Secret Daughter (5 page)
Authors: Shilpi Somaya Gowda
T
HE MORNING OF THE PROCEDURE
, K
AVITA IS ANXIOUS, HER
stomach unsettled. She holds a protective hand over her swelling abdomen as they approach the clinic. Outside the door is a placard—
SPEND
200
RUPEES NOW AND SAVE
20,000
RUPEES LATER
—a transparent reference to avoiding the wedding dowry associated with a daughter. Other than this, the nondescript door through which they pass could belong to a tailor or a shoe shop. Inside, pairs of women and men stand together. Kavita notices she is the farthest along in her pregnancy, now in her fifth month.
Jasu approaches the desk clerk and exchanges words, then pulls a bundle of bills and coins from his pocket and hands it over. The clerk counts the cash, stashes it in a metal box, and with a sideways jerk of his head, sends Jasu back to the waiting area. Kavita shifts over to make space for him against the wall. While they wait, she keeps her eyes focused on the rough concrete floor. The sound of muffled sobs compels her to look up, and she sees a woman rushing toward the front door from the back of the clinic. The woman’s sari is draped
over her head, and a solemn man follows behind her. Kavita looks back down at the spot on the floor, and out of the corner of her eye, sees Jasu’s toes squirming.
The clerk calls out their name and jerks his head toward the back of the clinic. When they pass through the single door, they find themselves in a room just large enough to hold a makeshift examination table and a cart with a machine. The technician hands several papers to Jasu that neither of them can read and instructs Kavita to lie down on the table. The gel he spreads on her belly is cold and uncomfortable. She feels a surprising pang of gratitude when Jasu stands beside her. As the technician moves the device around her firm belly, they both try to make sense of the grainy black-and-white images. Jasu squints at the screen, tilts his head, and glances anxiously over at the technician several times for a clue as to what lies in Kavita’s womb. After several minutes, the technician says, “Congratulations, a healthy boy.”
“Wah!” Jasu shouts, laughing. He slaps the technician on the shoulder and kisses Kavita on the forehead, a rare public gesture of affection. Kavita’s only reaction is relief.
I
N THE WEEKS AFTER THE PROCEDURE, WHEN THE REALIZATION
slowly sets in that she will be able to keep this baby, Kavita finally allows herself to feel a connection to the child. This feeling gives way to a cautious anticipation, aided by the unbridled enthusiasm of her husband. Jasu’s behavior changes after that day at the clinic. He begins giving up his extra
rotlis
at dinner so she will have more to eat, and he makes sure she rests when he notices her holding her lower back. At night, when they lie in bed, he rubs her swollen feet with coconut oil and sings softly to her growing belly. She knows much of the change in his behavior is because she is carrying a boy, but she wants to believe it is not the only reason. As Jasu tends to her in the
last few months of her pregnancy, Kavita feels her remaining coldness for him melt away. She sees his capacity to be a caring husband, a good father. He too has changed since that first night in the birthing hut nearly two years ago. Kavita knows she cannot blame him entirely for what happened. He is no different or worse than the other men in the village, where sons are favored and always have been.
I
T IS CLEAR THEIR SON WILL BE NO EXCEPTION
. H
IS ARRIVAL IS
anticipated by all those in the family. Everything is different this time. Kavita is fed and pampered up until her first labor pains, and the midwife is called right away to provide her support. Jasu stays outside the door and rushes to her side as soon as he hears the baby’s first cries. In the way of tradition, Jasu touches the boy’s lips with a silver spoon dipped in honey even before the umbilical cord is severed. He leans down to kiss Kavita on the forehead. With his eyes glistening, Jasu cradles his new son in his arms.
Kavita wipes away her own tears. These rituals she shares with Jasu and their baby are beautiful and touching, but the joy cannot transcend her grief. For years, she has longed for this moment. Now that it has come, it is laced with sorrow from the past.
I
T IS ALL JUST THEORETICAL UNTIL THE DAY THE ENVELOPE
arrives. When Somer sees it in the pile of mail, her heart jumps. She stashes a champagne bottle in the fridge and runs down the steps toward the hospital. They promised to do this together, but now, as she runs with the envelope in her hands, her fingers are itching to tear it open after so many months of waiting.
First, there were countless evenings spent at their kitchen table, poring over stacks of paperwork, completing forms, collecting educational transcripts, tax records, financial statements, and medical reports. Then came the scrutiny from the adoption agency—interviews, home visits, and psychological evaluations. Somer fought the urge to take offense when the caseworker investigated every corner of their flat, not only seeing where the baby’s room would be, but also peeking in their medicine cabinets, even sniffing discreetly in the refrigerator.
They swallowed their pride and asked former professors, classmates, and colleagues who knew them as a couple to attest to their
suitability as adoptive parents. Even the local police department had to give its approval. It was unfair, insulting to be subjected to so many tests, to bare their souls when most couples could become parents without any judgment at all. But they did everything they were told, submitted their application, and then they waited. They were told only that it would probably be an older baby, perhaps not perfectly healthy, almost certainly a girl.
