They were fallible too; they lied, they deceived, they died and left her with this… this mess.
She wipes her eyes surreptitiously on her sleeves, lifts her head, manages a smile that hurts her cheeks. ‘Thanks for this, Ross. Go on, get that sandwich. I am fine.’
She will order the information swirling around her head into neat piles, classify it into ‘important’ and ‘not important’, compartmentalise it.
‘You sure?’ Ross’s caramel eyes probe hers.
Without that she cannot function, she feels she is floating somewhere where she cannot find herself.
‘Yes, thank you.’ She manages to hold his gaze and he walks to the door.
‘I will get you your usual, shall I? Tuna salad baguette?’
And armed with this list, she will call the convent, find out why she was given away, discover the truth behind her parentage.
‘Yes, please.’
He leaves, snippets of conversations of colleagues lunching at their desks, the aroma of coffee, the tinny tang of tuna drifting in briefly as the door opens and shuts behind him.
She whips out the little book that is her faithful companion, starts to write.
Project Who Am I
1) The dreams—more vivid, more colourful than my life has been up until now. Real events that occurred before I came here? Memories manifesting themselves? Death of parents, letter could have been triggers?
Proposed Solution: Call a psychologist, talk it through.
Truth is, I am afraid to do this. I have long suspected I might be somewhere in the autistic spectrum; what if they find that out? So what? I have already found out the life I was living was a lie. What difference will the knowledge that I am autistic make?
Or… since my dreams centre on the convent, I could call the convent.
Which brings me to the next question…
2) Why do all the memories (if they are such) take place at the convent? Was I given away at a very young age, so young that I have no recollection of my birth parents? Was I born at the convent?
Again, call the convent. I would like to know the precise age at which I was adopted—my penchant for facts coming through. ‘Nothing wrong with that,’ my parents would say. It pays to be thorough. Memory is imperfect, facts are not.
Her head feels a bit less crowded already, now that the first few questions have been sorted, out of the way. This is so not like me, she thinks, this deliberating, this fabricating reasons out of thin air. Was this Nisha hiding inside all along waiting to be released? Is this the real Nisha?
3) Why was I adopted? Why me? Why not someone else?
For this I might have an answer—perhaps it was because of my cleft palate. Since I was disfigured, my parents might have thought it would stop me focusing on my looks and that I would concentrate on books instead. A horrible reason, doesn’t bear thinking about, but then what they did, adopting me for purposes of research, doesn’t bear thinking about either. Which brings me to the next question…
4) Did my parents adopt me only as a project or because they loved me?
This is the question that bugs me the most, hurts me the most if I am being completely honest, the one I cannot turn away from. Perhaps the nuns at the convent would know? What if they don’t/can’t remember? After all, it is so far in the past. Perhaps I will never know… Or perhaps… Aha… I’m sure there is a research paper somewhere with details of Project ‘Nurture VS Nature’. Was it ever submitted?
This is my forte. I will research all the publications my parents submitted to, speak to their colleagues. Oh Lord, did their colleagues know? Those dry people I met once a year at Christmas parties, the colourful paper hats at odds with their starched navy suits, talking rats at the table as they munched on turkey, trying to smile at the jokes from the crackers, their mouths stretched in a parody of a grin. But then, my parents were not expecting to pass on so soon. So perhaps it was never submitted. If so, it must be somewhere in their house…
Nisha is invigorated, full of energy. Writing things down makes her notice things her mind is trying to process, see connections that were obscured by unnecessary facts. She is charged with purpose for the first time since the policemen turned up at work, their faces sombre, and told her about her parents. Her head feels free for the first time since she opened the letter. Blessedly organised. Not rushed and buzzing and threatening to implode. She calls Matt; he is in class, the phone switched off. She leaves a message, knowing he will pick it up when he’s finished. Then she leaves a note on Ross’s desk and drives to her parents’ house. She will begin with the study and work her way from there…
Chapter 11
Devi
Bruise-Red Effigy
Ma,
Today, once more, you stirred. ‘Wise woman,’ you breathed. ‘Child,’ you whispered. ‘Gave away.’
