Secret Daughter

by Shilpi Somaya Gowda

  “It turns out, about ten years ago when they had trouble with their unions, United Textiles began moving their factories overseas. Most of their plants are now in China, and most of their workers are child laborers…” She pauses for effect. “Kids as young as ten years old, working twelve hours a day in factories instead of going to a swanky school like this.” Asha returns her pencil to her mouth and notes, with satisfaction, that no one looks disinterested any longer.

  Clara manages to speak. “I don’t think that’s an appropriate topic, Asha, do you?”

  “Yes, actually, I do. I think it’s important we know our history as an institution and where the money comes from for all of this.” She gestures around the room with her hands.

  “It comes from our parents,” another student mutters.

  Unfazed, Asha continues, “We’re always being taught to think about the world outside. Well, these kids in China are the world outside. We have an obligation to pursue the truth. Isn’t that the whole point of journalism? Are you saying we should censor ourselves?”

  Ms. Jansen exhales slowly and says, “Asha, let’s discuss this when you come by my office—tomorrow, lunchtime.” Her tone makes it clear this is not a suggestion.

  “SO, HAVE YOU ASKED YOUR PARENTS ABOUT THE PARTY SATURDAY?” Rita bounces the soccer ball on her knee, aiming toward Asha.

  Asha sighs. “No, my dad’s been working late all week.” She kicks the ball straight up in the air, watches for it, then catches it. “He’s so uptight about these things. He says he doesn’t see the point in my going to parties. What about having fun like a normal sixteen-year-old?”

  “You know, Asha, my dad doesn’t let me go out on weekends either.” Manisha, the only other Indian girl in her class, intercepts the ball. She continues, now in a mock Indian accent, wagging her index finger. “Unless it is specifically for academic purposes.” They laugh, and Manisha throws the ball back to Asha. “It’s a cultural thing.” She shrugs.

  In the locker room, the girls change back into their uniforms with practiced discretion, and crowd around the mirror to check their faces. Asha tries to wrangle her thick black hair into a ponytail, but the elastic breaks, snapping against her fingers. “Ow—crap!” She shakes her head, retrieves a small pouch from her backpack, and walks over to the mirror to apply mascara.

  “God, Asha, you so don’t need eye makeup,” one of the girls says, still peering directly at herself in the mirror as she speaks.

  “I know, I would kill for eyes like that. They are so exotic. Did you get them from your mom or your dad?” another asks, brushing out her golden hair.

  Asha tenses. “I don’t know,” she says quietly. “I think…they skipped a generation.” She turns away from the mirror, her face burning, and returns to her locker. I don’t know who I got my exotic eyes from, she wants to scream. Only Asha’s closest friends know she is adopted; she lets everyone else make their own assumptions. It’s easy enough to believe she could be the natural product of her Indian dad and American mom, and this has spared her many explanations. She doesn’t want to share her whole personal history with the perfect mirror girls. She wonders if they would envy the black hair that sprouts every day on her legs, or her dark skin that tans after just ten minutes in the sun, even when slathered with sunscreen.

  “Oh, Asha, you’re so exotic.” She hears someone behind her, in a low teasing voice. She turns around to see Manisha, rolling her eyes with a smile. “Come on, you want to get some frozen yogurt?” Manisha motions toward the locker room door.

  “Sure,” Asha says.

  “I hate that ‘exotic’ thing we always get from people,” Manisha says once they’re outside. “I mean, come out to Fremont and you’ll see it’s not that exotic. Indians everywhere.”

  They sit together on a bench outside the small store, each holding a cup of frozen yogurt. Their conversation continues between bites of vanilla-chocolate swirl. “There’s this ice cream shop near our house,” Manisha says. “They serve paan-flavored ice cream. It is so good, it tastes exactly like the real thing. You have to try it sometime.”

  Asha just nods and keeps eating. She doesn’t know what paan tastes like, her dad having given it to her only once when she was very young.

  “Have you had ice paan in India? Last summer, I made my cousins take me to get one every night. Totally addictive. You have to try it next time you go.”

