Jaya bought the girls snacks, mentally converting the price to Indian rupees and cringing. Kovid had added her name to his accounts and given her ATM and credit cards. But Jaya had been taking care of herself for so long, this felt wrong.
She bid the friendly cashier a goodbye, thinking about what Jeff Alcosta had said. About what home meant. A life partner that you were happy to go home to. Kids. Good friends. According to him, you could build a home anywhere in the world, if only you had these three ingredients. She would add friendly cashiers to his list.
She smiled; she was developing a fondness for the older man, who was fast becoming a friend. She had a husband that she was falling more and more in love with, and the kids were pretty good too. She was going to ignore the Bretts and Snigdhas of this world, and focus on its goodness.
The girls chattered animatedly, enjoying the beautiful day.
Jaya’s heart swelled in gratitude as she watched the girls check out at the sailboats docked in the marina.
Ananta missed Shreya a little less because she now had Nina. Poor Shreya, though. Jaya wondered how her little niece was coping with the loss of Ananta.
Blue skies, biting cold, sunny days. Jeff was right. San Francisco was becoming home.
* * *
After the kids were in bed, Jaya snuggled up to Kovid. They lay on the swing, watching the light traffic. It was a rare, warm night. Jaya was already learning that San Francisco was never what you expected it to be. The lights from the Bay Bridge shimmered in the distance. The beauty shone bright at night, covering from sight the Bretts and other unsavoury elements. Jaya rested her cheek against Kovid’s chest, the steady beat reassuring.
Kovid tipped her chin and kissed her. “Something’s bothering you.”
She sighed and told him about Brett Miller, and how she’d really met Jeff Alcosta.
Pulling her closer, he rested his chin on her head. “I dragged you halfway across the world, despite your misgivings.” His voice was heavy with regret. “I’m so sorry.”
She raised herself, freed her arms, then wrapped them around him. “Don’t. It’s not like India doesn’t have its own set of problems.”
“A smirking waiter isn’t quite in the same league as in-your-face racism.” He sounded troubled.
“You’re forgetting that lecture from Sivanna at the coffee stall.”
“Do you want to go back?”
She paused, giving the question serious consideration.
Makeup, which was not much used in India—not in the South anyway—seemed an apt metaphor for the difference between the two countries she now called home: America, glossy on the outside, but pock-marked underneath its carefully made-up face. India, with its face naked to the world was, to use outdated computer terminology, WYSIWIG—What You See Is What You Get. She missed it, warts and all. But she was getting attached to America too.
The curse of the first-generation immigrant: you straddled two worlds, at home in both, but belonging to neither. Now that she’d experienced the heady freedom America had to offer, especially to women—she was beginning to find the word ‘lady’ quaint—whoever said you could never go home again knew what they were talking about.
“It’s only been six months, Kovid. I’m barely past my jet-lag. I won’t deny that a part of me wants to say ‘yes.’ You know, I miss my brother. And, surprisingly enough, my mother. I’m filled with regret that I didn’t make my peace with her. But you make me happy. More than I thought possible.”
He tightened his arms around her.
“I know this is your home,” she said, “And I know how hard you tried to make it work in Lingampally. Now it’s my turn. If I have a Jeff Alcosta to balance out the Brett Millers of this world, maybe it won’t be so bad.” She hoped she sounded more convincing than she felt.
“This isn’t the San Francisco I grew up in, Jaya. There was always some racism, but this level of toxicity is new. We lived in a less ritzy place till I was ten, in the Mission district, but it was always surrounded by friends and warmth. We grew up with a couple of tough Latino brothers. Their mom made the most amazing quesadillas. I was this nerdy little kid, and they beat up anyone who dared to mess with me. Marty is a plumber now, and Luis is an electrician. And they’re still dear friends. Can you imagine that happening in India? A physician who is friends with people who are plumbers and electricians?”
