The Forbidden Daughter (12 page)

“You’re sure?”

“I’m positive. So let’s forget about it.” After a brief hesitation, he asked, “How’s the baby doing? Any concerns?” He was clearly relieved to move on to a safer subject.

“She’s been waking up practically every hour. She nurses for a minute or two and dozes off, but wakes up again.” She chuckled. “Nothing unusual for a two-day old infant, I suppose.”

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“Why don’t you let her fuss a little and see if she’ll wait for about two hours?”

“I’m afraid to let her cry. There are dozens of young students in the building and a screaming baby is not going to be popular.”

“Then between feedings try using that pacifier I sent you.

Stretch the gap between meals to a minimum of two hours. She’ll gradually adjust to eating more each time.”

She turned that over in her mind. Priya had been a different kind of baby, but then, Isha had had Sundari to help her. “Since you’re the expert, I’ll try it.”

“Good. I’ll stop by in a couple of days to give her the TB vaccine.”

That was an offer Isha couldn’t refuse. She knew tuberculosis was a serious threat to the baby and the vaccine was a must.

“Thank you so much, Doctor, for everything.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Did I interrupt your busy schedule?”

“No. This is my morning tea break,” he said. “Rama, my assistant, makes the most dreadful tea, but I drink it anyway. He’s convinced that I love his tea.” His voice was filled with mocking amusement.

“I’m sure Rama means well.”

“He does,” he admitted with a chuckle. “I better go. Saroj-bayi, my nurse, is trying to remind me I have patients waiting.”

Isha thanked him again and ended the call. A smile tugged at her mouth. Now
that
was a very interesting conversation—and refreshing. It had been a while since she’d conversed with an intelligent adult who wasn’t a nun.

Chapter 9

Dinner at the Salvi home was something Harish looked forward to every evening. It was an excellent way to relax after working with sick and weepy children all day. He looked fondly at his family seated around the table.

His father, Dinanath Salvi, now retired from teaching high school mathematics and physics, was still very much into reading and discussing politics, his favorite pastimes. He loved a good debate with his family at the table. But he had retained the stern schoolteacher stance and rarely tolerated any opinions that didn’t agree with his. He still continued to dress like a teacher, too, in black pants and white or cream shirts.

His mother, Shalini, was a plump, homely woman who chose not to argue with her husband on most topics. If she didn’t happen to like his views, she merely shook her head and rolled her eyes—always behind his back, never to his face. A good Hindu wife wasn’t supposed to disagree with her husband, at least not overtly.

Harish’s older brother, Satish, a chartered accountant with a prosperous financial consulting business, was a gregarious individual who liked to tell the family witty stories about his vast number of clients. Satish’s wife, Prachi, was an ob-gyn, with a flourishing practice of her own and her own repertoire of anecdotes.

Satish and Prachi had a four-year-old daughter, Reshma, an adorable girl with her father’s sense of adventure and her mother’s 84
Shobhan Bantwal

lively, dark eyes and capacity for laughter. Being the only child in the family, she was the center of attention in the Salvi clan. She had been fed by her doting grandmother earlier and was asleep in her room at the moment.

With three professionals who worked odd hours, dinner was usually at a late hour. But there was always plenty of interesting conversation at the table.

“So, what’s going on with your tiny tots lately, Harish?” his brother asked him. “You haven’t told us a single interesting story this month.”

Harish shook his head. “That’s because there’s nothing to tell.

Most of my patients are too sick with the flu these days.” He gave his brother a wry smile. “You’re the one with the funny stories.”

As compared to Satish’s tales of stingy old foxes, who tried every dirty trick to avoid paying taxes and were amassing a fortune, Harish’s anecdotes about naughty and snotty kids seemed too tame.

Prachi’s hilarious accounts of how some woman gave birth while taking a bath or how one patient’s husband insisted on singing at the top of his lungs in the delivery room because he wanted his child to appreciate good music and recognize his father’s voice, were so amusing, they had everyone in stitches.

Anyway, Harish, the more serious of the two brothers, preferred to be entertained rather than play the entertainer.