‘Did the wise woman give her child away, Ma?’ I asked.
You gripped my hand hard. ‘Gave away,’ you said, your voice as empty as the well during the drought, your eyes closed, eyelids fluttering like a butterfly trapped in a jar.
Did the madwoman, who did not have a husband as far as I know, have a baby? Did she give it away because of the disgrace? Is that why she became mad? Or, as you termed it, wise, Ma? If so, why are you thinking of that now? Why is it at the forefront of your mind? What is going on in your head as you lie there, peaceful as the Virgin Mary whose statue graces the entrance to the hospital? And yet, when you come to, briefly, you are so agitated, your pupils struggling like a captured animal under closed lids. Why? What is upsetting you? Why is the ghost of the madwoman causing havoc even now, after all this time? What hold does she still have on you? Why are you so upset that she gave her baby away—if that is what you are trying to say? Because you wanted children so desperately? Perhaps.
Ma, I think it is time to tell you my news. Somehow, writing all this down, reading your diary, getting a glimpse into the girl you were once, has loosened something inside of me. I am able to find the words to tell you, although I wish it didn’t have to be like this. Reading in your diary your desire for a child… I am pregnant, Ma. I am going to have a baby. My body is changing, housing a new life and it is a fabulous feeling, this. More amazing than anything I have experienced thus far.
In your diary, you say you want lots of children. I think I am beginning to see why, when there was just me, you loved me like you did.
I am already so defensive of this little being, at present no more than a collection of rapidly multiplying cells, that graces my womb, Ma. I shy away from tea and coffee, I drink only boiled water, eat plenty of fruit. I understand now why you were so protective of me, the protectiveness that suffocated and chafed, that felt like shackles I yearned to be free of…
When I walk home that evening after that dreadful trial with Rohan’s parents, you are waiting in the shade of the tamarind tree, as I expected, pretending to shell coconuts, when really you are watching out for me, any fool can see that, as there is not enough light to shell coconuts by. Glow-worms twinkle and crickets sing. You squat above the little wooden stool which has a scythe attached to the front with which to shell the coconuts, not concentrating, your eyes wide and peeled as if that will help pierce the darkness. Bobby dances beside you, tail wagging, once in a while snapping at a fly that buzzes too close. The air smells yellow, of bruised mangoes and crushed tamarind.
Your face lights up when you see me, your teeth glowing turmeric in the darkness. I walk up to you and, without pausing to catch my breath, say, ‘Rohan has asked me to marry him.’ Your hand on the scythe stills, too suddenly, and you cut yourself, bright red blood gushing out from between brown wrinkled skin. Bobby barks, makes to lick it. I rush inside, tear a piece off an old nightie and deftly bind your hand to stem the bleed. ‘And before you ask, his parents have agreed.’ I brush aside the humiliation stinging my eyes —the insults bandied, the accusations levelled at me —with a rough swipe of my elbow, my hands busy wrapping the bandage. ‘They are c
oming here next week, to discuss the details of the wedding. See, not all boys are bad, like you said.’ The gloating does not provide the satisfaction, the thrill I had expected. Perhaps because of what had happened at Rohan’s house. Perhaps because I had been terrified on the walk home on my own, twilight tinting the sky the dusky pink of the inside of an unripe guava, memories of the night before making my breasts throb in remembered agony. Each whispering footstep beside me, behind me, had been a predator, every man a monster. I hadn’t realised the previous night’s scrape had affected me so. Why didn’t I accept Rohan’s offer to walk me home? Stupid, stupid pride.
You do not say anything. You are whimpering quietly, sounding a lot like Bobby does when he is told off for stealing Sumitranna’s dog’s food. I suspect it is not the cut as much as the hurt I am inflicting. Familiar guilt makes an appearance at my shoulder, whispering taunts couched as sweet caresses: Look what you are doing to your ma. Look at the pain you are inflicting. The rebellious part of me is having none of it: Why should Ma be upset? A good marriage for me is what she’s always wanted. You are fond of declaring that, until I am married, you will worry about me. After, you will entrust that responsibility to my husband. ‘I am not some pet, in need of looking after, whose responsibility needs to be foisted from person to person,’ I have yelled many times, this speech of yours always making me wild. ‘I am more than capable of looking after myself.’
