Secret Daughter

by Shilpi Somaya Gowda

  “Ahh, good thing my wife is such a wonderful cook,” he says as they walk slowly away together. Jasu holds up his good hand to the men and says over his shoulder, “See how lucky I am? You poor bastards should all be so lucky.”

  BACK IN THE CHAWL, KAVITA HELPS JASU ONTO THE BED AND covers his forehead with a cold cloth. She feeds him cold rice and shaak with her fingers, which he eats clumsily before falling into a heavy sleep. Her stomach growls, and she remembers she still has not eaten dinner. It occurs to Kavita it is now after nine o’clock and Vijay is still not home. She feels the fear return, this time in the form of a bitter taste in her mouth.

  Vijay finished his deliveries for Sahib five hours ago. The only reasonable explanation is that he is at a friend’s house. They do not have a phone at home, nor do Vijay’s friends. He probably got caught up with his studies and didn’t notice the time. Yes, that must be it. He is a smart boy, responsible. Kavita breathes deeply a few times as she strokes Jasu’s forehead with the damp cloth. Once he goes back to work, everything will be fine. She sits down on the floor next to the bare bulb that throws some light her way, and sews a button back on Jasu’s shirt while she waits for Vijay. At least she can take some comfort in the fact that a fifteen-year-old boy is safer out there after dark than a woman is. When she finally hears the front door, she feels a wave of relief flood her for the second time this evening. Vijay enters the room.

  “Vijay,” she says in a loud whisper, standing up. “Where have you been? Have you no decency? We’re sitting here worrying about you!”

  Her teenaged son, who has the faint beginnings of a mustache on his upper lip, just shrugs his shoulders, hands in his pockets. He notices his father lying in bed. “Why is Papa asleep already?”

  “You don’t ask me questions, achha. You just answer my questions. Papa and I work hard every day to take care of you. You understand?” The anger in her voice is beginning to mix with fatigue. She feels, at once, utterly exhausted by all of this.

  “I work too,” Vijay mutters under his breath.

  “Heh? What did you say?”

  “I work too. I earn money.” Vijay’s muted voice gets louder as he points to his father. “Look at Papa! Drunk again. He’s not working, he’s sleeping.”

  Kavita’s hand rises quickly and she slaps Vijay hard across the face. He pulls back, looking stunned, and touches his face with his hand. His mouth sets into a tight curl and he digs his hand deep inside his pocket. He pulls out a wad of cash and throws it down at her feet. “There! Okay? Now we have enough money. Papa can get drunk and sleep all day if he wants.” He looks at her with defiance.

  Kavita’s heart stops. She looks at the money as if it is a cobra uncoiling itself from a basket. There must be at least three thousand rupees. He couldn’t possibly earn this much from messenger work. She looks at her son with disbelief and fear. “Beta, where did you get this?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Ma,” he answers, then turns away. “You don’t need to worry about me anymore.”

  July 2001

  My dad and I tried making two Indian dishes this weekend. The first one was a disaster—we set off the smoke detector when the oil and spices burned the bottom of the pan. But the second one, some kind of tomato curry with potatoes and peas, was actually pretty good.

  I feel bad saying this, but I look forward to these weekends alone with my dad. Mom’s been going down to San Diego every month or so since Grandma found the lump in her breast.

  This morning, Dad called his family in India and I spoke to them again. It’s still a little weird talking to people I’ve only seen in pictures, but it’s getting better. He got those recipes from his mother, and we drove all the way down to the Indian grocery store in Sunnyvale for the ingredients.

  Tomorrow, we’re going to play tennis—Dad’s been coaching me on my backhand. So, we’re getting along pretty well now. The only thing that sets him off is when we talk about my future and I say I want to be a journalist and not a doctor. It actually caused a big fight between them when my mom helped me find an internship at a radio station for the summer. I thought that was pretty cool of her. She even seemed happy when I was appointed editor of the Bugle next year.

  Finally, I’m not fighting with them as much anymore. And I can see the light—my senior year’s going to fly by, and then I’ll be off to college, where I can do whatever I want.

  PART III

  28

  PARENTS’ WEEKEND

  Providence, Rhode Island—2003

  ASHA

  THE CAMPUS IS COVERED WITH CRISP LEAVES THAT RUSTLE underfoot as Asha walks across the main green with her parents. It is a cool day, but the bright autumn sun filtering through the tree branches and cups of apple cider keep them warm as she gives them a tour.

