“She’s got a good teacher,” Anil said.
“Almost as good as mine,” Piya said, raising one eyebrow. “Which reminds me, I’d like your help with a child who has a nasty rash. Doesn’t seem to go away no matter what I do.”
“You probably want Geeta,” Anil said. “She’s the nasty-rash expert.”
“Oh yes,” Piya said. “Where is she?”
“In the kitchen with Ma, getting an unsolicited cooking lesson.”
Piya groaned. “Poor thing. I think Ma’s given up on my marital prospects and she’s turning her energy elsewhere.”
Anil smiled. Their mother was like the last stubborn embers of a fire that refused to go out. When thwarted by one person, she turned somewhere else. She still asked Anil if he and Geeta would move back to India; she was probably lobbying Geeta right now in the kitchen. Ma wasn’t willing to give up her dream of how she envisioned her family. It was the same relentless drive that had propelled Anil on the improbable journey from these sugarcane fields to senior physician at Parkview. Although he’d made the right decision for himself, he would have to live with the reality that his choices would always be a disappointment to her.
Nirmala Auntie approached them, bowing her head in greeting. She wore a proud smile as she held out two large jars wrapped in newspaper. “Mango pickle for you to take home.” She gestured to a distant horizon to imply he should take the pickles all the way back to America, not just to the Big House.
“Thank you, Auntie.” Anil embraced her and they caught up for a few minutes while Piya closed up the clinic for the night.
The reporter returned and began asking questions of the patients who’d been treated that day and had stayed around for the spectacle of the camera. Anil looked up to see Leena smiling at him, and they simultaneously began moving toward each other. They embraced with the familiarity and duration of old friends who had not met in a long time.
“Good job,” Anil said. “You’ll be on the front page of the paper tomorrow and you won’t be able to keep up with all your new orders.”
Leena threw her head back and laughed. “I don’t think so. More likely, Piya won’t be able to keep up with all her new patients.” Her voice was strong and her smile now uncompromising, but Anil also detected the steel in her eyes; they held the unmistakable history of the challenges she’d endured. Despite the contentment he knew she felt, Anil doubted he would ever stop feeling guilt and regret about what she had lost along the way.
Dev ran up to them and hurled himself at Anil, who leaned down and scooped him up, swinging his legs into the air. “Oh God, you’re getting so big,” he said. “And I’m getting so old. Soon you’ll be the one picking me up.”
“Anil Uncle, will you bowl for me? I have to practice my batting.” Dev swung an imaginary cricket bat.
“Yes, tomorrow, I promise. Geeta Auntie likes to sleep late, and I need my exercise.” Anil patted his tummy, though it was no bigger than it had ever been.
“Oh yes,” Leena said, pulling a small bottle out of her pocket. It appeared to be filled with a golden-tinted liquid, no doubt some herbal extraction she and Piya had cooked up. “For Geeta. It’s a tree oil, good for the skin, for stretch marks.”
“Thank you,” Anil said. “I’ll give it to her.”
Anil walked the long way back to the Big House through the golden fields and under the majestic canopy of the coconut trees, enjoying the scent of the earth filling his nose and the soil pushing into his sandals. In some ways, it always felt the same when he came home: this familiar touch of his senses, the way his gait slowed and his speech patterns shifted to fold in with his family. Yet, as the years passed, he felt the distance growing between his two worlds: he began to look forward to returning to his adopted home as much as he missed the one he’d left behind. It would always be like this in some form, he had come to realize, the undeniable push and pull between the land that had borne him and the one he had chosen.
INSIDE THE gathering room, people were starting to assemble. Kiran and Chandu walked to the head of the table and took the two empty seats on either side of their mother. Ritu stood at the back, leaning against the wall.
The first dispute, among three brothers, had erupted after the unexpected death of their father. The man had died of a sudden stroke without leaving any instructions about what to do with his large plot of farmland. He had three sons: the eldest, to whom property rights naturally fell by law; the middle son, who had the most experience tending the land alongside his father; and the youngest, who owned no property and had the most need. The brothers each claimed they had the greatest right to their father’s land. The simplest solution, the one most discussed by those in the room before the meeting started, would be to divide the property equally among the brothers.
“It’s a terrible loss. Your father was a good man,” Ma said. “But we have the matter of the farmland before us today, and while we cannot ascertain what your father would have chosen to do, I do know what he would have wanted. Your father would wish to see all three of his sons undivided by his death. He would want to see you working together in cooperation, each of you bringing your strengths to the land that was so dear to him.” The eldest son looked angry; the youngest, sheepish; and the middle one wore no expression at all. “Your father worked hard to cultivate his land. Dividing it would diminish its value.” Ma turned to Kiran.