  Manisha talks without seeming to expect a response, for which Asha is thankful. She doesn’t have to say that she’s never been to India or fabricate an explanation. She remembers her father making a couple trips when she was in grade school. She recalls hearing her parents’ discussions after they thought she was asleep, about whether or not Asha should accompany him. She does not remember any discussion over whether her mom should go. In the end, they decided it was not a good idea to take Asha out of school for so long. At the beginning of each trip, they drove her father to the airport with two enormous suitcases in the trunk, one filled with American trinkets and gifts. Every few days, there would be a crackly overseas phone call. When her father reappeared two weeks later, one of the suitcases was filled with tea and spices, sandalwood soaps, and colorful new outfits for Asha. There was also always a batik blouse or embroidered shawl for her mother, which she added to the others in the spare closet. Once the suitcases were stowed back in the basement, their lives returned to their normal routine.

  Manisha stands up to start walking back. “Hey, are you going to Raas-Garba next weekend?” she asks. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you there, but it’s always so crowded”

  “Um, no. I’ve never been,” Asha says. “My parents aren’t really into that stuff, I guess.”

  “Well, that makes them the only Indian parents in all of Northern California.” Manisha smiles as she tosses her empty cup in the trash can. “You should come sometime, it’s actually pretty fun. I mean, hey, it’s the one time my dad actually lets me get dressed up and go dancing with friends on the weekend, you know?”

  Asha nods again. But she didn’t know. About any of it.

  “WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT YOUR REPORT CARD.” HER MOTHER’S tone is serious. Asha looks up from her dinner. Her dad is watching her, hands folded in front of his empty plate.

  “I know, another A-plus in English, aren’t you proud of me?” Asha says.

  “Asha, a B in math and a C in chemistry?” her mother says. “What is going on? Your grades have been suffering ever since you started spending so much time on that school paper. Maybe it’s time to cut back, so you can focus on your studies.”

  “Yes, I agree, Asha,” her father joins in, nodding his head vigorously. “This is a critical year coming up. Your junior grades are the most important ones for college. You can’t afford to have any Bs or Cs. You know how competitive the good schools are.”

  “What’s the big deal?” Asha says. “I’ve had straight As all through high school; it’s just one bad semester. Anyway, I won’t have to take any more math or science after this year.” Asha keeps her eyes focused on her plate.

  “What do you mean by that?” her dad asks, his voice deepening to the pitch of disappointment Asha dreads. “You still have two years of high school, and these grades might hurt your applications anyway. It’s time to get serious, Asha, this is your future we’re talking about!” He pushes back from the table, chair legs screeching against the kitchen floor to accentuate his point.

  “Look, there’s still time to turn your grades around this year,” her mom says. “I can help you with chemistry, or we can get you a tutor.” Her mother grips the edge of the table with both hands, as if she’s expecting an earthquake to strike.

  “I don’t need a tutor, and I definitely don’t want your help,” Asha says, choosing her words to sting her mother. “All I ever hear from you is grades and studying. You don’t care what’s important to me. I love working on the paper, and I’m good at it. I want to hang out with my friends, I want to go to parties and be a normal teenager. Why ca
n’t you understand that? Why don’t you ever understand me?” She’s yelling now and feels a lump rising in her throat.

  “Honey,” her mom says, “we love you, and we only want what’s best for you.”

  “You always say that, but it’s not true. You don’t want what’s best for me.” Asha stands up from the table and stumbles backward until her back is pressed up against the kitchen wall. “You don’t even know me. You’ve always tried to fit me into some perfect image of the kid you want. You just imported me into your little fantasy, but you don’t see me. You don’t love me. You want me to be like you, but I’m not.” She shakes her head frantically as she speaks. “That’s the truth. Maybe if you were my real parents, you would understand me and love me the way I am.” She feels her body trembling, her hands sweating. It’s as if something alien has climbed into her body and unleashed the venom spilling right out of her mouth. Despite the hollow look on her father’s face and the tears streaming down her mother’s, Asha cannot stop. “Why don’t you ever tell me about my real parents? You’re scared they’ll love me more than you do.”

