Secret Daughter (23 page)

Mumbai, India—2005

K
AVITA STANDS PATIENTLY IN LINE AT THE TELEGRAPH OFFICE,
awaiting her turn. When she reaches the counter, the clerk smiles at her. “Hello, Mrs. Merchant. Money wire to Dahanu today?” She has been coming here every week for the past three months but still doesn’t know this man’s name—the one who instructs her to fill out the paperwork, the one to whom she hands the envelope of cash. He knows her name, of course, from the receipt he gives her each week, which she carefully files away with the others in her cupboard at home. Once she hears her sister has received the money, she puts a small mark on that receipt.

The seven hundred rupees she sends each week pay for the nurse and medicines for her mother since her stroke last fall. Kavita hopes to go for a visit soon, but she can take leave only once a year in the late summer, so as not to overlap with the other servants. Exceptions are only made in the case of a close family member’s death. Jasu has told her to simply ask Sahib and Memsahib for the time off, but she won’t. They have been fair and treated her well, and she feels the need to keep her job. It’s not for the paltry money itself; it is the security of
knowing she has some earnings, separate from Jasu’s unreliable income and Vijay’s illicit fortune.

“I
SENT THE MONEY THIS AFTERNOON,
BENA
,” K
AVITA SAYS INTO
the phone.

“Thank you, Kavi. I will call you when it arrives,” Rupa says.

No one back home ever asks Kavita where the money comes from, an amount none of them could ever afford to part with. In truth, Kavita and Jasu wouldn’t be able to afford it either, were it not for Vijay. She knows her family assumes, as they have ever since she left, that they have become prosperous in Mumbai as Jasu boasted they would. In the early years, out of loyalty to Jasu she refrained from telling them about their financial struggles. Now that they are finally comfortable, it is her shame about Vijay that is the basis of her silence.

“Rupa, how is Ba keeping?”

There is a deep sigh on the other end of the phone. “All right. The doctor came to see her just yesterday and said she’s doing as well as possible. He does not expect a full recovery,
bena
. She will not be able to speak properly again, or see out of her right eye. But she is comfortable, and the nursemaid takes very good care of her, thanks to you,
bena
.”

Every time Rupa thanks her for sending money, Kavita feels a snake crawling in her belly, not only because of where the money comes from, but also because it is all she has to give. She knows she should be in Dahanu herself. It is shameful that, instead of caring for her own mother, she spends her days washing Sahib’s dishes and folding Memsahib’s saris. This awareness makes her daily tasks even more burdensome. “And how is Bapu?” Kavita keeps her voice strong, not wanting her frailty and fear to travel through the wire to her sister’s ears.

“Not well. He doesn’t recognize his grandchildren at all, and some days, he doesn’t even know me. It is good you are not here to see it,
bena,
it is not easy to watch him drift away.”

This news is no different from what Rupa tells her each time they talk. Their father’s condition has been deteriorating slowly for the past several years. But he is like the ancient
chickoo-fruit
tree behind their childhood home; though its branches get thinner each year and the leaves fewer, its proud trunk stands tall. Still, her next words catch in her throat.

“Does he remember me? Do you think he will know me when I come?”

There is a long pause before Rupa answers. “I’m sure he will, Kavi. Can a father ever forget his daughter?”

K
AVITA PRESSES INTO THE SKIN OF THE SMALL MANGO WITH HER
fingers to test it for firmness of flesh, then holds it to her nose. “I’ll take a half kilo of these, please.” Memsahib woke up this morning demanding fresh mango pickle, so after lunch, Bhaya sent Kavita out to find the best green mangoes she could. She tried three different markets, and now she’s at least a half hour from Memsahib’s flat, but no matter—everyone will still be resting when she gets back. Kavita walks briskly until she arrives at the iron gates, then stops and sets the cloth bag of mangoes down at her feet. She looks through the rusting bars of the gate, even stands on her tiptoes to get a better look. She knows it’s pointless, of course. Even if Usha survived, she would be a grown woman by now, even older than Vijay. She certainly wouldn’t be here in this orphanage anymore.
So what am I seeking here, why am I still drawn to this place?

Is it to conjure up the pain of that day when she gave her daughter away, to punish herself for handing over her own flesh and blood? What kind of life could that girl have? No family, raised by strangers,
no home to go to once she left this place.
Was it better? Better for me to have given her just life and nothing else a mother should give her child?
Or does she still come here simply because it’s become a habit, like a scar etched onto her body, one that she can’t help but think about, scratch at, pick at, all the while hoping it will miraculously heal one day?

Mumbai, India—2005

A
SHA FEELS HER HEART RATE QUICKEN AS THE TRAIN RUMBLES
into Churchgate Station. The approaching train stirs about the dusty air and releases the persistent stench of urine from the steaming ground. The odor is overwhelming, but she can think only about where this train will take her. She moves forward on the platform, a wad of rupees safely tucked in her money belt. Her backpack, unused since the flight over here, now contains her notebook, city maps, and first-class train tickets—the only safe way for an unaccompanied young woman to travel in India, Dadima insisted.

