Secret Daughter

by Shilpi Somaya Gowda

  “Not bad for an old lady,” her mom says, wiping her face and reaching for the pitcher of water in the center of the table.

  “Devesh, limbu pani layavo!” Dadima calls over her shoulder into the kitchen. Devesh appears with a chilled glass of freshly squeezed lime and sugarcane juice, and places it on the table in front of Asha’s mom. Ever since her mother took a liking to this labor-intensive beverage, Dadima has had a glass ready for her after their morning run. “Don’t call yourself an old lady! What on earth would that make me?” Dadima laughs.

  Her mother takes a sip. “Mmm. Delicious. Thank you, Sarla.”

  Dadima wobbles her head sideways and excuses herself, leaving the three of them.

  “So, you’re totally off of coffee, Mom?” Asha says.

  Somer nods. “The first couple weeks were rough, but now I find staying hydrated keeps me alert throughout the day, and I don’t miss the caffeine at all.”

  “I can’t believe how toned you are.” Asha places a hand on her mother’s bicep. “Have you been lifting weights?”

  “A little. It’s mostly yoga though. I found this great studio near…uh, near the clinic.”

  “Yoga, huh? Maybe I should go with you, I could use a little toning after all the fattening up I got from Dad’s family. Doesn’t she look great, Dad?” Asha turns to him.

  “Yes,” he says, sharing a private smile with her mother. “Yes, she really does.” Her dad encircles her mom with his arms from behind, and kisses her on the head. “And did you know your mom published an article in a medical journal?”

  “You did?” Asha says.

  “Yeah, how about that? Now you’re not the only writer in the family.” Her mom smiles.

  “ARE YOU SURE YOU WON’T COME, DADIMA? I PROMISE NOT TO tell anyone,” Asha says, raising one eyebrow at her and smiling. She puts a stack of folded clothes into a large suitcase on the bed.

  “Nai, nai, beti. It has not even been two weeks since the cremation. I cannot leave the house except to go to the temple. Besides, what place is there for an old woman like me at the airport? I would just be in the way, like one more trunk for you to look after.” She smiles at Asha. “Don’t worry. Nimish will take you, and Priya is coming too, no?”

  “Yes,” Asha says, straining to zip up the overstuffed suitcase. “They’ll be here in a couple hours. But I still wish you would come.”

  “You’ll just have to come back soon then, beti. How about next year? Maybe our Priya will finally agree to get married next wedding season.”

  “I don’t know, Dadima. I wouldn’t count on it.” Asha laughs and sits down on the bed, between the suitcase and her grandmother. In the quiet that follows their laughter, Asha stares at the floor, at her grandmother’s ancient, gnarled feet that have walked so many miles with her over the past many months. Dadima tucks a fallen strand of Asha’s hair behind her ear, and with this touch, Asha squeezes her eyes closed. She feels her face contort as she begins to cry.

  “Beti.” Dadima puts one hand on top of Asha’s hands and strokes her hair with the other, just repeating this simple gesture while she cries.

  “I don’t know how to thank you for everything. I can’t believe it took me twenty years to get here.” She takes a deep breath before continuing. “I thought I had it all figured out before I came here, but I was wrong about so many things. I feel like there’s still so much I don’t know.”

  “Ah, beti,” Dadima says, “that is what growing up is. Life is always changing on us, presenting us with new lessons. Look at me, I’m seventy-six, and I’m just now learning how to wear white.” Asha forces a smile. “Which reminds me, I have some things for you.” Dadima stands up and walks toward the bedroom door.

  “Dadima, no!” Asha says. “I just got my suitcase closed.” She falls back on the bed, laughing, and wipes her eyes with the heels of her palms.

  “Then you’ll just have to take another one,” Dadima says as she shuffles out of the room. She returns with a cardboard box and sits next to Asha on the bed. She reaches inside the box, pulls out a thick dust-covered book, and hands it to Asha.

  Asha runs her hand over the navy blue cover and the gold letters spelling out Oxford English Dictionary. “Wow. This must be fifty years old.”