“Not really.” India was too unbending to permit friendships across class-lines. Caste was okay, as long as you didn’t try to turn those friendships into relationships.
“Anyway, soon we moved to the East Bay, where homes were more affordable. When I got a little older, I’d take the BART to the city to meet up with them. Sometimes I’d bring my East Bay friends and hang out at Dolores Park. I’d take them to little hole-in-the-wall places on Guerrero, places that served the best falafels, and the best cauliflower curry pizza, and I knew this was home. I moved back here to go to school at UCSF. Then, when I was offered a position at the Children’s Hospital, it was a dream come true. I was paying off my student loans, and I put a down payment on this condo. Walking distance from work, a walk that takes me past the stunning bay: what more could a man want, right?”
He sounded like a man focussed on the image in the rearview mirror of his moving car, trying to hang on to a fast-receding dream. “I don’t know what the right thing to do is, Jaya. All I know is that I want to be wherever you are. If you’d rather move back to India, so be it.” Kovid’s sadness was palpable.
“I don’t have an answer, either,” Jaya said. “If we go back now, we’ll be disrupting the kids again. It was hard on Ananta to leave behind Madhav and Shreya. And, if we leave now, we’ll deprive Nina.” Nina’s grandparents were talking about moving to San Francisco to be near their granddaughter. The visa situation was easier for Estonians, maybe. Jaya didn’t know.
Ananta was getting comfortable here. She looked forward to going to school. Jaya loved that the girls were so close.
She was working online now, but she missed interacting with people. Much as she was coming to love the city, there was only so much sightseeing she could do.
* * *
Jaya stared at the shimmering lights of the Bay Bridge, thinking of the tale of Emperor Akbar and his wise courtier, Birbal. Akbar once promised a pot of gold to anyone willing to spend the night in a lake on a cold winter night, the only stipulation being that the person immerse himself or herself up to the neck all night. A poor man, desperate for money, took on the challenge and was successful. When the emperor asked how the man had got through the night, the man explained that he had focussed on the light from a far-off lamp. When he heard the answer, the emperor claimed that that the man had relied on the warmth of the distant street lamp, and therefore failed the challenge. He used this piece of logic to deny the man his due.
The hapless man turned to Birbal for justice.
In order to make the emperor see the error of his ways, Birbal arranged for a hunting trip for the emperor. When the emperor returned to the rest house, hungry and tired, there was no food. Furious, he sent for Birbal. Birbal escorted the hungry emperor to where the food was being prepared. At the site, all the emperor saw was a small fire on the ground, and a pot of food suspended high up in the air. When he demanded an explanation, Birbal pointed out that if a man immersed in water could be warmed by staring at a far-off light all night, surely the food would cook the same way.
By demonstrating to the emperor the folly of his actions, Birbal was able to help the poor man get his due.
What remained with Jaya was the poor man shivering through the night, following the rules, and still being denied his due.
What if this story of justice and honour didn’t translate to today’s world? What if the world was weighted in favour of the Sivannas and the Brett Millers? What if there was no Birbal to help set things right?
* * *
Jaya dropped the girls off at their art class, feeling restless. In India, her life had structure
, it had a framework around which to arrange her days and months and years. That didn’t change when she was widowed—she still remained the daughter-in-law, with the same responsibilities as before—albeit with reduced societal position for her own self. Back in the village, there had been clear expectations of one’s behaviour, of one’s place in the society. That gave one a sense of belonging.
America was the complete opposite in what it offered to an immigrant, rootless and female: freedom, unbounded and seductive.
America was heady in its limitless choices. In its supermarkets, the cereal aisle alone was overwhelming. When Jaya was growing up, the only choice India offered its consumers was corn flakes. In America, she felt like a box of unbranded cereal in an aisle of strong brandings: she didn’t know where she fit anymore.
With great freedom came great loneliness.
