Secret Daughter

by Shilpi Somaya Gowda

“You said ‘no’ and ‘give it to me.’ Nothing, same as always.”

  He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and nods his head. “Achha. Sorry to wake you. Let’s go back to sleep.” She nods, strokes his shoulder, and then settles back into bed. She doesn’t bother asking him about the dream that haunts him. He always refuses to tell her.

  32

  CHANGE OF CURRENT

  Menlo Park, California—2004

  ASHA

  ASHA SITS CROSS-LEGGED ATOP HER BED, SURROUNDED ON ALL sides by items to pack. In the corner of her room sits the largest suitcase she and her father could find at Macy’s, thirty inches tall. In the hallway outside her room is another just like it. Her flight to India is in two days. Normally, she would wait until the last minute to pack, but she retreated up here a couple hours ago when her father was called into the hospital to treat an aneurysm.

  She is accustomed to this, the abrupt comings and goings of her father when he’s on call. It happened at her eighth birthday party at the bowling alley, the regional spelling bee in sixth grade, and on countless other occasions. When she was younger, she used to take it personally, burst out crying when her father suddenly left in the midst of dinner. She always thought she’d done something wrong. Her mom had to explain that her father’s work involved helping people in emergencies, which could happen anytime. Eventually, it became part of their family pattern: Asha learned to always answer the call-waiting beep, and they took two cars when they went out on his call nights. Now, it no longer fazes her. The urgency of her father’s work reminds her of her own, working under deadline at the Daily Herald—the pressure, the constant awareness of time ticking down, the need to stay singularly focused until the end. She loves that feeling, and the accompanying rush of adrenaline on which she thrives.

  Still, over the past couple months, her father’s presence in the house has been the only thing keeping the simmering tension with her mother at bay. When her dad’s around, she doesn’t have to face her mom’s obvious disappointment with her decision, her constant fears and worries about this trip to India. Asha cannot bear it anymore. The more her mother tries to cling to her, control her, the more Asha wants to pull away. In her mother’s presence, she always feels ready to burst, so when her father was called in for surgery earlier today, Asha escaped to pack.

  She surveys the various piles scattered around her bedroom. On the floor is a large heap of clothes, some still dirty. On her desk are materials for her project: her laptop, notebooks, research files, video camera. On the corner of her bed is a bag of travel supplies she found sitting there one day last week when she came home. Even without a note, she knew it was from her mother: sunscreen, industrial-strength mosquito repellent, malaria pills prescribed for her, plus enough emergency medications to treat a small village. The anonymous bag of concern is one of the few acknowledgments her mother has made regarding her trip. Finally, there are the things she plans to take with her on the plane to keep her occupied on the long flight: a DVD player, her iPod, a crossword puzzle book, and two paperbacks. After some consideration, she adds a third book to this pile, a book of poetry by Mary Oliver, a parting gift from Jeremy. Inside the front cover, he wrote an inscription and included her favorite quote:

  “Truth is the only safe ground to stand on”

  —ELIZABETH CADY STANTON

  To my brightest star—

  Never hesitate in your pursuit of the truth.

  The world needs you.

  —J.C.

  There is a knock at her bedroom door, and her father pushes it open. “Can I come in?” Without waiting for an answer, he enters and sits down on the bed.

  “Sure. I was just packing.”

  “I found these and thought they might be useful for your trip.” Her father holds up two strange-looking plastic and metal contraptions. “They’re electricity converters. You plug this side into the outlet in India, then your hair dryer or computer into the other side. It changes the current of the electricity.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “And I thought these might be helpful.” He holds out a stack of photographs. “Especially once you start meeting everyone. We have a pretty big family over there, you know.” He moves around the bed to sit next to her, and they go through the photos together: grandparents, aunts, uncles, and several cousins about her age whom she knows only through sporadic phone calls and Diwali cards. She is most nervous about this, the prospect of living for almost a year with people she barely knows.

  “I’ll take them on the plane so I can learn everyone’s names before I get there.”

