“Is she—?” Kovid swallowed.
“I don’t know,” Jaya whispered.
Nina was curled up in the corner of the landing, her tears flowing unchecked.
Kovid reached up over the door, removing a pin Jaya hadn’t known about. He pushed it into the lock. It clicked open.
Ananta was curled up in a foetal position under her bed. She looked blankly up as Kovid and Jaya cautiously tiptoed into the room.
Jaya wasn’t sure if Ananta had even registered their presence.
Kovid knelt. Slowly, very slowly, he reached for Ananta.
She did not react.
He carried her down, into the living room, and onto the couch. Jaya and Nina trailed behind.
The four curled up together.
Ananta fell into deep slumber.
Kovid, Jaya and Nina sat rigidly, too afraid to move.
* * *
Two hours later, Ananta got up. She looked drained. “Water,” she said hoarsely.
Nina jumped off the couch, ran over to the kitchen sink, and back with a glass of water, spilling along the way.
Ananta gulped it down. And the story came tumbling out.
She and another kid had been working on a project that involved paints and a bucket of water. A couple eighth graders passed by. Within hearing of Ananta, one kid said to the other, “That water looks nasty. Looks like the N*****’s colour bled out.”
* * *
The girls didn’t sleep much that night. Ananta lay on her bed, unmoving.
Surprisingly enough, it was Nina who was distraught. She blamed herself that her beloved country had treated her new sister so.
Jaya couldn’t sleep, either:
Kovid was light-skinned; he’d be fine.
Nina had Caucasian skin-tone; she’d be fine.
Jaya had the same skin-tone as Ananta’s, but she was an adult; she’d deal with it.
But Ananta.
* * *
When that eighth grader first said what he said, Ananta hadn’t known what it meant. Her project partner, recognising the “N” word, reported it to the teacher. From the teacher’s face, and from the furious discussions she had with the assisting teacher, Ananta realised its import.
As Jaya lay in bed, tears building up against her closed eyelids, she reflected on how her baby—both her babies—had been forced to grow up. Suddenly, America was not just beautiful bridges and gorgeous waterfronts.
The school principal had called an emergency conference late that evening.
Diwakar had driven over to babysit the girls.
The principal offered both her deepest apologies, as well as the assurances that the offending student would be expelled.
“No,” Jaya said. “Expelling him will do nothing.”
“Are you sure?” In the chill of the San Francisco evening, a bead of sweat dotted the principal’s upper lip.
The vice principal’s face twitched.
“Jaya?” Kovid was surprised.
“Yes,” Jaya said. Her face felt stiff from the intensity of her emotions. “I’m sure. But I have a request.”
“What?” the lawyer representing the school, or was it the school district, barked.
“I’d like the school counsellor to listen to Terry Gross’ interviews with Derek Black and Christian Picciolini. If the counsellor could talk to the boy and his parents after that…”
“Who are these people?” the lawyer asked.
“A former white nationalist and a former white-power skinhead.”
* * *
After that incident with Brett Miller, Jaya had looked up racism and stumbled upon Terry Gross’ Picciolini’s interview. She’d learned about angry young men banding together on the Internet because they felt lost. That same Internet search also threw up Derek Black’s name.
In his interview, Black talked about running training sessions on how to use language so it didn’t come off as racist rhetoric. Instead of talking about the too many non-Whites, he talked about the “too many” Spanish-language signs in Florida, about politically correct language hampering “regular people’s” ability to communicate their true feelings. This had helped win elections.
These young men were easy targets, not because of ideology but because they were lonely. To a vulnerable, socially isolated person, the promise of a close-knit tribe could be as potent as drugs. What stayed with Jaya from that powerful interview with Picciolini was that hate really did not fill the empty spaces within these young men. It hadn’t, not in Picciolini.
His own turning point would come when he looked into the eyes of the young black man he was in the middle of beating up.
* * *
“Why do you think Ananta reacted so badly?” Jaya asked Kovid.
He wasn’t sleeping, either.
“I don’t mean to say what happened today wasn’t terrible.” Jaya’s voice broke. “It was completely awful. But in India I’ve had relatives and friends ask her to her face why she couldn’t have inherited her father’s skin colour. She’s always shrugged it off.”
Kovid released a deep breath. “Kids are more perceptive that we give them credit for. She’s old enough to recognise the difference in cultural context, where talking about skin-colour is part of everyday life, unpleasant though it may be—and outright hate.”
Unable to sleep, Jaya headed to the kitchen. What she needed was a cup of tea. She was about to turn the light on when she stopped. The doors to the balcony were not fully shut. Everyone had been so stressed last night that Kovid and she had both neglected to shut the door. She reached to pull them closed, stopping short.
Nina looked up from the swinging egg-chair.
“Hey,” Jaya said softly. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
Nina’s face was wet from tears.
Bending, Jaya hugged the girl, holding her tight. She gently moved Nina aside and pulled the girl into her lap.
Nina buried her face in Jaya’s chest, bursting into tears. “I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, over and over.
Jaya rocked her, calming her down. Cupping the girl’s cheek, she said, “Why are you sorry?”
“It’s all my fault.” Nina’s voice was small.