The flip side was that you owed no one anything. Suddenly, you could live for you, do things for no other reason than you felt like it. You were not as socially constrained. No one to pass judgment on how you dressed, prayed, walked and talked. No getting up in the predawn chill to bathe, wash and clean the prayer room, and cook food for the offerings in time for your mother-in-law’s early morning prayers. If you fell sick, no having to head to your brother’s house so you could collapse.
The good thing about America was that no one cared.
The bad thing about America was that no one cared.
Jumping to her feet, she decided to chance a visit to Jeff Alcosta. He didn’t go out, other than occasional walks around the neighbourhood, so he welcomed drop-in visitors.
She knocked at Jeff’s door. She could hear slow shuffles. The door slowly opened. Jeff smiled warmly, but she could tell he was in pain.
Jaya backed away. “Maybe I should come back another day.”
“No, no,” Jeff held the door wide open. “I’m sick of my own company. Please, come in. Maybe we can have lunch together. I can order in.”
“Would you like to come over to our place, instead?” Jaya asked. “I have freshly made Indian food. Maybe I can interest you in some?”
“Oh, I love Indian food. Thank you for inviting me. Let me get my keys.”
Jaya smiled at the older man’s courtly manners.
He held out an arm. Seeing the confusion on her face, he took her hand and wrapped it around his arm. Patting it affectionately, he led the way.
She smiled. American customs could be so charming.
Jaya thought back to other incidents. Just yesterday, she and another man had done a little shuffle dance in the supermarket, trying to let the other go past, first. Finally, the man gently patted her elbow, indicating that she go first. Quite a cultural difference. In India, men who were not husband, father or brother, wouldn’t have touched a strange woman. It wasn’t acceptable to share a seat on public transport, either. Perhaps not in Mumbai, which was generally more progressive—where adult women rode bicycles and no one batted an eyelid—but certainly not in the rest of the country. Women sat in specially designated seats with other women. But knowing America’s cultural context removed offense from such contact.
She looked at her hand, wrapped around Jeff Alcosta’s arm. This was nice.
At her door, she unlocked it and led them in.
“Nice view you have here.”
Jaya felt a twinge of embarrassment; bay-facing condos were premium. And she knew Jeff’s condo overlooked the courtyard in the back. But Jeff’s voice held no malice, so she walked him to the bench-seating that overlooked the bay.
“I cannot complain,” Jeff said. “I might not have this view from my condo, but I can get to it in five minutes. Well, maybe nine.”
Jaya laughed.
“So tell me, has that punk, Brett, harassed you again?”
Jaya sobered, not sure how much to tell him. But the old gentleman was surprisingly perceptive. He touched her hand briefly. “Child, nothing you say will surprise me. It might sadden me, but it won’t surprise me.”
“I was trying to follow your advice and make San Francisco home. This place makes my husband happy, and anything that makes him happy, makes me happy.” Jaya recounted the tale of another run-in—a woman this time.
The old man sighed. “I don’t know what’s happening to this country. We should never forget we’re a country of immigrants and yet, here we are. Immigrants have contributed so richly to this country. In medicine, in technology, in every field that you can think of. We’re number one in the world because we’ve been able to attract the best and the brightest. I’m sorry this has been happening. If you’re facing this in San Francisco, a famously liberal city, I shudder to think what’s happening in the rest of the country.”
“Do you mind if I set lunch?” Jaya reached for plates and placed them on the table. She waved Jeff down. “It isn’t much.” She placed the rest of the food in front of him.
“This is Indian food?” Jeff frowned in puzzlement. “Don’t get me wrong. I love trying out all kinds of foods. But this doesn’t look like anything I’ve eaten before.”
Jaya laughed. “What you know as Indian food is really food from the state of Punjab. Except for idli, dosa or vada—those are South Indian. Each state in the country has its own kinds of food. Very different from Punjabi food, but no less delicious.”
“Would you mind showing me how to eat this?”
