Authors: Shilpi Somaya Gowda
Secret Daughter (27 page)
She interrupts him by placing two fingers against his lips, and smiles. “Yes.”
I
N THE MORNING
, K
RIS OPENS HIS EYES TO SEE
S
OMER’S SUNNY
hair spilled out over the pillow. He sighs and feels the sudden rush of emotion he used to when he was first falling in love. He rolls out of bed, careful not to wake her. Walking down the stairs, he realizes the fridge is still empty from his week away and considers making a quick run to the store for breakfast. While he fills the coffeepot, he notices the red light blinking on the answering machine. The message is from his mother in India. She doesn’t say anything except to call back, but even through the crackly telephone lines, Krishnan knows something is not right.
A
SHA FALLS ASLEEP ON THE TAXI RIDE HOME FROM THE
T
IMES
office, so the cabdriver has to wake her up when they arrive. She pays him and enters the building. She’s been awake for thirty-six hours now, and most of it is a blur—writing, filming, editing—images of the women from Dharavi flash through her mind. She reminds herself to call her mom in the morning. Asha yawns, knocks on the door to the flat, and waits for Devesh’s familiar footsteps. She pulls Sanjay’s card out of her pocket.
A promise is a promise.
She’ll call him in the morning too, now that she finally has the full story herself. After several moments of waiting and hearing sounds from inside, Asha turns the doorknob to find it unlocked. Inside, she sets down her bag, steps over the assorted
chappals
littering the front hallway, and walks toward the drawing room, where she hears the murmur of low voices.
Who could be visiting at this hour?
Dadima is on the settee, flanked on each side by women who share common looks of concern. Dadima’s head is bowed, but even before she sees her face, Asha knows something is wrong. “This is
Asha, my granddaughter from America,” Dadima says as she looks up. “You’ll please excuse us for a moment.” She stands, shuffles over to Asha, and takes her hand.
“Yes, yes, of course,” the ladies say in harmony, bobbing their heads side to side.
Dadima walks silently toward the small room Asha has come to call home over the past year. She sits on the bed and gestures for Asha to sit next to her. “
Dhikri,
your
dadaji
’s time has come. He went peacefully in his sleep early this morning.”
Asha’s hand covers her mouth. “Dadaji?” She looks around the room, toward the door. “Where…?”
Dadima gently takes her hands. “
Beti,
they’ve taken his body. He passed early this morning, very peacefully.”
This morning, while I was…working?
Dadima’s voice is steady, but her red-rimmed eyes tell Asha the rest of the story. She looks down at the hands lying in her lap, two pairs intertwined: Dadima’s bony fingers with green veins visible below the sagging skin, and her own, firm and full of youth. As tears slowly parch the varied brown landscape of their hands, Dadima grips hers tighter and whispers hoarsely, “I must ask you to do something, Asha. Your father will not be here to fulfill the eldest son’s role, so you must take his place. You must light the pyre at your
dadaji
’s cremation ceremony. I have spoken to your uncles and they will be there next to you, but I want you to do the lighting.” She pauses before continuing. “It is your duty to your family,” she says firmly, to quell any forthcoming protests.
Asha knows quite clearly this is not true. Yes, it is the eldest son’s role to preside over his family once the patriarch has passed, but in his absence, other men will also do—uncles, friends, cousins, even neighbors. If there is one thing Asha has learned in India, it is that there is always a long succession of men willing to step into an honored role. She looks into her grandmother’s eyes and sees she is resolute. Dadima has swept Asha into the arms of this clan as if she has always been one of them, she has
treated her like she is both precious and strong. Your duty to your family.
My family
. People Asha had never met and barely spoken to just one year ago, who have fetched her from the airport in the middle of the night, taken her to tourist sites they had no interest in seeing again, taught her how to wear a
lengha,
fly tissue-paper kites, eat all kinds of new foods. She was not born into this family, she did not grow up with them, but it has made no difference. They have done everything for her.
