The Forgotten Daughter

by Renita D'Silva

  The crowd is in uproar. ‘Her mother should have looked after her better,’ someone says. ‘Fancy letting her gallivant with good Catholic men all hours of the day and night.’ ‘Does her mother even know where she is at this time of the evening when all the good girls are indoors?’ ‘Why does he want her, what does he see in her, our Rohan?’ I hear.

  Oh Lord, I think, trying to escape the stranglehold Rohan’s mum has on my dirty feet, this is getting tedious. Trapped yesterday and again today. I am tempted to kick her off, but that would be going one step too far.

  Rohan’s father is yelling, ‘Mabel, what on earth are you doing?’ his voice laced with desperation.

  I bend down and grasp the woman’s shoulders, aiming for gentle although every instinct shouts otherwise. ‘Please stop this,’ I say, trying to soften my voice. ‘It is not helping.’ She doesn’t budge. The urge to kick is getting stronger, threatening to overtake my resistance of which there is precious little.

  Thankfully, Rohan comes to my rescue, or to be more precise, to his mother’s rescue, reading in my eyes the impulse I am tempted to give in to.

  ‘Ma,’ he says, bending down and helping his mother up, her green sari tinted dusty auburn, yellow splotches no longer visible, the roll of wobbly pink flesh visible between sari blouse and skirt dotted with pebbles, ‘She hasn’t taken me away from you. I am still yours.’ His voice is tender. His mother leans against him, spent, and all of a sudden she looks very old.

  ‘Then why are you behaving like this, putha? First you tell us you want to go far away to study. What is wrong with Indian universities, tell me? Anyway, we agree to that and then you say you will take this… this Hindu girl with you.’ Her voice blue with pain. ‘And not just any Hindu girl either. This one, whose reputation precedes her by a mile.’

  I should have kicked her, the old hag.

  ‘Ma, what does it matter, Catholic, Hindu? But if you care so much, Devi will convert to Catholicism, won’t you, Devi?’

  It is on the tip of my tongue to say, ‘Why should I?’ But Rohan is looking at me with that expression on his face, the one that entreats, ‘Please, go along with this, Devi.’ I stare down at the ground, watching a line of red ants hoist crumbs of obscene yellow laddoo proudly on their backs. I escaped yesterday’s nightmare—I determinedly shrug away memories of that man’s sour breath hot on my face, his hand on my nipples, the boom boom of my heart loud in my ears, the iron taste of alien blood in my mouth—only to find myself embroiled in this one. I do not want to go along with it, I don’t. I am annoyed with Rohan for being such a patsy initially, though he did come through in the end. And now he is spouting this Catholic nonsense. He is too soft where his parents are concerned, but then he is like that with all the people he cares for; he is the same with me. That is what I love about him. I give him a look that says, I am doing this for you, and mutter, ‘Yes, I will.’

  The crowd, which has been leaning forward, ears flapping, settles. ‘Ah,’ I hear, ‘at least that’s something.’

  What will you have to say to this? ‘Ma, I am getting married to Rohan, becoming a Catholic.’ ‘But, Devi, you were Lord Ganapathy’s special blessing…’ How many times have I heard you say those words? Words binding me to you and to a God I am not even sure I believe in, a God I call upon only when I am in the kind of scrape I cannot see a way out of.

  ‘Won’t you change your mind putha?’ Rohan’s mother begs of him, tears crowding her eyes.

  ‘Ma, please... Devi will become a Catholic; we will have a Catholic wedding.’

  What? We have not discussed any of this. What is he promising? What does it matter?

  ‘Will you?’ they ask of me, both his parents as one, his mother squinting at me suspiciously.

  ‘Yes,’ I murmur, not looking up.

  The crowd erupts. His parents look at each other. I catch Rohan’s eye. You owe me big, I mouth. I see the corner of his lip lift up as he tries not to give in to the smile blooming in his chest. I love this man, I think.

  ‘I have to go now. My mother will be waiting,’ I say to Rohan’s parents.

  ‘Tell her we will come and see her next week, to arrange all the details of the wedding,’ Rohan’s mother says. And just like that, it is over.

  Rohan comes up to me, squeezes my hand, his face radiant. The crowd, at the point of dispersing, oohs again. He grins and leans close, his spiced breath warm in my ear, ‘We are getting married.’ The crowd leans in, trying to catch the whisper. ‘We are going to England. You can wear miniskirts; even frolic naked if you so wish, although I’d rather you didn’t.’

