She sits up, finds a note on the pillow next to her: ‘Off to work. Didn’t want to wake you. Looked like you were having a beautiful dream for a change. Your grin wide as a hyena’s. Was it about me? See you later, Love you, Matt. xxx’
He has not changed towards her. He is still the kind, caring, understanding Matt she’s always known. More than she deserves. That evening, after their fight, they had made love right there in her parents’ house. And she had looked at him as he came inside of her and tried to convey via her gaze everything she felt for him, all those feelings that she couldn’t find words for, that evaporated on her tongue when she tried to force them out of her mouth. And he had smiled and kissed away the tears beading her face. Tears of emotion, of exhilaration after their lovemaking. Tears of love?
She puts his pillow on her face, breathes in his smell. But her nose is infused with rose incense, the pull of the past, lost to her for so long, suddenly too strong for the present to compete with. So many memories, taking the forms of dreams, assaulting her senses and awakening in her yearnings she did not know she had, for a country and a culture she never felt an appeal for, never even knew she belonged to, had experienced first-hand.
Yellow rays of weak spring sun inveigle through gaps in the curtain and dance on crumpled sheets. She squints at the bedside clock. 08:30 a.m. God, she is becoming positively lazy, she who thinks waking after seven is sacrilege, a waste of a day. Used to. She is changing. Gradually, the rigid rituals and laws that governed her life are relaxing. She is learning to let go, learning that every hour spent not working, not doing, is not wasted. It is lived.
It is afternoon in India. She picks up the phone. Dials the number from memory.
The same gentle, caring voice of before, sounding breathless. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi, I called yesterday, about...’
‘Oh it’s you, child. I was in the garden drawing water from the well; sorry you had to wait a while.’ The garden—the straggly overgrown aboli bushes, a favourite haunt of rat snakes curled up and sunning themselves, their dappled skin glinting in the sun as they waited for an unsuspecting frog to amble their way. The well looming near the compound wall, overgrown with moss, the rope used to haul the pail always getting stuck midway, water spilling in silvery billows down the sides…
Images, swirling from the recesses of her mind to the fore, borne on the winds of change, overwhelming her.
A pause while the nun collects her breath, ‘We’ve tried searching for the documents…’
No, please don’t say you don’t know… She hates this waiting around, this lack of information. In this day and age surely everything should be available at the click of a button. But she is realising that it is not the case in India, that while the cities are advanced, the villages are yet to be swayed by the information revolution. She has, true to form, been doing research. After the phone call the previous day, while she waited for Matt to come home, she had tried looking Dhonikatte up on Google Earth but didn’t come up with much: a road, a smattering of red-brick cottages, fields stretching endlessly beyond. She googled, facebooked, twittered Sacred Heart Convent. Zilch. If only she knew the name of her twin. If only…
‘We did give some babies up for adoption but we did not keep any children here. You remember living here, you say?’
‘I remember being woken by the bell for morning prayers…’ The trek to chapel, her eyes scrunched shut, still half asleep, the sky the ethereal grey of night loath to relinquish its hold, the half-hearted twinkle of a couple of lonely stars barely relieving the darkness. The air heavy, weighed down with moisture, smelling of night, brushing her cheek, murmuring shadowy secrets. The whisper of habits in the hushed silence of the chapel, the swish of skirts as the nuns knelt down to pray, the silent moving of their lips. Walking back across the courtyard, stomach rumbling in pleasant anticipation of breakfast—seera? Upma? Puri bhaji?—under a sky glowing pink at the advent of dawn, the world awakening, noises reaching the quiet nuns from the world outside: the milkman whistling as he cycled past, the clank of the milk jugs jostling, morning joggers panting as they paused outside the compound walls to gather breath, the distinctive clip-clop march of Colonel D’Souza who sometimes came to church, regaled her with stories of the war, and lifted his flapping trouser leg to show her his stump, Nisha watching in fascinated horror, her uneven mouth forming a lopsided O…
How can I remember Colonel D’Souza and not my sister? Why is she not here in these memories?
‘I remember sitting in the cramped hall with the nuns and having breakfast.’ Dosas with chutney: she would painstakingly remove all the chillies and the mustard seeds flecking her green chutney brown, arrange them neatly on the sides of her plate. ‘They are not for plate decorative purposes you know,’ Sister Priya would laugh. Upma—she would remove the peas. Sister Priya would say, ‘Eat them, child, they are the best bits.’ And, ‘God gave you the peas as well as the upma,’ smiling.