Kiran pointed to the eldest son. “You will be responsible for the selection of crops and the designation of where to plant them. Your leadership is important, and so is the knowledge you will glean from your brothers.” He turned to the middle son. “You know the land better than anyone, so you will oversee all the tilling, planting, and harvesting.” Finally, Kiran spoke to the youngest brother: “And you will manage the daily care of the crops: irrigation, pest removal, weeding. It’s hard work, but that is how we all learn the nature of farming.”
The eldest son pushed his chair away from the table and stood up.
“We’re not finished yet,” Chandu said, motioning for the young man to sit down. “Listen, now: these are the areas you will each lead, but when it comes to doing the work, we expect each of you to be there every day, working alongside one another.” Chandu looked at each of them in turn. “At the end of two harvests, you will come back to us with your proposal of what to do with the land. You may propose anything you like: dividing the land among yourselves; selling it and splitting the proceeds. But whatever you decide, all three of you must agree.”
The eldest brother exhaled a deep, audible breath and crossed his arms over his chest.
“If you cannot come to agreement,” Ma said, “we will take the land back into the family’s name and give it to someone else.” She stood, looked up toward the ceiling for a few moments, then turned back to the young men. “You are being entrusted with your father’s greatest earthly possession. If you fail, you will not only disappoint yourselves, you will disgrace his memory.”
She ordered the servants to make more tea after the other visitors left, and the three brothers stayed behind and sketched out plans for rows of sugarcane and corn, using cardamom pods and rice grains to symbolize their crops on the long table. The council of arbiters understood the farm was too large for any of the brothers to do his part alone; they would have to work together to fulfill the tasks assigned to them. They knew that, after the first year of intensely tending the land, in the second year it would yield such great harvests, they would be convinced of their success. That day in the gathering room, three rivals would become partners.
Anil watched as Ritu left her position against the back wall and wandered over to a table in the corner upon which his old chess set was displayed. She sat down at the table, picked up one of the pieces, and examined it from all angles. Anil made his way over to her and took the seat on the other side of the table. He began arranging the pieces in their correct positions, aligning them on the squares. He smiled at Ritu. “Have you ever heard the story of how the game of c
hess was invented?”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
IN INDIA, THERE IS A LONG TRADITION OF SETTLING DISPUTES between individuals and families within a community. In its original form, the panchayat—the assembly (ayat) of five (panch) respected elders—was the inspiration for the name of the fictional village in this novel, Panchanagar.
In less formal ways, I have witnessed the same practice of navigating disputes in my own family and that of others, usually by an elder male in the family. When I was younger, I was not often privy to these conversations, so my imagination took over.
Even as a child, I was fascinated by this practice of sorting out troubles at the kitchen table rather than in a courtroom or by a formal authority figure. I became further intrigued as an adult, once I realized that grown-ups don’t have all the answers and that, in fact, often there is no clear answer to be had. I began to consider the burden of such a responsibility on an individual, and how different people might react to the role of being the arbiter.
For the purpose of this narrative, I chose an individual, the eldest son of the clan, to be the arbiter; in reality, the practice of informal dispute resolution can be carried out in as many different ways as there are families. While historical experience provided the inspiration for my story, all of the details of specific cases in this book are purely fictional, as are the village of Dharmala, India, and the town of Ashford, Texas.
THIS NOVEL follows a young man through the three years of his internal medicine residency program at an urban American hospital in the early 2000s. During my research process, I had the generous help of many people, including patients, hospital staff, physicians, nurses, and current and former interns and residents at several medical centers across the country.
The fictional Parkview Hospital in this book is not modeled after any one hospital, nor is Anil’s experience a perfect representation of any single residency program at a moment in time. Rather, it is a composite based on my research. While I have tried to remain true to the spirit of the medical residency experience, which has evolved significantly over the past two decades, I have also taken creative license to change some details and compress timelines to suit the narrative. There are undoubtedly errors in this kind of interpretation, and those belong solely to me.
The more exposure I gain to this world, the more I am humbled by the nobility of the medical profession. I only hope I did it justice.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THIS NOVEL WAS A LABOR OVER FIVE YEARS, AND I HAVE MANY people to thank.
My literary agent, Ayesha Pande, has been a steadfast adviser over many years and was instrumental in guiding this book, first editorially, then into the world. I feel fortunate to have her in my corner.
I am so very thankful to the formidable team at William Morrow for taking a risk on my first novel, and continuing to invest in my career as a writer with this one. Publisher Liate Stehlik has been a wonderful champion over the years and my editor Kate Nintzel brought her detailed attention, unique insights, and enthusiasm to this novel. It has been a pleasure to work with them, along with Margaux Weisman and the wonderful marketing and publicity team of William Morrow.