  “The Daily Herald office is over there, a d couple blocks down.”

  Asha points through the ivy-covered buildings.

  “I’d like to see it, since you spend so much time there,” her mother says.

  “Sure. More cider, Dad?” Asha asks, her cup poised under a steel urn on one of the tables on College Green, where hundreds of other students and parents are milling around. Asha feels a hand on the middle of her back. She turns and, seeing Jeremy, smiles broadly and turns back to her parents.

  “Mom and Dad, this is Jer…Mr. Cooper. I’ve told you about him. He’s the faculty adviser for the Herald.”

  “Jeremy Cooper,” he repeats, extending a hand to her father. “You should be very proud of your daughter, Mr. and Mrs. Thakkar. She really—”

  “Doctor,” her father interrupts.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “It’s Doctor. Asha’s mother and I are both physicians,” he says. Asha sees her mother’s eyes cast downward.

  “Oh yes, of course.” Jeremy chuckles. “Asha mentioned that. I always forget the ‘Doctor’ bit in my own name,” he says, with a dismissive wave of his hand. Asha gives a small laugh. “As I was saying, you should be very proud of your daughter. Asha is one of the finest young journalists I have seen in my years at Brown.” Asha smiles broadly.

  “And how many years is that?” her father asks.

  “Uh…well, five years now. Hard to believe. Did you see the piece she wrote this fall on campus military recruiters? Very insightful. Worthy of publication in any major newspaper. Really. Excellent.” Jeremy smiles at Asha.

  “Mr. Cooper, what do you do—” her father starts.

  “Please, call me Jeremy.” He puts his hands into the flap pockets of his brown tweed blazer, fraying at the edges of the lapels.

  “Yes, what do you do,” Krishnan says, “other than oversee the newspaper?”

  “Well, I teach a couple classes in the English department, and I also try to do some freelance writing, when I have time.” Jeremy rocks back on the heels of his worn brown loafers. “But I stay pretty busy on campus.”

  “Yes, I can imagine,” her father says. “You must like it, the life of a professor? After all, there aren’t too many other good career paths in your field.”

  “Dad…,” Asha pleads, her face in a grimace.

  “No, no, your father’s right,” Jeremy says. “But I was never as talented as Asha. She could be our next great foreign correspondent, traveling to distant lands to bring us the news.”

  Asha sees her mother look stricken and is about to reassure her when her housemates bound up to them. “Asha! Oh, hey, Jeremy.”

  Jeremy excuses himself, saying something about a faculty reception where he is expected. Asha gives him a sympathetic look as he leaves, silently apologizing for her father.

  “Hey, guys!” Asha turns to her parents. “Mom, Dad—you remember my housemates? Nisha, Celine, and this is Paula. I don’t think you met her last time.”

  Nisha and Celine each wave and say hello. Paula perches her sunglasses on her head, revealing her thick-lashed brown eyes. She leans forward, her cowlneck sweater offering a glimpse of pale cleavage, and thrusts out her hand. “Very nice to meet y
ou both. I’ve heard so much about you.” Asha shares a look with Nisha and Celine. They used to tease Paula about being such a flirt, especially with her professors, until they realized she didn’t know any other way to behave. Paula tilts her head to one side and smiles at her father. “Asha’s been sharing some of your curry recipes with us. You must be a great cook.”

  “Oh, not really,” her dad says. “We enjoy cooking together. I make a lot of mistakes, but Asha’s patient with me.” He puts his arm around her.

  “You know,” Paula says, “there’s a bhangra party on campus later tonight. You should come. There’s going to be a great deejay.”

  “Really, bhangra?” her dad says. Asha recognizes the confusion on her mother’s face.

  “Oh, we don’t want to get in the way,” her mom says, placing her hand on his elbow. “You girls have fun.”

  “Okay, so I’ll see you guys at the hotel tomorrow morning for brunch?” Asha says.

  “Sure, honey.” Her mother leans over to kiss her. “See you then.”

