some time until she hears the creaking of the balcony screen, and then the deep, heavy breathing she would recognize anywhere as her son’s.

  Sometime in the early hours of morning, she hears the front door open, then close. When Jasu climbs into bed next to her, Kavita recognizes the smell of his breath. She remembers it from those dreadful first weeks in the Bombay slums, when the aroma of liquor permeat
ed the night air. She remembers the sticky smell of fermented chickoo-fruit the night Jasu burst into the birthing hut. Each time, terrible things happened.

  26

  SIXTEEN YEARS

  Menlo Park, California—2000

  ASHA

  ASHA ARRIVES EARLY AT THE HARPER SCHOOL BUGLE OFFICE, THE windowless room where she spends most of her lunch periods and spare time. She joins Clara, the editor, and Ms. Jansen, their faculty adviser, at the table and takes out her notebook and pencil. Asha can never bring herself to write in pen, either ballpoint or felt-tip. The permanency of it makes her uneasy, the way there’s no going back once something has been written.

  “Okay,” Clara says. “Let’s get an update on everyone’s articles for the centennial issue next month that’s going to all the alumni. Asha?”

  Asha straightens up in her chair. “Well, in light of the school’s anniversary, I thought it was important to take a look at our history. As we all know, Susan Harper endowed this school with her family fortune.” She looks around the table at a circle of bored faces. Like her, they have heard about Susan Harper for years. “But that fortune came from her husband, Joseph Harper, and his company United Textiles, one of the largest textile manufacturers in the country.