  “So, did you get everything worked out with the Times of India?” he asks.

  “Yeah, that name you gave me—Pankaj Uncle’s friend—he was really helpful. Once the editor heard I was on a grant from America, he was very interested. They’re giving me a desk and a senior reporter to go on location with me to the slums, but I’ll get to do all the interviews. They might even run a special feature in the paper. Isn’t that great?”

  “Yes, and it’s good you’ll have someone with you. Your mother’s been worried about that.”

  Asha shakes her head. “That, and everything else. Is she ever going to get over this? Or is she going to be mad forever?”

  “She’s just worried about you, honey,” he says. “She’s your mother. It’s her job. I’m sure she’ll come around.”

  “Are you going to come visit?” she asks.

  He looks at her for a while, then nods. “We’ll come. Of course we’ll come, honey.” He pats her on the knee before getting up to leave. “Good luck with the packing.”

  Photos in hand, Asha walks over to her old desk and sits in the chair. This desk feels small compared to the broad worktable she’s used to at the Herald office. She opens the drawer to find an envelope for the photos, feels around the clutter, and sees a familiar shape in the back of the drawer. She reaches in and pulls out the carved white marble box. My box of secrets.

  It has been years since she’s seen this box, though she could still sketch it from memory. It too looks smaller than she remembers. She wipes off a layer of dust and leaves her hand there for a moment, on the cool surface. She realizes she’s holding her breath, draws it in deeply, and opens the box. She unfolds the first letter inside, a small rectangular piece of faint pink stationery. Slowly, she reads the words written there in familiar childlike script:

  Dear Mom,

  Today my teacher asked our class to write a letter to someone in another country. My father told me you are in India, but he doesn’t know your address. I am nine years old and in the fourth grade. I wanted to write you a letter to tell you I would like to meet you one day. Do you want to meet me?

  Your daughter, Asha

  The raw display of sentiment makes her cringe. She feels tears prick at the back of her eyes and the slow flood of emotions she has not experienced in a long time. She takes out the rest of the stack of letters, and unfolds the next one. When she finishes reading them all, her face is wet. Her eyes rest upon the only item left in the box, a thin silver bangle. She picks it up and turns it around and around between her fingers.

  At that moment, she hears a knock and her bedroom door opens again. Asha spins around in her chair to see her mother standing in the doorway. She surveys the room, taking in the evidence of Asha’s imminent departure. Her eyes come to rest on Asha’s tear-streaked face and, finally, the bangle in her hands. Asha drops the bangle in her lap and hastily wipes her face.

  “What? Could you at least knock, Mom?”

  “I did knock.” Her mother’s eyes are pinned on the bangle. “What are you doing?”

  “Packing. I’m leaving in two days, remember?” Her tone is defiant.

  Her mother’s eyes turn downward and she says nothing.

  “Go ahead and say it, Mom. Just say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “Why do you have to sulk around like it’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you? It’s not happening to you.”
Asha slams her hands down on the arms of her chair. “It’s not like I’m pregnant, or going to rehab, or flunking out of school, Mom. I won an award, for God’s sake. Can’t you just be happy for me, just a little bit proud?” Asha looks down at her hands and her tone is steely. “Didn’t you ever want to do something like this when you were my age?” She looks up at her mom, daring her to answer. “Forget it. You’ve never understood me. Why start now?”

  “Asha…” Her mother walks toward her and reaches for her shoulder.

  Asha yanks herself away. “It’s true, Mom. And you know it’s true. You’ve been trying to figure me out my whole life, but you still don’t get me.” Asha shakes her head, stands up, and turns back to her desk. Shoving the letters and bangle back into the marble box, she hears the door close behind her.