“What’s your fault?”
“You know, in Lingampally, when no one was coming to your computer centre?”
“Yes?”
“I prayed and prayed that they wouldn’t come. I’m such a terrible, terrible person.” She started to sob again.
“Did you do that because you wanted to move back here?”
Nina nodded. “I missed home terribly. I was okay in the beginning. But when Grandma and Grandpa wouldn’t talk to me, and they lived next door,” Nina looked up at Jaya, her eyes sorrowful. “It made me feel very, very bad.”
“That doesn’t make you a bad person, Nina. That makes you normal.” Jaya tightened her arms around the girl. “You did nothing wrong. If I’d been in your place, I’d have done the same thing.”
“But look what happened.” At Jaya’s questioning look, she said, “To Ananta. I made that happen.”
Jaya cupped the girl’s cheeks with her hands. “Look at me,” she said firmly. She held Nina that way till the girl stopped her crying.
“Back in India, Ananta won a prize in singing at school. Did you make that happen? After all, you made her enter the competition.”
“No,” Nina said. But she sounded doubtful.
“How about the time Ananta sprained her wrist in your grandparents’ house? After all, you did invite her over.”
“Of course, not. She was being silly, and she—” Nina stopped, understanding dawning on her face.
“Lots of good things will happen in Ananta’s life. Sometimes bad things too. Though, hopefully, not too many. You can’t be responsible for them all, can you?”
Nina shook her head.
“But you know what?” Jaya asked.
“I know ‘what.’”
Jaya laughed, kissing her on the head. “You’re a very special p
erson. I hope you know that.”
Nina sighed in contentment and lay her head against Jaya’s chest. “I love you, Amma.”
“I love you too, Kanna.” Jaya hugged her close, feeling fierce love for this child.
“Can I say something?” Nina raised her head, her look serious.
“Anything.”
“I think we need to all go to India with Ananta. Over Christmas.”
“But your grandparents will be here in two weeks.” They were planning on spending Christmas with their granddaughter.
“We can do that over the summer. Right now, it’s more important that we take Ananta to India. Madhav mavayya will make things better for her.”
Jaya hugged the girl tightly. This time she did not fight the tears.
Nina smiled, slipping into deep sleep.
From the corner of her eye, Jaya saw Ananta standing near the door. “Come,” Jaya said, softly.
Ananta crawled into her lap.
From the doorway, Kovid smiled at his family.
56
Kovid
Mom and Dad looked up in disbelief as Jaya and Kovid wheeled their suitcases into the courtyard next door. The girls had run inside and were exploring the house.
“You’re back?” Dad demanded.
“For the Christmas break, yeah,” Kovid said.
Jaya nodded. She looked uncertain as she smiled tentatively at Mom.
“Ramani,” Dad said brusquely, “let’s go inside.”
Amazingly enough, Mom ignored him. She came over to the half-height wall. “Why are you back in six months? Not that I’m not happy to see you. And where are the girls?”
Kovid vaulted over the wall to hug his mother.
Dad’s jaw dropped, but Mom just held him.
She looked at him, fear darkening her eyes. “The girls?”
“They’re fine. They’re inside.”
Amma held a hand out for Jaya. When Jaya neared the wall, she said, “It’s been lonely, not having you next door.”
Kovid wrapped a hand around Mom and hugged her to his side.
“So, really. Why are you back?”
Kovid looked at Jaya.
She nodded slightly and started to wheel a suitcase to the house.
“Jaya, can you wait, please?”
She stood in the courtyard, the wall separating her from her family, as Kovid brought Mom up to speed on Ananta.
“Poor child.” Mom’s eyes filled. She looked across the wall at Jaya. “How’s she doing?”
“Not very well.”
Mom looked over her shoulder at Dad. “I need to see her.”
Dad looked shocked. “Are you doing this to defy me?”
Mom sighed deeply. “How’s it that you always manage to make everything about you?”
Uncle sputtered. “What do you mean, about me?”
“I mean that a little girl needs me, and I’m going over to see her.”
Kovid looked across at Jaya. She looked as shocked as he felt.
“For far too many years,” Mom said, looking sorrowful, “I’ve let you control my children and me. Maybe, if I’d stood up to you sooner, our daughter would be alive.”
“Are you blaming me for her weakness?”
“No,” she said quietly. “I’m blaming you for her death.”
* * *
Kovid led Mom up to the girls’ bedroom. The girls were huddled on the bed. They looked up, startled.
Mom said, “Is there room for me?”
Wordlessly, the girls moved apart. Mom slid in between the two, pulling both close.
Kovid closed the door behind him.
* * *
In the front room, Madhav was hugging Jaya. “I didn’t expect to miss you quite this much.”
Jaya punched him in the arm, sniffing.
“What’s with you and violence, woman?” Kovid said.
Madhav laughed as he gave his brother-in-law a quick thump.
Kovid dropped on the sofa like a deadweight. The sofa protested at the treatment, and he winced.
“Thank you for making the place habitable for us,” he said. Luckily, Jaya had held off on finding renters.
Madhav nodded. “I thought I’d wait to bring Shreya and Shyamala over. How’s Ananta? How are both girls doing?”