  HER MOTHER SLIDES A WRAPPED BOX TIED WITH A LARGE YELLOW satin ribbon across the table toward her. Asha puts down her orange juice and looks back and forth between her mother’s beaming face and her father’s neutral expression. “What’s this?

  “An early birthday gift,” her mother says. “Go ahead, open it.”

  Asha unwraps the box to reveal a new handheld video camera.

  “I remembered how you liked using ours in Hawaii last summer.” Her mother smiles and looks at her dad. “And you said you’d like to tape your interviews, so you don’t miss anything.”

  Asha smiles. She recalls the conversation with Mom, when she meant audio-recording.

  “You wouldn’t believe how many different options there are,” her mom continues. “But the man at the camera store said this has the most important features—a zoom lens and a computer connection. You can hook it right up to your Mac for editing.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” Asha says. “This is great. I can’t wait to use it.” She holds the camera up to her eye and points it at her father. “C’mon, Dad—smile!”

  29

  REAL LIFE

  Mumbai, India—2004

  KAVITA

  “DO YOU REALLY THINK SHE WOULD GO OFF LIKE THAT WITH his best friend?” Kavita says, linking her arm through Jasu’s as they leave the cinema.

  “Of course not, chakli. It’s not meant to be real life. It’s a film only.” He wraps his arm around her shoulders and leads her across the busy street during a short break in the traffic.

  “Then why do they make films like that? Something that will never happen?” she says once they make it safely to the other side.

  “Time-pass, chakli!”

  “Hmmm.” The concept of simply passing time is almost as strange to Kavita as the idea that they can now afford to go to the movie theater on a whim.

  “What would you like to do now, chakli? Something cold?” he asks as they approach an ice cream shop.

  “Yes, I’ll have a cold coffee, please,” Kavita says. She’s recently discovered this sweet, creamy indulgence and finds it hard to resist on a warm evening like tonight. She used to wonder about the people who lined up at these places, willing to spend their hard-earned rupees on such frivolity.

  “Ek cold coffee, ek pista ice cream,” Jasu says to the man wearing a paper Nehru cap behind the counter. A few minutes later, he hands the tall drink to his wife, and they continue strolling. The streets and footpaths are crowded. It is Saturday evening, the one night of the week when all of Mumbai seems to shake off its worries and go out on the town. The restaurants are full of families, and later, queues will form outside the popular nightclubs. This world too is a fairly recent discovery for Kavita and Jasu.

  IT STARTED A FEW YEARS AGO, WHEN VIJAY TOOK THEM OUT TO a sit-down restaurant to celebrate his sixteenth birthday. It was the first time they had been to a restaurant with tables covered in crisp white cloths. Vijay had successfully finished his Tenth Standard and started a messenger business with his friend Pulin. Kavita and Jasu still wished he would pursue a different path. “Beta, you are such a smart boy. You’ve gone so much further in school than we did. Why do this messenger business like a common person?” Jasu said. “You can do better. Why not find a good office job?”

  “Papa, this is a good job,” Vijay said. “I am the boss. Nobody tells me what to do.” Vijay ordered for all of them, since he was the only one who could read the menu. Kavita didn’t recognize the dishes he chose, but all the food was wonderful, presented on gleaming silver trays and served to them by waiters. She felt like a queen, and she could tell from Jasu’s boisterous talk, he was proud as well. At the end of the evening, Vijay pulled out a wad of cash to pay for the check. Kavita had seen it many times by then, but each time he unfolded the thick pile of bills and counted them out, a cold hand grabbed her heart.

  “I LOVE PISTACHIO, I COULD EAT IT EVERY DAY.” JASU FINISHES his pale green ice cream.

  “You practically do eat it every day now,” Kavita says, elbowing him in the ribs.

  “Shall we take a rickshaw home?” Jasu holds her arm to guide her through the busy sidewalk. It is so much more pleasant to be able to take a rickshaw in the evening than ride the crowded train. Up ahead, a ring of people seems to be gathered around a street performer of some sort.

  “What’s going on there?” Kavita says. “Musician or snake charmer? Let’s go see.” The rhythmic clapping of the crowd draws them in. A couple of men are perched up on the low stone wall to get a better look. When Kavita and Jasu finally get close enough, both of them are shocked by what they see at the center of the circle of men. It is a woman, a girl really, not older than eighteen. She is down on her knees on the ground, crying, disoriented, groping about for something. A man in the circle is holding one end of her sari, which is almost completely unraveled from her body. Her sari blouse is torn down the middle, exposing her breasts.

