Secret Daughter

  Kavita steps outside to make chai in the dead embers of last night’s fire. There is some leftover khichdi from dinner, which she divides into two portions, one each for Jasu and Vijay. As she prepares breakfast, other people emerge from neighboring homes to do the same. Women gather their crumpled saris between their knees to squat, and chatter together. They have lived here a long time, these neighbors. Kavita does not join in their conversation, though she does listen to the gossip they share over their cooking fires. It frightens her: tales of children gone missing, wives beaten the night before. Some of the men brew homemade liquor, then sell or trade it to the others. In their drunken state, these angry men turn on one another, their neighbors and families, to take out their rage.

  It seems it is a whole city unto itself, this slum community. There are moneylenders and debtors, landlords and tenants, friends and enemies, criminals and victims. Unlike the village she has known, people here live like animals: packed into small spaces, fighting over every necessity of life. And worse yet, many people who have been here for years already have come to accept this place as their home. They do the dirtiest, most detestable jobs in the city—they are toilet cleaners, scrap scavengers, rag pickers. Not dhaba-wallahs, who live in proper homes like proper people. As soon as Jasu gets his job, they’ll leave this place. Kavita knows they won’t survive here.

  LATER THAT NIGHT, WELL AFTER THEY HAVE ALL FALLEN ASLEEP, they are awoken by loud voices outside, men yelling. Jasu immediately jumps up toward the door. The empty Gold Spot bottles sit nearby, ready to collect water in the morning. He takes one in each hand. Kavita sits up and gathers Vijay, barely awake, in her arms. As their eyes adjust to the darkness, the voices get louder and draw closer. Jasu opens the door a crack and looks out. Quickly, he closes it and whispers to Kavita, “Police! They’re banging down the doors, looking inside. They have sticks and flashlights.” He stands with his back against the door. She moves her body in front of Vijay’s, whose eyes are now wide and scared.

  They hear pounding on doors. Bottles thrown against walls. Glass breaking. More angry voices. Then, a woman’s scream, long and loud and laced with tears. After what seems like a long time, the angry sounds begin to fade away, giving way to sinister-sounding laughter that retreats slowly into the distance. Finally, it is quiet again. Jasu is still guarding the door. Kavita beckons for him to come to her. When she holds him, she feels the fear and perspiration the police have left in their wake.

  “Mummy?” Vijay says. He is trembling. Kavita looks down to where his hands are clutching the front of his pants. They are wet. She changes his clothes, and covers the damp bedroll with an old newspaper. They all lie down in bed: Jasu with his arms around Kavita, and she with her arms around their son. In the dark, Vijay says simply, “I miss Nani.” Kavita begins to cry without making sound or movement. Vijay’s breathing eventually becomes heavy and regular, but neither she nor Jasu sleep any more that night.

  The next morning, Jasu returns from the water queue with news about the police raid, apparently a common occurrence in the basti. One of the neighbors told him the police had been looking for someone, a man suspected of stealing from the factory where he worked. Even after waking dozens of other families, they didn’t find the man at home.

  But they did find his fifteen-year-old daughter. In front of her mother and young brothers, and while the neighbors listened in fear, they brutally raped her.

  23

  GIVE THANKS

  Menlo Park, California—1991

  KRISHNAN

  “DID YOU MASH THE POTATOES YET? KRIS!”

  Krishnan is so engrossed in the pages of India Abroad, he barely hears Somer.

  “You need to mash the potatoes. The turkey will be ready in a half hour. And remember not to add any pepper this time. My dad doesn’t like spicy food.”

  Krishnan exhales loudly. Spicy food? Only an American would consider mashed potatoes, quite possibly the blandest dish ever created, to be the least bit spicy. No, that would be the battata pakora his mother made—slices of soft boiled potato, dipped in spicy batter and studded with green chilies, then deep fried until they turned golden brown. She would barely lay one on the plate before his eager fingers snatched it up. It’s been such a long time since he had a good battata pakora. He sighs as he begins mashing up the steaming potatoes in the large bowl. Somer obliges him by going out for Indian food occasionally, but she hasn’t taken a true interest in Indian cuisine, and her own cooking skills are limited. He once showed her how to make chana masala, a simple dish made with a can of garbanzo beans and some packaged spices. Now, it is the one dish she makes over and over, with store-bought pita bread. The expensive bottle of saffron his parents sent from India sits unopened on their spice rack, after Somer admitted she didn’t know how to use it.

