Secret Daughter (29 page)

Dahanu, India—2005

E
ACH OF THE ROUGH STONE STEPS
K
AVITA 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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

Mumbai, India—2005

“M
OM LEFT ME IN THE DUST AGAIN
.” A
SHA 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.

“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.

“A
RE YOU SURE YOU WON’T COME
, D
ADIMA
? 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.
”

Mumbai, India—2005

S
OMER 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.”

T
HEY 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.

S
OMER 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.