Kovid inclined his head at the back room. “In there with Mom. I think they’ll be fine.”
Madhav was startled. “Your mother? She’s here?”
“She gave Dad an earful and came over.” Kovid shook his head.
Jaya had tears in her eyes. “To think she did this for Ananta.”
“Wow,” Madhav said.
“What happens now?” Jaya asked. “Do you think Uncle will allow her to come back home?”
“Of course, he will,” Kovid said.
“Why are you so certain?”
“Here’s the thing with bullies.” Kovid’s jaw tightened. “They pick on people they perceive as weaker. When someone stands up to them, they back down. Anyway, he needs her far more than she needs him. He cannot survive on his own. So, yeah.”
“Maybe this is the season for changes,” Jaya said. She looked at her brother. “Anna, will you talk to Amma for me? Tell her I’d like to meet her?”
57
Jaya
“I’m not the easiest person to get along with.” Amma stood on Jaya’s veranda in her dark blue sari, with its black polka dots, one foot hovering over the wooden threshold of the front room of Jaya’s house. “So I’ll understand if you turn me away. But please, can I come in?”
Jaya did not remember her mother asking. Ever. “Of course.”
Amma was a beautiful woman. The realisation struck Jaya. Her image of her mother, for as long as she could remember, was pinched faces, and frown lines etched deep in her forehead.
Her mother stepped into the room.
Jaya wondered what her mother would make of her little house, the only thing Jaya had been able to afford. It was completely unlike the fancy, three-storey villas sprouting up in gated communities across Hyderabad, where her parents lived. Not that the luxury had lessened any of her mother’s discontent.
The living room had a wooden sofa set—a two-seater right-angled to a three-seater. The cushions were lumpy, in a faded shade of maroon, with the brown of the cushions visible through the threadbare fabric. Between the sofas, the mandatory teapoy. Two wooden footstools, one each for her former in-laws. A window, with an iron grill painted a pale yellow, overlooking the courtyard.
The window was either half-open, or half-closed, depending on how you viewed life. The only thing everyone could agree on was that a coat of paint had ensured that the window remained stuck in that position. A large flat-screen TV—the one modern amenity in the room—faced the window. As she bade her mother to sit, it occurred to Jaya that nothing in this room matched; not the blue curtains, not the green walls, certainly not the sofa cushions.
Amma looked around, a pained expression on her face. “Madhav and you bought us our fancy house and you lived like this?”
Jaya shrugged. Their parents’ house did cost a lot of money each month, but Jaya and Madhav had hoped that this would be the thing that finally made their mother happy.
Amma carefully settled on the short sofa, the window behind her back. Above it was a tube light, and underneath it, a lizard slowly creeping across the whitewashed wall. Gecko, the American insurance commercial called it.
Jaya sat down on the other sofa, careful to not look up at the lizard. When startled, they had a propensity for falling on the person unfortunate enough to be sitting directly underneath. No matter how many she got the maid to chase away, more showed up.
“That lizard isn’t going to go away,” Amma said. “Best to ignore it.”
Jaya was startled, though she shouldn’t be. She’d forgotten how perceptive her mother could be. When she chose. “Should I make tea?”
“This isn’t a social visit, Jaya.”
Jaya folded her legs underneath and
wrapped her arms around a misshapen cushion, resisting the urge to hide her flaming face. She would not be that fourteen-year-old again, reprimanded for not using the correct ladle for sambar. She would not be that woman, newly widowed and pregnant, excoriated and emotionally abandoned by her mother for defying her in-laws and keeping the baby she loved more than life.
“Why are you here?” Jaya asked. Her voice was hard.
“Uh. I mean…” Amma stumbled. “I suppose you have the right to ask. Since I haven’t bothered for twelve years.” She sighed. “I just can’t seem to do this right. I’m sorry, Jaya. When I asked to come here, I promised myself that I would treat you as an adult. Can we please start over?”
This was new. One consistent trait of her mother’s was that she’d always known what was best for her kids. Even better than they knew themselves. This sudden change was disconcerting. Jaya nodded.
“Madhav told me what happened to Ananta. That poor child.” Amma’s voice choked.
Jaya raised her eyebrows, wondering why she remained cynical. Don’t forget, she reminded herself. You missed Amma in San Francisco. You wanted the chance to make up.
Her phone pinged. She clicked on Kovid’s message. “At Madhav’s.”
A reminder that life was good, that old resentments no longer bound her. Maybe she could afford to be a little charitable towards her mother. “Kovid’s mother has been incredible. I think she’ll be okay.”
Amma didn’t seem to have heard. She stared blankly at the black screen of the TV. “My father was a hard man. He was very controlling. He was extremely self-involved, Jaya. Our needs did not matter to him at all. He ignored my mother, he ignored us kids. The only person he cared about was himself.” She gave a short laugh. “In other words, he was exactly me.” She pursed her lips, then said, “You know, I hated him so much I promised myself that I’d never be him? That I would have a wonderful relationship with my own children, and that I’d throw that in his face?” She looked at Jaya. “The joke’s on me, hanh?”
Daughters Inherit Silence Page 26