  He adds a couple tablespoons of butter into the bowl, pours in some milk, and stirs. The whole concoction is as smooth and white as hospital bedsheets, and about as appealing. How can one eat something with no color or flavor? These potatoes have become his designated task on Thanksgiving. One year, he took some latitude and added a handful of finely chopped cilantro leaves as a garnish. The next year, he stirred a teaspoon of his mother’s garam masala with the butter. This year, he is restricted to salt and butter again.

  “I still have to get the pie into the oven.” Somer rushes to the oven, opens the door, and stabs the thermometer into the turkey for the umpteenth time.

  Krishnan never understands why Americans, and his wife in particular, get so worked up over this one meal every year. His family celebrations at home regularly featured at least a dozen dishes, all of which involved more complex preparation than putting a turkey in the oven for a few hours. And none of it came out of a tin or a box. For Diwali every year, his mother and aunts would cook for days beforehand: light fluffy dhoklas dipped in rich coconut chutney, rich vegetable curry, delicately spiced dal. Every vegetable was individually selected from the sabzi-wallah, and each spice was toasted, ground, and mixed by hand. The tart, creamy yogurt was homemade, and the parathas were rolled and served hot from the flame. The women spent hours, gossiping and laughing while they peeled, sliced, simmered, and fried up a feast for twenty people or more. Never did he see the kind of frenetic worrying his wife now exhibits. He thinks back to his first introduction to the strange rituals of an American Thanksgiving.

  IN HIS FIRST YEAR OF MEDICAL SCHOOL, HIS CLASSMATE JACOB invited him to Boston. Krishnan had only been in the United States a few months, and all that time in California, so when they arrived in Boston, the first thing that struck him was the crisp cool air and the brilliant colors of the leaves. It was the first autumn he had seen.

  There were a dozen people there, and Krishnan was soon put to work with the other men, raking leaves from the ample yard of the regal Colonial house. This was disorienting enough—he wondered why there weren’t servants to do this kind of labor—but Krishnan was even more confused by the game of touch football that ensued afterward. Inside, as they warmed their numb fingers around the fire, Krishnan could hear the tinkling laughter of Jacob’s pretty sister from the kitchen. Her cousins were teasing her about the new boyfriend she had brought home for the first time. This concept was truly foreign to Krishnan. In India, parents and other relatives served as the first level of approval for prospective mates, not the last. Courtships between engaged couples were brief and usually chaperoned. Krishnan enjoyed the meal, though he couldn’t help thinking a measure of hot sauce would make everything taste a good deal better. By the end of the weekend, Krishnan was enamored with everything he had seen: the beautiful house, the sprawling yard, the pretty blond girl. He wanted it all. He had fallen in love with the American dream.

  When he first came to the United States for medical school, he was excited about the new possibilities his life suddenly held. Stanford’s serene mission-style campus could not have felt more different from the bustling city he had left, but there was much about America he could appreciate: cle
an streets, huge malls, comfortable cars. He developed a taste for the food, particularly the french fries and pizza served at the campus cafeteria.

  Krishnan went back to India for a visit after his second year to find things had changed. It was the summer of 1975, and Indira Gandhi had just declared a state of Emergency after being declared guilty of election fraud. Political protests were quelled rapidly, and government opponents were jailed by the thousands. It was difficult to believe anything in the propaganda-filled papers, but there was a distinct sense of fear and uncertainty about the future. When he accompanied his father on rounds, he found the hospital older than he remembered, particularly in contrast to Stanford. Some of his friends were getting married, but Krishnan managed to evade his mother’s suggestion it would soon be time to start meeting girls. By the end of that summer, he found himself missing America, where life seemed good and the career opportunities superior. Going back to his homeland had tipped the scales for him, and when he returned to California for the last two years of medical school, he was quite certain he wanted to stay.