  “Asha, we’ve already told you,” her mom says in a cracking voice. “We don’t know anything about them. That’s just the way things worked in India back then.”

  “And why don’t you ever take me to India? Every other Indian kid I know goes all the time. What is it, Dad—are you ashamed of me? I’m not good enough for your family?” Asha stares at her father, looking down at his hands clenched so tightly the knuckles are drained of color.

  “It’s not fair.” Asha can’t hold back the tears now. “Everyone else knows where they come from, but I have no idea. I don’t know why I have these eyes that everybody always notices. I don’t know how to deal with this damn hair of mine,” she yells, clenching it in her fist. “I don’t know why I can remember every seven-letter Scrabble word, but none of the periodic table. I just want to feel that someone, somewhere, really understands me!” She’s crying loudly now, wiping the mucus from her nose with the back of her hand.

  “I wish I was never born,” she lashes out. The look of pained shock on her mother’s face brings Asha some satisfaction. “I wish you never adopted me. Then I wouldn’t be such a huge disappointment to you.” Asha is screaming now and feels a strange pleasure when her mother begins yelling as well.

  “Well, Asha, at least I tried. At least I tried to be a parent to you. More than those…people in India who abandoned you. I wanted a child, and I’ve been here, Asha. Every single day.” She bangs out each word with her finger on the table. “More than your father, more than anyone.” Her mother’s voice drops suddenly to a hoarse whisper. “At least I wanted you.”

  Asha slides down the wall and falls into a heap on the floor, head buried in her knees, sobbing. Right there, in the kitchen where she has celebrated birthdays and baked cookies, in the heart of the only home she can remember, she feels as alone and out of place as she ever has in her life. No one speaks for several minutes. Finally, Asha looks up, her face streaked with tears and her hazel eyes rimmed with red. “It’s just not fair,” she says quietly, between sharp sniffles. “I’ve spent sixteen years not knowing, sixteen years asking questions nobody can answer. I just don’t feel like I really belong, in this family or anywhere. It’s like a piece of me is always missing. Don’t you understand that?” She looks at her parents, searching their faces for something that will bring her comfort. Her mother is looking down at the table. Her father’s eyes are closed, his forehead propped up by his hand. His entire face is still, except for the muscle pulsing in his jaw. Neither of them looks at her.

  Asha collects herself from the floor, sniffling, and runs upstairs to her room. After slamming and locking her door, she throws herself onto the bed, sobbing into the white eyelet duvet. When she finally looks up, it is dim in her room and the sky outside her window is dark gray. She reaches into the bottom drawer of her nightstand, pulls out a small square box made of white marble, and lays it in front of her. Her fingers tremble over the geometric pattern carved into the heavy lid of the box her father bought for her at a flea market when she was eight. He said the design reminded him of India, of the carvings at the Taj Mahal.

  She removes the lid and takes out several pieces of folded stationery. The paper is thin and worn at the creases, from having been unfolded and refolded so many times. Underneath all the papers, at the bottom of the box, she picks up the thin silver bangle. It is bent and tarnished. It is nearly too small to slide easily over the widest part of her hand, but she squeezes her wrist and manages to put it on. She curls up into a fetal position, clutching a large lace-trimmed pillow to her chest and closes her eyes. She lies there, in the deepening darkness of her room, listening to the raised voices of her parents downstairs. The last thing she hears before falling asleep is the front door slam shut.

  27

  CRUEL COMPLICATIONS

  Mumbai, India—2000

  KAVITA

  KAVITA OPENS THE FRONT DOOR TO THE CHAWL. “HELLO?” SHE calls out. Both Jasu and Vijay should be home by now, but the apartment is empty. She fears Jasu is out drinking again. Three weeks ago, he injured his right hand at the factory when another worker mistakenly turned on the fabric press as Jasu was adjusting the setting. The steel plates crushed his bones in three places before the machine was turned off. He was taken to the government hospital, where the doctor applied a brace to his hand and sent him back to the factory. But the foreman told Jasu he was slowing things down and sent him home until he could work properly. He asked Jasu to mark some papers with his thumbprint, then explained he wouldn’t be paid until he returned to work.