  “Older, even,” Dadima says. “My father gave this to me for my graduation, about…oh, sixty years ago. I told you he was an Anglophile. I found it quite handy when I was giving my tutoring lessons. You will do much greater things in your career, I know. Keep it on your desk as a reminder of the confidence I have in you, just as my father had in me.”

  Asha nods, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. “I will,” she whispers.

  “And one more thing.” Dadima hands her a blue velvet rectangular box. Asha flips the clasp and opens the hinged lid. She pulls back when she sees what’s inside. It is a matching set of jewelry, deep yellow gold encrusted with bright green emeralds: a necklace, drop earrings, and four bangles. She looks up at her grandmother, her mouth slightly parted.

  Dadima shrugs. “What use do I have for jewels, at my age? I’m not going to weddings anymore. I wore this at my own wedding.”

  “Oh Dadima, but don’t you want to keep it?” Asha looks at her with disbelief.

  Dadima shakes her head. “In our custom, this should go to my daughter. I want you to have it. And so would Dadaji.” Asha nods at the dazzling vision of jewels in front of her. “Besides, this looks so lovely on you,” Dadima says, holding one of the earrings up to Asha’s lobe. “Shows off your eyes.” As they embrace, Dadima speaks softly. “Are you going to tell your parents what you learned, beti, at the orphanage?”

  They disentangle themselves and Asha wipes her face and nods. “After we get home. I don’t know how they’ll feel about it, especially Mom, but they deserve to know the truth.”

  Dadima wraps her cool papery hands around Asha’s face. “Yes, we all do, beti.”

  59

  RETURN OF HOPE

  Mumbai, India—2005

  SOMER

  SOMER IS PACKING HER SUITCASE WHEN THERE IS A KNOCK AT the door. “Come in,” she says over her shoulder, expecting Asha.

  Instead, Kris’s mother enters the room, carrying a large box. “Hello, beti, I have a few things for you.”

  “Oh, well Krishnan just ran downstairs to say good-bye to one of the neighbors.”

  “No matter,” Sarla says, placing a large bundle wrapped in a thin white cloth on the bed. “These are not for him, they are for you.”

  Somer moves her suitcase and sits down on the bed, she and her mother-in-law separated by the bundle between them. Sarla begins untying the string around the bundle and unfolding layers of the white cloth to reveal a stack of rich jewel-toned saris.

  “I want you to have these. I’ll give the others away to charity, but I wanted these—the ones I wore to my various wedding events—to stay in the family.” The old woman lays both of her hands, palms down, on top of the pile. “I’ve kept a few for the other girls, but they have so many of their own. They think mine are old-fashioned, which they are. I know you don’t wear Indian clothes, so you can use them for bedspreads or drapes if you want to, I won’t mind.” Sarla laughs.

  Somer unfolds the rich orange-yellow sari on top of the pile and runs her hand over the smooth silk, the ornate gold designs along the edge. It is breathtaking, the color of sunset. “That would be a shame. I’d like to try to wear them, I don’t know how but—”

  “Asha can show you.” Sarla’s smile accentuates the deep lines around her mouth.

  “Thank you. I know how special these are. I promise to take good care of them,” Somer says, feeling the emotion well in her chest. “I appreciate it. And…I appreciate you taking such good care of Asha over the past year.”

  “Well”—Sarla covers Somer’s hands with her own—“no one can take the place of a mother, but I tried to look after her for you. She is a very special young woman. I see a lot of you in her. You should feel proud of how you’ve raised
her.”

  “Thank you,” Somer says, tears filling her eyes. The door squeaks open and Krishnan enters. “But I didn’t do it alone, as you know.” She laughs, cocking her head toward the door. “Your son deserves some credit too.”

  “Yes, please give me some credit. What have I done this time?” Krishnan says.

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Come, sit,” Sarla says. “I have some things for you.”

  Somer lifts the bundle of saris in her arms and walks to the other side of the room while Krishnan sits in her place on the bed. She wonders for a moment if she should leave, to allow them some privacy, but then Sarla speaks to them both.

  “I know you have many bodies of water there, where you live in California?” she says. “Perhaps you can find a nice spot, someplace peaceful your papa would like.” She hands Kris a small jar filled with gray ash. “And you can sprinkle these.”

