Daughters Inherit Silence

by Rasana Atreya

  “Jaya? You okay?”

  “Uh. Yes.” She forced the obstruction down her throat, trying not to be obvious.

  “If you want to talk, I’m here.”

  She sniffed and nodded. She had a sudden urge to rest her head on his shoulder, and was appalled. Where could this go? His home was America, and Jaya didn’t want to leave the village. Dismayed at her wayward thoughts, she shifted a few inches away. What’s wrong with you? You are a married lady!

  * * *

  “I didn’t know you were a doctor!” Jaya leaned against the wall between their two houses and smiled at Ramani aunty.

  “What’s there to tell?” Aunty gathered up Nina’s hair in one hand and started to braid it. Ananta held out rubber bands of various colours for Nina to inspect.

  “For someone in your generation? That is amazing!”

  Aunty shrugged.

  “What kind of doctor were you? Paediatrician?”

  “Cardiovascular surgeon.” She bound Nina’s braid with a pink rubber band.

  Jaya was immediately ashamed at her own judgement. Why should a lady have to restrict herself to specialities related to woman and children? She was also staggered. “I can’t believe you are so incredibly qualified. The district hospital would lead a prayer procession to have you.”

  Aunty smiled, but this time it didn’t reach her eyes.

  Something in Jaya wouldn’t allow her to let it be. “You didn’t like practicing medicine?”

  “That’s when I felt the most alive.”

  “Then why give it up?” Jaya was conscious that the girls were listening intently.

  “There were the kids to take care of.”

  “But that was, what, twenty years ago?”

  Nina leaned back and rested her cheek against her grandmother’s. “I don’t think Grandpa likes it when girls have jobs.”

  25

  Jaya

  Jaya followed the water with her eyes as it gurgled down the stream. Right after the rains, just before the onset of winter, when the stream was still swollen—this had to be her favourite season. Not too hot, not too cold. Goldilocks, she thought wryly, would call it just right.

  “Hi!” Kovid said. “You seem deep in thought.”

  Jaya found herself smiling. She hadn’t expected him again, but if she were to be honest, a part of her hoped he’d come. “Nothing serious.”

  Kovid sat next to her, rested his palms on the ground and leaned back, breathing in deeply.

  “The air smells fresh enough, but I wonder about the carcinogens we’re breathing in. Many villagers still use fossil fuel, don’t they?”

  “Right,” Jaya said. “Coal. They also use dried-out cow-dung patties. Though people who can afford it use LPG.”

  “LPG?”

  “Liquified petroleum gas. You know, that orange cylinder of cooking gas in your mother’s kitchen? She probably replaces it every six weeks or so?”

  “Didn’t know that. I also smell smoke at night. Where’s that coming from? I didn’t think it got so cold that you’d need a fire.”

  “You would, if you were spending the night out in the open. Watchmen burn dead branches to keep themselves warm through the chilly nights. Most businesses hire them, as well as people with bigger houses.”

  “I worry about the air quality. We work so hard at saving tiny lives, only to send them out into this polluted world. To combat the sense of helplessness, I find that I’m reading up on the research being done to reduce carbon emissions.”

  Jaya nodded for him to go on.

  “Isn’t it fascinating, how inventive researchers are getting in an effort to capture carbon dioxide from the air? And it doesn’t end with the capture. Now they have to figure out ways of storing it, or, better still, reusing it.”

  How often did she get a chance to just talk? She wondered at how far she had come. In Hyderabad, as long as she was in college, it was okay for her to talk to boys, be friends with them. But after she had got married, it was like the mythical Lakshman Rekha had been drawn out for her, a line on the ground that she must never cross. And, as a widow, there was the societal expectation that she must never cause men to stray. Like they weren’t expected to have to minds of their own, she thought wryly. It was so convenient: telling men they were not expected to control themselves gave them license to do just that. If inappropriate clothing was the justification offered for the rampant assaults, why was it that decent men were able to control themselves?