  The first few days, Jasu sat around at home, moping. Then he began wandering the streets, coming home darkened by the sun and covered in dust. Kavita tried to reassure him. At least they had almost paid off the moneylender, and between her income and Vijay’s messenger pay, they could cover the other household expenses for a few weeks until his hand healed. This didn’t bring Jasu much comfort; he only became more sullen. After the first week, Kavita began to detect that distinctive smell on him again. She has tried to ignore it. In truth, she doesn’t have time to dwell on it. Each day, she rises early, goes to work, comes home to cook dinner, falls into bed exhausted, and does it all again the next day. If she has the energy, she tries to spend a little time with Vijay at night, though he too has become sullen these days.

  She considers going out to look for Jasu but knows both he and Vijay will be hungry when they get home. It is better she get dinner ready first. An hour later, the rice and potato-onion shaak are ready. Kavita feels her stomach growl. She has not eaten in over eight hours. She picks gingerly at the food with her fingers. She cannot bring herself to sit down and eat properly without her husband or son. Vijay must be studying with a school friend, as he has been doing more often lately. But Jasu should be home by now. Her uneasiness escalates to worry, and then rapidly to fear. Making up her mind, Kavita covers the food and slides on her chappals. She tucks some cash and the key into the folds of her sari before leaving.

  OUTSIDE, KAVITA WALKS QUICKLY. SHE KEEPS HER EYES FOCUSED straight ahead: the streets here are not safe for a woman alone after dark. Where has he gone? How can he behave like such a lout? Most of the time, she finds she can heed her mother’s advice, to trust in her husband, to be brave for her family. Then occasionally, he will do something stupid like this, disappear in the night or come back smelling of liquor, and in a flash she will lose faith. She wonders if she has been wrong to trust him, if they were all bad decisions—giving up her daughters, leaving their village, trying to survive in this city that will never feel like home.

  Her feet carry her down the path to the small park, fenced in from the shops and lights of the city streets. She walks past the rusted playground equipment that sits empty and toward a small cluster of men seated together under a large tree. As she approaches, she sees a large hookah pipe in their midst, and the trails of smoke drifting upward. It is almost com
pletely dark now. She cannot make out the men’s faces at this distance. They are laughing loudly, and for a moment, she worries what will happen to her at their hands if Jasu is not among them. When she draws closer, she is at first relieved, then disappointed, to see Jasu leaning against the tree, his eyelids drooping and his braced hand sitting lame in his lap. In his good hand, he holds a bottle.

  “Jasu,” she says. A couple of men glance at her, then turn back to their conversation. “Jasu!” she says again, loud enough to be heard over the crude joke about a woman and a donkey. She watches as her husband’s reddened eyes drift over and slowly focus on her face. He tries to straighten up once he sees her.

  “Arre, Jasu, your wife coming to fetch you like a schoolboy?” one man teases.

  “Who wears your dhoti, bhai?” Another slaps him on the back, slumping him over again.

  Jasu offers a weak smile to the taunting men, but Kavita sees the pain in his eyes. She sees the injured pride, the shame, the disappointment she knows he feels. In this moment, witnessing him in his messy, helpless state, Kavita feels her anger and fear washed away by sorrow. All this time, Jasu has had only one goal above all else, to provide for his family. And over the last twenty years, it seems as if God has been dreaming up one cruel complication after another to keep him from even this modest goal. The poor harvests back in Dahanu, the illusive dhaba-wallah job, the bicycle factory raid, the moneylender, and now his broken hand, dangling limply at his side as he tries to stand. Kavita rushes over to help him.

  “Come, Jasu-ji,” she says, using the respectful term of address for her husband. “You wanted me to tell you when dinner was ready. I’ve made all your favorites—bhindi masala, khadi, laddoo.” Kavita steadies herself under the weight of Jasu’s heavy frame. He looks in her eyes. They haven’t eaten such a meal since they were married.