Before he left, her father gave her the only details he could remember, the name of the adoption agency and the representative who helped them. When Asha called the agency, they directed her to the orphanage. Dadima gave her the address of the orphanage and the name of its director, Arun Deshpande. She wrote it in Asha’s spiral-bound notebook, in English, Hindi, and Marathi, just in case. Dadima offered to come with her, but Asha wanted to do this alone. She settles into her seat on the train, pulls the silver bangle out of her
pocket, and holds it for the duration of the ride. When she gets off the train, she makes her way to the front of the rickshaw line, where she shows the driver her notebook with the address of the orphanage. He nods, spits
betelnut
juice on the pavement, and pedals off on impossibly thin, sinewy legs.

The orphanage looks different from what Asha expects, a sprawling two-story building with outdoor areas where children play. She pauses at the plaque inscribed in English outside:

Thakkar?
As she’s learned since arriving here, there are thousands of Thakkars in Mumbai. It’s a nice change to not have to spell it for everyone. She rings the bell at the front gate, and an old woman with a puckered mouth shuffles out. “I’m here to speak with Arun Deshpande.” Asha speaks slowly, assuming the old woman doesn’t understand English. Upon hearing the name, she opens the door and points to a small office at the end of the hallway. Asha puts her palms together to thank the old woman and steps tentatively into the building. She was so confident on the way over here, but now her legs feel weak, and her heart is racing. The door to the office is open, but she knocks nevertheless. A man with pepper-and-salt hair and bifocals perched on his nose speaks loudly on the phone in a language that doesn’t sound familiar. He motions for her to come in and sit down. She clears a pile of papers from the one chair in the office. She sees a nameplate on the desk that says
ARUN DESHPANDE
, and her palms begin to sweat. She takes out her notebook and pencil while she waits.

He puts down the phone and gives her a harried smile. “Hello, I am Arun Deshpande, director of Shanti. Come in, please,” he says, though she is already seated.

“Thank you. My name is Asha Thakkar. I am visiting here from the United States. I…was actually adopted from here, out of this orphanage. About twenty years ago.” She puts the end of the pencil in her mouth as she waits for his reaction.

Deshpande pushes himself back from the desk. “Thakkar? As in Sarla Thakkar? She is your relation?”

“Sarla…uh, yes, she’s my grandmother. My father’s mother. Why do you ask?”

“We are very grateful to your grandmother. She made the donation for this building, must be, almost twenty years ago. She wanted to make sure we had enough classrooms upstairs for all the children. Every day, they continue their studies here after school. Music, language, art.”

“Oh, I…didn’t know that.” Asha chews the end of her pencil.

“I haven’t seen her in many years. Please give her my very best regards.”

“Yes, I will.” Asha takes a deep breath. “Mr. Deshpande, the reason I’m here is I’m hoping you can help me. I’m…trying to find my birth parents, the ones who brought me here, to the orphanage.” When he doesn’t respond, she continues, “I also wanted to say I am thankful for all that you did for me here. I have a good life in America, I love my parents”—she pauses, searching for the words to convince him—“and I don’t want to create any trouble. It’s just that I really want…I have always really wanted to find my birth parents.”

Mr. Deshpande takes off his glasses and begins rubbing them with the tail of his shirt. “My dear, we have hundreds of children coming through here every year. Just last month we had over a dozen new babies left on our doorstep. The fortunate ones are adopted; the others stay here until they finish their schooling, sixteen at most. We can’t keep records on every child. For most, we don’t even know their true ages, and back then, well…” He sighs heavily and tilts his
head to look at her. “I suppose I could check. Very well. Thakkar. Asha, you said?” He turns to the relic of a computer on his desk. After a few minutes of fumbling with the keyboard and squinting at the screen, he turns back to her. “I’m sorry, I can’t find that name. There’s no record of you. Like I said, our record keeping…” He shrugs and puts his glasses back on.

She feels a hollowness in her stomach and looks down at her notebook, where the page is blank.
No record of me
. She digs her nails into her palms to stave off the tears waiting anxiously behind her eyes.

“You know, we’ve had other children come here, like you, and it’s been challenging to find the mother, even when they have a name. Sometimes these women don’t want to be found. Many times they were unwed, and no one even knows they had a baby or brought the child here. It could be very…difficult for these mothers if people found out now.”

Asha nods, gripping her pencil and trying to maintain her composure.
What is my next question? What do I write on this blank page?

Suddenly, Arun Deshpande leans forward and peers at Asha’s face. “Your eyes, they’re so unusual. I have seen that color only once before on an Indian woman.” A look of comprehension spreads across his face. “When did you say you were adopted?”