And now it is her turn. Asha feels the lump rising in her throat and nods her agreement.
T
HE PIGEONS AWAKEN
A
SHA AS THE LIGHT OF DAWN SEEPS THROUGH
the window. She can hear them pecking and cawing on the balcony, scurrying among the bird feed Dadima scatters there every morning, even today. Asha rises, bathes, and dresses, as her grandmother instructed her to.
In the drawing room, a large framed photo of Dadaji is draped with fresh flowers. Dadima is sitting at the table and gazing out the window, without her regular cup of tea. “Hello,
beti
. Come, let us get dressed. The
pandit
will be here soon.” Asha is nervous about entering the back bedroom. Her eyes immediately go to Dadaji’s side of the bed. On the bed lie two saris. Dadima picks up the pale yellow one with a thin embroidered border and holds it up to Asha. “Your
dadaji
would have liked to see you wear your first sari. Put on the petticoat and blouse and I will show you how to wrap it.”
The other sari remains on the bed, unadorned and pure white, the traditional color worn by Indian widows for the rest of their lives. The absence of color, jewelry, and makeup signals their mourning. Asha marvels again at her grandmother, who can embrace tradition so fully with one hand and shatter it with the other. Before this trip, she would have found this kind of contradiction maddening, hypocritical in her parents or others. But the experiences of the past year
have taught her the world is more complicated than she ever thought. She started out seeking one family and ended up discovering another. She came to India with no knowledge of her birth parents but certainty about the rest of her life, and now the opposite is true.
Dadima’s sari blouse, tailored to fit a woman whose body has birthed and fed children, is much too big for Asha. When she proposes wearing a fitted T-shirt in its place, Dadima is reluctant but finally relents and even admits it looks good. “I wonder why we don’t all do that,” Dadima mutters to herself as she pins Asha’s sari. When Dadima finishes dressing her, Asha looks at her reflection, and she is stunned. The sari flatters her and is surprisingly comfortable.
Shortly after they are dressed, the relatives begin to arrive. Priya, Bindu, and the other women gather in the drawing room around Dadaji’s picture, some singing softly, others in quiet prayer. When the
pandit
arrives, Dadima asks Asha to follow them to the balcony. Asha’s stomach rumbles as she passes the kitchen, but Dadima has already told her they aren’t permitted to eat until after the ceremony.
Standing outside, the
pandit
bows his head to Dadima. “Where are your sons, Sarla-ji?” he asks.
“They will meet us at the
ghats,
” she says, “but Asha will be the one to assist you with the rituals, in her father’s place.”
A look of confusion passes over his face, then a small labored smile. “Please, Sarla-ji, you don’t want to compromise your husband’s soul. You should choose a male relative, one of your other sons…”
Asha looks at her grandmother, sees her tired eyes. “
Pandit-ji,
with respect, this is a family matter. We have made our decision.”
T
HEY ARRIVE TO FIND HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE ALREADY ASSEMBLED FOR
the ceremony. There are dozens of hospital staff dressed in medical coats. She sees Nimish and other cousins, her uncles and more relatives she’s met over the summer. Sanjay is standing with his father, his eyes
red like hers. She recognizes many neighbors from the building, and even the vegetable merchant who comes to their door every day. Neil and Parag from the newspaper are there. Most of the mourners greet her with head bowed and hands joined in
namaste,
and several of them bend down to touch Dadima’s feet in the ultimate sign of respect.
The wooden pyre stands nearly as tall as Asha, with Dadaji’s body wrapped in white cloth resting on top of it. Asha stands next to the
pandit
and watches attentively as he begins to sing and chant. He dips his fingers into vessels of holy water, rice grains, and flower petals, sprinkles them over the pyre, and gestures for her to do the same. Before long, the continuous rhythm of the
pandit
’s chanting soothes her, and she becomes less conscious of the people surrounding them.
