“Come.” Kovid wrapped an arm around each of the girls, leading them to the balcony. Glass-panelled doors opened up to the balcony, which overlooked the bay. On the balcony was a three-person swing with egg-shaped seating. The three snuggled in, with Kovid swinging them back and forth with a leg on the floor.
Ananta rested her head on Kovid’s shoulder.
Jaya took in the scene, overwhelmed from the emotion that it engendered. It took a strong man to step up to a plate another man had left at the table.
Kovid often made up improbable stories which the girls pretended to disdain. The story he was telling today involved a train visiting San Francisco on a ferry.
“The ferry wasn’t going fast enough for the train’s liking. The train was a baby, only eleven, so it got impatient. It tried to race on its tracks—”
“Where were the tracks?” Nina demanded.
“On the top of the ferry. Where else would they be?” Kovid frowned. “You’re not listening. It was a train, and they should have taught you in school that trains can’t swim. So it was taking the ferry from Alameda to San Francisco.”
Ananta rolled her eyes at Nina, and Jaya felt pleasure. Her daughter was bonding with her new family.
“Anyway,” Kovid continued, “The impatient little thing tried to get the steamer to move faster. It moved so fast that it was hanging off the steamer, right where the tracks ended. Now it had to wait for the steamer to catch up.”
“Your stories are so unrealistic, Dad,” Ananta scolded.
“Okay.” Kovid leaned back. “I’m tired. Maybe I’ll take a nap.”
“No!” The girls squealed, poking him from both sides. “You can’t leave a story half-finished.”
“I though you girls said I was lame.”
Nina clicked her tongue in exasperation. “Not you, silly. Your stories.”
Kovid and Jaya exchanged smiles.
“I’ll swing by the farmer’s market,” Jaya said. “I need tomatoes.”
“You want us to come?”
Jaya waved him down. The three looked so comfortable that she did not have the heart to disturb them. She left the three bickering over who was the lamest of them all.
The iconic Ferry building on the Embarcadero, where Kovid’s baby-train-on-the-ferry was headed, hosted a weekly farmer’s market. Farmers brought fresh produce and baked goods. Once she discovered it, Jaya made sure to go.
She closed the door behind her and hurried down the carpeted corridor to the stairwell. When she had first got married, back in Hyderabad, she’d lived in a flat with Anant and his family. Apartments, they called them here in America. Doors to the flats remained partially or fully open, with daily life visible, or at least audible, as she walked along the corridor. People called out, cursed, sang, fought in snatched snippets. In America, though, the doors remained stubbornly shut.
So much beauty.
So much loneliness.
She felt a surge of longing for her mother. The strength of it took her by surprise. She’d resigned herself to a life without her, so this was unexpected. She had expected to miss her brother, even her father. But her mother?
Focus on the positives, she ordered herself. She thought of her little family on the balcony and smiled. She hit the button on the elevator, humming a tune under her breath.
Someone slammed into her.
A young Caucasian man shoved his face in hers and spat on her. “F***ing bitch.”
She fell on the floor with a thud. She stared up at the young man, blinking her eyes, not sure if this had really happened.
“Hey, hey, hey!”
The young man looked over his shoulder, spun, and sprinted down the stairs next to the elevator.
“You okay?” An elderly man in a plaid shirt and khakis held out a hand. Helping her up, he offered her his handkerchief.
Shaken, Jaya accepted it and mopped her face. Her heart was racing so hard, it seemed to hit painfully against her ribcage.
The man slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a phone.
“What are you doing?” Jaya was fearful as he started to dial.
“Calling 911. That punk is Bob Miller’s boy, Brett. About time he was reported.”
“To the police?” Jaya was horrified. “Please! No.”
“But honey, that’s a hate crime. It’s a serious offence. We must get the cops involved.”
“Please, no.” Jaya was close to tears. She wasn’t sure what was worse: the humiliation, or her distrust of the authorities—she couldn’t afford to draw attention to herself and jeopardise her visa status. The Green Card was supposedly a safe visa but, with everything going on, who knew?