  From across the room, Somer sees Kris’s shoulders sink a few degrees as he takes the jar.

  “We’ll scatter some here in the sea when it’s time, but…” Sarla juts her chin out and her eyes glisten as she looks at her son. “But he was always so proud of you for being there.

  “And, this is also for you. A little old, but it still works.” Sarla pulls out of the box a well-worn stethoscope.

  Somer immediately recognizes the instrument she saw Kris’s father wear every single day on their last visit. He was inseparable from that stethoscope, and it often accompanied him to the dinner table. Krishnan has little need for one now in his own practice, probably hasn’t used one in years, but she understands the significance of this gift.

  “Are you sure? You don’t want to keep it—” he says, turning it over in his hands.

  Sarla closes her eyes. “Hahn, beta, I’m sure. He made his wishes very clear.”

  THEY WAIT IN THE AIRPORT LOUNGE, ONE MORE HOUR TO GO before boarding their plane. Krishnan drinks what he deems to be his last cup of true Indian chai, and Asha and Somer sip tonic water with lime.

  “Mom taught me the sun salutation this morning,” Asha says to Kris. “You should have joined us. You’re going to be stiff and sore by the time we get home, and we’ll be all limber.” Kris shakes his head with a smile and turns back to his newspaper.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking about going on a yoga retreat for two weeks next year,” Somer says.

  “Cool. Where?” Asha says.

  “Mysore.”

  Kris looks up from the paper, he and Asha look at each other, and they both look at Somer. “Mysore…India?” Kris asks.

  “Yes,” she replies. “Mysore, India. They have a big yoga retreat center there. I’ve been talking to my instructor about it. She thinks I’m almost ready.” A slow smile spreads across her face. The first time she came to India, it was for Asha. This time was for Krishnan. Perhaps next time will be for her. “Maybe we can make it a family trip.”

  “Yeah,” Asha says, “that would be great.”

  “Only you”—Somer reaches over to pat Kris on his belly—“You will have to get into better shape if you want to keep up with us.” They all laugh.

  Asha stretches her arms over her head and yawns. “I am not looking forward to this flight,” she says. “Twenty-seven hours? That’ll be the longest time we’ve ever spent this close together.” She points to Somer in the chair on her left and Kris on her right.

  “Well, not really,” Somer says. Kris peers over his bifocals, and Asha looks at her with a furrowed brow. “I believe it was about twenty years ago, we made the same flight?”

  Krishnan chuckles. Asha smiles and gives her a playful punch in the shoulder.

  SOMER RECLINES IN HER AIRPLANE SEAT, WATCHING THROUGH the window as the glimmering lights of Mumbai recede into the darkness of night. In the seat next to her, Asha is already asleep, her head and pillow resting on Somer’s lap, her feet in Krishnan’s. They should both try to sleep as well, but she knows Krishnan, like her, is reluctant to disturb Asha. He extends his hand to Somer, and she takes it. They rest their interlocking hands on Asha’s sleeping body between them, just as they did the first time they made this journey.

  60

  SUCH A GOOD THING

  Mumbai, India—2009

  JASU

  HE CLUTCHES THE WORN SLIP OF PAPER IN HIS HAND, TRYING TO compare the letters written there to the red sign hanging on the door in front of him. Looking back and forth from the paper to the door several times, he is careful not to make a mistake. Once he feels certain, he presses the bell, and a shrill ring echoes inside. While he waits, he runs his palm over the brass plaque next to the door, feeling the ridges of the raised letters with his fingers. When the door opens suddenly, he pulls back his hand and gives another slip of paper to the young woman in the doorway. She reads the note, looks up at him, and steps back to let him enter.

  With a slight tilt of her head, she indicates he should follow her down the hallway. He makes sure his shirt is tucked in underneath his slight paunch of a belly, and runs his fingers through his graying hair. The young woman walks into an office, hands the slip of paper to someone inside, and then points him to a chair. He enters, sits down, and clasps his fingers.

  “I’m Arun Deshpande.” The man behind the desk wears thin spectacles. “Mr. Merchant, is it?”