The
pandit
gestures to Asha’s uncles, and they come forward. He speaks quietly, and into their upturned palms he places puffed rice, sticks of incense, a pot of
ghee
. Her uncles walk around the pyre and make their offerings to Dadaji’s body. They finish circling the pyre and return to stand by Dadima’s side.
Finally, the
pandit
speaks a few words of Gujarati to Asha and points to the flame burning in the oil lamp. Asha looks at Dadima’s lined face, into her moist eyes, and then takes a step forward. She picks up the bound branches from the oil lamp. As directed by the
pandit,
she circles the pyre three times, then touches the flame to the end of the pyre. Her hands trembling, she holds it in place until small flames lick up the edge of the wooden branches.
Asha steps back next to Dadima and watches as the flames slowly engulf the wooden pyre and finally, the white sheet-covered figure of her grandfather. Through the flickering flames, she sees the faces of her cousins and uncles.
My family.
Only her father is missing, but she knows her presence here is what he would want.
At some point, the family you create is more important than the one you’re born into,
he told her. Asha reaches for Dadima’s gnarled hand and holds it firmly in her own as the tears roll down her face.
“D
ID YOU KNOW THESE WERE HERE?” ASKS
K
AVITA, HOLDING
up a dog-eared issue of
Stardust
magazine from 1987.
“No. What was Ba doing with that? She couldn’t even read!”
“I don’t know. Maybe she liked the pictures?” Kavita flips through the tattered film magazine. “
Arre!
“Look at these outfits, so old-fashioned. Oh, my.”
Rupa walks over to Kavita, stands on her tiptoes, and peers into the metal cupboard Kavita has been going through. “
Bhagwan!
There must be a hundred of these in here!” She laughs, pulling out a stack of magazines bound together with string.
“I can’t believe she would spend money on magazines, and Bollywood magazines at that. Our frugal mother, who saved every grain of sugar. I wonder why she was keeping all of these?” Kavita says.
“Who knew Ba was such a film fan?” Rupa stacks the magazines next to her mother’s saris on the bed.
“Oh, it feels good to laugh. I feel like I’ve been doing nothing
but crying since I got here.” Kavita gives her sister a weak smile, feeling guilty again.
“
Hahn
. It was hard this morning, wasn’t it? Seeing Bapu there?” Rupa is referring to the cremation ceremony held in the village center. Their father fell to his knees and wept as soon as he saw their mother’s body on the pyre. His frail body shook violently with hollow cries. He could not be consoled by any of them. The sight of his raw grief, his utter despair, was more than Kavita could handle. She didn’t know which sight was more heartbreaking—the draped figure of her mother’s body, or her distraught father at its side. Kavita was thankful to have Jasu beside her, his strong arms bracing her as she wept like a child. Normally women mourned at home instead of attending the cremation, but the sisters could not let Bapu go alone. For some indiscernible period of time that followed, they all stood and watched the fire until the last of the embers died out. The ashes were gathered by the
pandit
with a small shovel and given to them in a clay urn. Their father had not spoken or eaten since they came home. Afterward, in the words and embraces she exchanged with guests, Kavita found herself explaining Vijay’s absence as briefly as possible, though she wanted to scream.
No, my son is not here, but his money is—in those marigold garlands, in this food you will eat.
“Mmm.” Kavita nods. “Very hard. I’m glad he’s sleeping now. Perhaps it’s a blessing his memory is going. Maybe he won’t remember it all when he wakes up.”
“Unfortunately, it seems to be the only part of his memory that is working, the part that remembers her. It’s sweet, really,” Rupa says. “Think about it, when they got married, Ba was sixteen and he was eighteen. They spent half a century together. He probably can’t even remember life before her.”
Kavita nods her agreement. She cannot form the words to answer her sister, because once again, her throat is tight with tears.
