Daughters Inherit Silence

by Rasana Atreya

His face tightened at the indignity.

  And now, she was allowing that classless American boy to chase after her? His face tightened in anger. How much could a man take? Wasn’t it enough that he had lost his only son?

  10

  Jaya

  The man with the coconut-tuft of a head tiptoed across the courtyard, his plump cheeks aglow from the strain of unexpected exercise.

  Jaya leaned against the wall of her veranda, arms crossed, shaking head at the older man. “Must you be so dramatic, Uncle?”

  Prakash uncle grinned. “Making sure the coast is clear.”

  Knowing he was referring to her in-laws, and knowing her daughter was listening, Jaya contained her laughter.

  Ananta giggled.

  Uncle opened his arms to the young girl.

  She threw herself at their across-the-road neighbour, knocking his breath out.

  “Uff,” he said, clutching his chest dramatically. “You forget that I’m almost old.” He leaned closer to Ananta. “Not, of course, as old as that lady.” He pointed to the youthful-looking lady who was his wife.

  Ananta grinned.

  “Ignore him,” Paavani aunty said. After forty years of marriage, she did just that. “Your grandparents are not bad,” Aunty told the young girl. “They just don’t like people.”

  Jaya choked back another laugh. Much as she wanted her daughter to respect her grandparents, there was no denying that her in-laws were a self-righteous pair. They were completely self-contained, locked as they were in a symbiotic relationship with each other. So much so, they had no need for anyone else: sadly, not even Ananta, the only child of their late son.

  Aunty settled into an armchair and gratefully reached for the coffee Jaya had ready. The older couple visited a few times each month, timing their visit with Jaya’s in-laws’ absence in the mornings.

  Because Ananta’s grandparents were so uninvolved in her life, Prakash uncle and Paavani aunty stepped in when there was need.

  Today there was need.

  Ananta slipped her hand into Uncle’s, resting her head against him, acknowledging the significance of this day in her young life: today was the eleventh anniversary of death of the father she had never known.

  * * *

  One less pillow in Jaya’s bed. One less plate at the dinner table. Drawers emptied, clothes donated. Keepsakes tossed in garbage because the husband to whom they held meaning, no longer was. One moment of inattention for the driver of the car who had ended Anant’s life; a lifetime of sorrow for his widow and his daughter.

  The prenatal doctor’s appointment that he never made it to. The daughter he never held. His ashes released in water, the fast-flowing currents carrying him away from her.

  What was it about death that brought out the trite in people? People who were ordinarily compassionate seemed to lose their ability to show that same compassion in times of great loss. They found themselves unable to get past “be strong” or it was “meant to be.” How could the death of a father or husband, be “meant to be?” And why was it not okay to lean on someone, to not be strong?

  Jaya had been devastated by the death of her beloved grandparents: she loved them, she missed them, but she accepted it as the natural order of things. What was natural about a young father who had died before his daughter could come into the world?

  She forced down calming breaths, trying to focus on the positives in her life. She was grateful for her brother and his unwavering support of her. She was grateful for Paavani aunty and Prakash uncle for stepping in whenever her brother had to go out of town unexpectedly. Aunty and Uncle might not be a regular part of her life, but when she needed them, they did not let her down. For that, she was grateful. She turned away, not wanting her daughter to see her tears.

  Paavani aunty squeezed Jaya’s hand, setting her coffee aside. “Ready?”

  * * *

  Jaya slid behind the wheel of the car, thinking of her gentle, idealistic husband, and the daughter he would never know. Eleven years gone.

  Aunty leaned across the front passenger seat and softly touched Jaya’s hand. “You okay?”

  Jaya nodded. Taking a deep breath, she put the car in gear and released the clutch.

  She navigated to the temple, through broad streets and narrow lanes. Every once in a while, where the lane grew wider, the extra space in the centre was taken over by an impromptu place of worship, the nature of this depending on the religious beliefs of the encroacher. Since no one in their right mind would complain about the encroachment of public land in such a manner, drivers navigated past the narrow spaces with extreme skill or with dented cars.

