Daughters Inherit Silence

by Rasana Atreya

  “These women! Unable to think logically.” He shook his head and said to Prakash uncle, “Do you know what this girl told me? When they were giving away the Internet for free? She was trying to show me all kinds of problems with it.”

  This was back when Jaya was naïve enough to think that Srinivas uncle—a fellow engineer from America—would be open to talking to her as an equal. Now she knew not to engage in any discussion with him, technical or otherwise. Today she’d given in to weakness.

  Srinivas uncle wasn’t done. “And now, when I spend some money, try to do something nice for her, this is how she behaves.”

  Prakash uncle patted the other man’s shoulder and said in a soothing tone, “I don’t understand this computer stuff myself. I’m not an engineer like you two. Just a retired accountant.”

  Jaya had made the mistake of suggesting that, perhaps, it wasn’t wise to be locked into a social media’s universe because, in return for free Internet access, they’d direct you only to those sites that paid them for the privilege. Thankfully, India had disallowed that particular proposal.

  Srinivas uncle waved the phone at her. “All women know is to spend, spend, spend. Not a thought in their heads about the future. Who cares how you get on the Internet? Come Prakash garu, come to my house. My wife will make you real tea.”

  Prakash uncle touched Jaya’s shoulder gently. “What to do?” he whispered, “We men have fragile egos.”

  He started to hurry after Srinivas uncle, then turned around mid-stride. “All that extra milk. Will it go to waste?”

  Jaya laughed. “I’ll make you rice payasam and drop it off in the evening.”

  Prakash uncle might have his eccentricities, she thought with deep affection, but it took a special man to be as free of ego as him. “Purva janma sukrutam,” her grandmother would have said. Some good deed from a previous life of Jaya’s had carried over, that a man like him was in her orbit in this life.

  * * *

  Jaya looked over the wall, into her neighbour’s house. Ramani aunty sat, as usual, on a cot which was bare of mattress, coils of hemp criss-crossing the frame. She was braiding Nina’s hair in some intricate pattern the girl was showing her on the iPad.

  Jaya wasn’t sure if Uncle had discussed the Diwakar issue with Aunty. Brushing aside her embarrassment, she said, “I hear Nina’s father is coming.”

  “Isn’t that wonderful?” Aunty beamed. “I’ve been cooking all day! All my son’s favourites. Junnu pallu, pulihora, payasam. Nectars of the gods. What else can one ask for?” She put rubber bands on her granddaughter’s braids. “Let me braid Ananta’s hair now. If I let this one be,” she said, kissing the top of Nina’s head, “I’d be doing service for her all day long—picking out her bangles, selecting her clips, managing her bottus.” She swatted Nina gently. “Move aside.” Then she nodded at Ananta. “Come, Kanna.”

  Ananta got up shyly, and with an encouraging nod from Aunty, sat close to the older lady. Despite having a close relationship with Aunty for over two years, Ananta had begun to step back since Nina’s arrival. The kind-hearted lady that Ramani aunty was, she had taken note. She put in extra effort to make sure Ananta didn’t feel excluded.

  Ananta’s face glowed as she took her place on the cot.

  Jaya felt a pang. Ananta knew that she was fiercely loved—by Jaya, by her Uncle Madhav, by his family. But there remained a father-sized void in her being that nothing could fill. Each time Jaya thought she’d resigned to her child growing up fatherless, something came along to cause ache afresh.

  Jaya was filled with gratitude that this lady had stepped in as a surrogate grandmother for Ananta. Even after Nina’s arrival, Ananta went over after school. She often spent all afternoon with them, doing homework, following them around, helping with small chores till Jaya returned from office. If Srinivas uncle’s vitriol was the price Jaya had to pay for this, so be it.

  Jaya wished her own in-laws cared even a little bit for their granddaughter.

  They had been fiercely devoted to their son, and devastated when he died. While they had never demanded affection from or offered it to Jaya, as long as their son was alive, they did demand absolute respect. She couldn’t leave the house without permission, couldn’t use the phone without asking. Calls from friends were discouraged. Slowly, lifelong friendships withered.