“Are you sure?”
“Very.” Her voice was hoarse.
“I don’t like it.” The man pursed his lips. “He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it. You should know, not all Americans are like this.” He put the phone away. “If you change your mind and call the cops, I’ll back you up.”
Jaya nodded her thanks.
“You are Dr Murty’s new wife, aren’t you?” He pronounced Murty as he would Murphy. At Jaya’s nod, he said, “You want me to get him?”
Jaya thought of Kovid and the girls snuggled up together, enjoying his silly stories. This wasn’t the way she wanted the day to end for them. She shook her head.
“You’re shaking. Why don’t you come to my place? I’ll make you hot chocolate.” The man, with his white hair and kindly blue eyes, held out a hand.
Jaya swallowed past the obstruction in her throat. “Thank you,” she whispered.
The old man wrapped his arm around her and helped her two doors down. Unlocking it, he led her in. “Please don’t judge us all by the actions of one punk. We Americans are better than that.”
Jaya sniffed and cleared her throat. “My father was a great fan of American presidents. He often talked of the oratory skills of Ronald Reagan, the sharp intellect of Bill Clinton.”
He smiled briefly. “Make yourself comfortable.” He pointed to a bar stool at the kitchen counter. He went around it to the other side and pulled out a kettle. “Sorry,” he said apologetically. “My Doris was the cook. I barely make do.”
“Please, you don’t have to do this.” Jaya got to her feet.
“Would you do an old man the honour of your company?” He bowed in an old-fashioned, courtly way. His smile was so warm, it almost healed the sting of the day’s encounter.
Jaya sat down on the bar stool.
“I’m Jeff Alcosta.”
“I’m Jaya Rao.”
“It is lovely to meet you, Jaya.” He pronounced it as Americans would “Jay,” adding an “aa” to it. “Your husband’s a wonderful man.” He smiled at her. “But you must already know that.”
“Yes.”
“Folks around here hold that young fella in high regard. He thinks nothing of stopping by an elderly person’s place for a quick consult. Won’t accept compensation, either.” He carefully measured out milk and poured it in a saucepan. While it heated, he heaped a teaspoon of cocoa powder and put it in a cup. He added a dash of salt, hot water, and scalding milk. “My Doris always said, stirring is the key to hot chocolate. Forty-six years of togetherness and cancer took her.”
“I’m sorry.”
Jeff sighed. “Such is life. We built a wonderful life together, raised three sons. All scattered around the globe.” He looked sad for a moment. The whitish film over piercing blue eyes seemed to glisten for just a moment. Placing the steaming hot chocolate in front of her, he said, “Let me get you marshmallows to go with that.”
“Marshmallows?”
“You’ve never heard of marshmallows?”
Jaya shook her head.
“You wound me.” He thumped his chest in mock distress. “It is a certified American invention. Absolutely zero nutrition, but by golly, does it bring down taste from the heavens.”
He had such a look of reverence that Jaya laughed.
The old man talked about h
is Doris, the life they had built here after transplanting from Michigan, the joys and travails of raising three boys.
The shadows lengthened.
Jaya talked about the angst of leaving her brother behind. And her sudden longing for her mother. “All those many years in India, and my mother and I had a superficial relationship. Just as I get ready to move here, she decides to reach out. After years of not thinking of her, I can’t believe I miss her.”
“Distance will do that to you.”
Jaya acknowledged the wisdom of his words with a dip of her head. She rose. “Thank you, Mr Alcosta.”
“Pff. What’s this Mr Alcosta business? Call me Jeff.”
“Thank you, Jeff.” Jaya said his name awkwardly, unused to addressing someone a generation older by name. He reminded her of her beloved grandfather. “I’ve been struggling with a sense of alienation. Meeting you today really helped.”
“Home is not necessarily a place, child. I found that when I moved here, a young man in my twenties, struggling to find an identity. My Doris made San Francisco a home. We’d wander the streets after work, taking great pleasure in finding the quaint little eating places only the locals knew. Doris often joked that I was leaving my heart in San Francisco.”