  ‘Look at what he is doing,’ someone says. ‘Hey, you are not married yet; spare us the display,’ shouts another.

  ‘Rohan,’ his mother calls, establishing hierarchy.

  I deliberately lean into Rohan, knowing it is petty but not caring. She deserves it for all the horrible things she’s said about me. ‘I will wear what I want to wear and don’t you go telling me what you’d rather I did or didn’t,’ I say, and he arches an eyebrow and smiles.

  ‘Rohan,’ his mother calls, sounding testier than before.

  ‘You will have plenty of time for that after marriage,’ someone leers.

  ‘Yes, we will,’ I retort.

  The man who spoke recoils as if stung. ‘God, she has a tongue on her, Rohan, watch out. I wouldn’t marry her if I was you,’ he says, heading to the arrack shop for sustenance.

  I walk up to the man and lean close. He grins from ear to ear, tickled by the fact that I am singling him out.

  The crowd, which was on the point of dispersing, angles in so as not to miss a thing.

  ‘No one would want to marry you, you creep,’ I say loud enough for the crowd to overhear and his face turns first yellow and then a purplish blue, ‘You need someone with balls to marry a girl like me and I’m afraid you haven’t got any.’ His face loses colour and he slumps down.

  ‘She’s destroyed him,’ the crowd yells. Someone mimics firing a pistol with their hand, ‘Dishum, just like that.’

  Rohan, his face red with the effort it is costing to hold in his grin, mouths, ‘Go, before my parents change their minds.’

  ‘Will that stop you?’ I ask, my words a challenge.

  His smile as he looks down at me is fond. ‘No, but I’d rather they gave me their blessing. I don’t want to leave them and go to England on a bad note.’

  This is precisely the quality I admire in him so, Ma. He doesn’t like his parents’ interference but he is able to feel affection for them, treat them well. Unlike me. Somehow, when I am with you, Ma, anger hijacks affection, resentment usurps any kindness I might feel towards you.

  The crowd disperses, busy embellishing the story in their heads, adding little details as they go, so that by the time the story reaches old Pedru Ab by the lake, only the main protagonists are the same, everything else has changed.

  ‘Shall I walk you to the bus stop?’ Rohan asks.

  Twilight has fallen while the drama has been taking place. The sky is all the shades of pink, from pale peach to rich cerise. A light breeze smelling of fish, arrack and jackfruit caresses my cheek. Flies buzz and mosquitoes feast. The drunks have all congregated outside the shop and are humming tunelessly while the crickets and frogs join in the chorus. They squat in a cosy circle in the middle of the road, waving their bottles, lost in song as the warm rose-tinged evening fades to black.

  ‘Yes,’ I want to say, ‘yes please.’ Truth is, after last night’s disastrous experience, I am a little scared. But I do not want to display this weakness, even to Rohan. ‘I will be fine,’ I say.

  Glow-worms are twinkling in the fields below as I walk down the familiar path from the road, past the stream, my feet taking me unerringly home, even though it’s hard to see anything. The power’s out. I squint to try and look out for snakes hiding in cover of darkness, waiting to strike. Sumitranna will be making his way down the hill in the distance around now, only the flicker of a candle bobbing up an
d down among the glow-worms giving him away. And you will be standing somewhere in the darkness, wondering where I am and why I am not home yet, waiting for me to emerge out of the gloom, worry warring with hope, the lines in your face travelling downwards like the map of a busy road. After what feels like an age, you will spot me and you will smile and start to speak but I will shush you, ‘I have something important to say, Ma.’ Your face will fall, just like that, the glow on it at the sight of me replaced by anxiety, and I will tell you that I am getting married and that I am becoming a Catholic and that I am going away to England and you will keen, your words a hymn of pain.

  My hand aches, Ma, my eyes hurt from squinting in the droopy yellow light of the candle. I will stop now and read the next entry in your diary that I have been saving up like a treat. It was a gift to read about Da in your previous entry, Ma. You’ve always been so reluctant to talk about him, my queries meeting with monosyllabic replies, that look entering your eyes, taking up residence, a ghost haunting.