  If she were having an affair—which she never would do—she’d be accused of being the home breaker. What about the man’s loyalty to his wife?

  She put a brake to her thoughts. There she was, doing it again; having entire conversations with herself.

  Still, she had absolutely no desire to cause any of the men in the village to stray. Suddenly restless, she shifted a little away from Kovid, aware that this last bit had changed.

  “Am I boring you?” Kovid asked.

  “Oh, no, no, no!” Jaya said, immediately embarrassed that she had reacted so strongly. But she didn’t want this man to think he could ever be boring. “When you’re not being a climate scientist, how is it being a neonatologist?”

  He smiled. “I know it isn’t manly to admit it, but saving babies is pretty amazing.”

  She smiled back.

  “I noticed a store called ‘Born Baby’ next to your computer centre.”

  “They sell clothing for newborn babies.”

  “Indian English can be quite entertaining. Why is it that schools push English so much? Even at the expense of the local languages?”

  “To remain globally competitive, I guess.” She reached for a leaf and idly tapped it against her knee. “It is good, of course, but also sad.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, the principal of the local school won’t allow the kids to speak in Telugu when in school. So, of course, the kids get used to speaking to each other in English. When these kids come home, they’re not talking to each other in Telugu. In playgrounds and at home, they’re still talking in English. Which, I think, is terribly misguided. We absolutely need to know English, but not at the expense of our own languages. I’ve always been so proud that we speak so many languages in India, and how we grow up speaking two, three, four of them. But I’m afraid things are changing. I’m afraid that local languages will be wiped out in a couple of generations.”

  “I don’t know if you’ve seen the recent UN climate change report. We might not have a couple of generations.”

  She nodded. “I don’t like to think too much about it because I, as an individual, have so little control. I do what I can. I minimise the use of plastic, I campaigned for the village to use eco-friendly idols for Vinayaka Chavithi. Beyond that, I don’t know what else I can do.”

  “If everyone did what they could, it would add up.”

  The extra-strong cyclones, the epic droughts—life was stressful enough, without adding worries about climate change to her list of woes. Speaking of change, Jaya felt dread: if Nina left, Ananta would be devastated. “Have you decided if you’re taking Nina back with you?”

  “I want her to be with me, but I don’t know that I can manage the emotional needs of a girl heading to her teens.”

  Jaya nodded.

  Kovid flushed. “I know you’re doing that, and being a widow in rural India is much harder than being a widower in the States. Or anywhere, for that matter.”

  It was interesting to see how much Kovid mirrored his mother’s values. Not his father’s, though. Thankfully.

  “No, I can see how that would be hard,” Jaya said. “When I go to work, it is with the knowledge that her grandparents will be there when she comes back home from school. And there is a loving uncle, and his family, who are an integral part of her life. And your mother, of course.”

  “That’s exactly my problem. If I take Nina back with me, she’ll be raised by babysitters. Here, she can play on the street, pop in to your house next door, walk home with
friends, or go to a friend’s house on her own. Everyone knows everyone. She doesn’t have that there.”

  “But she will have you.”

  Kovid inclined his head in agreement. “I have six months, maybe a year, before I have to decide.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I just needed a break.”

  “In the meantime, you’ll be researching ways to combat climate change.”

  Kovid laughed. “I’m just curious to see if there are native ways of capturing carbon from air.”

  Jaya was intrigued. “How would that work?”

  “The basic idea is simple. Researchers are working on ways to capture carbon dioxide directly from air and use it to make synthetic fuel. We’d be able to recycle the same carbon dioxide molecules over and over. The technology exists, but it is very expensive.”

  “Fascinating!”

  “Is that a polite way of telling me I’m boring you?”

  Jaya laughed. “If you begin to bore me, I’ll let you know.”

  Kovid smiled. “The challenge is to keep the carbon capture green. If the captured carbon can be converted into fuel by adding hydrogen from renewable sources like solar or wind, imagine the possibilities. There’s also experimentation with animals. Someone found that introducing red algae in the feed of cattle can cut methane emission by sixty percent. Maybe there are native plants that can help with this.”