  Other times, the lane narrowed so much that the villagers automatically flattened themselves against the walls of homes and shops, no longer reacting to the sight of Jaya—a lady—driving a four-wheeler.

  Jaya pulled up close to one of the stalls lining the road to the temple, leaving barely enough room for traffic to pass by. This line of stalls had sprung up specifically to cater to the temple goers. Almost all sold flowers, incense, fruit, coconut and sweets. Jaya knew that if she made some purchases from one of the stalls, its owner would not complain about her car partially blocking it.

  Inside the stall, Ananta deliberated over the flowers, then put a strand of mallepoolu in the steel tray Jaya held. She held up sandalwood incense for Jaya’s inspection, her brown eyes anxious. “Do you think my father would like this?”

  Prakash uncle turned away.

  From the corner of her eye, Jaya watched Paavani aunty gently pat his arm.

  “Yes.” Jaya said. Tears crowded her throat. Forcing her voice past them, she said, “He would.” For this gentle daughter of his, he absolutely would.

  Ananta took the steel tray from her mother, stepped out of the stall and onto the street. Carefully balancing her purchases, she climbed the twenty steps leading to the temple. The adults followed.

  Inside, the temple priest accepted her offering, and nodding at Aunty and Uncle, asked Jaya gently, “Your in-laws?”

  Jaya shook her head, pointing her chin at Ananta. Being the granddaughter of Koteswara Rao meant that everyone in the twin villages of Gopanpally and Lingampally knew Jaya. The priest was aware that her in-laws were not the kind of people who stepped outside their zone of comfort—not for the gods, certainly not for their granddaughter. Why he thought they would seek to comfort their granddaughter, she wasn’t sure.

  The priest, a kindly old man in a white dhoti, three fingers of ash smeared horizontally across his forehead and a red kumkum bottu bisecting it, nodded slightly. Invoking the lineage of Ananta’s father, he offered prayers in the dead man’s memory. After the puja was over, he offered a flower to Ananta.

  Ananta closed her eyes, then tucked it in her ponytail.

  Jaya put an arm around the young girl, hugging her close. “Are you okay, Kanna?”

  She sniffed, nodding. “I wish I’d known him.”

  “I wish that too.” Jaya swallowed her ache. No child deserved to live with a loss this immense. “Are you sure you want to go to school?”

  “Sraavani’s mother is sending masala pulihora for me.”

  “If she sent me such tasty food,” Paavani aunty said, smiling. “I’d want to go to school too.”

  Reluctantly, Ananta smiled.

  During lunch, the girls in their class gathered together under the big raavi tree in the schoolyard. They sat cross-legged in a circle around the tree, opening their tiffin boxes, and setting the lids on the ground. Then, they passed around their boxes of food, each girl taking a bit of whatever appealed to her, placing it on the lid. Many times, a girl might get a little extra of a favourite food for a particular friend. Since as many girls were vegetarian as not, the girls avoided meat all together so they could all share.

  The little kindnesses.

  Jaya pulled up at the school.

  As Ananta got down from the car, Paavani aunty pursed her lips. “Off to school, little one. I’ll make sure Uncle doesn’t get
into trouble.”

  Ananta smiled slightly.

  Jaya walked the girl to the school gate and gave her a quick hug. Hopefully, her daughter would not dwell on the sadness of the day.

  Ananta pulled her mother down and whispered, “Uncle is my favourite person in the whole world. Well, not more than you, and Madhav mavayya and Shreya and Shyamala atta,” she said, out of loyalty to her uncle Madhav, and his family. “But Uncle is so silly, like a loveable bear.” Ananta looked up at her mother, a rare impishness in her eye. “Don’t tell Aunty I said that.”

  11

  Jaya

  “Hey!” Diwakar waved from his side of the wall.

  Jaya raised a reluctant hand in response. Last week Diwakar had spent almost an entire morning at the computer centre. This, despite her monosyllabic answers. It had become quite embarrassing, though he didn’t seem to notice.