‘I tried asking Sister Priya. But she is old and ailing, child. Huge gaps in her memory. I will try and catch her in one of her lucid moments. They are few and far between now…’ The nun’s voice echoing down the phone, encored by static. Hiss. Crackle. Sputter.
After breakfast, going to the church, cleaning the statues of the Holy Family and all the saints until they sparkled, dusting the pews, helping Sister Priya with the all-important task of filling the chalice with Eucharist bread: ‘Not blessed yet, mind.’ Afterwards, dunking Marie biscuits in tea in the warm rectory kitchen suffused with the spicy aroma of fish curry bubbling on the stove, slurping down the tea and swallowing gloopy lumps of disintegrated biscuit that had collected at the bottom.
‘I… we seem to have no record. The logs go back more than twenty years. Most of the papers from that time, if any, are woodlice-ridden and falling apart, difficult to read…’
The priest’s room, always dark, always solemn, smelling of books and secrets, a forbidden, grave smell. His kind eyes, perusing her over the top of his spectacles. ‘Now, child, have you been good?’ ‘Very good, father.’ ‘Then here’s a little present for you.’ Holding out something that glinted invitingly, his eyes twinkling. A pendant of Baby Jesus. ‘Thank you, Father.’ ‘God bless you, child.’ Spectacles on, giving him an owlish look, back to his books, the scratch of pen on paper.
Outside, blinking her eyes in the resplendent sunshine after the gloom of Father’s room, the jackfruit-scented breeze instructing the coconut tree fronds to bow down to her and wave hello. Watching the peon water the coconut trees, the water gushing out of the pump tube gurgling joyously, a silvery-blue waterfall. The dry red mud inhabiting the little moat dug around each tree trunk becoming sloshy orange as it guzzled water. Carefully pocketing the pendant and begging the peon, ‘Please can I water one?’ and feeling pure joy blossom inside her as beautiful as the tiger lilies dancing in profusion from the beds in front of the grotto housing the Mother Mary of Assumption, when he handed her the pump with a monosyllabic grunt. Watering the base of the tree until the moat overflowed and bubbly orange water kissed her bare feet, cool and reassuring. The smell of wet earth and ripe mango. The feeling of contentment, of being loved by the Lord, like Father had said, for being a Good Girl.
Watching the peon chat to the coconut picker, while she watered the trees, every once in a while being told to concentrate and not douse the whole orchard in a flood of water; did she want the well to dry up, what with another drought looming; didn’t she know there hadn’t been so much as a rumour of the monsoon? The sun beating down on her head, plastering her hair to her scalp. Beads of perspiration trickling down her face. Spraying her legs with water when the peon was not looking—deliciously cool. Thinking that perhaps Heaven was like this. The cloying scent of rotting cashews. The coconut picker blowing a puff of smoke up into the cloudless sky, twisting a coconut to pluck it off the bunch on the tree, his dangling twig legs painting a wobbly number eleven the colour of dry tamarind against a leafy green backdrop, snatc
hes of blue sky silhouetted among the fronds. The coconut picker shaking the coconut and putting it to his ear to hear what it sounded like inside. Saying to the peon, ‘Hmm... Your crop is very good this year.’ Watching fascinated as the coconut picker lit his beedi with a match, while dangling nimbly monkey-like at the very top of the coconut tree. ‘Ugly girl, what are you gaping at?’ ‘I am not ugly; I am good, Father said so.’ The coconut picker laughing as if she had cracked the world’s funniest joke, his crooked yellow teeth shining bright against his sooty face. ‘Well, you’ve got a hole for a mouth, that’s for sure.’
Sister Priya calling for her, and she dropping the pump, leaving the coconut picker perched at the top of the tree, knees drawn and tongue hanging out as he tried to wrench a particularly stubborn coconut free, his face warped in concentration. Sweat glistening on his bare black torso, making it gleam like the burnished coffee-wood sculptures in Father’s office. Wondering how earth he managed to keep his footing as he used both hands to pull at the coconut.
