Daughters Inherit Silence

by Rasana Atreya

  Jaya nodded. In India, this wasn’t always stated, but boys grew up with the expectation just the same. Her brother certainly had.

  “Also, Uncle being Uncle, he demanded all of Diwakar’s time, with very little left for his wife and kids.”

  In the year Aunty had lived next door, Jaya had come to know her as a fiercely private person. Such confidences were rare.

  Aunty continued, “When Rekha filed for divorce, Diwakar didn’t contest it.” She smiled sadly. “I wish he had. All Rekha wanted was a little bit of Diwakar’s attention. For herself, and for their kids. But joint families are so hard on daughters-in-law.” She paused.

  “Rekha is a human-rights lawyer. She does so much good.” Jaya could hear the pride in Aunty’s voice. “Highly educated, and very competent. Just like you.”

  Jaya was touched by the compliment. She had no idea Aunty had given her any thought. She briefly put her hand on the older lady’s. Jaya admired Aunty, too. Uncle might shout her down frequently, but she bore it with quiet dignity.

  “Now my Diwakar is a weekend father,” Aunty said. “What kind of life is that? We’ll be gone in a few years. Rekha might remarry. America is a land where such things can be done, you know. What will he do then?”

  “I’m so sorry,” Jaya said.

  Aunty’s eyes were deep pools of sorrow. “I miss him. I miss Kovid, my grandkids, Rekha, all of them.”

  Jaya didn’t want to seem like she was taking advantage of Aunty’s unexpected confidence so she said carefully, “I know I’m being nosy, so you don’t have to answer this, but you did shift back…”

  “I didn’t want to,” Aunty said honestly. “My children and grandchildren live there. But when Uncle decided we must, I tried to look for positives. I realised it would be good for Diwakar to have some space. Maybe he would figure things out with Rekha. She makes him happy.”

  Now, as she sipped her coffee on the veranda, Jaya noted the frenzied activity in the house to her right. Ramani aunty sat on the cot in their courtyard, feet up, hugging a girl Ananta’s age. A man, most likely the girl’s uncle, Diwakar, sat on a chair up on the veranda, his feet stretched out in front of him.

  Jaya blinked. The man was huge.

  Ramani aunty beckoned Jaya over to the wall. “They’re here!” She beamed. As she introduced Jaya to them, Diwakar waved.

  Jaya waved back, and that set the tone for his India visit.

  Diwakar was there on his veranda, waving when she left for work, waving when she returned. He tried to engage her in conversation when she stepped out to sweep the yard, to get the knife sharpened from the man with the sharpening contraption attached to the back of his bicycle, to do anything that required her to emerge from the house. One thing about Diwakar: no one could accuse him of disingenuousness. He was interested in Jaya, and he didn’t care who knew it.

  This confused her.

  Aunty had mentioned that Diwakar still cared deeply for his ex-wife. Why, then, was he pursuing Jaya? Also, did he not know that she was a widow? That she was already bound to a man for this lifetime, and for a few more, as well? Marriage between a couple, after all, was said to be for seven cycles of births and rebirths.

  Or, perhaps, his intentions weren’t that honourable. Jaya sighed, wishing she could talk this out with someone. But her friends lived in cities and communities around the world, as was common with people who had degrees in engineering and, sometimes, medicine. They wouldn’t relate to her small-town struggles.

  Her brother and she were close, but he had his own family, his own life. Though she lived in a household with two other adults, she was still reduced to conducting entire conversations with herself.

  Each time Diwakar waved, every single time he said “Hi,” her father-in-law’s face got tighter.

  Diwakar was a nice-enough man. He probably wasn’t doing anything beyond what was acceptable for an American man, so she tried to minimise their interaction. Always, her father-in-law sat on the veranda, watching, glowering. She was surprised he hadn’t put a stop to this. She knew she could not expect indefinite silence from him.