  Her in-laws had two daughters, as well, to whom they did their duty. If the in-laws of one of the daughters stepped up dowry demands, they fell in line. Beyond that, there was no contact. Perhaps the daughters felt this lack of engagement because other than the mandatory three months for the birth of each of their children—a total of four in seventeen years—they never visited.

  “Look what I brought!” Srinivas uncle waved stalks of green chickpea pods. The girls ran to get it, then set about painstakingly peeling each pod, chomping them as they went about it.

  Jaya sighed. The aspect of Srinivas uncle, the fact that he treated Ananta like he treated Nina—with casual affection—was why Jaya continued to look past his derision.

  “I came by to ask if you wanted the car,” Jaya said to both. The older couple had neither the desire, nor the need, to maintain a car full-time. Like Uncle often said, they were retired people. Where were they going to go? For local trips, there was always the auto. Or the taxi.

  “Since Nina’s father is coming.” She flushed, hoping Uncle wouldn’t think she was setting her sights on the younger son now. She didn’t want to have to offer now, but they’d borrowed Jaya’s car for their older son, hiring a driver for the occasion. Also, Aunty did so much for Ananta that Jaya felt obliged to offer.

  “No, no,” Uncle said. “My boy is not coming from Gopanpally. He’s coming from America. I shall arrange a taxi for him.”

  Aunty mouthed an apology.

  Jaya shrugged in embarrassment.

  16

  Jaya

  “I will never be able to repay my debt to you, Amma,” Ramu, the vegetable seller, said softly, as Jaya decided between dondakaya and beerakaya. Every once in a while, she delayed her arrival, waiting until the other ladies were leaving. That gave them the chance to talk.

  “Aiyyo, that is not necessary,” she said, embarrassed. With Jaya’s help, the older son had filled out the forms, and been offered a job in the Air Force. He would never rise to high positions because, as Ramu himself said, his oldest wasn’t the brightest boy in their locality. But the perks that the Armed Forces offered were not insignificant: if he stuck it out, he would be able to make a decent life for himself.

  “He will get good benefits.” Ramu beamed. “He will get pension. And he can buy items for cheap from the canteen. He will never have to pay for doctors and hospitals again. He can take me to the hospital too, no money, no nothing. For parents also, everything is free.”

  Jaya was glad. Ramu had talked of the hardship of raising two boys run wild after the death of their mother.

  “Why didn’t you get married again?” she had asked. She knew many men married right away, both for the fresh infusion of dowry, and for the help at home. If they sought marriage for sex, it wasn’t ever mentioned in polite company. As for love, that stuff was best left to Bollywood and Tollywood.

  Often, the unmarried sister of the widowed man’s late wife was deemed the best choice of a wife for him. Not too much dowry, as far as the girl’s side was concerned. And, as far as the man’s side was concerned, if there were children, the new wife would love them because she was their aunt.

  “How can I dishonour my wife by bringing in another lady into her house?” Ramu’s face reflected his sadness.

  When she tried to give him extra money to put in the bank, he refused with quiet dignity. “What will I do with your money, Amma? My daily earnings are enough to fill my belly. And now that my older son is in the Air Force, I don’t pay anything for the doctor. If you help set my younger son also on the right path, I will be grateful to you for eternity.”

  For the past year, Jaya had been work
ing with the younger boy, helping with the course material for the engineering entrance exam. He came to the computer centre, where Jaya supervised his preparations. If she were honest, it didn’t require too much effort on her part because the boy was very sharp. And, as expected, he had got a respectable score on the entrance exam. That, along with Ramu’s government-mandated “backward caste” status, meant there was was a good chance that he would get admission in a government engineering college.

  As soon as the last lady left with her basket of groceries, Jaya handed an envelope to Ramu. They used Jaya’s address for his correspondence, both because Ramu was illiterate, and because he lived in a tin shed with no permanent address, and consequently no postal delivery.