‘I am going to become Catholic,’ I say while briskly tying the knot holding your bandage in place. ‘He is going to study in England. He is taking me with him.’
You close your eyes, rock on your feet, whether from the blood still gushing out of your wound and staining the pink nightie the bright red of kumkum or from my words I cannot tell. ‘So far away?’ you say, your voice soft, your face ashen, defeated. ‘What will I do without you, eh, Devi? How will I live?’ Emotional blackmail, you are a deft hand at that, Ma. Irritation instantly bubbles up inside me. Steady on, Devi, I tell myself. You are going to marry Rohan, go away. You can afford to rein in your temper, be kind for a few weeks.
A week later, I sit bedecked in all my jewellery, perspiring heavily, battling the urge to itch my nose right where the nose-ring pierces it, weighing it down —you insisted I wear it and I gave in, deciding that some battles were just not worth the effort.
Believe it or not, I have been feeling sorry for you since my announcement. You are so deflated, not your usual self at all. The thought of me going away seems to have sucked all the puff out of you. And what is worse, you’ve lost the madwoman. She died, but not before telling you to go ahead with my marriage. Thank you, madwoman; you’ve done us all a favour. ‘I would have married Rohan anyway, Ma, madwoman’s blessing or not,’ I said gently when you told me and you exploded in a paroxysm of tears. ‘What will I do without her? And she’s a wise woman, she’s not mad. Was. Aiyyo.’ You started hitting your forehead with your palm in lament. ‘How can I live, not knowing the future?’ ‘Like you have lived up until now,’ I replied. ‘Why does everyone have to abandon me? First you say you are leaving and then she goes, just like that,’ you sobbed, sounding bewildered, ‘Why, Lord Ganapathy? Why?’ There was no point in continuing the conversation. I left you to it, Bobby licking your tears, Jalajakka comforting you much better than I could.
My hands clink loudly every time I move my palm to shoo away the mosquitoes, the gold bangles twinkling in the syrupy sunlight that pours in through the window bars. The room smells of the sweetmeats you have spent the afternoon preparing despite my protests to just serve them lime sherbet and shop-bought chakulis and laddoos. You’ve prepared vadai and chutney, upma and seera, kheer and masala dosa. In a two-room house comprising of living room and kitchen with the bathroom and toilet outside, linked by the veranda, there is not much space for smells to circulate. Nowhere really for them to go.
You are in the courtyard with Sumitranna, Jalajakka, and their son, anxiously awaiting Rohan and his parents. I am aware of sweat staining my sari blouse and beading above my upper lip. I close my eyes and imagine I’m in my light cotton salwar kameez dancing among the fields, the ears of paddy kissing my feet.
‘Is it really necessary for your parents to meet my mother, for all this formality?’ I had enquired of Rohan. ‘Isn’t it all decided already?’
‘My parents want to talk to your ma about a special dispensation we need to obtain from the bishop on account of you being non-Catholic, so you and I can get married in the church,’ Rohan had smiled. The plans for my grand conversion to Catholicism were on hold due to the lack of time available for me to master all the prayers requisite for my baptism and for this I was grateful. ‘Let’s humour them, Devi. After all, we are escaping them soon; why not give in to a few of their requests, keep them happy?’ Rohan had pleaded.
He is so sensible, so unlike me. I have taken his advice to heart, tried being patient with you. But, oh, it is hard, Ma, especially when you begin your, ‘I will be all alone, discarded like a used cloth’ spiel. What am I supposed to do? Take you with me? Stay with you forever, each of us getting on the other’s nerves?
Outside, Bobby barks sharply, a series of staccato barks signalling intruders. Sumitranna’s voice, excited, a pitch higher than his normal gruff tone. ‘Shush, Bobby. Shush.’ Rustle of saris. Your ingratiating laugh. The face of the Sumitranna’s son appears in my window, framed by bars. ‘They’re here.’