  “Six months is a long time to be away from your job, isn’t it?”

  Kovid was quiet for a long moment. “There was a baby. Jimmy. Feisty little fella. He was such a fighter. The entire staff rallied around him, cheered him on. At nine weeks, we thought he was doing so well. Then he died.”

  “Oh Kovid!” Jaya wanted to put a hand on his to comfort him, but didn’t dare. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Anyway.” Kovid cleared his throat. “I needed a break. Six months ought to do it.”

  Six months, Jaya thought. I have six months at the most. What am I thinking? I’m a married lady. She jumped to her feet. “I have to go.”

  She stumbled along the narrow path alongside the river, sidestepping the rocks and twigs and darting critters, her heart thumping in agitation. She was mortified that she’d left behind a confused man.

  26

  Jaya

  To her in-laws, Jaya was the embarrassment who wouldn’t conform: she ran a man’s business, drove a man’s vehicle, and travelled alone—like a man—to technology conferences. All of these were fairly common in the cities, where most of the professional ladies resided. Not that it mattered to her in-laws. They still disapproved.

  She felt the frustration deeply as she parked in front of her brother’s house.

  One of Shyamala’s many brothers drove past in their car, Jaya wasn’t sure which one. They weren’t exactly social. His wife sat in the passenger seat, their eight-year-old daughter sharing a seat with her. This, despite the back seats being unoccupied. The brother drove with his baby son in his lap, the baby’s hands positioned on the steering wheel. Jaya would tell him about the danger airbags posed to babies, but he wasn’t the type of man who took kindly to advice from ladies.

  As she slid out from the backseat of the car, Ananta gave Jaya a look of reproach. Jaya’s car was old enough that it had neither a passenger-side airbag nor seat belts in the back. And yet, she wouldn’t allow Ananta to sit up front for reasons of safety. This was one of the few things they argued about. Who said parenting didn’t have its moments?

  Madhav’s daughter, Shreya, barrelled into Jaya, almost knocking her breath out. “Atta! What took you so long? I’ve been waiting and waiting.”

  Jaya shook her head in sympathy for her brother and his wife. They had their hands full with this one. Before Jaya could give Shreya a hug, the girl had grabbed Ananta by the hand and disappeared.

  “Amma!”

  Jaya looked up to see Narsamma, her hand raised in a wave.

  Jaya winced. The lady had to be in her eighties, the very late ones. Fifty years had passed since Jaya’s grandmother had paid for the dowry and wedding of Narsamma’s beloved daughter. The daughter had passed on, Jaya’s grandparents had passed on, but the stubborn old lady still trudged the three kilometres from Lingampally to Gopanpally twice each week—a wicker basket of leafy greens balanced on her head—so the grandson of her benefactor could have fresh vegetables.

  Jaya reached for the elderly lady’s basket. The old lady bent at her knees in the disjointed motions of someone whose knees were approaching their “use by” date and, with Jaya’s help, put the basket down.

  “What Narsamma, you’re still at it? Does your grandson not say anything?”

  “Bah!” Narsamma’s nostrils, bejewelled with flower-shaped nose rings on either side of her nose, wrinkled in disdain. “What do young ones know about relations and loyalties? Retire, he tells me. Like I’m going to joblessly sit at home, like you ladies from big houses.”

  Jaya laughed.

  The old lady bared her teeth in an approximation of a grin, her teeth astonishingly healthy for a lady her age.

  “What is the secret of your teeth, Narsamma?”

  Narsamma put her hands behind her back and slowly bent forward, trying to ease the stiffness from her shoulders. “I do so much service for them. Have to brush after each meal.” She reached for Jaya’s shoulder and gripped it hard. “Never thought I’d see the day when a lady would be driving around, confident as any man. Now I can die happy.”