  7

  Jaya

  Mornings came and went. The vegetable seller continued to entice ladies to step out of their homes by calling out, “Tomato, kakarkaya, spinach, gongura.”

  Jaya continued to hide out—from him, from Diwakar—using work as her excuse for both. She had taken to requesting her mother-in-law to buy the day’s vegetables.

  The vegetable seller had been like a background process in a computer, crucial to its operations, but comfortably invisible. He’d resided on the periphery of her existence, keeping her household supplied with the necessary vegetables, but not intruding in any way.

  Until they’d had their oddly intimate conversation.

  Now their relationship had changed. It had morphed into something she couldn’t comfortably relegate to the background of her life.

  Now he was Ramu.

  He had moved to the foreground.

  He had a name.

  She was no longer the educated lady, and he was no longer the impoverished blue-collar worker, one she could talk down to, much as it shamed her to admit it. As for Diwakar, she cursed her luck that she had to go and buy a house right next to his parents.

  After five days of hiding out, she decided she was being ridiculous. She was a businesswoman. She was independent. Post-marriage, she might have lost her voice, but surely she could retrieve some of her spunk?

  The next morning, when she heard Ramu call out his wares, she squared her shoulders. Grabbing the plastic vegetable basket hanging behind the kitchen door, she stepped out into the courtyard. As she approached the open gate, she slowed her steps. She waited behind the wall at the side of the gate until most of the ladies had finished making their purchases. Then she stepped out.

  Ramu smiled at her briefly, acknowledging her presence. He was casually chatting with the remaining ladies, joking as he weighed the vegetables and counted out their change.

  When it was just him and her, he said, “Amma, I did not mean to be disrespectful.”

  Jaya was instantly ashamed. “No, no. It’s not that. I’ve been busy with office work.”

  He knew, and she knew, that wasn’t the case. But nothing more was said.

  8

  Jaya

  As her in-laws stepped into the courtyard, back from their walk, Jaya picked up her laptop bag. This was her cue to exit. Slinging the bag over her shoulder, she walked past her mother-in-law in her crumpled cotton sari, and her father-in-law in his trademark white kurta and pancha. As always, her father-in-law inclined his head to acknowledge her presence, and her mother-in-law looked through her with unseeing eyes. But when Diwakar shouted out another of his greetings across courtyards, the old man stiffened.

  Mortified, Jaya hurried out of the house, head down. She stepped through the gate and onto the road, where her car was parked. Navigating the school- and office-going traffic with skills honed over long experience, she darted across the busy road. She unlocked the vehicle and slid in. But, feeling too restless to drive, she got out and relocked the car. Today was as good a day as any for some much-needed exercise. She started to walk.

  “Hi.”

  Startled, Jaya looked over her shoulder.

  Diwakar.

  Her heart sank. God, let no one see this. The finger pointing. The gossip! Ananta won’t be able to handle it.

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Diwakar started to walk alongside her.

  A three-wheeled tempo careened past, belching out noxious fumes.

  “How’s work?” Diwakar said.

  The tempo took the curve sharply, speeding past the PUC men sitting near their van by the side of the road. No prizes for guessing that the tempo had no use for their “Pollution Under Control” certification.

  Please, please, please, Jaya begged in her mind. You seem like a nice person. But you’ll go back to America, and I’ll be left behind to deal with the aftermath. She wish
ed she could remember how to let difficult words out, sparing herself the endless, exhausting conversations in her head.

  “I’m in IT, you know,” he said. “If you’re stuck and need help, I’m quite handy. We have access to the latest technologies in the Silicon Valley.”

  “Thank you, but I’m able to get the information I need from the Internet.” Jaya walked as fast as she could, hoping her brief answers would discourage him. She was afraid to raise her head, certain that faces would be disapproving. You did not walk on the lanes and bylanes of a village with a man not your husband, brother or father: it just was not done.