I do not want to see that woman, Rohan’s mother, again. I do not want to be in the vicinity of her thinly veiled contempt, the anger coming off her in waves levelled at me—the wanton vixen who has stolen her oh so innocent son. I have enough trauma coping with one wronged woman —you, Ma—I do not need another in my life.
‘She is fine, really,’ Rohan has assured me, ‘She doesn’t hate you. It’s just that she is a bit possessive as I am her only son.’ A bit possessive? I think but say nothing. How can this charming, intelligent man be so deluded when it comes to his mother? ‘And anyway, my parents are funding us, Devi, they are paying for our travel, the initial rent and expenses we will incur until the stipend kicks in, out of their savings.’ His eyes plead with me to understand. I know he desperately wants the two women in his life to get along and this is his way of asking me not to judge his mother too harshly. But that is the worst of it—the undeniable fact that I am beholden to his parents. I have rebelled against feeling beholden to you all my life, Ma, against your daily spiel: ‘Devi, I gave up so much for you. I work so hard to ensure you are well fed,’ uttered in that mournful, whiny voice that is your speciality, your lips dragging downward in a pitiful frown. ‘We’ll only be living with them for two weeks, just until I get the documents sorted and then we’re off,’ Rohan has added, squeezing my hand.
Two weeks. My heart sinks. Two weeks in that claustrophobic house, being peered at on all sides, fumes of alcohol drifting in, drenched in dust. Two weeks with all those people who took part in the scene that day whispering whenever I pass by. ‘Only two weeks,’ Rohan has nudged, ‘and then…we can have our honeymoon in England, far away from everyone.’ Asking me with his imploring eyes to acquiesce, to maintain the fragile peace he has tried so hard to instigate.
Fourteen days. I will take them one at a time. I will not antagonise his parents, I will not talk back. I will ignore them. When anger threatens, when a retort blooms on my lips, I will think of escape, that soon I will be away from all this. My in-laws’ disapproval. You.
And now, here you are, holding my hand, pulling me forward.
I walk into the courtyard beside you, the air fragranced with jasmine and cashew. I look up, see Rohan, dashing in a navy suit and yellow striped tie, his eyes widening in delight at the sight of me, bedecked and bejewelled. Don’t, Rohan, I mouth, knowing he’ll tease me mercilessly later. He knows how much I hate this display; I have moaned countless times to him, to you: ‘Why do I have to wear this sari and blouse and underskirt in this heat? Why can’t I wear shorts?’ ‘Because men will leer, they will get f
eelings they are not supposed to,’ you have yelled. ‘That’s their problem,’ I have countered. ‘Why am I being punished for it?’ ‘Lord Ganapathy, why did you give me this trial to carry?’ you have groaned, smacking your forehead. What sort of an answer is that?
As I watch, Rohan winks very slightly and I swallow down the laughter bubbling in my throat. I picture myself in England, wearing nothing but a vest and shorts, not even a bra, no itchy bra straps, no sweat pooling under the cups, no underwire digging into my flesh. I imagine the freedom of it and that allows me to look at his parents—at his father, sweaty and uncomfortable in shirt and tie, and his mother, stern, resigned, folds of tamarind-hued flesh bursting out of her red-gold sari —and smile sweetly, brilliantly at them, shocking his mother into returning a smile of her own, a reluctant lifting of her heavy lips for a minuscule moment.
You go forward, hands folded. In apology? In prayer? Why do you have to do that, Ma? We are not inferior to them in any way.
‘My Devi,’ you say, voice unsteady. ‘My precious, only child. She will be an asset to your family—she has a voice to rival a mynah bird. She is very good with her hands; she has won every prize for craft at school. And just look at her, she has a naturally fair complexion. Doesn’t get tanned in the sun. Has never applied Fair and Lovely or any sort of makeup in her life.’ You are desperately listing all the points in my favour, while both Rohan and I cringe. Please stop, Ma. I am not a commodity they are looking to buy. ‘Look at her hips. Perfect for childbearing. She will not put on weight after marriage or childbirth. Runs in the family. I lost weight barely weeks after Devi was born.’
The Forgotten Daughter Page 11