“Maybe I should serve it first.” Jaya poured payasam and pulusu into small bowls. Then, on his steel plate, she dished out chamadumpa curry, spinach pappu, dosakaya chutney, pulihora and appadam. And a small heaping of rice in the centre.
Jeff looked at the food in amazement. “Do you eat like this each day?”
Jaya laughed. “Only till I figure out what to do with my time.”
“Anytime you need help with this kind of food, knock on my door!” He mixed in each of the items with rice, asking for seconds.
* * *
Jeff sat back and groaned. “The food was amazing. But why did I eat so much?”
“Ginger tea will help it settle.” Over his protests, she cleared away the table without help, then made tea. They sipped tea, watching the skyline of the city of Oakland in the far distance.
“Brett, and that woman who accosted you?” Jeff said suddenly. “I know it’s not easy, but don’t take it personally. They’re both symptoms of a disease. A disease that has afflicted the United States. I don’t know that there is any medicine for it. We’re just going to have to wait it out.” He was pensive as he took a sip of his tea. “We, as a country, we’re going to have to go through the stages—get fever, wait for the body’s germ-fighting mechanism to kick in and attack this disease. If we’re not able to fight it from within…” He pursed his wrinkled lips. “I worry for my beloved country.”
55
Jaya
“Many years ago, when I was a naïve young man, I took a good friend to India.” Kovid sat on the swing on the balcony, idly rocking it. “I think I mentioned him to you.”
Jaya, curled up against him, nodded.
“Shawn. I often joked with him about his last name being White, which he wasn’t. He was African American.”
Jaya suspected she knew where this was going. A few years ago, Madhav had taken his family to Tanzania. On their three-day safari, he got friendly with the guide who had grown up on Bollywood films, much like the rest of the non-English-speaking world. The guide spoke of wanting to send his kids to India for further education. Madhav had discouraged him because, sadly enough, though educational standards in India were very good, the attitude toward the dark-skinned Africans wasn’t.
Jaya herself had grown up with ads extolling the virtues of fair skin, feeling pressured by their skin-colour shaming. And Shawn wasn’t White. So, yes, she knew what was coming. “What happened?”
“People, friends and relatives, would talk past him, like he did not exist. Within his hearing, they’d call him the ‘N’ word, or even ‘That African,’ never mind he was American. On the road kids w
ould taunt him with words like ‘monkey.’ I was distressed that I’d invited him to come with me.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “It saddens me that we’re not worthy of our philosophers, and our thinkers. The gap between what we preach and what we practise, I don’t like what India is becoming. Where’s Shawn now?”
“Having a great career as a doctor, I imagine. He’s one of the most brilliant people I know.”
“You’re not in touch?”
“After that trip?” Kovid shook his head. “The trip was mortifying for us in different ways—for him, because he was humiliated in front of his friend, in the country of origin of said friend. For me, because the ugly underbelly of my country of origin was exposed. Our friendship couldn’t survive it.”
She threaded her fingers through his, heart heavy.
* * *
Jaya was at the school gate at 2:45 p.m., like every day.
Nina bolted out, as always, glad to be free of school.
Ananta shuffled forward, unusual for her. Her eyes were glassy.
Jaya was alarmed. She put an arm around Ananta. “What happened, Kanna?”
Ananta did not respond.
Jaya mouthed to Nina, “What happened?”
Nina shrugged, darting looks of concern at Ananta.
All the way home, Ananta remained unresponsive.
Jaya grew alarmed and texted Kovid.
Immediately, he texted back. “On my way home.”
Once home, Ananta quietly closed the door to the girls’ room and locked herself in.
On the other side of the door, Jaya was frantic.
Kovid bounded up the stairs to the girls’ room. “What happened?”
“She’s locked herself in.”
Kovid’s face lost colour.
Oh, God! Jaya thought. Kovid had been the one to break down his sister’s door. God, please. Let everything be okay.
Daughters Inherit Silence Page 25