  “Yes,” Jasu says, clearing his throat. “Jasu Merchant.”

  “I understand you’re looking for someone.”

  “Yes, we—my wife and I—we don’t want to cause any trouble. We just want to know what happened to a little girl who came here twenty-five years ago. Her name was Usha. Merchant. We just want to know if she is…well, we want to know what happened to her.”

  “Why now, Mr. Merchant? After twenty-five years, why now?” Arun says.

  Jasu feels his face flush. He looks down at his hands. “My wife,” he says softly, “she is not well…” He thinks of Kavita lying in bed, hot with fever, whispering the same words over and over in her delirium, “Usha…Shanti…Usha.” At first, he thought she was praying to herself, until the night she clasped his hand and said, “Go find her.” After a phone call to Rupa, he learned the truth of what happened twenty-five years ago and understood what she was asking of him. Now, he finds the right words to explain. “I want to bring her some peace, before it’s too late.”

  “Of course. You must understand, our first priority is to protect the children, even when they’re adults. But I will tell you what I can.” He pulls a file folder out of his desk drawer. “I met this girl a few years ago. She goes by the name Asha now.”

  “Asha,” Jasu says, nodding his head slowly. “So, she still lives nearby then?”

  The man shakes his head. “No, she lives in America now. She was adopted by a family there, two doctors.”

  “America?” Jasu says it the first time loudly, in disbelief, and then again quietly, as he takes it in. “America.” A smile spreads slowly across his face. “Achha. You said doctor?”

  “Her parents are doctors. She is a journalist, at least she was when she came here.”

  “Journalist?”

  “Yes, she writes stories for newspapers,” Arun says, holding up yesterday’s Times from his desk. “In fact, I have one of her stories here in her file. She sent it to me after she went back.”

  “Achha, very good.” Jasu nods his head slowly from side to side and reaches for the page of newsprint Arun holds out. Now, more than at any other moment in his life, Jasu wishes he knew how to read.

  “You know, she came here a few years ago looking for you,” Arun says, removing his glasses to wipe them.

  “To look for…me?”

  “Yes, both of you. She was curious about her biological parents. Very curious. And very persistent.” Arun replaces his glasses and squints into them. “Was there something specific you were looking for, Mr. Merchant? Something you wanted?”

  Jasu wears a small, sad smile. Something he wanted? He came here for Kavita, of course, but that’s not all. Last year, when the police ca
lled him to get Vijay out of jail, he yelled at his son, slapped him across the face, threw him against the wall. Vijay smirked and told his father not to worry about him anymore, that next time one of his friends would bail him out. The boy has come to see Kavita only once during the past month when she’s been bedridden. Jasu shakes his head a little, looking down at the newspaper article. “No, I want nothing. I just wanted to see how she has fared. There are things in my life I’m not proud of, but…” The tears well in his eyes and he clears his throat. “But this girl has done good, no?”

  “Mr. Merchant,” Arun says, “there’s one more thing.” He removes an envelope from the file and holds it out to him. “Would you like me to read it for you?”

  KAVITA LOOKS PEACEFUL WHEN SHE’S SLEEPING, WHEN THE morphine finally brings her some comfort. Jasu sits in a chair next to the bed and reaches for her frail hand.

  With his touch, her eyes flutter open and she licks her dried lips. She sees him and smiles. “Jani, you’re back,” she says softly.

  “I went there, chakli.” He tries to begin slowly, but the words come tumbling out. “I went to Shanti, the orphanage. The man there knows her, he’s met her, Kavi. Her name is Asha now. She grew up in America, her parents are doctors, and she writes stories for newspapers—look, this is hers, she wrote this.” He waves the article in front of her.

  “America.” Kavita’s voice is barely a whisper. She closes her eyes and a tear drips down the side of her face and into her ear. “So far from home. All this time, she’s been so far from us.”

  “Such a good thing you did, chakli.” He strokes her hair, pulled back into a loose bun, and wipes her tears away with his rough fingers. “Just imagine if…” He looks down, shakes his head, and clasps her hand between his. He rests his head against their hands and begins to cry. “Such a good thing.”