Jaya smiled. “Knowing that we might be moving here, Kovid showed me that song on YouTube.” She got up to leave. “Thank you so much for introducing me to marshmallows.”
“You’re such a nice young lady. If you’re ever free, do visit this old man.”
He hugged her.
Jaya hugged him back. “Your Doris was a lucky lady.”
Promising to come by whenever she was free, Jaya walked down the corridor, feeling the warmth of having connected with a good man.
52
Jaya
“Hi,” Diwakar said. He held a big bouquet of flowers.
Jaya couldn’t decide which of them was more awkward. Diwakar—as he stood at the door of Kovid’s condo, shuffling from foot to foot, or Jaya—unable to meet the eyes of her new brother-in-law.
Kovid grabbed his big brother in a bear hug, thumping him on the back.
“The flowers, you moron!” Diwakar elbowed him, holding the bouquet up high.
As the brothers separated, Jaya stepped forward. Her mouth was dry, but she had to try to dispel the awkwardness. She would not be responsible for any rift between the brothers. She forced a smile. “I don’t imagine those flowers are for Kovid.”
“For this runt?” Diwakar looked down at his brother. “Hell, no!”
“Uncle said a cuss word!” Nina clapped her mouth in glee.
Kovid covered her ears with his hands.
Nina wiggled away from him and wrapped herself around her uncle. “I missed you!”
“I missed you too, Sweetpea.” To Jaya, Diwakar said, “Welcome to the family.”
As Jaya started to reach for the flowers, Diwakar held them away. “No, no, no. Not for you!”
Jaya flushed in embarrassment.
Diwakar knelt in front of Ananta. Smiling, he ceremonially presented her with the flowers. “Welcome to the family, Princess!”
Jaya bit down on her lower lip. She would not cry. She just would not.
“If she’s the princess, who am I?” Nina pouted.
“You’re the sweetpea, remember?”
Ananta started to giggle.
Jaya joined in, laughing at the confused expressions.
“What did I say?” Diwakar asked.
“‘The Princess and Pea’ was Ananta’s favourite,” Jaya said, still laughing. She dragged the chairs around the small table and invited Diwakar to sit. “It’s a fairytale. Hans Christian Andersen, I think.” She looked at Ananta. “You want to tell them the story?”
Kovid and Jaya took the bench seat at the bay window, and the girls and Diwakar took the three chairs, with the girls on either side of Diwakar.
“Well,” Ananta began, “there was a prince who really, really wanted to get married. He looked far and wide for a true princess, but couldn’t find one. One night it was raining very hard. The kind of storm where the wind whips the trees around, and the lightening exposes scary nooks and crannies.” She deepened her voice, leaning forward. “There was a knock on the door. The queen and the prince exchanged fearful looks. The door shook from the wild wind. Over the wind, they heard another knock. They didn’t know what to do. What this was a trick? What if it was an attack by the neighbouring kingdom? But what if it was stranded travellers? The storm was no place for the tired and the weary. Nervously, mother and son opened the door.” She looked around the room dramatically.
“A girl stood there, drenched from the treacherous storm. She was the most beautiful girl the prince had ever seen. She was also shivering from cold. The queen hurried her inside and wrapped her in a warm blanket. Then she offered the girl hot soup. The girl mentioned she was a princess. Now, the queen and her family had met many such girls claiming falsely to be princesses. So the queen decided to put the girl to the test. She put a pea on the bed where she wanted the girl to sleep and piled twenty mattresses over it. The next morning, the queen asked how she had slept. What do you think the girl said?”
“I slept very well, thank you,” Nina said.
Jaya laughed.
“No!” Ananta said. “The girl was a true princess. How would she sleep through the night with a pea digging into her back?”
Nina frowned. “That’s the silliest story I’ve heard. A princess shouldn’t have an attitude. She should be gracious. She can’t be whining about bad mattresses!”
Ananta looked offended.
