“I should go apologize to your mother,” Somer says, standing up.
“Yes,” Kris says, “you should.”
Somer finds Kris’s mother in one of the bedrooms, sitting with Kris’s brother’s wife on a bed draped with various multicolored silks. She gives the open door a polite knock. “Hello?” she says. “May I come in?”
“Yes, Somer,” Kris’s mother says, unmoving.
Somer perches on the edge of the bed. “These are beautiful,” she says, running her hand over a pile of red silk.
“We are choosing saris for a wedding this weekend, one of Dr. Thakkar’s colleagues.”
“Oh. Well, I just wanted to come and apologize to you for the…for your kitchen. I didn’t realize…I didn’t mean any offense and I’m very sorry.”
Kris’s mother nods her head from side to side. “What’s done is done. Let’s put it aside.”
“I guess I wasn’t thinking. I was a little upset.” Somer takes a deep breath. “I went out for a walk and had a disturbing experience. This man—or two men, I’m not sure—they touched me, on the boardwalk.” Her mother-in-law, brow furrowed, peers at her. “They touched me,” Somer continues, gesturing to her chest, “you know, inappropriately.” She exhales and waits for them to understand.
Her sister-in-law speaks for the first time. “Krishnan let you go out by yourself?”
“Yes, well, no. He didn’t let me, exactly. He was at his cricket game, so I went for a walk.”
“No, of course he wouldn’t do that. Krishnan knows better,” his mother says. She turns to Somer. “It is not appropriate for women like you to walk on the streets alone. You should not have gone without one of us, for your own safety.”
“Women like me?” Somer asks.
“Foreign women. Your bare legs and arms, your blond hair. It’s asking for trouble.” She shakes her head firmly with a disapproving look.
Somer thinks back to the midcalf-length skirt and T-shirt she wore this morning. Not appropriate? “I’ll…remember that next time.” She folds her arms and stands up. “Sorry to interrupt.” She walks quickly down the hallway to their bedroom and pulls the door closed behind her. She tries to fight her growing resentment toward this country, the feeling that everything here is tainted: that the biased adoption process, the opaque cultural rules, and the oppressive weather, all are wrapped up with India as a whole. She expected to feel at home with Krishnan’s family, not so utterly out of place. Is this how I’ll feel in my own family, like an outsider? Asha and Krishnan will look alike, they will have their ancestry in common. Her daughter will always be from this country, which feels so foreign to her. She rummages through her suitcase for the pair of sweats she hasn’t worn since the plane, and despite the sweltering heat, pulls them over her nightgown.
17
ALREADY ATTACHED
Bombay, India—1985
KRISHNAN
KRISHNAN LEAVES A DRIPPING TRAIL AS HE BOUNDS UP THE STAIRS TO his family’s flat rather than waiting for the elevator. Somer hardly protested when he proposed going to the government office alone this morning, understanding this might be their best chance to finalize the adoption. Inside the flat, he finds her alone in their room, sitting on the bed, arms wrapped around her hunched knees, watching the downpour through the window. She doesn’t notice him until he is standing before her, drenched from head to toe. When she looks up, her cheeks are wet. “Good news,” he says. They share tears of relief, exhaustion, and joy and decide to go out for a celebratory dinner at the Taj Mahal Hotel.
Before their bottle of wine is half-finished, Somer is tipsy and begins to vocalize her complaints for the first time since arriving in India. She admits how frustrated she’s been with the adoption process, how conspicuous she feels as a foreigner, how disconnected she feels from him and his family. Krishnan listens and nods, pouring himself more wine and then ordering one scotch, followed by another. He was worried how Somer would fare in India, and it has been even worse than he expected. He forces himself to listen, and though she doesn’t blame him, he feels the weight of guilt nevertheless. He has known for a long time this reckoning would come.