T
HE WATER IS UNCOMMONLY PLACID THIS MORNING
. D
ELICATE
ripples on the surface of the water dance coyly with the morning’s early rays. Strands of bright sunlight sit in contrast atop the dark water underneath, like gold thread woven into a dark sari. As Kavita digs her toes into the smooth cool clay of the sea bank, she tries to imagine what it would feel like to drift to the depths of this water. To be completely unencumbered, free of the worries and responsibilities of life, free to just float, float…float…and then disappear.
She knows her mother’s soul is no longer in the ashes that fill the clay urn beside her, but she wants to believe some part of her is here today. Her mother would appreciate how peaceful this morning feels. Kavita picks up the urn and wraps her hands around the wide base. “Ba,” she says softly, and then smiles, realizing it must be her mother’s spirit bringing this calm to the morning. Only years after Kavita became a mother herself did she discover how much of a hand her own mother had in everything—working quietly, purposefully, behind the stage of all of their lives. And, Kavita thinks as she holds the urn in her lap, her mother’s impact lives on still.
If the mother falls, the whole family falls.
“
Bena?
” Rupa appears beside her, with her sari draped respectfully over her head. “He is ready for us now.” She inclines her head slightly, indicating the boatman standing alongside his raft floating in the water.
“
Hahn
. Let us go.” Kavita stands up slowly so as not to disturb the urn. They walk down toward the waiting boatman, who resembles an amphibious creature himself. His body, bare except for a loincloth wrapped over his hips and thighs, is leathery from the sun. He stands in the water up to his waist, equally comfortable on land and at sea. His limbs are lean but muscular, well suited for running through the water before casting himself atop the raft. Kavita and Rupa sit on either end of the raft facing each other, while the boatman stands in the center between them. He steers with deliberate
movements of the long bamboo pole he pushes along the bottom. Kavita imagines other ashes down there, the remains of all the other loved ones scattered in these waters—fathers, mothers, sisters, children. Finally, they are far enough from the shore, and the boatman drives his bamboo pole like a spear into the sand below. The sun is now fully visible on the horizon, its orange glow warming their faces and necks.
They could have asked the
pandit
to come out here, to chant
slokas
as they scatter their mother’s ashes. But both sisters wanted to perform this final act honoring their mother alone. Even their father, they agreed, would be best served by his absence today. Two days after the cremation ceremony last month, he went back to asking after his wife’s whereabouts. Whether it was his ailing mind playing tricks on him or wisely sparing him the pain of truth, they could not be sure. In any case, they finally decided to tell him their mother had gone to visit her sister in a neighboring village and would return the following day. This aunt had, in actuality, died some years earlier, but this fact did not present a problem for their father. Rather, the explanation served to keep him calm for the duration of the day. The following morning, when he asked again, they simply repeated the lie. Each day, the lie became easier to tell. The days passed, and their father slowly returned to his former routine of simply grumbling about the weakness of his ceiling fan or the tepidness of his morning tea. After a few days, Jasu returned to Mumbai, while Kavita decided to stay awhile longer to perform these last rituals.
Kavita slides the lid from the clay urn and tilts it toward Rupa. Although there is little hierarchy to observe in their family of only daughters, she is showing respect for Rupa’s role as the elder. Rupa dips her hand into the narrow mouth of the urn and takes out a small handful of gray ash. As she slowly opens her fingers, some of it instantly disappears off the edges of her palm with the light breeze. She holds her hand out over the water and tilts it sideways until the
ash falls to the surface of the water. It floats there for a moment, and then is no longer visible, mixing with the sea and all that it holds.
Kavita reaches into the urn and sprinkles the ash back and forth in the water, a motion she has used many times to spread flour for rolling
rotli
. They watch until it disappears, then Rupa reaches inside once more. They continue like this, each alternating a handful, until the urn is nearly empty. Then, without needing to speak, together they hold the clay urn up over the water and tilt it until the last few ashes are emptied. The silence that follows is broken by Rupa. Hers are small cries at first, and grow louder until her whole body is shaking with them. Kavita wraps one arm around her sister, then another, holding her while she weeps. They watch together until the last remnants of their mother’s body have vanished below the surface.