  “There is a big university in America called the MIT. You should read their blog. It’s free and it might help you get up to speed.”

  Jaya nodded. She had a paid subscription to their Technology Review magazine. At $80, it was steep, but well worth the price. She also followed tech influencers on Twitter to keep herself up-to-date. In addition, she had her eye on the free Artificial Intelligence online course that Finland’s University of Helsinki offered. It had nothing to do with running her business, of course, but AI was where the world was headed, and she would not be left behind.

  She almost had.

  When you were married off right after college, and got a prized placement in a top company soon after, but your position and your salary caused your father-in-law distress because it made his son look bad in comparison, you took a deep breath. After months of agonising, and despite pleas from your brother to not do so, you quit your job—one that had accorded you intense personal satisfaction.

  Also, while your father-in-law might not appreciate your income, he certainly cared about how much dowry you brought in. A generous dowry elevated the worth of his son; a daughter-in-law who worked outside the home diminished it.

  Not that it would be referred to as dowry. The demand, carefully couched, would start with, “Amma, as you know, we’ve had some expenses…”

  It would be left for Jaya to fill in the blanks in the statement, and for her parents to fill out the blanks on the cheque; cash and jewellery being acceptable substitutes.

  Jaya remembered reading a quote attributed to the French philosopher and female existentialist, Simone de Beauvoir. Portraying a woman as an intrinsically altruistic being, de Beauvoir is said to have theorised, was a guaranteed way of laying claim to her selfless devotion.

  The Indian middle class might not have heard of de Beauvoir, but it could teach the philosopher a thing or two about The Art of the Perfect Lady: It deified the female as a Goddess; it glorified her endless capacity for sacrifice; it put her motherhood on a pedestal so high, she could never hope to get off. Movies were made of her selfless devotion to her children, to her husband, to her in-laws. Paeans were sung. The Indian woman must never forget that the Glory of Sacrifice was the overarching theme of her womanhood.

  This sudden onslaught of cynicism startled Jaya. She was not attracted to Diwakar; she knew that. She wondered why his presence at her side was bringing on thoughts of disloyalty toward her late husband. Besides, Anant had been a good man. In fact, she’d named their daughter “Ananta” in his memory. As long as they were married, Jaya had been content.

  Mostly.

  After the death of her young husband, Jaya refused to terminate the girl-child she was carrying. Only a male heir would be acceptable to her in-laws, so they threw her out of the house her dowry had bought. Her mother offered no support because Jaya had caused her family-of-birth to lose face; she had defied her in-laws.

  Her paternal grandparents and older brother stepped up, as they always did. They helped Jaya shift to the village. Her grandparents—unconcerned by the what-will-people-think? fears that perpetually plagued their daughter-in-law—gave Jaya an early inheritance so she could buy her house.

  Months later, the father-in-law of Jaya’s older sister-in-law got sick, and demanded money for his treatment. Jaya’s in-laws were forced to sell their own home, and this left them with nowhere to go. Jaya offered them a place to stay, hoping that her infant daughter and they would draw comfort from one other. Sadly, that never came to pass. To Ananta, her grandparents were like workers at an after-school care. They provided nourishment for her belly, then receded to their private spaces.

  Eventually, she had refused to be respectful of her in-laws’ desire for a traditional daughter-in-law. Despite their mortification, she’d started up a business. With her brother’s friend stepping in to ease her way with the local authorities, she had started up a computer centre that offered Internet access for a fee. Then she also began creating websites for businesses and helping protect them against cyber attacks. She might not have found the words to stand up to her in-laws, but she’d found the gumption to stand up for her daughter, and for herself.

  As part of her transformation from a dowry-dependent bride to a self-supporting widow, she was also contributing towards the EMI payments for her parents’ new house. Much as she missed her husband, she couldn’t deny that eleven years of widowhood had freed her in a way six years of marriage hadn’t.

