“So, how is your project coming?” Sanjay says.
“Okay, I guess. I did my first interviews last week.”
“And?” He sits down on a bench and slides to one side.
Asha sits down next to him and looks toward the water. “It was kind of hard.”
“Why?”
The wind whips her hair around and she pulls it to one side. “I don’t know, I just found it so…depressing.” She hasn’t spoken to anyone about this, not even Meena. “Seeing those people, the conditions they live in, hearing their stories…it made me feel horrible. Guilty.”
“For what?”
“For having a different kind of life. A better life. Those kids are just born into that, you know? They didn’t ask for that. It’s hard to find the hope.”
Sanjay nods. “Yes. But there’s still a story for you to tell, isn’t there?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think my questions were very good. I lost my composure after the first couple of interviews. Everywhere I looked, all I could see was tragedy. The people at the Times must think I’m an amateur. Journalists are supposed to hold it together. And I didn’t.”
“Maybe. But that’s not all you are, is it? A journalist?”
“No, but—”
“So,” he interrupts, “maybe you need to look at it differently.” He takes off his sunglasses and looks into her eyes. She feels a flutter in her stomach as he touches her cheek. He leans in toward her and she closes her eyes before she feels his lips brush lightly against her ear. “Beautiful,” he whispers. When she opens her eyes, Sanjay is gazing out over the water and the orange-red glow of the sun is dipping below the horizon.
Beautiful? The sunset? Her eyes? Her? The way he said it makes her believe it might be true. Her mind is filled with a million questions, but his comes out first.
“Hungry?”
She nods, unable to speak.
They walk to one of the snack food stalls on the beachfront that have come to life with the darkening sky, and Sanjay gets them two dishes of bhel-puri. As they eat, standing, they watch the transformation of Chowpatty. The Ferris wheel is lit and begins to turn. A snake charmer attracts a crowd with his flute music, and another man beckons a costumed monkey to dance. Sanjay holds his arm around her back as they walk through the various attractions. When they reach the Ferris wheel, he looks at her and says, “Well?”
“Sure, why not?” They climb into the rickety bucket seat. The wheel begins to move, and she sees the scattered lights and sights of Mumbai spread out below her.
When they reach the top, Sanjay says, “So, how do you like Mumbai? What do you think of your first visit here? You must find it very different, being born and raised in the United States.”
“Actually, I was born here,” Asha says. She knows this information is unnecessary to their conversation, and yet she wants to share it.
“Really?” he says. “Mumbai?”
“Well, I don’t really know. My parents adopted me from an orphanage here in Mumbai. I don’t know where I was born. I don’t know who my…birth parents are.” She waits for his reaction.
“Are you curious?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” She turns away from his penetrating eyes and watches the children riding decorated ponies on the ground below. “I was curious when I was younger, and then I tried to put it out of my mind. I thought it was a childish dream I would grow out of. But being here in India has brought it all back up again. I have so many questions. What does my mother look like? Who is my father? Why did they give me up? Do they think about me?” Asha stops, realizing she probably sounds a little crazed. “Anyway…” She shakes her head and focuses on a white pony decorated with bright pink floral garlands.
Sanjay puts his hand on top of hers. “I don’t think it’s childish. I think it’s a very natural instinct, to want to know where we come from.”
She stays silent, feeling like she’s already said too much. When the wheel stops moving, she feels at once disappointed and relieved their discussion has come to a natural conclusion.
“Do you want to get some dinner?” Sanjay says. “There’s a great pizza place nearby.”
“Pizza?” Asha laughs. “What, you think the American girl only eats pizza?”
“Well, no, I just…” Sanjay appears flustered for the first time.
“Where would you go to eat, with your friends?” she says. “Take me there.”
“Okay, then.” He flags down a taxi on Marine Drive. “Somewhere authentic.”
45
ONE MORE LIE
Mumbai, India—2004
KRISHNAN
KRISHNAN REPOSITIONS HIS BAG ON HIS SHOULDER AND TURNS sideways to squeeze through the sliding glass doors that serve as the last barrier between him and his city of birth. After stepping outside, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath of the Mumbai air. Just as he remembers. Behind the metal barricades, he sees Asha, the only young woman in Western attire, surrounded by men.
“Dad!” Asha waves at him with all the enthusiasm she used to show as a little girl waiting for him at the front door.
“Hi, sweetheart!” He drops his bag to hug her.
“Hello, Uncle,” the young man standing next to her says.
“Dad, you remember Nimish? Pankaj Uncle’s son.”
“Hahn, yes, of course. Good to see you again,” Krishnan says, though his nephew looks only vaguely familiar to him, in the way that almost anybody in this crowd could. He’s thankful Asha is here to introduce him.
“How was your flight?” She links her arm through his as they walk to the car.
“Fine. Long,” Krishnan replies. In the eight years since his last trip to India, the seats have gotten smaller and the airplanes fuller, but the anticipation of seeing Asha buoyed him through the long flight.
THE NEXT MORNING OVER BREAKFAST, ASHA SAYS, “LET’S GO out for lunch today, Dad. I want to take you to this place I really like.”
Krishnan smiles at her over his steaming cup of chai, which never tastes as good as it does at his mother’s home. “What’s this? You’ve been here a few months and already you’re an expert on my hometown?”
“Well, maybe not an expert, but it’s changed a lot since you’ve been here. I can show you a thing or two.” She smiles back.