  33

  WELCOME HOME

  Mumbai, India—2004

  ASHA

  ASHA STIRS FROM A LIGHT SLEEP WHEN SHE HEARS THE PILOT’S voice. He announces that they are landing ten minutes earlier than scheduled, little consolation after twelve hours in the air. It is 2:07 A.M. Mumbai local time, according to the watch she adjusted soon after the stopover in Singapore. This last leg of her journey has felt unbearably long. It has been over twenty-six hours, a full day since she said good-bye to her parents at San Francisco International Airport, and the scene was even worse than she had expected. Her mother began crying as soon as they pulled into the airport. Her parents bickered, as they were doing a lot lately, about where to park and which line to stand in inside the terminal. Her father kept a protective arm on her back the whole time they walked through the airport. When it was time for Asha to go through security, her mother held her tightly, stroking her hair as she used to when Asha was a little girl.

  When she turned to go, her dad pressed an envelope into her hand. “It’s probably worthless by now,” he said, smiling, “but you can make better use of it than I can.” On the other side of the security gate, she opened the envelope and saw it contained dozens of Indian rupee notes in various denominations. She looked back through the maze of metal detectors, tables, and people and saw her mother, still standing in the same place they had embraced. Her mom smiled weakly and waved. Asha waved back and walked away. When she glanced back over her shoulder one last time, her mother was still there.

  Asha gathers her things from the two-foot-wide space that has been her home for the past day. Her neck aches from sleeping awkwardly, and her legs feel stiff as she reaches for her backpack. Both her DVD player and iPod ran out of battery power on the way to Singapore. The paperbacks are largely untouched; she didn’t have the attention span for them. She passed the time mindlessly, consuming the meals and movies served up to her with equal disinterest. The only thing she pulled out of her backpack, again and again, was the large envelope stuffed with her father’s family photographs, and the contents of her white marble box. As the hours passed during the flight, and the miles put greater distance between Asha and her parents, she began to feel different. Nervous. Eager.

  The two young boys sitting next to her stow their Game Boys, and their mother reappears from a visit to the lavatory, having exchanged her tracksuit for a sari and applied a fresh coat of lipstick. They introduced themselves as the Doshis, back for their annual summer visit after having moved from Bombay to Seattle six years ago “for Mr. Doshi’s work.” When the plane touches down with a slight bump, the passengers cheer and applaud. Asha shuffles off the plane with the others, getting used to the feeling of standing on her legs again.

  Mumbai International Airport is complete mayhem. It seems ten other planes have all landed at this unlikely hour, and streams of passengers from all the flights are now converging upon the immigration checkpoints at once. Unsure of where to go, Asha follows the Doshis to a line at one end of the large open room. Once they’ve all secured their places in line, Mrs. Doshi turns to Asha. “It used to be much easier when we could stand in that queue,” she says, indicating a much shorter line in front of a desk labeled INDIAN CITIZENS. “But last year we had to give up our Indian citizenship. Mr. Doshi’s company sponsored him, and now we must wait in this queue. Always longer, this one.” Mrs. Doshi says this matter-of-factly, as if it is the most notable impact of their decision to move to a new country.

  Asha looks around at a sea of brown faces: some lighter, some darker than her own, but these variations are insignificant in light of the realization she has never been around so many Indians before. For the first time in her life, she is not in the minority. As she nears the front of the line, she reaches under her shirt to remove her passport from the travel belt her mother insisted she bring. The immigration officer is a young man, not much older than herself, but his trim mustache and uniform give him an air of authority that makes him seem older.

  “Reason for visit,” he says, without inflection. It is a question he asks so many times a day he no longer pretends to be curious.

  “I’m a student on a fellowship.” Asha waits for him to flip to the visa in her passport.

  “Length of stay?”

  “Nine months.”

  “What is this address you have provided? Where will you be staying?” he asks, looking up at her for the first time.

  “With…family?” Asha says. It feels strange to say this. Though it is technically true, her palms sweat, as if she has just lied to the official.

  “I see you were born here,” he says, sounding slightly more interested.

  Asha remembers that anomalous part of her American passport that lists BOMBAY, INDIA, as her place of birth. “Yes.”