BACK IN MEDICAL SCHOOL, EVEN AFTER HIS RELATIONSHIP WITH Somer became serious, he avoided telling his family about her. They would never think to ask him about a girlfriend: he was not expected to have any extracurricular interests, much less romantic ones. By waiting, he reasoned, he could prepare Somer to meet his family: teach her a few words of Gujarati, expose her to the food. But in reality, he didn’t share very much with her about his life in India. She was, after all, thoroughly American, and he wasn’t sure how she would react to reports of living in an extended family, or pigeons flying into the living room through windows that stayed open all summer. This love was new and intoxicating to him, and he didn’t want to risk it. It would have required a concerted effort, and more courage than he felt at twenty-five, to bring the two spheres of his life together. As it turned out, it took very little effort to let them remain separate.
He hoped his parents would support him, but if he had to choose between their approval and marrying Somer, he planned to choose Somer. He was in love with her in a way he never could be with a woman chosen by his parents—she was his intellectual partner, and they had shared experiences. In India, such a relationship was unusual, if not impossible. So he chose a life in America, intending to embrace it completely. It was easier for him, and Somer, he thought, to assimilate to her way of life. But now it is clear to Krishnan that he’d done her a disservice. By the time she met his parents, it was clear that superficial gestures wouldn’t make up for the reality that they were worlds apart.
THIS WOMAN BEFORE HIM BARELY RESEMBLES THE ASSURED young med student he first met. The miscarriages, the infertility, the adoption process, and now India—each has delivered a blow to her confidence. But he knows that woman is in there somewhere, and his job now is to reassure her.
“This process has been an emotional roller coaster,” he says. “And India can be a hard place for Westerners. But soon this whole thing will be over, and we’ll go home to begin our life together as a family.” He smiles. “Won’t that be worth it?”
Somer exhales and nods her head. “I can think of nothing better. I am so tired of never knowing what to expect in this country. I don’t feel like myself anymore. I just want to get back to our home, our life. I want to put all of this behind us.”
He hates to see her this wounded. And so, feeling disappointed with how his country and family have made her uncomfortable, and guilty that he hadn’t adequately prepared or defended her, he says what he believes he must to heal his wife and his marriage. They will not need to come back to India anytime soon. They will pour their energy into building their family and their life in America. In time, he assumes, things will get better.
WHEN THE TAXI PULLS UP TO THE PLAIN CONCRETE BUILDING with peeling paint and a rusty metal gate, Somer grabs his arm. “It didn’t look this bad in the pictures,” she whispers.
“Come on.” He puts his arm around her. They walk up to the front gate and hear the sounds of children playing in the courtyard inside.
They are met outside by Reema, the representative of their Indian adoption agency. “Welcome, namaskar,” she says, greeting them with joined palms and a smile. “I know you have been waiting a long time for this day, so come, let us go in.” Reema leads them inside the building. Krishnan glances over at Somer, who dons a bright smile, as if cameras might be waiting on the other side of the door. Inside, they are greeted by a throng of barefoot children in assorted sizes who cluster around Somer, clearly having never seen a white person before.
“Hullo, madam!”
“Come from America, madam?”
“…speak English, madam?”
They reach out their hands to touch her fair-skinned arms, feel the jersey fabric of her shirt. They wear threadbare clothes and bright smiles. Reema ushers Somer and Krishnan through the children and into a small office where a st
out, middle-aged woman stands, hands clasped in front of her sari, waiting for them.
“Namaskar,” she says, bowing slightly, “I am the director’s assistant. Mr. Deshpande could not be here for this very happy day, but he sends his best wishes. We have the final paperwork to sign, and then I will bring your baby.”
Somer sits down in one of two chairs and takes the clipboard from her. Something at the top of the page catches her eye. “Usha?” she asks. “This says Usha. But isn’t her name Asha?”
“No, madam,” the assistant replies, “her given name is Usha. That is what we call her, but you can call her whatever you like, of course.”
“I thought…we thought her name was Asha. That’s what we’ve been calling her, all this time.” She gives Krishnan a pleading look.
Reema shuffles through the papers in her manila file folder. “Yes, we also have Asha on everything. There must have been an error somewhere along the way, perhaps in reading someone’s handwriting? But not to worry, there’s no harm. You can call her Asha and she will know it as her name in no time.”
