Secret Daughter (15 page)

Mumbai, India—2004

T
HE TAXI DRIVER PULLS INTO THE DRIVE OF THEIR NEW BUILDING
. They’ve lived here for over a year now, but Kavita still finds it strange to have someone waiting to open the car door for her, and another standing outside the lift to ferry them up to the third floor. Vijay insisted they move to a bigger flat a couple years ago once his business began to prosper. “I’m nineteen now, Ma. I think it’s time I have my own room,” he said.

They found it hard to argue with that, especially when Vijay said they could continue to pay the same rent they did at Shivaji Road and he would pay the difference. Kavita doesn’t know what this new flat actually costs, and she isn’t sure Jasu does either. They have their own bedroom now, as does Vijay, who comes and goes as his business requires when calls come in on his pager and mobile phone at all hours. Kavita appreciates the extra space, and the modern kitchen with its always hot running water. But still, she misses the old place on Shivaji Road, the neighbors to whom they had grown close, the local shops where they knew her.

The best change to come out of their move is in Jasu. A weight seems to have lifted off him, and even his nightmares have abated. “I feel as if I can finally relax a little bit,” he said. “Our family is stable, our son is grown. It is a good feeling,
chakli
.” Kavita doesn’t feel the same. It is unsettling to see her son as a grown man, living independently under their common roof, transacting business as an adult she barely recognizes. She still worries about Vijay spending so much time with his partner Pulin, the strange hours he keeps, the wads of cash, and various other things that enter her mind at dark times. As the elevator jolts into movement, she wonders if she will ever stop worrying about her son.

She wonders too about her daughter. Usha will be grown by now, perhaps even married. On the question of whether her daughter might now have children of her own, Kavita allows herself to speculate for just a few moments, only the duration of the elevator ride. Once the doors open, she will force her mind to change course. She has learned to make space in her daily life for such thoughts, which come without warning, without allowing them to take over completely. Kavita learned long ago she needed to find a way to live in the present while silently honoring the past, to live with the husband and child she has without resenting them for what is gone.

The elevator doors open and the operator steps out to allow Jasu and Kavita to exit. As they walk down the hallway, Kavita senses something is awry. “Do you hear that?” She turns to Jasu, gesturing with her chin to their apartment at the end of the hall.

Jasu keeps walking, swinging the key ring on his index finger. “What? Vijay probably has that television on. I don’t know how he falls asleep with it so loud.”

Kavita slows down, not reassured. By the time they reach the doorway of their apartment, they both know something is wrong. The door is ajar and the loud voices inside definitely are not coming from the television. Jasu holds his arm out behind him to keep Kavita
back, and pushes open the door with his toe. He disappears inside, and she follows him quickly. It is the debris they see first: the familiar bits and pieces of their lives scattered about, as if Kali, the goddess of destruction herself, has paid a house call.

“
Bhagwan,
” Jasu says under his breath as he steps over the broken glass of his dead father’s portrait, which once graced the front hallway, intermingled with crushed marigold petals from the garland Kavita hung on it every morning. The loud voices come from the bedroom at the end of the hallway.
Vijay’s room.
In the center of the common room, the table is overturned. The couch cushions have been slashed with a knife, their white synthetic stuffing belching out. In a trance, Kavita walks into the kitchen and sees the burlap sacks of basmati rice and lentils have suffered the same fate as the pillows, their contents spilling onto the concrete floor. All the cupboards are opened, and one of the doors hangs off its hinges.

“Kavi, listen to me,” Jasu whispers hoarsely from the living room. “Go next door and wait there. Go, quickly!” He ushers her out of the apartment before she can think to ask whether she should call the police. She knocks on the neighbors’ door, but there is no answer. She waits in the hallway for a few minutes, then returns to their apartment and walks down the hallway to the bedroom at the end, stopping outside. There are two men in tan uniforms standing inside,
lathis
in hand.
Who called the police? How did they get here so quickly?
A policeman is questioning Jasu. She steps to the side of the doorway so she is out of view.

“Mr. Merchant, I am going to ask you again, and this time you will tell me the truth. Where does Vijay keep his supply?” The officer jabs Jasu’s shoulder with his
lathi
.

“Officer Sahib, I am telling you the truth. Vijay has a messenger business. He is a good boy, very honest. He would not do what you are accusing him of.” Jasu looks up earnestly from the bed on which he sits. Only then does Kavita notice that coils are springing
out of a huge diagonal slash across the mattress.
What are they looking for?

“Okay, Mr. Merchant. If, as you claim, you don’t know what type of business your son is into, then surely you can at least tell us where to find him. Heh? At this hour of night? If he’s such a good boy, why isn’t your son home?”

Kavita peeks around the doorway. She hasn’t seen Jasu this fearful since the police raid on the slum. “Sahib, it is Saturday night, not even eleven o’clock. Our son is out with his friends like most young men.”

“Friends, heh?” The officer snorts. “You might want to keep a closer eye on your son and his friends, Mr. Merchant.” He pokes Jasu’s shoulder again. “You tell him we’re watching him.” The officer nods curtly at Kavita as he leaves.

L
ATER THAT NIGHT
, K
AVITA IS JOLTED AWAKE BY
J
ASU’S SCREAMS.
She turns to see him struggling to sit up, clawing at the sheets on top of him, yelling “
Nai, nai!
Give it to me!”

She touches his shoulder lightly at first—“Jasu?”—and then shakes him. “Jasu? What’s wrong? Jasu?”

He stops thrashing and turns to her. His glassy eyes do not register anything, as if he doesn’t know who she is. After a moment, he looks down at his open palms. “What did I say?”

“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.

Menlo Park, California—2004

A
SHA 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:

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:

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.