Secret Daughter

by Shilpi Somaya Gowda

  The waiter arrives and places soup bowls on the table in front of each of them. Asha realizes how hungry she is, having eaten very little the past few days between the all-nighter and her grandfather’s cremation. She tastes her soup. They eat for a while, without speaking.

  “You know, when I went to the orphanage, I found out my grandmother made a big donation there, after I was adopted,” Asha says. “Our family’s name is on a plaque outside, and she never told me. Isn’t that strange?”

  Sanjay shrugs and shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so. It makes perfect sense to me. She owed a debt of gratitude.” Seeing the blank look on her face, he leans toward her and continues, “For you. She was grateful for you.”

  Asha looks down at her hands. “Really?”

  “Absolutely. It’s very common here. My grandfather had a well built back in his home village, his way of giving back to all the people who helped him.”

  Asha takes a deep breath. “It’s a little overwhelming to think about all the things people have done for me over the years, most of which I didn’t even know about, still don’t know about. I’m a product of all that—all those efforts, all these people who loved me, even before they really knew me.”

  Sanjay smiles. “That’s family.”

  “You know, I think I always held it against my parents that there was no biological connection between us. I used to think something was missing. But now…it’s remarkable really—they’ve done so much for me, you know, even without the blood. They did it just…just because they wanted to.” She wipes her mouth with a napkin and smiles. “So I suppose I owe a debt of gratitude to a lot of people.” She takes a deep breath. “And an apology to my mom.”

  “Speaking of which, you owe me a copy of your project, when it’s done. I’ll give it to my friend at the BBC. And once you’re famous, you’ll really owe me.” He winks. “At least a visit to London.”

  “We’ll see.” Asha smiles. “Hey, will you come do something with me tomorrow? I want to go by Shanti to drop something off.”

  56

  CROSSING OCEANS

  Mumbai, India—2005

  SOMER

  SOMER LOOKS OVER AT KRISHNAN IN THE SEAT NEXT TO HER, staring through the window to the empty sky. On the surface, he appears just like the hundreds of other Indian men on this plane, a well-dressed, educated professional on his way home for a visit. But Somer can detect the small indications of something else below the surface: Krishnan’s jaw, usually clenched, is slack today. His drooping upper eyelid makes his chestnut eyes seem dull and smaller than usual. And at the corner of his mouth, there is a slight quiver. It is an expression her husband does not wear often, accustomed to projecting confidence in the operating room, intensity on the tennis court, impermeability everywhere else.

  She reaches over and places her hand on top of his. His eyes begin to water, and still looking out the window, he grasps her hand, intertwining their fingers. He holds on to her as if it is necessary to his survival, as he did in the darkness last night, when they lay in bed together for the second night in a row after six months apart. All day yesterday, as they went about arranging plane tickets and expediting visas, Krishnan was composed. But last night, after their suitcases stood packed and ready in the front hall, after the taxi had been called for the morning, he wept like a child in her arms for the father he had just lost.

  There was no question she would go with him. As soon as he woke her up yesterday morning to give her the news, Somer offered to do so. She didn’t want him to have to ask, and he seemed grateful for this. Her place was with her family, and now she knew this in the deepest part of her being.

  THEY ARRIVE IN MUMBAI IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, TAKE A taxi from the airport, and are shown into the flat by a servant. They sleep a few fitful hours before morning arrives. When they enter the living room together, Somer notices how much older Kris’s mother appears, her hair thinner and completely white now. Krishnan falls to touch her feet, something Somer has never seen him do before. He and his mother embrace and exchange a few words of Gujarati. Their conversation at the breakfast table over tea and toast is sparse, muted.

  “Beta, we have some paperwork to take care of at the bank,” Dadima says to Krishnan. He nods and looks at Somer.

  “It’s fine, you go ahead. I’ll wait here for Asha to wake up.”