  Jasu pushes his way to the front of the crowd and crouches down next to the girl. He turns and rips the sari out of the man’s hand and yells at him, “Dirty bastard! Have you no shame?” He tries to rewrap the garment around the girl, but finding this too cumbersome, he removes his own shirt and slips it onto her shoulders, shielding her bare skin from the hungry eyes devouring her.

  “Heh, bhaiyo, step aside. Don’t ruin our fun!” A man calls out from the circle.

  The girl’s hands finally find what they’ve been groping for—a pair of eyeglasses, now cracked and smudged with dirt. She puts them on her face, stands, and wraps herself tightly in Jasu’s shirt. Kavita looks at the girl’s face. Her forehead is too large, her eyes are set too far apart. She realizes, in an instant of horror, the girl is mentally retarded. She sees the same flicker of recognition on Jasu’s face, which turns immediately to fury.

  “Fun? This is your fun?” he yells at the men assembled around them, some of whom now peel away from the group. “Arre, this is shameful behavior. She is an innocent girl! How would you feel if someone treated your wife this way? Your sister? Your daughter? Heh?” Jasu, wearing only a sleeveless undershirt, gestures menacingly to the few men who remain there, unable to accept the untimely end to their entertainment.

  Kavita quickly walks over to the girl and leads her away from the crowd. “You okay, beti?” she whispers as they stand against a tree trunk. The girl nods mutely in response. “Where do you live? You need paisa to get home?” The girl keeps nodding in the same rhythmic way, indicating neither comprehension nor agreement. Finally the crowd disperses, and Jasu joins Kavita and the girl. “I think we should escort her home,” Kavita says, having finally learned her address. Jasu nods and steps down off the curb to hail a taxi.

  “ARE YOU OKAY?” KAVITA ASKS JASU. THEY HAVE BEEN RIDING in silence since taking the girl to her building. Jasu spoke to the lift operator there, who said he would see she got safely upstairs to her parents’ apartment.

  “Hahn,” he says in monotone. “I was just thinking…t
hat poor girl was so defenseless, and all those men just…If we hadn’t walked by just then, what would have become of her?”

  “You did a good thing. It was brave of you.” Kavita puts her hand on his arm.

  “It wasn’t bravery so much, just chance we were there. Just chance…” He trails off again, then shakes his head. “No matter. It’s done now. I hope it didn’t ruin the evening.”

  “Nai,” she says, smiling at him. “Not at all.” Kavita doesn’t say what she is thinking, how nice it was to hold the girl’s frail body in her arms until it stopped shaking, to wipe away her tears and stroke her long hair. To sing sweetly to her in the car, as her own mother used to sing to her. As she has imagined singing to her own secret daughter.

  30

  PART OF HER

  Menlo Park, California—2004

  SOMER

  SOMER STANDS AT THE SINK AFTER DINNER, HER FOREARMS COVERED in slick yellow gloves, happy for the buzz of Asha’s presence in the house. It is her first night home for the summer after her sopho-more year at Brown. Still, Somer is tentative, not sure how it will feel to be a family again. Asha has made it clear since coming home that she considers herself independent now—refusing any help with the dirty laundry that came out of her suitcase and setting up her laptop in a private corner of her room.

  And Somer and Krishnan have finally managed to find a balance predicated on plenty of space and avoiding conflict. They adhere to the easy terrain and retreat when they feel the slightest crack underneath. There was a time they argued in the open. It started almost suddenly, after Asha left. Without her presence in the house, there was no common focus for their energy, no reminder to behave well in front of her. They fought over the dozens of daily decisions that suddenly fell to them alone. Somer was not prepared for the total silence that took over the house without Asha. There was no music emanating from her bedroom, no echoes of laughter as she chatted for hours on the phone. It was the small moments Somer missed—a good-bye at the front door, a quick poke of her head into Asha’s bedroom at night—the moments that made their home and her day feel full. After so many years with Asha at the center of her life, Somer felt lost when she was gone. But Krishnan’s life hadn’t changed much: he was mostly consumed with work, spending mornings in the operating room and afternoons at his office.