Amma suddenly laughed. “You should see the look on your face.” She raised the cup to her lips and sipped delicately. “Excellent tea, by the way. The perfect blend of crushed ginger and cardamom.” She touched Jaya’s cheek lightly. “I haven’t lost my mind. I’m trying to make a point here.”
“Do you want to go inside?” Jaya said, to give herself time. The jump from topic to topic, on discussions where she was her mother’s equal, after a lifetime of being lectured and not allowed to respond, it was a little unsettling.
Amma nodded.
Jaya lit the lamp in front of the gods and turned on the veranda light. She pushed open the old-fashioned double doors to the girls’ bedroom.
Kovid had cleaned up the room and made the bed.
Jaya climbed on to the bed and folded her legs underneath.
Her mother settled in the chair across from the bed.
Jaya dragged the handmade quilt off the bed, wrapping herself in the love quilted by her grandmother. Maybe she’d take it back to America and, someday, add a patch of her mother’s unexpected confidences to it.
“For some reason,” Amma continued as if there hadn’t been a break in the narrative, “the story stayed with me. Then, when you kicked me out of your house…” At the look on Jaya’s face, she added hastily, “and rightly so. And I found out about my brother, I realised I didn’t really need an identity. I’d already forged one. Yes, I’d loved Pratap, but I’ve had a good forty years with your father. For the most part.”
Jaya felt a surge of relief on her father’s behalf. He hadn’t asked to be caught in her mother’s drama.
“I’ve tried to control Madhav and you because I didn’t know any different. I treated the two of you the way my father treated me. I turned into my father, Jaya, and I never realised it. I cannot bear that Madhav and you think of me, what I thought of my father.”
“Oh, Amma!” Jaya said.
“When Madhav called me to tell me that you might be shifting to America…” She leaned forward and clutched Jaya’s hand. “I couldn’t let you go without trying to repair my relationship with you.”
“Instead, I rebuffed you. I’m so sorry, Amma.”
“Don’t,” Amma said, surprisingly gracious. “I deserved your distrust. And I’m truly grateful that you’re willing to give me this chance.”
* * *
Madhav and Jaya sat on Madhav’s veranda, both lost in their own thoughts. The ever-perceptive Shyamala had left the siblings to talk, taking the girls for a walk along the river. Kovid had taken his mother out to buy her saris.
“Sheds a new light on things, doesn’t it?” Madhav said.
“I couldn’t sleep after she left, Anna. Her words kept going round and round in my head. She waited for him for fifty years.” She found herself unable to imagine a tragedy of that magnitude involving her own brother. “To lose a brother that way. Then, the love of your life.”
“Did it occur to you—all your life you thought that Amma was partial to me? To be honest, I did too. Then, when it comes down to it, it is you she chooses to confide in.”
She looked at her brother. “Does that bother you?”
“No! I’m happy to be proved wrong, silly.” He wrapped an arm around her, hugging her.
She knew what he meant. Growing up, their mother had let her brother get away with so much. And their father had done the same, except he had been partial to Jaya. She hadn’t cared for that, either.
“Where’s she now?” Madhav asked.
“I dropped her off at the hotel. She and Nanna are staying there.”
“You could have brought her here. I have the room.”
“She wasn’t sure she’d be welcome.”
Madhav sighed deeply. “It’s not that she isn’t welcome…”
“I know what you mean.” Shyamala was the most accommodating daughter-in-law their mother could have, and she’d taken advantage of it. And, after how Amma had treated Shyamala, Madhav was protective of his wife.
“But this side of Amma.” Madhav shook his head.
Jaya said, “I’ve become comfortable thinking Amma can be ignored because she’s always so self-serving. Now, knowing what she went through, I feel terrible.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Jaya. We all form opinions of people based on how they behave, not what they might be hiding from the world.”
“I guess.” Jaya breathed in deeply. “Now she’s asking to spend time with the grandkids. She was careful to include Nina.”
“The shift in thinking isn’t going to be easy, is it?”
“Yeah.”
Madhav said, “I want to see if Amma and Nanna want to come and stay with me a bit. So they can get to know their at least one of their granddaughters.”
“Shyamala?”
“After I check with her.” He nodded in acknowledgement. “She won’t say ‘no.’ But it won’t be easy on her, that’s for sure.” He rose. “Speaking of which, want to rescue her from the little devils?”
58
Jaya
Jaya sat in the middle row of the large plane, their two kids occupying the seats between Kovid and her. Her holiday was over, and it was back to real life. She glanced over at Nina, feeling a surge of love. This break was exactly what they’d all needed.
She looked around the plane, shaking her head in bemusement. When she was a child, middle-class people couldn’t afford cars. Buses, autorickshaws, and two-wheelers: these were the common modes of transport. Their father, like many of their relatives and friends, used a scooter to transport their family of four.
When they had to travel outside of town for weddings or picnics, they took the bus. Once, in a burst of extravagance, Nanna hired a car and driver to take them to a wedding. On their way back, they were caught in a fierce thunderstorm. Rain buffeted the sides of the car. Visibility was close to zero. The car was crawling on the highway, the driver struggling for control.
Suddenly, the car listed to a side.
Jaya buried her head in her big brother’s shoulder and whimpered.
Cautiously, their father got out, even as their mother screamed out warnings.
The driver followed.
Amma wiped the condensation from the window.
Jaya looked up, immediately wishing she hadn’t. Outside, there were no roads, no farms; only a raging river, kilometres wide.
As the wind lashed at the trees, as the lightening split the sky asunder, as the thunder deadened eardrums, there was furious hand waving between their father and the driver.
The driver got back in. The vinyl of the seat squelched as he slid across.
Outside, Nanna strained against the side of the car, shouting. But the wind was so ferocious, it snatched his words away.