Tonight, they were eating their mother’s
Kolhapuri
Chicken Curry,
dal—
seasoned split lentils—cauliflower and peas cooked in a coconut gravy, cucumber salad, and
chapatis
—thinly rolled whole wheat bread. Harish helped himself to more of the chicken. “Mamma, this is superb,” he told his mother.

His mother’s round face lit up. “I will give you the leftover curry with some
chapatis
and rice for tomorrow’s lunch.”

“I don’t have time to eat an elaborate lunch. I rarely have time to eat at all,” he told her.

His father frowned at him across the table. “
Arré
, what kind of nonsense is it to skip lunch? If you don’t eat properly, then how can you advise your patients about proper nutrition?”

“Dada, my patients are young, growing children who need THE

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good nutrition,” Harish reminded his father. “I’m a grown man and can afford to miss a meal or two.”

“No missing-bissing of meals, understand?” chimed in Mamma.

“I will not hear of it!” His mother could be just as rigid as his father when it came to nutrition and health matters. “Have Rama heat up the chicken in that costly microwave oven you bought for your office.”

“But, Mamma . . .” He shrugged and gave up. When his mother decided to fill him up with food, there was no arguing with her. Besides, her chicken curry was the best.

She gave him one of her hopeful looks, her soft brown eyes turning softer. “You know something, Harish? I got a letter from an eligible girl’s father today. He says your horoscope and hers are matching nicely.” She gave Harish a second for that little tidbit to sink in. “Nice girl she is, good-looking and clever also. She is a children’s doctor, just like you.”

Harish shifted in his chair.
Here we go again,
he thought wearily,
talking about eligible girls and marriage
. He put a hand on his mother’s to soften the impact of what he was about to say. “Mamma, how many times have I told you I’m too busy to get married?”

This time Satish jumped in, looking so much like their father when his expression turned serious that Harish was amazed at the resemblance. They had the same sharply angled jaw and the hooked nose that reminded Harish of a hawk’s beak. They both had the schoolmaster look.

But their personalities couldn’t be more different. Dada didn’t have a single humorous or adventurous bone in his body, while Satish had an abundance of both. Which ancestor had passed those on to him? It was still a puzzle.

“If this girl is a pediatrician, then she’s the best solution to your problem of overwork,” said Satish. “She and you can share the practice.” He threw Harish a grin. “Perfect arrangement, if you ask me.”

Unfortunately for Harish, his sister-in-law, too, nodded en-thusiastically. “All the girls so far were not pediatricians, but this one is. Satish is right. What could be more perfect?”

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Shobhan Bantwal

Having finished his meal, Harish rose from his chair. “I’ll think about it.” Usually that appeased them for a while. Seeing their dubious expressions, he added, “Seriously.”

That was all the encouragement his mother needed. “Very smart she is, just like Prachi, no? My sister says she knows the family and the girl is very beautiful—”

“In that case,” Harish interrupted her, “she may be far too good-looking for me. Why would she want to settle for someone as plain and boring as me?”

Satish chuckled and leaned back in his chair, looking smug.

“That’s the lamest excuse I’ve heard. Prachi married me in spite of my looks, didn’t she?”

“But you’re a handsome specimen compared to me,” argued Harish, despite knowing that in their culture a man’s looks didn’t matter one bit as long as he had a healthy income and a good, solid family background. Only girls were assessed by their appearance. How unfair was that?

“Who says you are not good-looking?” His father pounded a fist on the table, his trademark gesture for demanding attention.

Sometimes he seemed to forget that he was no longer a stick-wielding schoolmaster. “You have good stature and you are a brilliant doctor. Any girl should be honored to marry you.”

Harish laughed. “I’m your son, Dada. Even if I were a bald-headed midget with no teeth, you and Mamma would think I was good-looking.”

Prachi snickered at Harish’s droll comment but quickly suppressed the laughter as her eyes traveled to her father-in-law’s bushy eyebrows knitted in a piqued
V
. She managed to clear her throat and supported his opinion instead. “Dada’s right. Any girl would snatch you up in a minute, Harish.”

Harish angled an amused look at her. “Is that a fact? Would
you
have agreed to marry me?”