“It doesn’t matter, honey.” Kris stands behind Somer and put his hands on her shoulders. “She won’t know the difference. Don’t worry about it.”
Somer shakes her head. “Just once, I would like something here to turn out the way it’s supposed to.” She hands the clipboard back and takes a deep breath. “Never mind. We’re ready.” The assistant nods and leaves the office.
When the assistant returns to the office holding the baby, everyone in the room stands at once. Krishnan is closest and reaches out for her. The baby goes easily into his arms and immediately begins playing with his eyeglasses. “Hi, sweet girl. Hi there, Asha.” He speaks slowly and softly as he cradles her head, and she moves on to pinching his earlobes. Somer walks over, and all three of them embrace. She reaches out her arms to hold Asha, but the baby turns and clings tightly to Kris’s neck like a koala.
“See, nothing to worry,” the assistant says. “She’s already attached to you.”
18
SILVER BELLS
Bombay, India—1985
SARLA
“WHAT A BEAUTIFUL BABY SHE IS. HELLO, ASHA BETI,” SARLA reaches over to touch the child’s cheek. “Very aware, very curious—just see how she’s looking around. Hahn, baby?” She gives the child an exaggerated smile and nod. “So, how was it?”
“Long day.” Krishnan pauses to drink his tea. “Lots of paperwork—orphanage, courthouse, government office. We’ll sleep early tonight.”
“Of course, it sounds very strenuous.” Sarla wobbles her head from side to side in a weary compromise between nodding yes and shaking no. “Thank God we are here to help you. Dinner will be ready soon.” She turns to Somer, who is holding Asha. “What do you need for Asha, beti? A cot, some towels? Come.” They stand, and she places her arm lightly on the younger woman’s back to lead her down the hallway. She can see her son’s wife is unsure of herself. She’s using both arms to hold the child, reluctant to let go even to take a sip of her tea. It isn’t that unusual, of course: most new mothers don’t know what they’re doing, but then, they usually have more time to learn. Asha is already one year old and will be walking soon. Somer will have to earn her maternal confidence quickly.
When Sarla brought Krishnan home from the hospital, she was only twenty-two years old, still a young bride. She always said he was raised by a whole family of mothers. From the first day, there was always someone around to show her how to do everything—from cleaning out his tiny nose, to wrapping him up to sleep. Between her mother, her aunt, her sister, and the ayah, not to mention a host of well-meaning neighbors, she was never alone with Krishnan once in the first six months. At times, she found it stifling to have so many hands involved in caring for her child. But she knew she was fortunate, and even the frustration of interference was a luxury that many new mothers, like Somer, would never have. In America, she’s heard, new mothers are sent home from the hospital after just a few days, with no support system at all.
“Achha, Somer, I’ll just draw some warm water for Asha’s bath…Here, please feel this. Is it a good temperature?” she calls out from the bathroom. “Okay, the basin is filled. Here’s a towel and some talcum powder.” She’s about to leave when she notes the apprehension on Somer’s face. “Would you mind if I stay while you give her a bath?” she says. “It’s been so long since an old woman like me has been around a baby. I would quite enjoy it.”
Somer’s face relaxes. “Of course, please stay. I could use another pair of hands.” Working together, thirty minutes later, they have Asha fully bathed, dried, creamed, and dressed.
“There’s nothing I love more than the scent of a freshly bathed baby,” Sarla says, then laughs. “Except perhaps the smell of a freshly opened coconut. That is my other favorite.” Somer joins her in laughter as she combs through Asha’s damp curls. There is a polite knock on the bedroom door and they hear Devesh’s timid voice from the hallway outside.
“Madam, Doctor Sahib has arrived. Shall we serve dinner now?”