Somer arrives at the hospital, breathing heavily, and goes directly to Kris’s usual ward. “Have you seen him?” she asks a nurse at the station but doesn’t wait for an answer. She checks the doctors’ lounge, finds it empty, then ducks her head into the call room, briefly waking a sleeping intern, and finally returns to the nurses’ station.
“I’ll page him for you,” the nurse says.
“Thanks.” Somer sits in one of the hard plastic chairs nearby. She taps her feet on the speckled floor, willing her eyes away from the envelope. She hears Kris’s voice, and sees him walking down the hallway toward her. She can tell from his face—the steely look of his eyes, the pulsing of his jaw muscles—that he’s scolding the dejected young resident walking alongside him. Even when he sees her, his face remains serious until she stands and holds up the large envelope. A hint of a smile appears on his face. He dismisses the resident and strides toward her. “Is that it?”
She nods. He leads her by the elbow to the nearest stairwell. They sit together on the top step, open the envelope, and pull out a stack of papers with a Polaroid clipped on top. The baby in the photo has curly black hair, and her almond-shaped eyes are a startling hazel color. She wears only a plain dress, a thin silver anklet, and a curious expression on her face.
“Oh my gosh,” Somer whispers, one hand flying up to her mouth. “She’s beautiful.”
Krishnan fumbles with the papers and reads, “Asha. That’s her name. Ten months old.”
“What does it mean?” she asks.
“Asha? Hope.” He looks up at her, smiling. “It means hope.”
“Really?” She gives a little laugh, crying as well. “Well, she must be ours then.” She grasps his hand, intertwining their fingers, and kisses him. “That’s perfect, really perfect.” She rests her head on his shoulder as they stare at the photo together.
For the first time in a very long time, Somer feels a lightness in her chest.
How can it be I’m already in love with this child, half a world away?
The next morning, they send a telegram to the orphanage, stating they are coming to get their daughter.
T
HEIR EUPHORIA CARRIES THEM THROUGH THE INTERMINABLE
twenty-seven-hour flight to India. Somer is excited about so many things: visiting India for the first time, meeting Krishnan’s whole family, seeing where he grew up and the places he’s described for years. But most of all, when Somer closes her eyes, she imagines the moment she will hold her baby for the first time. She keeps Asha’s photo in her pocket and looks at it often. That one photo vaporized her doubts and made everything come to life. She lay awake at night, picturing her daughter’s sweet face. She consulted the growth charts at work and worried over Asha’s weight. Now their house is ready, and they’ve been briefed by other parents through the agency, but they still aren’t quite sure what to expect once they get to India. They’ve been warned about stranger anxiety, cultural shock, delayed development, malnourishment—the challenges of this adoption are too many to enumerate. Still, while other passengers roll their eyes at kids squealing on the plane, Krishnan and Somer squeeze hands and share an excited glance.
When they step off the plane in Bombay, the airport engulfs Somer with its pungent mix of ocean air, spices, and human sweat. She fights off her drowsiness while getting jostled by throngs of
people in the unruly immigration line. Before they reach the baggage carousel, several men swarm around them, tugging at their clothes and talking rapidly. Somer starts to panic, then follows Krishnan through the human maze, watching as he calmly navigates among the people, the lines, and what appear to be a couple small bribes along the way.
When they get outside, the muggy weather settles on Somer’s bare shoulders like an unwelcome shawl. The airport’s roadways are buzzing with cars and beeping horns. She and Krishnan settle into the cracked vinyl backseat of a rickety taxi. She watches her husband hand-crank the window down, and does the same. Krishnan takes a deep breath and turns to her with a smile. “Bombay,” he says, beaming. “In all her glory. What do you think?”
Somer just nods. Krishnan points out sights along the way—an elegant mosque in the distance, a famous racetrack. But all she can see are the dilapidated buildings and filthy streets that run like a nonstop movie reel outside her window. The first time they stop in traffic, a swarm of beggars in tattered clothing surrounds the car, extending their hands through her open window until Krishnan leans over to roll it up.
“Just ignore them. Don’t look and they’ll go away,” he says, staring straight ahead.
Somer looks at the woman standing outside the car, holding an emaciated baby on her hip, silently gesturing with her fingers to her mouth. The woman is no more than twelve inches from her. Somer can feel the woman’s hunger and desperation, even through the glass. She forces herself to turn away.
“You’ll get used to it.” He reaches for her hand. “Don’t worry, we’re almost there.”
Somer is curious to see the house where Krishnan grew up. He has never given her much detail on his family beyond the basics: his
father is a well-respected physician, his mother gives private tutoring lessons and does charity work. She’s met them only once, six years ago, when they came for the wedding in San Francisco.
Although his parents stayed with them for an entire week, it was a hectic time, between work and wedding preparations. When Somer had a chance to talk to them, the conversation revolved around the weather (why it was so cold in the summer), the wedding plans (a casual ceremony for forty guests in Golden Gate Park), and which nearby restaurants served vegetarian food (the pizzeria and the bakery). Each morning, Kris’s mother brewed tea on the stovetop and surveyed the scarce contents of their kitchen cupboards. His father studied the newspaper, as if he intended to read every single word printed there. Somer felt a guilty relief when she left for work every day. At one point, she asked Kris if there was anything wrong. It felt as if his parents were holding something back.