  She’d been telling Jaya that for ten years, about once each month. Planting her hands on her hips, she got snippy. “Go get your sister-in-law. You think I have nothing better to do than gossip my time away?”

  Jaya laughed and headed inside. Each time she stepped into the courtyard of this house, she felt a strong sense of warmth and nostalgia. She looked at the big banyan by the side of the veranda, the four steps leading into the house where her grandparents had dispensed their love and wisdom.

  Madhav must have heard Narsamma call out because he came out with a basket. “Let me get the vegetables first.”

  Jaya nodded, leaning against the three-foot-high veranda.

  He bought spinach, menti koora, gangabayilu, gongura. Then he helped the old lady get the basket back up on her head. “The offer is still open, Narsamma. A pushcart will get the vegetables off your head.”

  “Bah! Like I’m going to change now.” With an impatient wave, she set off.

  Shaking his head, Madhav picked up the vegetables he’d bought, giving Jaya a few of the bundles. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” Jaya supposed he was right to be concerned. She didn’t normally close the Centre early and head here on a weekday. She smiled as Shreya took Ananta by the hand and dragged her behind the house, to the big marbled portico that led to nowhere. One of her grandfather’s many wacky projects, she thought with fondness.

  Madhav wrapped his arm around her shoulders and walked her in the direction of the stairs. She sat in “her” chair, the one her grandfather had bought for her. “Shyamala not home?”

  Madhav pointed his chin at the uneven semicircle of five houses across the road. The house that Madhav’s friend and Jaya’s business partner, Raghu, occupied, was a double-storied structure made of packed mud, as were the other houses, though they were all single-storied. In the midst of these houses was a cement structure of four stories, that of Sri G.V.K.S.S.P Rao: the bane of most people’s existence, and also Madhav’s father-in-law.

  Madhav said, “Her mother wanted help frying vadas. She’ll be back.”

  Jaya smiled in appreciation of her sister-in-law. Jaya had called Madhav to say she wanted to talk. Shyamala must have decided the siblings needed time alone.

  “So. What’s going on with you?”

  “Umm.” Jaya squirmed. Now that she was here, she didn’t know where to begin. She and her brother were close, but this was embarrassing.

  “Are you going to make me drag it out of you?”

  She took a deep breath. “Nina�
�s father.”

  “What about him?”

  “I’m confused. About him.”

  It was obvious from the look on Madhav’s face that this wasn’t what he was expecting. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

  “Kovid came to the computer centre. I met him there, first. A few days later he ran into me at my hideout near the stream. I would have walked away, but he asked me to stay for a few minutes. I couldn’t refuse him, Madhav. And we didn’t talk anything personal. Just this and that. I can’t explain why, but I mentioned that I was there every Tuesday, between one and two. Since then, he’s come by twice more.” Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  “How much do you like him?”

  “How does that matter? I’m another man’s wife—”

  “Widow. You’re his widow.”

  “If the villagers find out…”

  “We’ll deal with that when we come to it. How much do you like this guy?”

  Much as she loved her brother, he could be very bull-headed about wanting to solve things for her. Sometimes all she wanted from him was to listen.

  “It doesn’t matter what I feel, Anna,” she said, referring to Madhav as “older brother.” “We’ve not talked about anything personal. It is mostly general stuff. He worries about the same things I do. About the kind of world we’ll leave behind for our children, about the increasing intolerance in both our worlds. That sort of stuff.”

  “Then why do you continue to meet him? Maybe all he wants from you is friendship. He hasn’t grown up here. He doesn’t know how things work. If this got out, it would ruin your life.” Diwakar’s presence hovered though, typical of Madhav, he was too decent to bring it up.

  “I know.” Jaya was troubled. “I worry that each time I meet him, I’m risking Ananta’s wellbeing. I know I don’t have the right to do that to her. I can’t do that to her. Already, she’s so fragile. And there’s a chance he might take Nina back to America. But I continue to meet him.”

  “Why?”