  SOMER OPENS THE DOOR TO ASHA’S ROOM AND SEES HER daughter sleeping soundly, her hair splayed out across the pillow, her breathing peaceful and heavy—looking at once older than when she left, and resembling the child she has watched sleep so many times before. Somer closes the door quietly and returns to the living room. She glances at her watch, picks up her mobile phone, and dials.

  “Hello, this Dr. Somer Thakkar. Can you please page Dr. Woods for me? I’ll hold. Thank you.” In the several minutes that pass, she stares at the tablecloth, tracing the floral patterns with her fingernail. Finally, she hears a voice.

  “Dr. Woods.” His voice betrays the fact that he’s been awoken.

  “James, it’s Somer. I’m sorry to disturb you this late, but—”

  He yawns. “That’s okay. I’ve been trying to reach you. It’s good news, Somer. Biopsy results came back negative. It’s a benign cyst. You’re clear.”

  Somer closes her eyes and breathes her response. “Oh, thank God.” She exhales a long breath. “Thank you, James. Go back to sleep. Bye.” She puts the phone down and rests her head in her hands.

  “Mom?”

  Somer turns around to see Asha in a nightshirt, her hair disheveled. “Asha, honey.” She stands up, opens her arms, and Asha walks into them.

  After they embrace, Asha pulls back to look at her. “Mom? What was that? Who were you talking to just now?”

  Somer strokes her daughter’s hair and notices it has grown several inches. “Come here, honey, I need to tell you something.” She takes Asha’s hand, and they sit down together at the table. “I’m fine, I want you to know that first. I had a biopsy a couple days ago on a lump in my breast, and it turned out to be benign. So everything’s fine.”

  The lines etched into Asha’s forehead remain. Her eyes are earnest.

  “Really, I’m fine,” Somer says, touching Asha’s knee. “It’s so good to see you, honey.”

  Asha leaps forward and throws her arms around Somer’s neck. “Oh, Mom. Are you sure you’re okay? Positive?”

  “Yes, positive.” She grabs Asha’s hands and squeezes them. “How are you?”

  Asha sits back down in her chair. “I’ve really missed you, Mom. I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Of course.” Somer smiles. “Where else would I be?”

  “I know it means a lot to Dadima too,” Asha says. “She tries not to show it, but this has been hard on her. I can hear her crying in her room at night.”

  “It must be devastating,” Somer says. “Losing her husband after, what, fifty years?”

  “Fifty-six. They were married the year after Independence,” Asha says. “She’s an amazing woman. I’ve learned so much from her. Everyone’s been great—do you know I have thirty-two cousins here? It’s been good, really good.”

  Somer smiles. “And how about your project?”

  Asha’s eyes glimmer and she straightens her back. “You want to come to the Times with me today? I can show you.”

  SOMER FOLLOWS ASHA THROUGH THE MAZE OF THE NEWSROOM, impressed with how assured her daughter seems in this environment.

  “Meena?” Asha finally stops to knock at someone’s door. “I want you to meet my mom.”

  The petite woman springs out of her chair. “Ah, so this is the famous Dr. Thakkar. Asha speaks very highly of you. It’s a privilege.”

  She extends her hand and Somer shakes it, conscious of how good it feels to be recognized as Asha’s mother on sight.

  Meena turns to Asha. “Have you shown her yet?”

  Asha shakes her head, smiling.

  “Bring it in here,” Meena says. “I’ll turn off the lights.”


  “We filmed all the interviews I did in the slums,” Asha explains, setting up her laptop on Meena’s desk. “And I edited some of the highlights together into a short film.” The three women huddle together around the screen.

  After the lights flicker back on, Somer is unable to speak, still moved by what she just saw. Asha managed to find hope in the most unlikely place. In the midst of the poverty and despair of the slums, she showed the fierceness of a mother’s love. And how we’re really all the same in that way. At the end of the film, there was a dedication to all the mothers who made the film possible. Asha listed all the women by name. Somer’s name was last, on its own screen.

  Meena speaks first. “The Times is running her story as a special feature next month. Asha will get a byline and photo credits.” She puts her arm around Asha. “Your daughter is quite a talent. I look forward to seeing what she does next.”