  Da as an earnest young farmer. You as a young woman who desperately wants to get married. It is such an unexpected reward, this diary of yours, and any guilt I felt when I started reading your private words is displaced by the pleasure of getting to know the woman you were before you became my ma and the man I never met. My father.

  Love,

  Devi

  Chapter 9

  Shilpa

  Coconut Barfis

  Coconut Barfis:

  Ingredients:

  Freshly grated coconut—2 cups.

  Sugar—2 cups.

  Cardamom—4 pods—seeds crushed to a paste.

  Ghee—2 tablespoons.

  Cashew nuts roasted in ghee and chopped—to serve.

  Method:

  1. Mix grated coconut with the sugar and crushed cardamom seeds.

  2. Pour ghee in a hot pan.

  3. Add the mixture and keep stirring to avoid burning.

  4. Grease a serving dish with butter or ghee. Pour the cooked mixture onto the dish.

  5. Cut square pieces after the dish has cooled down a bit. Sprinkle chopped cashew nuts and serve.

  * * *

  Dear Diary,

  For me, food doesn’t just taste sweet, sour, spicy, what have you—it tastes of feelings, it invokes memories.

  Conjee tastes of childhood. When I slurp conjee, I am transported back to the house I grew up in. The gloopy smell of conjee bubbling on the hearth, the lime tree in the garden, its piquant, slightly bitter scent. The chatter of birds, the tang of cow dung used to sweep the compound.

  I bite into an onion bhaji and I taste comfort. When I eat onion bhajis, I remember huddling with my ma by the front door, watching the trees dance in the storm, pineapple-scented drops lashing our faces, the dank smell of wet hay dripping from the roof, the mad rave of droplets on mud, onion bhajis warm in our stomachs and cardamom tea by our sides.

  Every food has a feeling, a memory. Every important milestone in my life has a food associated with it. That is why this diary couldn’t just be for recipes. That is why I am narrating the story of my life via food.

  Coconut barfis are served at our wedding. The cost of the wedding is shared by both parties, half paid for by my father and half by Manoj.

  I have had the pleasure of making coconut barfis once before, when my mother was gifted ten coconuts—a fortune— by Mrs. Mendonca on the occasion of the feast of Nativity. The kadai had hissed and crackled as I cooked and the house smacked of roasted coconut and caramelised sugar with a subtle undertone of cardamom for days. After, rows and rows of golden barfis, dotted with plump tan cashew nuts and browned coconut shreds, had lined the kitchen floor, honey yellow, oozing syrup, begging to be eaten.

  At my wedding, I bit into a barfi. The crunch of the coconut, the treacly sweetness of the syrup, the nuttiness of the cashew—and I tasted hope, anticipation, the realisation of dreams. What I had yearned for, for so long, was coming true. I was a married woman now. We would have four children at least, I decided. Three boys and a girl. As if he could read my mind, the man sitting by me —my husband! —turned to me and smiled. I smiled back.

  So, I am a married woman now. One tick in the box of my ambitions. And as for my other two ambitions, the house and the children, we are working hard on both!

  The plot of land we have to build our house on is small, and the house will practically sit on top of Sumitranna’s. When he first drew up the plans, Manoj went up to Sumitranna, showed them to him, pointed out that our houses would be back to back and asked if he would mind. ‘Go ahead. Deters the burglars,’ was Sumitranna’s answer. Like Manoj, he’s a man of few words. A nice man, a kind landlord, unlike some others. He told me with what approximated to a blush that he was getting married, that I would have some company soon. That would be nice, though I must say, I do like cooking for both the men in the makeshift hut Manoj and I are living in while the house is being built, basking in their oohs and aahs of delight as they gulp down the food I’ve prepared and ask for seconds.

  ‘Shilpa, you work magic in the kitchen,’ Manoj tells me, beaming, after his third helping of curd rice.

  ‘Manoj, you are a lucky man,’ says Sumitranna after he’s devoured my fish fry. ‘When I tasted your cooking, I realised what I was missing, Shilpa—a woman to look after me.’ Sumitranna looks at me admiringly, ‘That is why I am getting married.’

  What a compliment. My cup of joy is almost full.

  * * *

  Dear Diary,

  Sorry to have neglected you for so long. Being a married woman, managing a home, doesn’t leave you with much time on your hands to write. But I will more than make up for it now—I have so much to tell you.