“They’re not used to things here,” he said. “They’re just trying to get their bearings.”
Now, looking out the window at the Bombay skyline, Somer wonders if she’ll be able to do the same.
S
ARLA
T
HAKKAR LOOKS IN THE MIRROR AS SHE WINDS HER
waist-length hair into its customary bun and pins it tightly in place. She lightly touches the gray strands at her temple.
Well why not? I am a grandmother, after all.
She lifts the freshly pressed yellow sari from the bed, and wraps it proficiently around her body until the embroidered pink border is aligned perfectly on her left shoulder. She leans in closer to the mirror to place a small yellow and gold
bindi
precisely in the center of her forehead. After applying her lipstick, she steps back for a look, then reminds herself to tell Devesh to clean the smudges off this glass. She has been keeping the servants busy all day. They know everything needs to be just so for the arrival of her eldest son from America. Though she laments to others that Krishnan has settled so far from home, foremost, she is proud. He always had big ambitions, ever since he was a child.
As a boy, Krishnan followed his father around on his hospital rounds, tugging eagerly at the corner of the elder man’s white coat when he had a question. All three of her sons were smart, but Krish
nan was particularly competitive. He raced home from school to declare he had earned the highest marks in science, or won the math competition. As he continued to be successful in school, Krishnan’s ambitions expanded accordingly, and he dreamed of going abroad to study. When he gained admission to medical school in America, they had to muster the resources for him to go: their wealth in India didn’t go as far in American dollars. Foreign students weren’t eligible for loans, and they didn’t want a job to distract Krishnan from his studies. Sarla can hardly believe a decade has passed since that day at the airport they saw him off.
S
IXTEEN FAMILY MEMBERS TRAVELED TOGETHER, CARAVAN STYLE, IN
four separate cars to the airport. The last driver’s car was filled only with Krishnan’s luggage, including one large suitcase full of sealed bags of tea leaves, ground spices, and other dry goods. Naturally, Sarla worried most about how her son would eat for the few years he was abroad. At the airport, they all passed the time together before Krishnan’s flight. The children ran around in circles playing
kabbadi
, enjoying how their voices echoed in the high-ceilinged corridors. Sarla had brought a half-dozen stainless steel tiffin containers, so the adults could enjoy hot
chai
and snacks. No occasion, especially one as significant as this, was complete without a meal to mark the event. Sarla occupied herself with feeding everyone, organizing the group photos, keeping track of the time—anything to keep from getting sentimental. If she knew then that her son was leaving India for good, she would have permitted herself more emotion. It was her husband who shared the most touching farewell with their son. Normally stoic, he held Krishnan in his embrace for a long time. When he let go, his eyes were moist. The rest of the family looked away respectfully, and even the children settled down.
“Don’t worry, Papa. I’ll make you proud,” Krishnan said, his voice cracking.
“I am proud already, son,” his father said. “Today, I am very proud.” Krishnan turned to wave to the cluster of relatives who had come to wish him well. It was not only his dreams that propelled him on his journey to America.
There was never any question he would return to India after medical school, to join his father’s practice and get married. With his American degree and earning potential, Krishnan would have his pick of eligible young women. But when Sarla began looking for potential matches for him, he brushed her off, claiming he was too busy with school to think of marriage. Then suddenly, just before his graduation, he called to say he had found a woman of his own, an
American
woman, he planned to marry. And he was staying there, because of her, they understood implicitly.
Sarla and her husband were educated, progressive people: they weren’t opposed to a love marriage on principle, but this seemed rash. They didn’t want Krishnan to make a mistake—this girl came from a completely different culture, and they didn’t even know each other’s families. When they traveled to America for the marriage, their fears about Krishnan and his bride were confirmed. The wedding was quiet and small, the home they shared was soulless, their food bland. Sarla and her husband felt like guests in that home, rather than family. They wondered what had happened to their son.
Still, now he is married, and it is their duty is to support their son and his wife. When Krishnan inquired about adoption last year, Sarla saw an opportunity for reconnection. Maybe she wouldn’t lose her son to America entirely. Each time she visited the orphanage, she got unofficial updates from the staff on new babies who had arrived. When she first saw the baby girl with the unusual eyes, she pointed her out to the director. Those eyes reminded her of Krishnan’s wife’s; she had a feeling the child might be a good match for them.
Sarla has always longed for a daughter, some female company in this house full of men. Of course, she would never trade one of her sons, but many times when they were young, she found herself wishing for a girl with whom to share not only her jewelry, but also her life lessons. Being a woman in India is an altogether different experience. You can’t always see the power women hold, but it is there, in the firm grasp of the matriarchs who still rule most families. It has not been easy for Sarla to navigate the female path: she has become a master traveler, but one with no pupil. She thought she might develop this relationship with one of her daughters-in-law, but the others, like Somer, didn’t quite fill the role. And when they had babies, they relied on their own mothers, leaving her once again in the company of men.
But now, Sarla muses as she glances at the clock, anticipating Krishnan’s arrival, she will finally get her granddaughter.