Authors: Shilpi Somaya Gowda
“T
HE
MULLIGATAWNY
’
S REALLY GOOD HERE
.” S
ANJAY SITS ON
the other side of the booth, his hands carefully folded on the table, his eyes penetrating hers.
At Dadima’s insistence, Asha agreed to have lunch with him today. He is leaving soon for London, but she’s been reluctant to leave her grandmother’s side since the cremation ceremony. So here she sits, with no makeup, her unwashed hair in a ponytail, in a fine hotel restaurant with the closest thing she’s had to a boyfriend. Asha closes the laminated menu. “Okay, I’ll have that,” she says. “Sanjay, what does
Usha
mean?”
He looks up from his menu. “
Usha?
It means…dawn. Why?”
“Dawn,” she repeats, looking out the window. “That’s the name they gave me. My birth parents only had me for three days before the orphanage, but they named me Usha.”
He puts down the menu and leans forward. “You found them?”
Asha nods. She hasn’t told anybody yet. And once she speaks the words out loud about the truths she now knows, they will become an
irrefutable part of her. “I found them. I didn’t meet them face-to-face, but I found them.”
The waiter approaches the table. Sanjay orders for them both and sends him away.
“Their names are Kavita and Jasu Merchant,” she continues. “They live in an apartment building in Sion.” She pauses. “And they have a son. Vijay. He’s a year or two younger than me.” She looks for a reaction from Sanjay, who nods her on. “They had a
son
after giving me away. They kept him because he was a boy, and—”
“You don’t know that was the reason.”
Asha shoots him a look of exasperation. “Come on, I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“There could be lots of explanations. Maybe they couldn’t afford to feed a child at the time. Maybe they were living someplace unsafe. Or maybe they regretted losing you and decided they wanted a child after all. You can’t know what’s in another person’s heart, Asha.”
She nods, turning the silver bangle around on her wrist. “She came from some village north of here, a few hours away. She traveled all the way to the city just to…” She trails off, feeling a lump grow in her throat.
“…to take you to that orphanage?” Sanjay finishes for her.
Asha nods. “And she gave me this.” She slides the bangle back on her wrist.
“They gave you everything they had to give,” Sanjay says. He reaches across the table for her hand. “So how do you feel, now that you know?”
Asha gazes out the window. “I used to write these letters, when I was a little girl,” she says. “Letters to my mother, telling her what I was learning in school, who my friends were, the books I liked. I must have been about seven when I wrote the first one. I asked my dad to mail it, and I remember he got a really sad look in his eyes and he said, ‘I’m sorry, Asha, I don’t know where she is.’” She turns back
to face Sanjay. “Then, as I got older, the letters changed. Instead of telling her about my life, I started asking all these questions. Was her hair curly? Did she like crossword puzzles? Why didn’t she keep me?” Asha shakes her head. “So many questions.
“And now, I know,” she continues. “I know where I came from, and I know I was loved. I know I’m a hell of a lot better off now than I would have been otherwise.” She shrugs. “And that’s enough for me. Some answers, I’ll just have to figure out on my own.” She takes a deep breath. “You know, I have her eyes.” Asha smiles, hers glistening now. She rests the back of her head on the booth. “I wish there was some way to let them know I’m okay, without…intruding on their life.”
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 prod
uct 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.”
S
OMER LOOKS OVER AT
K
RISHNAN 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.
T
HEY ARRIVE IN
M
UMBAI 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.”
S
OMER OPENS THE DOOR TO
A
SHA’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.”
S
OMER FOLLOWS
A
SHA 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?”
“T
HIS PLACE IS GREAT
,” S
OMER 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.