  Her father-in-law turned around in his rocking chair, gave Diwakar a pointed look, then turned his back on the younger man.

  Please, Diwakar, Jaya thought, don’t say anything more. I’ve had a long day, and I don’t have the energy. Jaya slid out of her slippers and walked the four cemented steps up to the veranda.

  “Amma,” Jaya’s father-in-law said.

  Jaya halted mid-stride. She could count, on one hand, the times he had addressed her directly in the last seventeen years. Not that he lacked for things to say. His opinions were drip-irrigated to her via the rusty vocal-pipes of his wife, one dictum at a time.

  “We accepted you into our family after assurances that your family was of good character,” her father-in-law said. “Please take steps to ensure that our family honour is not questioned.” His voice was loud enough that there could be no doubt that Diwakar had heard.

  Jaya fled into the house.

  * * *

  Jaya stretched in bed, moving her neck from side to side, trying to dislodge the tension. What were the odds that Diwakar would leave tomorrow, freeing her to return to the banality of her existence?

  She idly thought about what it would be like to be married again. Not to Diwakar, of course. She didn’t feel that way about him. But to a man who might want a wife for himself, not just a daughter-in-law for his parents. She may not have been blessed with such a union herself, but she knew of many such marriages, arranged or otherwise. Someone she could go out to a movie with, perhaps take a walk along the stream. Someone with whom she could share her worries, and her joy, of having Ananta in their lives.

  Abruptly she sat up, ordering herself off that path. What-ifs were dangerous. Why indulge in something that could only lead to heartache?

  Her phone pinged.

  A WhatsApp message from a friend. Suneeta was a professor at an engineering college in Hyderabad.

  “So,” Suneeta’s message began. “He tells me that he has the fondest memories of his mother’s cooking.” “He” being Suneeta’s husband. “And isn’t it sad that our kids will never have similar memories to fall back on? Appropriately shamed for my inadequate mothering skills, I fire my cook. I know her range was limited, but she freed up my time. Now I’m angry at how skilfully he manipulated my guilt.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jaya typed. “Isn’t there anything you can do?”

  “I wish.” With a sad-face emoji, she signed off.

  The phone pinged again.

  Srinivas uncle.

  Frowning, she clicked on the message.

  “Please meet me in the courtyard. I need to talk to you. Now.”

  This late at night? Hoping it wasn’t Ramani aunty, she jumped to her feet. Aunty often joked about her comfortable proportions. She looked healthy enough, but one could never tell. For Nina’s sake and Aunty’s, Jaya hoped everything was okay.

  She threw a quick look at Ananta. Her daughter rolled over, resuming her snoring. With a quick kiss on her hair, Jaya covered her with the bedsheet. Using a hand to brush down her own hair and kurta, she went out to the courtyard.

  The night was dark, the moon a shiny sliver. She turned on the veranda light.

  Uncle leaned against the wall on his side of the courtyard, an impatient look on his face.

  She walked down the stairs to meet him, her stomach tightening in apprehension.

  “We’ve known each other, how long?” Uncle said. “Two years, now?”

  Jaya nodded, puzzled. This did not sound like an emergency.

  “In that time, I’ve never known you to be improper.”

  Knowing the direction this was taking, Jaya forced emotions off her face. She would be damned if she gave this man the satisfaction.

  “The entire village is talking about the day you spent in the company of my son.” At the twitch on Jaya’s face, he said, “What? You didn’t think this would get back to me?” He shook his head. “Look, I know you modern girls don’t like to be told anything but I happen to know you’re from a good family. I’m like a father to you, so please accept my advice.” He drew in a breath for dramatic effect.

  “My son is interested in remarriage, but has no understanding of the ways of India. He doesn’t understand how inappropriate it is to even think of marrying a girl who was another man’s wife. A lady who has a child of her own. Despite what these progressive types say, we can’t go about discarding tradition just because it is convenient. Widow remarriage is just not right. There is something known as the sanctity of marriage. You can’t go about violating it.”