THEY ALL SIT TOGETHER AT THE LONG MAHOGANY CARVED TABLE while the cook and servants orbit around, leaning in to serve them from sterling silver dishes. Somer holds Asha in her lap as she feeds her a bottle of milk. Krishnan feasts on roasted cauliflower, stuffed eggplants, saag paneer, vegetable pulao, and light, crispy puris. “Ma, you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,” he manages to say in between bites.
“Nonsense! This is a special occasion.”
After Krishnan finishes, he offers to hold Asha so Somer can eat. Her plate contains small quantities, no more than a tablespoon or two of each dish. She uses her fork to take delicate bites. “Mmm, this is delicious. It reminds me of India Palace in San Francisco. I wish I knew how to make spinach taste this good. I’ll have to get your saag recipe.”
Sarla smiles at her politeness and overlooks her mispronunciation. Somer is a nice girl, and in theory, she is part of their family, yet the gulf between her and the rest of them is unmistakable. Any twelve-year-old girl in India could make a respectable saag paneer without a recipe. She sighs to herself. Now that Somer is the mother of her only granddaughter, Sarla will have to make an extra effort to bridge the distance.
Asha, in Krishnan’s lap, grins mischievously up at him and reaches for the silver thali and small bowls on the table in front of them. “Here you go, sweetie. You want some rice?” He scoops up some stray grains with his fingers and feeds them to her.
Sarla watches them discreetly. She cannot help but notice how comfortable he seems with Asha. This has been one of the unexpected joys of getting older, seeing each of her sons grow to be a father to his own children. As the eldest son of the extended clan, Krishnan has been around younger cousins all his life, so it is not surprising he would take to parenthood so naturally. Somer will be good at it too, Sarla hopes, once she is accustomed to the thought of being a mother.
“You both look tired,” Sarla notes, after the servants clear the table and they move to the living room. “Before you retire for the night, your father and I have something for you.” She walks over to an elegant wooden cabinet with inlaid ivory designs standing against one wall of the living room. The door hinge squeaks when she opens it. She reaches inside and turns back to them with two packages in hand. She gives the first, a small burgundy velvet box tied with a gold elastic ribbon, to Krishnan. “This is for Asha.”
“Ma…you didn’t have to do this,” Krishnan says. He fumbles with the thin knot before opening the lid. “Ahhh…lovely.” He shows the box to Somer. Inside are two delicately ornate silver ankle bracelets. Somer picks one up with a single index finger, and it makes a shy tinkling sound. She looks closer at the row of tiny bells that dangle from it.
“They’re called jhanjhaar, beti. It is a custom here for little girls to wear them—some say, so you can always hear where they are.” Sarla laughs. “As soon as you told us you were coming here to fetch Asha, we had our jeweler make them.”
“They’re beautiful.” Somer moves Asha to Krishnan’s lap, so she can unhook one of the strands and refasten it on Asha’s ankle. “There…oh, look at that.” She stretches out Asha’s little legs, holding one foot in each hand: the shiny intricate anklet on her left foot contrasting with the simple silver bangle on her right. “Maybe I should take this one off?” she says, fingering the modest one. “I’d hate for them to get tangled.”
“Whatever you like, dear. It is your choice.” Sarla leans forward with the second package, holding it out to Somer with both hands. “And this one is for you, my dear.”
Somer’s face registers a look of surprise, soon replaced by the slow spread of a smile. “Oh, thank you.”
“I hope you like it. I chose it myself,” Sarla says. “I don’t know your taste…” She pauses a moment while Somer lifts out of the box a lustrous silk shawl in the shade of bright peacock green. The border is richly embroidered in gold and aqua blue. “When a daughter-in-law becomes a mother, it is a tradition for us to give a special sari. I know you don’t have much occasion for a sari, so I chose a shawl instead. This one reminded me of your lovely eyes.” She catches an expression cross her son’s face. Disappointment? He told me not to expect the girl to wear Indian clothes, didn’t he?
“Thank you. It’s beautiful.” Somer clutches the folds of silk fabric to her chest.
Sarla sits back, pleased with herself and the way the evening has turned out. Sometimes, as she has well learned in life, one’s actions must precede the emotions one hopes to feel.