  The officer bangs his stamp, leaving a deep purple rectangular bruise on her passport, and hands it back with a new smile beneath his mustache. “Welcome home, madam.”

  On the way to baggage claim, it is the aroma that greets her first. It smells salty like the ocean, spicy like an Indian restaurant, and dirty like the New York subway. Asha spots her bags among the other gigantic suitcases that fill the carousel. There are also enormous cardboard boxes wrapped completely in packing tape, Styrofoam coolers with the tightly bound lids, and one unusually large carton promising a small refrigerator inside. Mr. Doshi helps Asha lug her two suitcases off the belt, and motions to a scrawny turbaned man nearby. Just as she starts to wonder why Mr. Doshi summoned someone without a luggage cart to help her, the turbaned man squats to the ground and quickly hoists both bags on top of his head. Holding the stacked bags in place with one hand on either side, he raises his eyebrows slightly at Asha. She understands the subtle gesture to mean she should proceed; he will follow her somehow, through the thick crowd, balancing over a hundred pounds on his head.

  As soon as she steps outside, Asha is met with a gust of hot wind. She realizes she has just left an air-conditioned building, though it didn’t seem so inside. Metal barricades hold back throngs of people, at least six deep, who all crane their necks toward the sliding doors through which she has just passed. The crowd is comprised mainly of men who, with their trim mustaches and oiled hair, all look like the immigration officer, only without uniforms. And though they are all presumably waiting for someone in particular to come through that door, Asha feels several eyes lingering on her as she walks.

  Every few paces, she turns back to check on the turbaned man behind her, half-expecting her suitcases to land with a thud on the ground after breaking his neck. But each time she looks, he is still there, his gaunt face expressionless and unmoving except for a slight chewing movement of his jaw. It occurs to Asha she will need to pay this man and wonders if the rupees her father gave her will be sufficient. Her dad told her that one of his brothers, her uncle, would pick her up at the airport. This seemed adequate information at the time, but now, as she scans the crowd of hundreds that line the airport walkway it seems impossible they will find each other. She nears the end of the walkway, and is about to retrieve her uncle’s picture from her backpack when she hears someone yelling her name.

  “Asha! A-sha!” A young man waves
to her. He has wavy black hair and wears a white cotton shirt revealing his chest hair. She walks over to him. “Hi, Asha! Welcome. I am Nimish. Pankaj bhai’s son,” he says with a grin. “Your cousin brother! Come.” He leads her away from the crowd. “Papa is waiting with the car, over here only. Good, you found a coolie.” Nimish beckons to the turbaned man to follow them.

  “Nice to meet you, Nimish,” Asha says, following him. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

  “Of course. Dadima wanted to come herself to fetch you, but we told her it wasn’t a good idea, at this hour. The airport is always packed with overseas flights.” Nimish leads Asha and the coolie through a maze of cars, each with its headlights on and a driver leaning out of the window. Asha remembers her father using the term Dadima when handing her the receiver on those weekly phone calls to India; she knows it means her grandmother.

  “Here’s Papa, come.” Nimish ushers her toward an old-fashioned-looking gray sedan with the name AMBASSADOR in metallic script on the back. Asha is a little startled to see the man Nimish calls Papa. Pankaj Uncle looks quite a bit older and has significantly less hair than in the photograph Dad gave her. He is her father’s younger brother, but looks a decade older than him.

  “Hello, dhikri,” he says, holding his arms out to embrace her. “Welcome, I am happy to see you. Bahot khush, heh? How was your flight?” He holds her face in his hands and smiles broadly. And when he wraps his arm around her shoulders, it is such a familiar sensation that she leans into him. Out of the corner of her eye, Asha sees Nimish opening the trunk for the coolie. She wonders again about the envelope of rupees, but before she can say anything, Nimish has paid the turbaned man, who is already on his way back to the terminal. On the ride, her uncle peppers her with questions.

  “How was your journey? Tell me, how is your papa keeping? Why did he not accompany you on this trip? He hasn’t come to visit us in a long time.”