“Nineteen eight-five. August. Really? What—”

“And do you know how old you were?” He knocks over a stack of papers on his way to the steel filing cabinet behind her chair.

“Around a year, I think.” She stands to join him, peering over his shoulder.

He shuffles through the files, which look even more disorganized than his desk. “I remember her…She was from Palghar or Dahanu, one of those northern villages. I think she walked all the way here. I remember those eyes.” He shakes his head, then pauses and looks up at her. “Look, this will take some time. I have to go
through all of 1984—these files, and then some more in the back. Shall I call you if I find something?”

She feels feverish at the thought that the information is here, somewhere in this disheveled office. She can’t just leave now. “Can I help you look?”

“No, no.” He gives a small laugh. “I’m not even sure what I’m looking for, but if it’s here, I’ll find it. I promise you. For Sarla-ji. Promise. One hundred percent.” He nods his head from side to side in that confusing way people do here. This is the way things work in India, she’s learned. You have to have faith. She tears out a sheet from her notebook to write down her number and lodges her pencil behind her ear. “Do you have a pen?”

S
EVERAL DAYS LATER, SHE MAKES THE JOURNEY BACK TO
S
HANTI.
She can hardly keep from breaking into a sprint to Mr. Deshpande’s office after entering the front gate. She is jittery as she waits for him. When he enters, she stands up. “I came as soon as I could. What did you find?”

He sits down at his desk and hands her a manila folder. “I remember her. Your mother. I never forgot those eyes.” Inside the file folder, there is a single sheet of paper, a partially completed form. “I’m sorry there’s not much information,” he says. “Back then, we thought it was best if things were anonymous. Now we do a better job collecting information, for health reasons and whatnot. Oh, but I did discover why I couldn’t find you at first. You see right there…” He leans over and points to a spot on the form. “Your given name was Usha when you arrived here. I guess our records aren’t so bad after all.” He sits back in his chair, smiling.

Usha.
Her name was Usha. Her given name. Given by her mother.
Usha Merchant
.

“That was my first month as the new director, when you came
here. We were full to capacity, and I wasn’t supposed to accept any more children. But your mother came here with her sister, who convinced me to take you. She said you had a cousin here already, it wouldn’t be right to separate you.”

“A cousin?” Asha has spent her entire life without any cousins, and since coming to India, there seems to be another one everywhere she turns.

“Yes, your aunt’s daughter. She said she was a year older than you, but that would’ve been before I was here, and there are definitely no records from back then.”

“Mr. Deshpande, I want to find her…my mother, my parents. Do you know how I can?” Asha asks, trying to swallow back the lump in her throat.

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I’m surprised I found that file at all.”

Mr. Deshpande helps her hail down an auto-rickshaw, and gives the driver instructions to take her to the train station. She clutches the manila folder tightly in one hand and, with the other, shakes Mr. Deshpande’s. “Thank you so much. I appreciate your help.”

“Good luck to you, my child. Please be careful.”

B
ACK IN HER CHAIR AT THE
T
IMES
OFFICE, SHE STARES AT THE
single page inside the manila folder, although she has already memorized the few bits of information it holds.

Only a few details, and yet they have already brought discoveries. Her mother was not unwed. Her parents were married, and she knows their names. Her own name for her first year of life was Usha Merchant. Asha practices writing it out, first in block letters, then as a signature, and finally just the initials she uses to sign off on her edits. She looks at the reflection of herself in her darkened monitor.

Usha Merchant. Does she look like an Usha? “Usha Merchant,” she says, extending her hand in introduction to the stapler on her desk. Asha rests her head on the back of the chair and stares at the ceiling. She calls out to Meena in her neighboring office. “I don’t even know where to start. How am I going to find her?”

“Well, you’re in the right place. The
Times
has access to the best database in India.” Meena leans over Asha to type on her keyboard. “We have good information on all major cities.”

“What if she’s not in a city? What if she’s in a village somewhere? The orphanage director said she came here, walked I think, from a village.”

Meena stops and looks at her. “Really?”

“Yeah, why?”

“That’s remarkable. For a woman to do that, especially back when transportation was less reliable. She must have been quite dedicated to get you here.” Meena pulls up a chair. “Okay, I’ll show you how to use this. It’s only cities, but you might as well start here. Start with Mumbai. Good thing their name isn’t Patel or something like that. It will be easiest to find her through a male relative, property holdings and such. Okay, here we go, tenant listings for Merchant…oh well, still quite a few.”

There are no Kavitas, but there are dozens of listings for Jasu Merchant or J. Merchant in Mumbai alone, and they haven’t even tried other cities yet. Asha begins with a long list of names and spends several hours trying to piece together scraps of information.
By the end of the day, she has narrowed it down to three valid addresses, none of which may yield anything. Still, she feels hopeful as she heads toward the elevator with her notebook clasped to her chest.

“Wish me luck,” she says over her shoulder to Meena. “Who knows what I’ll find.”