“Well . . . I suppose.” She cleared her throat again. “But . . . I liked your brother better. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have considered you, of course,” she said with a wicked smile. She had an impish sense of humor.

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“Excuse me! What’s this I hear?” Satish stared at his wife, feigning dismay.

“You heard me, my dear,” she replied coyly. “I preferred you.”

It was Shalini who put an end to the gentle ribbing, which she probably construed as flirting between her daughter-in-law and her younger son. “
Chhee-chhee,
what kind of silly talk is this—

a married woman considering another man?” She tossed a disapproving glance at Prachi and started to clear the table. “In our society, once a woman marries, then she should be
pati-vrata.”

Completely faithful and devoted to her husband. “She should not even be thinking about other men, let alone talk this way.”

Harish put a playful arm around his mother’s shoulder. “Oh, come on, don’t tell me you’ve never looked at another man since you married Dada.”

“Of course not!” A slap on the hand was what Harish earned for his brazen comments. “I married your father thirty-six years ago and I have not cast an eye on another man since then.”

“What about before you married him?”

Shalini sniffed in disdain and started stacking the
thalis
—the large stainless steel plates used as everyday dishes. “Respectable Maharashtrian girls don’t make flirty eyes at men.”

Harish noticed the veiled amusement in Prachi’s dark, sparkling eyes. He suspected that later, after the elders went to bed, Satish, Prachi, and he would likely get a good laugh out of this topic. They often roared with laughter at Dada and Shalini’s antiquated notions.

Satish stood up and pushed in his chair. “But, Mamma, what about all those romance novels and women’s magazines in your room? The magazines have articles like ‘Ten Ways to Heat Up Your Sex Life’ and ‘Making Love in the Most Unlikely Places.’ ”

“That kind of nonsense I do not read!” Shalini snapped. “I only look at recipes and good spiritual articles and stories.” She took her stack of dishes and swept out of the room.

Satish and Harish burst into laughter. Under pressure to be the well-behaved daughter-in-law, Prachi barely allowed her lips to twitch.

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Shobhan Bantwal

“Stop making
tingal
of your mother!” The sharp reprimand from their father brought the hilarity to an abrupt stop.
Tingal
was a slangy Marathi word for mockery.

The three of them watched the older man rise from his chair and stride toward the drawing room. They knew he would settle down to watching some TV and then head for bed. The minute they knew he was out of earshot, they all started to snicker once again.

“
Tsk-tsk.
So many years since he retired and he still thinks he’s a teacher and we’re his pupils,” murmured Satish.

Harish shook his head. “After coming to live with you two hell-raisers, I’m surprised he hasn’t changed.”

Just then his mother came out of the kitchen and handed him a plastic bag. It had containers filled with the leftovers she’d promised him. “Now don’t forget to take it to the office tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mamma.”

“And tell Rama to heat it for several minutes. Nonvegetarian food needs to be reheated thoroughly.”

“Yes, Mamma.”

“Refrigerate the bag immediately after you reach home.” Shalini headed back to the kitchen.

“Yes, Mamma.”

Satish snickered. “You’re such a bull-shitter, Harish Salvi. You have no intention of eating that chicken for lunch, do you?”

Harish smiled. “You’re right, but I promise it won’t be wasted.”

“That’s enough for tonight, Priya,” said Isha, inserting a book-mark in the colorfully illustrated storybook and setting it aside.

“More please, Mummy.” Sitting on the floor at her feet in mauve- and white-gingham pajamas, Priya looked tired and more than a little sleepy. But she loved a good story.

“Uh-uh, it’s past your bedtime.” Isha glanced at the baby sleeping peacefully on the cot. “I need my rest, too. In about an hour your sister is going to wake up hungry.”

Priya lay down on the bedroll with a resigned sigh. “Will you read some more tomorrow?”

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Isha shut off the light and settled next to the infant. “I promise.” Within two minutes Priya was fast asleep. Isha could clearly hear her daughter’s soft, even breathing.

Despite the need to sleep, Isha remained awake a while longer, pondering the immediate future. When was the money going to be released by the insurance company? She had filed the papers months ago and she desperately needed the funds to get on with her life. And her plan.