  The past decade since med school has passed in one long blur of days and nights, working relentlessly toward becoming a surgeon. He made it through one of the toughest residency programs in the country. His colleagues now consult him on their most challenging cases, and he’s often asked to guest lecture at Stanford. And he did get the pretty blond girl, now his wife. By every objective measure, he is a success. After fifteen years in this country, he has achieved that dream with which he was so taken.

  THEY ALL SIT IN THE DINING ROOM, AT THE FORMAL TABLE, WITH a little too much space between them. Somer’s father carves the turkey, and they pass around dishes filled with stuffing, cranberry sauce, gravy, mashed potatoes, and green beans. While Krishnan eats, he listens to Asha regale her grandparents with stories of her new teachers and the school uniform she loves. “The best part is there are no boys, because they can be so annoying.” Everyone laughs, and Krishnan makes an effort to smile. They eat in this room only a few times a year, he realizes, looking around, and they never fill up the table. He blinks several times. The house is spacious and beautiful but feels sterile to him, just like their lives. He doesn’t notice it as much when Asha fills it with her chatter and laughter, but even then, it never feels as full and rich as the family get-togethers he remembers from childhood. This is the life he envisioned, the life he hoped for, but somehow the American dream now seems hollow to him.

  Just a few weeks ago, his family back home was all gathered for Diwali dinner at his parents’ home, at least two dozen people in all. Krishnan was the only one missing, so they called him, passing the phone around so each could wish him a happy Diwali. He had been rushing out the door that day when the phone rang, but after hanging up, he sat motionless at the kitchen table with the phone in hand. It was evening in Bombay, and he could close his eyes and picture the millions of diyas, the tiny clay pots holding small flames lining the balconies, the street stalls, and the shop windows. Visitors came to exchange boxes of sweets and good wishes. Schools closed and children stayed up to enjoy fireworks. Ever since he was a child, it had been one of his favorite nights of the year, when the whole of Bombay took on a magical feel.

  Krishnan has raised the idea of going back to India to visit and perhaps adopt another child, but Somer has resisted. She seems intent on preserving Asha in the little cocoon they have woven around her. It’s not the way he sees family, as a precious thing that needs to be protected. For him, family is a wild sprawling thing, a strong thing that withstands years, miles, even mistakes. For as long as he can remember, there have been minor transgressions and major feuds erupting among his big clan, and it doesn’t affect the endurance of their family’s bond. Somer has good intentions, she tries to make an effort with Asha where she can: going through National Geographic, pointing out maps of India, reviewing facts on agriculture and animals. When his parents send a chania-choli, she dresses Asha in it and sends off photographs. But his daughter has no occasion to wear the festive outfits, so they accumulate in a row in her closet. Just like his weak efforts to teach Somer a few words of Gujarati, her gestures are, in the end, insignificant.

  Perhaps all this wouldn’t bother him as much if he felt he still had the woman he fell in love with—the intellectual partner, the equal companion. He misses talking to Somer about medicine. She used to be interested in his cases, but these days, she’d rather discuss the mundane details of Asha’s schoolwork. Even when Somer talks about her work at the clinic, he finds it hard to feign interest in runny noses and muscle sprains after dealing with brain tumors and aneurysms all day. Though, technically, they’re in the same profession, it’s hard to have a conversation without one of them becoming disinterested or frustrated. At times, it seems the things that occupy and define his marriage today bear little resemblance to what once brought them together.

  “Let’s make a toast.” Somer’s cheery voice interrupts his thoughts. She holds her wineglass in the air, and the rest of them follow suit. “To family!” They all echo the sentiment as they stand halfway out of their chairs to reach awkwardly across the table and clink one another’s glasses. Krishnan takes a deep sip of the chilled Chardonnay, feels the liquid trickle down his throat and the coolness permeate his body.