Sister Priya laughing as she scooped her up, ‘Look at you, all wet, what have you been doing?’ Showing her the pendant, ‘Look what Father gave me.’ And, ‘Am I ugly? Do I have a hole for a mouth?’ Sister Priya putting her down gently, kneeling beside her, ‘Who told you that?’ Fiddling with the pendant, not looking at Sister Priya, feeling the hot flush of shame spread through her like a gradually creeping rash: ‘The coconut picker.’ ‘Wait here, sweetie, I’ll be right back.’
Not obeying, breaking one of the Ten Commandments and trailing behind Sister Priya. Hearing her beloved Sister Priya raise her voice for the first time in her life, wagging a finger at the coconut picker who is staring open-mouthed, ‘Don’t you dare call her ugly! That is what you are, for calling a child that. Don’t you know that Jesus said, “Unless you turn from your sins and become like little children, you will never enter the Kingdom of Heaven?” What a pity that you cannot see the beauty in little children.’ Sister Priya turning and striding towards her, her body shaking, her face like the sky before a thunderstorm, the peon and the coconut picker’s brown faces suffused with red.
‘Child,’ the dulcet tones say now, ‘I will try and find out for you. It might take a week. Where do you live, did you say?’
She touches the ridge of bumpy sewed-on skin above her upper lip. ‘I… I live in England.’
‘So far.’ A pause, then, ‘Has life been good to you, child?’
Her graduation: Clutching her diploma and picking out her parents in the crowd below. Their faces lit up, beaming. Their eyes shining. Afterwards, in the crush of the pub, filled to bursting with celebrating parents and graduating children, her mother leaning close, the pungent tang of the red wine she favoured on her breath, ‘We are so proud of you.’ Her eyes shimmering.
Her father in hospital when he had his hernia op, squeezing her hand, ‘I am glad you came.’ Big coming from her reserved, taciturn dad who shied away from the simplest of emotions.
Their delight in her, how happy they had been when she told them about her job. How their eyes sparkled with appreciation when they met Matt for the first time and later, as she helped to load the dishwasher, the low voices of the men echoing from the other room, her mother, bashful, touching her wrist shyly: ‘He’s very nice.’
‘With the exception of the last few days, life has been good to me.’ And she realises as she says this that it is true.
And then, before she has a chance to take it back, ‘I will come there, meet you and Sister Priya. Perhaps seeing me, she will remember something.’
‘Perhaps. I will pray for you, child, and we will expect you here soon. God bless you.’
‘Wait…’
But she is gone. The ring tone is loud in her ear. That woman, framed by the gates, bushy hair. It was a woman wasn’t it? That had been the impression she got from the dream. The achingly familiar woman—like the wisp of a memory just out of reach—rousing something in Nisha. Who was she? Might they know? She meant to ask, but now she thinks, how would this nun know?
A letter slit open, a sheaf of pale mauve paper, deceptively harmless, lurking among legal documents. And her whole life overturns. An entire book of memories manifests itself: Boo. Memories that have been loitering all these years in the recesses of her mind.
She discovers a sister—her twin, someone with whom she shared nine months in the womb of a woman who is a stranger.
What else has she forgotten? What else has she lost? Who are her parents? Are they alive? Where are they? Why did they give her away?
How many more surprises to come?
And now, she will travel to a country she has never really given much thought to, a culture she has turned her back on, and adopt a way of life she did not know she knew intimately until recently.
Adopt. What an apt word.
Chapter 17
Devi
Butterfly Wings
Ma,
Today, I felt the first tiny flutter, like butterfly wings brushing against the lining of my stomach. I was awed. I was overcome by the miracle growing inside of me. I called Rohan, but I couldn’t quite describe the feeling, though I revelled in the joy, the excitement in his voice. ‘I wish I was there with you, Devi,’ he said, his voice wistful.
Ma, Rohan wants to be here, with me, with you. But he is in the middle of his dissertation and he cannot leave. He calls every day, asks after you.