She’s right about the changes. On the ride from the airport, he was overwhelmed with the development that has taken place all over the city. Entire blocks of buildings have appeared where there used to be nothing, and American brands are everywhere: Coca-Cola bottles, McDonald’s restaurants, Merrill Lynch billboards. The positive signs of modernization are unmistakable, as are the negative effects. When he looked out from the balcony this morning, the familiar sight of the seashore he expected was all but obscured by the haze of pollution.
“Okay, I’m in your hands.” Krishnan chuckles.
“Wise man,” his mother says, entering the room. “Your daughter is as strong-minded as you are, perhaps even more so.” She stands behind Asha with her hands on the girl’s shoulders.
The sight of this, his mother together with his daughter, makes Krishnan’s voice catch in his throat. “Yes, trust me, I know. Why do you think she hasn’t applied to medical school yet?”
“Oh, beta, you must give up that notion. She has a career already. You should see the wonderful work she’s doing at the newspaper,” his mother says.
“I’ll take you there after lunch, Dad.”
THE RESTAURANT ASHA HAS CHOSEN SERVES CLASSIC SOUTH Indian street food: gigantic paper-thin masala dosas that arrive at the table crispy and hot, moist idlis served with spicy sambar for dipping. This place is the equivalent of a neighborhood greasy diner. As they sit in the vinyl-covered booth, Krishnan notices they are the only nonlocals in the place. He is surprised and pleased his daughter feels comfortable here.
“This stuff is good, but it’s so hot,” says Asha, pointing to the dish of sambar. “You need yogurt for it.” She requests some in broken Hindi from
the waiter rushing by.
“So, have you had a chance to go to the hospital with your grandfather?” He notices himself slipping into the familiar language rhythms of Mumbai, a fusion of Hindi, Gujarati, and English.
“Not yet. He’s usually gone by the time I get back with Dadima. Did I tell you we’ve been taking these morning walks together? It’s been great. She’s an amazing woman, Dad. It’s too bad I didn’t get to know her until now.”
Krishnan feels the accusation in her last statement, though he doubts she meant it this way. “Yes, she is a remarkable woman, isn’t she? She hasn’t mellowed too much with age.” Over lunch, they talk about the family members Asha’s met, the grandiose wedding she attended, the people she works with at the Times of India, the places she’s visited in Mumbai.
“Mmm. This sambar is good. How did you find this place, Asha?”
“This guy…a friend, Sanjay, brought me here. He dared me to eat someplace that doesn’t cater to foreigners. He thought I wouldn’t be able to keep up, but I did, with my secret weapon.” She smiles, pointing to her dish of yogurt.
He raises an eyebrow. “Sanjay, huh? And how did you meet him?”
Asha finishes. “At that wedding I told you about. Someone in his family is friends with someone in ours, I don’t know exactly.”
“What does Sanjay do?”
“He’s getting his master’s at the London School of Economics.” She smiles and makes a face at him. “Sorry, Dad, I didn’t manage to find an eligible Indian doctor.”
“Hey, two out of three is not bad.” Krishnan smiles, despite himself. “So, how’s Mom?” Asha says. “She went to San Diego for the holidays?”
“Yes, she really needed to. She was worried about Grandma’s last mammogram and she wanted to talk to her doctors. She hasn’t been able to get down there during the week because the clinic’s been busy…” Krishnan worries he’s doing too much explaining. He and Somer agreed not to tell Asha about their separation yet, not until it’s time for her to come home. In his heart, Krishnan hopes they will be reconciled by then. Being apart from Somer has been harder than he expected. The past couple of months, he has spent most of his time working, volunteering to cover his partners’ call schedules and staying late at the office to finish paperwork. Home feels unbearably lonely without Somer.
Now, out of some deep-seated sense of loyalty to both of them, Krishnan presses out one more lie. “She really wanted to come, Asha.”
“Actually, I’m kind of glad it’s just you, Dad. I wanted to talk to you about something.” Asha sounds tentative for the first time since he arrived. She wipes her hands and mouth with a small paper napkin and takes a deep breath. Krishnan puts down his food, sensing something important is about to happen. “Here’s the thing, Dad. You know I love you and Mom so much. You’ve been great parents. I know how much you’ve done for me…” She trails off, now visibly nervous, twisting the paper napkin in her hands.
“Asha, honey, what is it?” Krishnan says.
She looks up at him and blurts it out. “I want to find my birth parents.” After a moment, she continues, seeming desperate now to get the rest of the words out. “I want to know who they are, and see if I can meet them. I know it’s a long shot, Dad. I have no idea where to start or how to look for them, so I really need your help.”
He looks at his daughter, her beautiful eyes wide and searching. “Okay,” he says.
“Okay…what?” Asha says.
“Okay, I understand…how you feel. I’ll help you however I can.” He has anticipated this discussion a number of times. He too is thankful Somer’s not here right now.
“Do you think Mom will understand?” Asha says.
“It may be hard for her, honey,” Krishnan says. “But she loves you. We both do, and that will never change.” He reaches across the Formica table and puts his hand on his daughter’s. “You can’t forsake your past, Asha. It’s a part of you. Trust me.” She nods, and he squeezes her hand as they both acknowledge the implications of this decision.
Krishnan came to India knowing he would have to protect Asha from her mother’s choices. Now he will return knowing he has to protect Somer from her daughter’s as well.
PART IV
46
A FATHER NEVER FORGETS
Mumbai, India—2005
KAVITA
KAVITA 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,” KAVITA 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?”
KAVITA 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 wok
e 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?
47
ONCE BEFORE
Mumbai, India—2005
ASHA
ASHA 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.