The driver revved the engine.
Nanna put his body against the car and pushed it with all his might.
The driver revved again.
The tyre sprang free.
And then, the currents lifted up the car.
The terrified driver clung to the steering.
Jaya and Madhav clung to each other.
And Nanna struggled to find a grip on the outside of the car.
Amma was crying, trying to roll down the window. But the rocking motion made it almost impossible. Finally, she got it down, and Nanna got a grip. The currents carried the car, and Nanna hanging on to it, away from where the road used to be.
A long time later, Jaya didn’t know how long, the car lodged against a stubborn banyan.
Amma wound down the window completely.
As needles of rain shot into the car, she, with the help of Jaya and Madhav, dragged Nanna inside. Wedged against the tree—in that sea of dampness and terror—they spent the rest of that afternoon, all of that night, and much of next day.
Countless hours later, five brave men from the Indian Army rescued them in a boat.
Now, as Jaya waited for their flight to take off from the Rajiv Gandhi International Airport in Hyderabad—leaving behind
the familiar comfort of Lingampally, of her loved ones—she felt echoes of that terror. At eight, she had ridden the night out, secure in the knowledge the adults in her life would protect her.
Now she was the adult.
Now she was the one grappling to find a hold.
She did not know what life held for her. She did not know if she would be able to make a place in her heart for San Francisco: not the carefully made-up face which hid beneath it, the pocks and the pustules, but its naked face, warts and all.
Across the span of four seats, Jaya’s and Kovid’s eyes connected.
He smiled.
She smiled back.
The four of them were going to be okay.
Afterword
Dear Reader,
* * *
Daughters Inherit Silence is a book close to my heart. On many levels—as an engineer, as a woman, as a mother—I identify with her. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
If you wish to read Madhav’s book, Talking Is Wasted Breath (written ten years prior, so the writing style is different) is available for free from the vendor of your choice.
Meanwhile, here are the books in the Tales from The Deccan Plateau series (launching in 2021-2022). They may be read in any order:
Tell A Thousand Lies
Daughters Inherit Silence
Talking Is Wasted Breath (previously, 28 Years A Bachelor)
The Water Wives
Tell A Lie, Beget A Daughter
After years of not writing, I’m very pleased to have so many books lined up for release! To know more, sign up at https://RasanaAtreya.com/subscribe.
Thank you so much for reading Daughters Inherit Silence, and going on this journey with Jaya. If you liked the book, please do leave a review (even if it 2-3 lines) – I read every single one of them. This also helps new readers find my books.
* * *
In gratitude,
Rasana Atreya
Get a free copy of The Temple Is Not My Father
* * *
Would You Like A Free Book?
* * *
When Godavari was dedicated to the Goddess, she still believed in goodness and decency. Not anymore.
* * *
Now she has a daughter to protect. And protect her she will, no matter the cost to herself.
* * *
The Temple Is Not My Father explores poignantly the emotional landscape of motherhood, love, loss and identity in the cultural context of India.
* * *
Note:
This novella is exclusively for the subscribers of my mailing list. Not available for purchase.
* * *
Get the book:
* * *
www.rasanaatreya.com
About the Author
Rasana Atreya’s debut novel Tell A Thousand Lies was shortlisted for the UK-based 2012 Tibor Jones South Asia Prize (UK 2012). She declined a publishing contract because she wanted to explore this new-fangled phenomenon known as self-publishing. As one of India’s self-publishing pioneers, she was a panelist at the prestigious Jaipur Literary Festival in 2013. She’s been interviewed extensively by the Indian news media, and also by international influencers/podcasters like NYT bestselling author Joanna Penn, Amar Vyas, and founder of UK-based The Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi), Orna Ross. Rasana is ALLi’s India ambassador.
Rasana finds a mention in the University of New Mexico, Albuquerque’s Emerging South Asian Women Writers: Essays and Interviews (From Antiquity to Modernity Book 1) by Deborah Fillerup Weagel and Feroza Jussawalla. After the publication of this book, in the Spring of 2017, Prof. Jussawalla taught Tell A Thousand Lies in her class, English 479 (Survey of Postcolonial Literature and Theories).
USA Today bestselling author, Toby Neal, invited Rasana to write fan fiction for her police procedural series, and Valley Isle Secrets was born.
Rasana is now working on her series, Tales From The Deccan Plateau. These are standalone books which may be read in any order. More information can be found on her website (RasanaAtreya.com).
Meanwhile, here are the other books in the Tales from The Deccan Plateau series (launching in the next few months). They may be read in any order:
Tell A Thousand Lies [Pullamma’s book]
Daughters Inherit Silence [Jaya’s book]
Talking Is Wasted Breath [Madhav’s book]
The Water Wives [Kaivalya’s book]
The Temple Is Not My Father [Godavari’s book]
Tell A Lie, Beget A Daughter [Lata’s Book]
Rasana lives in San Ramon, California with her husband and daughter. Her son’s away at college.
Acknowledgments
For my parents.
A lot of people encouraged, cajoled, critiqued, proofread and handheld me through the writing of this book. They are (in no particular order): Vrinda Baliga, Yael Politis, Damyanti Biswas, Ruchi Singh, Anantha Vemulapati, Padma Jasti, Shailaja Dixit, Jaya Satish and Parul Gupta.
Heartfelt thanks to my early reviewers: Cynthia Stott, Michelle Petticolas, Sridevi Sundar, Annabelle Colestock, Kimi Avary.
Thank you, Humans of Patriarchy. I learned about Simone de Beauvoir from you. You also gave me food for thought, some of which found its way into this book.
For helping me whip the book into shape, the credit goes to my editor, Patricia B. Smith.
Cover design: Merril Anil.
Daughters Inherit Silence Page 28