  Somer smiles as sparks of pride fire in her chest. Kris was right. India was good for her.

  “What I’d really like to do next is have lunch. Ready, Mom?”

  “THIS PLACE IS GREAT,” SOMER WHISPERS ACROSS THE WHITE tablecloth. “It looks new?” The menu of the hotel restaurant appears to have come right out of Florence.

  “Yeah, it opened just before I got here,” Asha says. “They have a real Italian chef and it’s so close to the flat, I can just come here whenever I get tired of Indian food.” They order salads and pasta from the waiter and dig into the bread basket.

  “So, did Dad tell you the news?” Asha asks.

  “I don’t think so.” Somer feels a reflexive tightening in her stomach, running through the possibilities in her head. “What news?”

  “I met a guy. Sanjay,” Asha says with a lilt in her voice. “He’s smart and funny and so good-looking. And he’s got these deep brown eyes, you know?”

  “Yes, I think I do,” Somer says, shaking her head. “Deadly.” They laugh together as they enjoy their meal, catching up on their months apart.

  When the tiramisu arrives, Asha apologizes. “Mom,” she says, “I’m sorry I…I’m sorry about everything that happened before I left home. I know it wasn’t easy for you—”

  “Honey,” Somer interrupts, reaching across the table, “I’m sorry too. I can see this year has been good for you. I’m so proud of what you’ve done. You seem to have learned so much, grown up so fast.”

  Asha nods. “You know,” she says softly, “what I’ve learned is that everything’s more complicated than it seems. I’m so glad I came here, got to know my family, learn about where I come from. India is an incredible country. There are parts of it that I love, that really feel like home. But at the same time, there are things here that just make me want to turn away, you know?” She looks to Somer. “Does that sound awful?”

  “No, honey.” She touches Asha’s cheek with the back of her hand. “I think I understand,” Somer says, and she means it. This country has given her Krishnan and Asha, the most important people in her life. But when she has fought against the power of its influence, it has also been the root of her greatest turmoil.

  57

  MORNING PRAYERS

  Dahanu, India—2005

  KAVITA

  EACH OF THE ROUGH STONE STEPS KAVITA CLIMBS BRINGS THE memories rushing back. Though it has been over twenty years since she shared this house with Jasu, the soles of her feet remember it as if no time has passed at all. In all the visits she has made back here to Dahanu over the past two decades, even to this very house where Jasu’s parents still live, she has never felt this way. Perhaps it is the time of day, this peaceful hour before the village awakens and the rustlings of human activity become audible from all directions. Perhaps it is the season, the last few days of spring when the chickoo trees are full of blossoms, filling the air with their sweet scent. Perhaps it is that she has come here alone: not to visit her in-laws, not to show Vijay his childhood home, but by herself. Or perhaps it is her frame of mind, having just said her final farewell to her mother yesterday at the seashore.

  Kavita left her father’s house early this morning before the nursemaid was awake. She bathed quickly and gathered a few things from the mandir—a diya, an incense stick, a string of sandalwood beads, the brass figurine of Krishna playing his flute. Her intention was only to step outside the house to perform her puja, preferring the fresh dawn air as the backdrop for her morning prayers. But once she was standing outside with those familiar items weighing in her hands, Kavita felt drawn to keep walking, all the way here to her old house. Her in-laws will be asleep for at least another hour, so she can slip away without anyone seeing her.

  Standing on top of the stone landing, Kavita spreads out the worn cloth mat in the same place she used to. She kneels down on it, facing east. One by one, she lays out the items she has brought with her: Krishna at the center, diya on the right, incense on the left, beads in front of her. Each movement follows automatically after the last, a series of rituals she has performed so many times it is natural. She strikes a match to light the diya. She holds the end of the incense stick into the flame until it catches, then waves it lightly until the dull orange glow appears at its end. When she completes the routine, she sits back on her heels and exhales slowly a long deep breath that she feels she has been holding for many years.