  “What is this, Amma?”

  “Your younger son’s future. Admission from the engineering college.”

  17

  The Old man

  Each man lived with an inviolable code of honour. He had a set of values that were passed down from father to son. Not from father-in-law to daughter-in-law, and certainly not from grandfather to granddaughter. As the old man rocked on his daughter-in-law’s veranda, his face spasmed in grief. What kind of life was this, being dependent on someone not a son?

  Ten years ago, the daughter-in-law had declined their counsel, defiantly giving birth to her girl-child. All this equality nonsense was well and good, but she’d realise soon enough that the world was a hard place. That a girl was just another body to clothe. Spend all that money on her food and education, and what does she do? She turns around and serves her in-laws, completely forgetting her father. A son at least would provide a roof over his parents’ head, bringing in a daughter-in-law to serve them. Of what use was a daughter?

  The old man closed his eyes, the winter sun warming his face. A young girl danced underneath his eyelids, his firstborn, a piece of his heart. She’d toddled around the house as a baby, enchanting the father who’d watched. Then, as a young girl who was still unembarrassed to show her father affection, she’d held his heart.

  The old man was ashamed to admit this now, but she was the one he’d loved beyond all—more than his son, more than his wife, more than even his father.

  After the daughter-in-law stormed out of their house in Hyderabad, and shifted here to the village, look what that piece of his heart—the only child of his three that counted—did. When her own father-in-law fell seriously sick, at the behest of her husband, she pressured the old man to sell his house to finance the treatment. Meanwhile, the old man’s wife—the girl’s mother—got sicker and sicker. This piece of his heart had no time to tend to her mother because the care of her father-in-law demanded all her time.

  When the daughter-in-law came along, offering them this roof over their heads, what choice had he had? His mouth crimped in bitterness.

  18

  Jaya

  Paavani aunty peered into the courtyard from the gate. “Just wanted to see how you were.”

  “My in-laws haven’t returned home.” Jaya was surprised that her in-laws hadn’t returned from their walk. They were not the kind of people who broke routine. But today was their son’s birthday, and the couple had been devoted to him. Perhaps they were mourning him privately. Jaya felt sorry for them—for their unwillingness to let anyone into their tight little world, for their inability to draw comfort from the daughter of the son they’d loved above all.

  Taking advantage of their unexpected absence, Paavani aunty settled in an armchair on the veranda. She accepted Jaya’s offer of filter coffee, and Jaya reached for the thermos. Over the years Jaya’s brother, who travelled internationally on business, had brought back exotic coffees from around the world. But Aunty insisted that nothing could beat the South Indian filter coffee, and Jaya had to agree.

  “How’s Ananta’s little friend?” Aunty asked.

  Jaya pointed her head at the house of her neighbours. Seated as they were on the veranda, they could comfortably see over the wall between the two houses, into the courtyard next door. “Nina is also ten. A talkative little thing. Very sweet.”

  “Poor thing. Little girls need mothers. Hopefully, her grandmother has been able to step in.”

  “Ramani aunty is a wonderful lady.”

  “I wish your own mother was as involved with Ananta.”

  Jaya shrugged. Her mother’s offer of love came with more preconditions than the End User License Agreement of a cybersecurity app.

  Someone rattled the gate. Prakash uncle, followed in by Srinivas uncle. Her lips tightened.

  American advice columnists often told their readers to stiffen their spines, to speak up for themselves. She wished that their advice worked across cultural divides.

  Having said that, her daughter and his granddaughter did spend a lot of time together. That meant she must swallow her anger.

  “I like being my age,” Aunty said, as Jaya hurried to the two armchairs leaning against the wall. She opened them up, and the two men sat down.

  “Why is that?” Srinivas uncle spoke Telugu like a man sandpapering away at the language, trying to dislodge the rust that had accrued from years of disuse. For reasons that were not obvious to Jaya, America—that land of immense opportunity—was also a land where the knowledge of multiple languages was frowned upon.