“You know what?” Diwakar took the hands of both the girls. “I was wrong. You’re both princesses. Princess Ana, and Princess Nina, of the kingdom of Ana-Nina.”
The girls giggled.
* * *
The girls had gone to bed after a raucous round of Pictionary. Kovid and Jaya sat on the swing, and Diwakar pulled up a chair.
“I’m sorry about India, Jaya,” Diwakar said.
“That’s not necessary,” Jaya protested.
“It is, actually. We’re family now, so we should start off with a clean slate.”
“I agree,” Kovid said. “Especially since Dad won’t let Mom have anything to do with Jaya and me.”
“Yeah,” Diwakar said heavily. “I’m sorry about that, man.” He took a deep breath and addressed Jaya. “In India, I was a condescending ass—” He caught himself. “Let’s just agree, I was condescending. Having grown up with a mother and sister, both of whom went through so much with our father, I should have known better. I put you in a terrible situation, and I know all that history didn’t help with the villagers when you married my brother.”
“That’s okay,” Jaya said, and she meant it. It took strength of character to tackle something like this head-on, and she had a new respect for Diwakar. “Thank you for addressing this directly. I know, I’d never have the courage to do what you just did.”
Diwakar seemed embarrassed.
“Please,” Jaya said, “let’s put this in the past where it belongs.”
Diwakar inclined his head. “That’s more than I deserve. Thank you.”
“Have you talked to Mom?” Kovid asked.
“About this? Yeah.” Diwakar addressed Jaya. “She might not standup to Dad for reasons that I don’t understand—cultural conditioning, because she loves him, I don’t know—but she ripped into me for creating so much trouble for you. She has a lot of admiration for you. She wanted me to make sure I conveyed that to you. And her love.”
Regret filled her. “I lived next door for three years, and I now find that I didn’t know her at all.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” Diwakar said, kindly. “Dad does tend to have that effect. He sucks up all the oxygen in the room, so much so that everyone else is left struggling to breathe. Everything has to be about him. Always.” He shrugged in sadness. “She’s a phenomenal woman, our mom. She’s the reason Kovid and I are the people we
are.” Clearing his throat, he picked up a package on the floor next to him. “She sent this for you.”
Jaya looked uncertainly at Kovid.
“Go ahead,” Kovid said. “Blessings from Mom, I’m sure.”
Jaya carefully edged open the flap of the large envelope. Inside were two intricately carved gold bracelet-style bangles. Two elephant trunks met in a graceful heart-shaped arch, with rubies for their eyes.
“The bangles belonged to Mom’s mother,” Diwakar said. “Wear them for as long as you wish. Then, someday, when you’re ready, give one each to Nina and Ananta. Those are her instructions.”
She leaned back in the swing. This time, she allowed the tears to flood her throat. She clutched the bangles, wishing she could convey to Aunty—her mother-in-law, now—how much this gesture of hers meant. Not the gift of bangles, though that in itself was a wonderful gesture, but the fact that she had thought to include Ananta.
“I should get going.” Diwakar got to his feet, then awkwardly cleared his throat. “Rekha and I have been talking about getting back together. It’ll be good for the kids too. She’d like to meet you, Jaya.”
“I would like it too.”
Kovid grabbed him in a hug and thumped him in the back. “Give Rohan and Sohan my love.”
53
Jaya
“Oh, you let the girls sleep in the same room?” Snigdha, Kovid’s obstetrician colleague, asked. At the kitchen island of her Foster City home, the counter separating the fancy kitchen from the living room, she poured wine into glasses. Then she artfully arranged a platter of cheese and crackers. “I’m sure you’re the kind who allows babies into their bed.”
“I am, actually,” Jaya said, aware that Snigdha hadn’t meant it as a compliment. “My daughter slept in my bed. Pretty much everyone I know in India does it.”
“Do you know how dangerous co-sleeping is? Babies can suffocate to death.”
“There’s a term for it? I had no idea.”
“Such a third-world thing to do.” Snigdha’s voice rose, her American accent slipping briefly in her outrage.
Daughters Inherit Silence Page 23