Iris Tupholme at HarperCollins Canada showed early faith in this story and tremendous patience over the many years and drafts it took to bring it to fruition. Even as I tore the story apart and started over from the blank page (twice), her belief that I would eventually write something decent never wavered, even when mine did. I am grateful for her confidence, without which this story might never have seen the light of day. I would also like to thank Helen Reeves for providing invaluable feedback on the latter drafts of the manuscript; her keen insights helped shape this story into what it is. Noelle Zitzer ushered it smoothly through the entire process. Judy Phillips brought her exacting attention to the final draft as the copy editor, and Mumtaz Mustafa, her brilliant artistic skills to the cover design.
The entire HarperCollins Canada team (current and former) are a shining example of publishing at its best, and I’m lucky to be on their roster: David Kent, Leo MacDonald, Sandra Leef, Cory Beatty, Emma Ingram, Colleen Simpson, Julia Barrett, Michael Guy-Haddock, Alan Jones, and many others who’ve worked with enthusiasm to support my books.
I also owe a huge debt of gratitude to all the independent bookstores, passionate booksellers, reviewers, and readers of my first novel, who helped make it possible for me to write a second.
As someone who didn’t study science past high school and is squeamish about blood, it was not a likely (or wise) choice for me to write about a young doctor in his residency. But that was the story that captivated me, and I’m fortunate that many people in the medical profession graciously helped me learn what I needed to know.
My brother-in-law, Dr. Vikas Desai, an emergency room physician, helped me with the details of the GHB drug overdose case, along with illuminating the unique culture of the ER.
My father-in-law, Dr. Ramayya Gowda, a cardiothoracic surgeon who has spent many days and nights saving patients in the ICU, helped me construct the case of an abdominal aortic aneurysm that could end so badly.
Dr. Ritvik Mehta helped me understand the nature and treatment of severe burns and, based on his own extensive experience, how medicine is practiced in rural areas of developing countries.
Like the main character in this novel, I was fortunate to see inside the hallowed chamber of a cardiac catheterization lab. Thanks to Dr. Pam Rajendran Taub, a cardiologist at UCSD, for her tenacity in gaining me such access. My appreciation also goes to Dr. Shami Mahmud, chief of Cardiovascular Medicine at UCSD, for clearing all the necessary hurdles and spending time with me. Finally, I am indebted to interventional cardiologist Dr. Mitul Patel, who, along with his staff and patients, allowed me to observe their remarkable work and answered my many questions.
Several other friends were generous in sharing experiences of their time as residents and in reading over my medical scenes, including Dr. Melissa Costner, Dr. Katherine Dunleavy, Dr. Bella Mehta, Dr. Sheila Au, and Dr. Cindy Corpier.
I could not have written this book without the generosity of these incredible physicians. Any inaccuracies in the story are my responsibility alone.
Thanks to my generous family of Ulambra, India, for showing me their agricultural practices, and the numerous varieties of trees and vegetation in the area, and for explaining the ayurvedic remedies derived from them. A local potter there who practiced the art of ceramics passed down through three generations was instrumental in showing me how to throw and shape clay without the use of modern tools.
For reading parts of the manuscript, my thanks to Saswati Paul, Anne Miano, Erin Burdette, Lori Reisenbichler; to Satish Krishnan, for educating me on the finer points of cricket; and to Vanessa, for her keen eye and ready ear.
My deepest gratitude goes to my family, and to friends who might as well be. Whose depth and laughter sustain me. Finally, thank you—
To my mother and father, Rama and Raj Somaya, for showing me the way.
To my sister, Preety, for always having my back.
To my second parents, Ram and Connie Gowda, for expanding the circle of my family.
And to Anand, Mira, and Bela, for making all my days golden.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SHILPI SOMAYA GOWDA was born and raised in Toronto. Her first novel, Secret Daughter, was published in 2010 and became an international bestseller, selling over one million copies worldwide. It has been translated into twenty-three languages. Shilpi Gowda holds an MBA from Stanford University and a bachelor’s degree in economics from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, where she was a Morehead-Cain scholar. She lives in California with her husband and children.
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ALSO BY SHILPI SOMAYA GOWDA
Secret Daughter
CREDITS
COVER DESIGN: MUMTAZ MUSTAFA
COVER PHOTOS: NILUFER BARIN/TREVILLION IMAGES (MAN), MEHREEN JABBAR/NAMA
K FILMS (WOMAN)
COPYRIGHT
THE GOLDEN SON
Copyright © 2015 by Shilpi Somaya Gowda.
All rights reserved under all applicable International Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
The Golden Son is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by Harper Avenue, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
FIRST EDITION
EPub Edition: September 2015 ISBN: 9781443412513
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ISBN (hardcover) 978-1-44344-679-2 (HC)
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