  Shaking away the memories, she focused attention on the present. The husband of Next-door aunty, the one with nine grandkids, was passing by. The expression on his face spurred her to walk faster.

  A couple of maids sauntered past. They sniggered.

  Jaya’s heart sank. By nightfall it would be all over the village that Sriram garu’s daughter-in-law was in the process of destroying the reputations of her in-laws and her mother’s family, by using her wiles on Srinivas uncle’s son.

  “You do like a fast walk.” Diwakar looked down at her and laughed. “Luckily, I can keep up.”

  He could, too. He was a bear of a man. With his ungainly gait, he reminded her of a gentle King Kong.

  A part of her, a small part that wasn’t mortified, was flattered. It wasn’t every day a decent man from a good family openly expressed interest. Indian men knew better than to be obvious. They might send a widow an SMS, asking to meet privately for something on the side. Men from good families—divorced or not, widowed or not—did not express interest in marriage with widows, except in rare circumstances. The character of the widow, and the reputation of the family she was married into, must be honoured at all costs.

  Finally, they arrived.

  The computer centre was a converted shop on the main thoroughfare of the village, the Mahatma Gandhi road—MG road for short. Every town in India, every village, every city, had one. Each October 2nd, on his birthday, the father of the nation was venerated by school children singing patriotic songs, and politicians reminding their vote bank of their existence. On October 3rd, things went back to normal.

  Businesses were getting ready for the day, retracting roll-down metal shutters that protected shops at night. Ramesh, the watchman she hired, got up from the rickety plastic chair he’d been sitting on, bent down to floor level and unlocked the shutter. He pushed it up, watching as it disappeared into the ceiling.

  Jaya reached for her own set of keys and unlocked the front door.

  Ramesh looked on as Diwakar followed her in and leaned against the desk.

  Jaya pushed aside the drapes to let light in. During the day, the faded curtains shaded the centre from heat. The windows remained closed in defence against the vast amounts of particulate matter passing vehicles generated. The air conditioning provided both air circulation and cringe-inducing electricity bills when there was power.

  For when there wasn’t, an electrician had rigged up a car battery as an inverter. When the power was on, the battery charged. When it went out, the battery supplied electricity to the computers and the lights. She wished the inverter could run the air conditioner, too. Today felt like it was going to be that kind of day, and not only because of the heat.

  She wished she could open the windows, but her equipment was too delicate, and too expensive, to risk death by dust.

  The watchman picked up a towel and started to dust off the fine layer that had settled into the c
revices of the desktops and over the air vents of the monitors. The location of the centre was a trade-off: Jaya could prevent some of the dust accumulation by finding a less busy location, but she’d lose the foot traffic.

  She lit an oil lamp at the tiny altar nailed to the wall, bowed briefly, and sat behind her desk. She was open for business.

  “Quite a ritual you have there,” Diwakar said.

  Ramesh leaned against the door, eyeing them both.

  Jaya stifled a sigh. “Ramesh, can you get two coffees?”

  He nodded and picked up the flask. The coffee stall was on one side of the centre.

  Wishing it were as easy to ask Diwakar to leave, she said instead, “Can I set you up on a computer?”

  9

  The Old Man

  If the daughter-in-law insisted on supporting them, why couldn’t she opt for something decent, like working in a government office? He had contacted the friend of a friend who promised to help the daughter-in-law secure a government job. Only a little matter of Rs. 100,000. But she had turned her nose up at the steady income and pension—didn’t believe in bribery, she said.

  Was it more decent, running a business? That too, the daughter-in-law of an honourable family? Were they low-caste people to do such a thing? The old man bit down on his lower lip. He prided himself on his lack of displays of emotion. After all, didn’t our great philosophers—for which even foreigners came to India—preach detachment?

  Was there a man alive who was okay with holding his hand out in front of his daughter-in-law? As it was, he had to wait till she left for that distasteful business of hers before reaching behind the altar for the money she left each month for his wife and him.