  She relaxes the muscles of her body and gazes into the hypnotic glow of the flame until her breath falls into a steady rhythm. The familiar scent of burning ghee and incense fills her nostrils. She sees the sun breaking through on the distant horizon, and hears the twittering of birds in the trees above her. She closes her eyes and picks up the beads, feeling the ridges of each one with her fingers, chanting softly. She is filled with something so big it feels like it will break through her lungs. Yet at the same time, she feels hollow. What fills her heart and her mind is an overwhelming sense of emptiness, a deep mourning for all the things she’s lost.

  Kavita scattered the ashes just yesterday, but it has been nearly a month since she lost her mother. She expected the sorrow, but it has come as a shock just how unmoored she has become with her mother’s passing. She left this village years ago, her parents’ home years earlier still. She has lived as an adult for a very long time, yet losing her mother has made her feel like a child again. The memories that now echo in Kavita’s mind are from so long ago she cannot place them: her mother’s cool hand on her feverish head, the scent of jasmine woven into her hair.

  Beads between her fingers

  A cool hand on her forehead

  The scent of the incense and jasmine

  Now, she is losing her father too. He is slipping away from her, she can feel it. Some days Kavita feels his spirit close; there are many more when he feels far away. Three days ago, as she fed him rice pudding with a spoon, he called her “Lalita.” Tears sprang to her eyes when she heard that name, a name she has not been called in twenty-five years, a name only her father could call her. She cries again now, remembering how it sounded on his lips.

  Lalita

  Beads between her fingers

  A cool hand on her forehead

  Incense and jasmine

  Was it the right decision to leave here, to leave their families so many years ago? Things might have turned out differently if they hadn’t. They did it for Vijay, but in the end, he was lost to them. And how long has it been since she lost Vijay? What has become of that little boy, who played in the dirt with his cousins? Where, along the way, was his innocence lost? What had happened to the child who had been named for Victory?

  Victory

  Beads between her fingers

  Lalita

  A cool hand on her forehead

  Incense and jasmine

  It has been more than twenty years since she lost her two daughters here, the one who was never given a name or a life, and her precious Usha. With thoughts of Usha comes the physical ache in her heart. There has not been a day since Usha’s birth that Kavita has not thought of her, mourned her loss, and prayed for
the hollow feelings of grief to melt away. But God has not listened. Or else he has not yet forgiven her. Because the heartache has endured.

  Usha

  Beads between her fingers

  Victory

  A cool hand on her forehead

  Lalita

  Incense and jasmine

  She has spent twenty years far away from her family. She lost first her daughters, then her son, and now her parents. The only relationship that has prospered, against those many cruel complications, is her marriage to Jasu. Yes, he has made mistakes and poor decisions along the way, but her husband has grown to be a good man. Their journey together has been littered with hardship and sorrow, and yet they learned to bury the regrets and the resentment that could have gathered force during their lives. They have grown together, toward one another, two trees leaning on each other as they age. When their time comes, perhaps she and Jasu will be fortunate to have a love like her parents, enduring beyond all reason and even death.

  Kavita thinks about all she still does not know, even now as an adult. She doesn’t know where her daughter is. She doesn’t know where she went wrong with Vijay. She doesn’t know whether Bapu will remember her today or tomorrow. She doesn’t know how she will go on without her mother’s cool hand on her forehead. The only thing she knows for certain is, for the next few days, she will tend to her father. Then she will pack her suitcase, board the train to Mumbai, and return home to Jasu.

  58

  PARTING GIFTS

  Mumbai, India—2005

  ASHA

  “MOM LEFT ME IN THE DUST AGAIN.” ASHA LEANS DOWN TO unlace her sneakers.

  Her father and Dadima are sitting at the table, enjoying a second cup of tea as they do every morning. “And she’s only had a week to get used to the lovely pollution of Mumbai,” her dad says. “Imagine how she’ll outrun you back in the fresh California air.” He kneads Asha’s shoulders a couple times when she sits down beside him.