  “Your son is divorced.” Where the words came from, Jaya didn’t know. What she did know was that she was incensed. “Didn’t he violate the sanctity of his own marriage?”

  Srinivas uncle’s face turned dark so fast, Jaya feared he was having a stroke. His breaths came out heavy, like a bull readying for a stampede. “How dare you!”

  That is rich, Jaya thought, given that Uncle was one of the causes of that marriage’s breakup.

  Though, to be fair, the fact that divorce rates in India were the absolute lowest in the world was less a testament to the blissful state of marital unions, and more to societal pressures. So much investment—money, time, effort—went into each wedding, that for the couple to even think of dissolving the union was to invite incredulity. After all that we did for you, you dare to utter such words? What will they think of our family? Who will marry the sister of a divorcee? What about grandma’s dream to see your son marry her third cousin’s granddaughter? You might as well organise a public hanging for our family and end it all right now.

  “I’m begging you.” Uncle joined his palms together in a pleading gesture. “Please don’t put improper ideas into my son’s head. Don’t spoil our family’s reputation. Please don’t make it impossible for us to raise our heads again. He will leave soon enough, but we still have to live here.”

  Turning on his heel, he strode into his house and closed the door behind him.

  Late the next day, Diwakar was on a flight back to America. By intent, or by diktat, Jaya never did find out.

  12

  Jaya

  The bell attached to the door of the computer centre jangled.

  “What are you doing here?” Jaya smiled at her brother from behind her desk. “When did you get back?”

  “Just now. I’m on my way home from the airport.” Madhav reached over and ruffled her hair, as if she were five years old.

  Laughing, she batted his hand away. “How come you stopped here first? Not that I’m complaining.” After a whole month away in Germany, she’d have expected him to rush home to his wife and six-year-old daughter.

  Madhav set his laptop bag on the floor and sat down with a sigh. “I’ve been craving real coffee, and some of Sivanna’s mouthwatering vadas.”

  “Ramesh!” Jaya called out. The watchman hurried in, and she gave him her order of two coffees and a plate of vada.

  Sivanna’s tiffin stall was “world famous” in the entire district. People queued up for his coffee, and his tiffins—idli, vada, dosa, mirchi bajji, Mysore bondas. On Sunday mornings it wasn’t unusual to find
a line of up to thirty people.

  Madhav dug out a toothbrush and paste and headed to the bathroom. Not that she wasn’t happy to see her brother, but why was he here? Why now, after a month away from the wife and daughter he adored? She doodled mindlessly, looking out at the road, looking back at the bathroom, wishing both men would hurry back.

  Madhav came out of the bathroom and sat down with a sigh. Almost immediately, Ramesh returned with the coffees and vada. Thank God.

  Madhav breathed in the aromas, carefully untying the twine that bound together the vistaraku leaves. Taking a swig of the coffee, he settled in to enjoy his breakfast. Jaya tapped her fingers on the desk, impatient for him to finish.

  “Can there be a breakfast more delicious?” Setting aside the vistaraku, he sighed in contentment.

  “Why are you here? Really?”

  “Well.” Madhav cleared his throat. “On the way here from the airport, my driver updated me.”

  Great. So, now, the drivers were gossiping about her. Jaya dropped her head in her hands. “About Srinivas uncle’s son?”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to deal with the situation.”

  She looked up. “There wasn’t anything to deal with. He seemed nice enough. I don’t think he intended to cause me trouble. He just didn’t understand the local norms. He thought it was okay to walk with me all the way from my house to here.”

  “Ouch.”

  “That caused a lot of gossip,” Jaya said briskly, “but he’s gone now.”

  But it wasn’t quite that simple. The stench would linger. The siblings understood that.

  Madhav drained his coffee. “In that case, I’ll head home. I’m exhausted.” He looked it. His hair was mussed, and his shirt did look like it had been on a long flight.

  “You know, right?” Jaya looked at brother, feeling a surge of affection. “That it means a lot to me that I have your unconditional support?”