Ma, I wish you would wake now, put your hands on my stomach, your eyes lighting up, beaming that rare, jubilant smile that transforms you, makes you look years younger. I want you to share this joy with me, Ma…
The day after my marriage, I wake to a wide expanse of cream, silvery rays of sun, streaked ghoulish white like a phantom’s fingers, snaking in through the blinds, wrapping themselves sensuously around the wardrobe, casting the room in a mellow buttery glow. No cramped mattress, no Bobby howling outside, scratching the kitchen door, wanting to be let in, no trickle of rain down the pipes by the side of the house, no cawing of crows, no air snaking in smelling of dew and morning rain and bitter mango leaf and buds in bloom and drenched earth. Instead, the smell of roses and musk and Rohan’s arm slung across my naked breasts. I look at his face, the long eyelashes, curling on cheeks pinpricked with sprouting stubble. I marvel at the tiny snores escaping from between partly open lips. He opens his eyes, looks up at me and I am suddenly very aware of myself, of my naked body, his hand on my breasts, his head on my shoulder, the unfamiliar and yet not unpleasant ache between my thighs. ‘Good morning, gorgeous,’ he says, smiling. ‘Am I dreaming or what?’ I smack him lightly even as I feel the blood rush into my cheeks. He laughs, and then, suddenly serious, whispers, ‘I have always wanted to wake up next to you, like this, ever since I met you.’
Afterwards, we talk, about everything and nothing. I open up to him, unsparing, telling him about the constant struggle I have with myself regarding you. ‘She believes in destiny—thinks she wrested me off the arms of fate—her words not mine—and that she has to keep me close at all times, watch over me like a hawk. I just… I love her, and yet, I cannot stand her. I am not the pliant daughter she wants me to be—why can’t she accept that? I feel I am permanently disappointing her by not being the daughter she wanted.’ I taste salt and realise I am crying. Rohan gently kisses away my tears, one by one, his eyes tender, his touch soft as cotton candy. ‘When I was younger, I so wished for a sibling, prayed for one, so the pressure would be off me. This was before I realised that you needed two people to make a child, that a father was vital.’ I smile ruefully and Rohan smiles along with me.
Then, ‘You miss your father?’
‘I think if he’d been around, my mother would have been different, more relaxed, not so fixated about protecting me, doing the best by me. As it is just she and I, I am all the more precious.’
‘You are that,’ Rohan says and takes me in his arms, and after that all thought flies.
That afternoon I change into a T-Shirt and jeans, instead
of the sari I know I am expected to wear. I do not don a single piece of jewellery, the hallmark of a married woman, except my wedding ring, thinking I might as well start as I mean to go along. Ma, remember when I insisted on going on my own to shop for my wedding trousseau? When I returned from my shopping spree, I did not show you my purchases, saying I had packed them already. I know you were suspicious but for once you didn’t push, you let me be. I got jeans and trousers, Ma, not the saris and churidars you wanted me to buy. I wasn’t planning on wearing saris or churidars in England, so what was the point of wasting good money on them?
I walk out of the bathroom after I’ve changed, wondering if Rohan will say anything, ready to take on the first challenge of our marriage. If he does comment, we will have our first fight sooner than I expected, but that is fine. It will be done and dusted, out of the way.
Rohan laughs, bends close for a kiss. ‘What? I look funny?’ I ask, pulling away so he kisses the air instead, an edge to my voice. He pulls me into an embrace, ‘My feisty firecracker,’ he says when I am snug in the haven of his arms. ‘Trust you to spoil for a fight and our marriage not even a day old. You know my parents will complain. Try and be nice to them; they are old and we are leaving soon.’ How can I be angry when he is so good-natured? When what he says makes sense? When he accepts me for who I am, loves me for it, a welcome change from you, Ma, like the contrast between lace and a burka, between chilli powder and doodh peda.
We check out of the hotel and take an auto rickshaw to his house. As the auto trundles off the tarred main road onto the dusty path which leads to the hillock housing Rohan’s abode I feel my high—emphasised by the freedom of wearing jeans, no salwar kameez shawl to keep pushing up my shoulders and down over my breasts, no itchy jewellery jangling every time I move —come crashing down. Rohan senses it in the involuntary tensing of my body. He takes my hand in both of his, regardless of the rickshaw driver’s eyes focused on us in the rear mirror widening so much that he looks like a bulbous frog about to pounce on an unsuspecting fly, despite him nearly driving into the bramble and dung-populated ditch by the side of the road where an unwary cow grazes, tail twitching to deter flies. The auto judders to a halt and Rohan pays, the driver accepting his fare with a knowing wink and grin, the drone of the rickshaw slowly fading into the drowsy afternoon.
The Forgotten Daughter Page 17