  24

  AFTERNOON REST

  Bombay, India—1991

  JASU AND KAVITA

  JASU GROANS AT THE TINNY RING OF THE ALARM CLOCK. THE bedsprings creak as he lifts himself off the thin mattress, though it could just as easily be his joints making the noise. He touches Kavita’s calf as he walks stiffly by the foot of the bed in the one room in which they all sleep. Once she stirs, he walks downstairs to use the common toilets for the chawl apartment. One fortunate side effect of waking so early is the latrine will not yet be overflowing.

  When he returns, he sees that Kavita has already bathed and dressed. She is now cleaning her teeth, spitting over the side of the balcony railing. While he bathes, in the second small room they also use to cook and eat, he hears the tinkling of Kavita’s prayer bell. Her soft singing will soon rouse Vijay. Even if they had more space here, Vijay wouldn’t sleep by himself. Not only has he been accustomed to sharing his parents’ bed for all his six years, but their ordeal in the slums also gave him repeated nightmares. Kavita enters the kitchen to make breakfast. Jasu walks briskly out to the common room to dress, running a thin black comb through his wet hair. He pauses in front of the mandir to press his palms together and bow his head. They pass each other like this several times each morning, sharing a silent, well-rehearsed dance.

  “Food?” Kavita says.

  “I’ll take it with me,” he says. The factory where he works in Vikhroli is forty minutes away, a short commute by Bombay standards, but he likes to be among the first to arrive in the morning. Luckily, the Central Railway train station is only a few blocks away, and he has now mastered the skill of running to catch a train pulling out of the station, able to jump aboard at the last possible moment. It is the most enjoyable part of his day: this sport of catching the train, the freedom of hanging off the outside while it rushes through the city, feeling a breeze through his clothes, already sticky with sweat. He’s heard this is dangerous: apparently, a couple thousand passengers die riding like this each year. But considering several million people ride the commuter trains in Bombay, this does not seem unreasonable, nor particularly unsafe, to Jasu.

  The bicycle factory where he works, on the other hand, feels decidedly unsafe. In his first month there, he saw two men lose fingers in the machines, and a third severely burned by a welding torch. By arriving early, he’s more likely to get one of the less dangerous assignments, like painting frames or attaching bolts with a wrench. The factory is a large, dusty warehouse, filled haphazardly with machinery and tools. The dim lighting makes it difficult to see, and more than once, Jasu has tripped over electric cables that run all over the floor. The dust and fumes from the welding torches irritate his throat a
nd eyes so much that stepping outside into Bombay’s smoggy air at the end of the day feels like a relief. Nevertheless, Jasu feels fortunate to have this job, which he found a few days after the police raid on the settlement. The pay is not as much as he would have made as a dhaba-wallah: only eight rupees an hour. But if he works an extra hour in the morning and at night, he can earn over two thousand rupees a month, the equivalent of five months’ income in the village.

  Even so, it was not easy to find an apartment they could afford. The chawl on Shivaji Road is tiny; far smaller, in fact, than the house they left behind in their village. But Jasu’s perspective has changed since arriving in Bombay, after the horrors they witnessed in the slums. What was meant to be a night or two there turned into weeks, and felt longer still. In all the things he’d heard about Bombay, in all the dreams in his mind, there was never a place like Dharavi. It was enough to make him want to pack up everything and flee back home.

  But he knew there was nothing worth going back for, and he knew his family was counting on him. He had brought them here, and he would take care of them. The day after the police raid, Jasu bought a knife from the man in the yellow sari and began sleeping by the door with it in his hand. For several nights after that, Vijay woke up screaming and had to be coaxed back to sleep. Kavita, though she never said a word, clearly detested the place, and her hatred grew with each day they were forced to stay. Many days he came back to find her violently beating the ground of their shack with a broom while Vijay sat outside, looking frightened. The chawl on Shivaji Road met their basic needs and offered more security and privacy than the basti. There was even a good school nearby for Vijay. They used the rest of the savings they had brought, plus most of Jasu’s earnings from the new job, in order to secure the lease. That first night their modest two-room apartment felt like a palace compared to where they had been.