  “I can get away with not getting up to greet people. They can attribute it to either age or senility, both of which are acceptable to me.”

  Jaya laughed. There was a reason she liked the older couple so much—her tartness, their bickering—it reminded her of her grandparents.

  Srinivas uncle didn’t seem terribly amused, though.

  Jaya took a discreet look at her watch. She would need to leave for work in fifteen minutes.

  Srinivas uncle caught her in the act. He joined his palms together and said to Prakash uncle, “Why don’t you come over to my house? We are not busy chasing after money. We can afford the time for loved ones, to make them coffee that isn’t stale. Even fresh tea with ginger grated directly into the brew.” He threw a disdainful glance at the thermos resting at Aunty’s feet.

  Jaya stifled a sigh.

  “Jaya,” Prakash uncle said mildly, “is a very capable person. She doesn’t care to depend on charity.”

  “I don’t understand this feminism business,” Srinivas uncle said. “Why should depending on a father, a brother, a male relative be considered charity? Why so much ego? Surely, her father-in-law has pension coming in?”

  He didn’t, actually. She wondered what Uncle would make of her father-in-law declaring that he’d rather starve than allow her to accept charity from her family. Though stepping up demands for dowry—sort of an annual increment to keep up with inflation—had been acceptable.

  As long as Anant was alive, Jaya’s parents had caved in to the increasing dowry demands, cashing in various savings to keep their daughter’s married life intact. Jaya was pained to realise that she’d not had the courage to stand up to their demands. Of what use had her education been?

  Her in-laws weren’t bad people. She remembered how they put all their savings at Ananta’s feet after her birth. This, despite the fact that they had tried to get Jaya to abort the baby they’d travelled to see. That those savings were a mere ten thousand rupees—enough for no more than a month’s household expenses—made it all the more poignant.

  Each person was a product of their upbringing. In their world, a daughter was just another mouth to feed, and a daughter-in-law’s role was to mitigate the family’s financial worries by bringing in more dowry. Could she blame them for acting in accordance with the only truth they knew? Had Jaya not done much the same by ignoring the plight of her maids?

  “Why do you feminists need to beat your chest so much?” Srinivas uncle demanded. “Surely, your desire to work should be less important that your daughter’s need for her mother?”

  Jaya winced. The man knew where to punch for maximum impact.

  Her in-laws stepped into the courtyard and everyone scattered lik
e crows to the wind.

  19

  Kovid

  Kovid wrapped his arms around Mom, resting his chin against her cheek, breathing in smells that evoked familiar feelings of comfort and love.

  Mom moved back and touched Kovid’s cheek. “Two-and-a-half years is too long, Kanna.”

  “It is.” Kovid choked, cleared his throat, and said again, “It is, Ma.”

  Dad stood on the side, his hand on Kovid’s suitcase, tapping his fingers impatiently. “Okay, okay. Let’s go.”

  Kovid knew it made Dad insecure to see affection between him and Mom, but he was damned if he was going to ignore her. One arm around her, the other around Nina, Kovid walked out of the Rajiv Gandhi International Airport in Hyderabad.

  It had taken Kovid a long time to recognise Dad’s narcissism. That, and a healthy dose of misogyny. Kovid shook his annoyance off. He would not allow Dad to get a rise out of him. Dad constantly needed to be the centre of attention—good, bad, it did not matter—as long as he was. Ignoring someone like him, denying them the attention they craved, it was like choking off their supply of oxygen.

  Dad looked at Kovid. “So, Lingampally?”

  Kovid ground his teeth together. He’d just come off a long flight. Where else would they go?

  “Yes,” Mom said. “Lingampally.”

  “Dad, let’s go already!” Nina jumped in place, the excitement too much to bear. “Did you get me gifts?”

  Kovid tapped a finger on his cheek. “Gifts? Hmm. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Dad!”

  Kovid hugged her to his side and laughed. He’d missed the little brat.

  Dad and Kovid carried the suitcases to the waiting car as Nina skipped alongside.

  “Oh,” Dad said. “We’ll take the car?”