  So, our house is built. I absolutely love it. It has two rooms: a longish front room which doubles up as bedroom, and of course my kitchen. I adore the kitchen; it’s small, but it is mine. There is a veranda outside the kitchen which links to the small bathroom adjoining, which houses an urn where we heat up water with kindling for our wash. We also have a well and a tiny courtyard in front, where I’ve planted aboli and jasmine and have inveigled a vegetable plot too.

  It is the most wonderful feeling in the world, to have a house to call your own. The only thing that could top this feeling is if I got pregnant.

  In other news, Sumitranna got married, came home with a wife—a slip of a girl, barely sixteen and afraid of her own shadow. Sumitranna brought her to me, snivelling and wiping her tears with her pallu.

  ‘Please could you take Jalaja in hand and teach her how to manage a house?’ he begged. ‘Her parents said she could cook like an angel, that she was a whizz at cleaning and that she kept house and looked after her eleven siblings all on her own. Since she got here, all she’s done is cry.’ His voice sounded harassed and impatient. Jalaja flinched. ‘I have no time for histrionics; I work very hard and when I get home I expect a cooked meal at the very least.’ He turned tail and walked off in a huff and the girl dissolved in a mess of tears.

  Turns out she is desperately homesick. She is the oldest of twelve and there was always noise and laughter and comings and goings at her house and here it is quiet and nobody around except her grumpy husband who doesn’t tell her what he wants and then gets angry when she doesn’t do it. ‘How can I be expected to read his mind?’ she cries, wiping the tears which just keep on coming with her pallu which resembles a sodden rag.

  I have my work cut out here, I think. But I do relish a challenge and it is nice to feel appreciated. I have to admit I was worried when Sumitranna announced he was getting married as to the nature of the competition. But this girl, she looks up at me like I am her saviour, her huge eyes lighting up when I show her what Sumitranna wants done, as I guide her through the recipes Sumitranna loves, as I instruct her on how to clean and keep house to Sumitranna’s satisfaction. And I must admit, it is nice to have company when the men are at work. Once our chores are done and the rice is bubbling merrily on the hearth, we sit on the veranda and share a
paan.

  ‘It hurts,’ she tells me, her face red as a hibiscus flower, red as the paan staining her lips. She is looking straight ahead. ‘Does it hurt for you too, or is it just me?’

  I debate whether to pretend I don’t understand what she’s talking about. The air is yellow, sullen. It reeks of sweat and parched fields and the sickly sweet odour of overripe fruit. The monsoons are late as ever.

  ‘Oh, you just have to grin and bear it. It will get better with time,’ I say finally.

  She sighs. ‘I hope so,’ she says. ‘I hope I get pregnant soon, then he’ll have to stop for a while at least.’

  I look up at the sky. It is pale blue, almost white, like the inside of an egg shell. Frisky clouds, light and fluffy and definitely not laden with moisture, dot it in places. The boiling rice rattles the lid that covers the mouth of the pot like a visitor demanding entry. Dragonflies hum as they alight on aboli flowers, shimmering rainbows dotting the sedate orange petals. A cluster of chillies the dark green of envy hug the branches of the chilli plant and a prickly yellow pineapple ripens slowly in the mid-afternoon haze.

  A baby, gap-toothed, smiling, gummy eyes following my every move. That is what I want too; that is what I am waiting for, I think, my words a wish, a prayer.

  Chapter 10

  Nisha

  The Stranger in the Mirror

  Lounging amongst the pillows, she watches Matt dress for work, admiring the care he takes working the knot on his tie, how he hastily runs a comb through his wayward hair, committing to memory all these little quirks while faint echoes of the dream plaintively reverberate from the night before. It is uncharacteristic for her to lie here doing nothing. Normally she would be up before Matt, would have had a shower by now and be dressed ready to go to work—or, as she has been doing these past few days, to her parents’ house to sort out their effects. She certainly wouldn’t be languishing in bed after seven in the morning. The adage that lying in equates to wasted time has been drummed into her from childhood. When she was little, her mother said that brains worked best in the mornings, so after a quick breakfast of porridge, Nisha would sit down and tackle homework, even at the weekends. She never stayed in bed past six. If she did, her mother would be sure to be along. Three brisk knocks. ‘Wake up, sleepyhead, the day’s waiting for you.’