The Forgotten Daughter

by Renita D'Silva

  I gave her your diary and my letters. She can speak, read and write Kannada, Ma; her adoptive parents made sure she learned it.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks as she read your words, Ma, and I reached out, caught one, and it shimmered iridescent on my fingers. My sister’s tears, like precious jewels. And I thought: Three women. A mother, two daughters. Finding succour in words. You with your diary, Ma. Me with my letters to you, and my sister with her lists. Words that brought us all together in the end.

  Ma, the irony of it! She went to parents who provided her with the best of everything but who could not show their love even though they loved her. And I grew up here, in this little house, with none of the material things, the expensive education that Nisha took for granted. But, I was loved too much… Two girls, created by a single egg splitting in two, sharing a womb for nine months. Two very different upbringings, two very different lives…

  If you had made a different decision that day, kept her, given me away, where would we be now?

  Afterwards, she whispered, softly, her face glistening, ‘I was wanted. I was loved.’

  I cupped her face in my palms. ‘Nini,’ I said. ‘You are loved.’

  And then I asked the question that had been hovering on my lips as she read the diary: ‘Do you resent the fact that she kept me, and gave you away?’

  A shadow flitted across her face and I resisted the urge to reach across, wipe it away. ‘I understand why she did it,’ she said softly, her eyes brimming, overflowing.

  I took her hand and placed it on my stomach. My baby tumbled happily in my womb, and in my sister’s eyes, widening with awe, I saw the reflection of what I felt.

  ‘She likes you,’ I said as my baby jiggled and wobbled, as she kicked and jumped.

  And, ‘Yes,’ she said, smiling with wonder, with delight. ‘Yes, I think she does.’

  ‘She’s a girl, I just know it,’ I said.

  ‘I have a family,’ she said softly. ‘A sister, a mother, a niece.’

  And then, my sister laughed, she threw back her head and laughed. And then we were both laughing and the dogs were barking and the crickets were singing and it was the sound of happiness, the sound of family, the sound of coming home after years of being lost. We laughed together—a wet splatter of a sound—and I couldn’t make out if the laughter I was hearing was hers or mine, just that our joyous voices met somewhere in the middle and mingled and that they were one and the same sound.

  Ma, I regret the lost years but we have the future together. We have the future.

  Ma, this is it, the last page in the last of my letters. We have been through such a journey together, you and I. And, Ma, finally, this is what I want to say: you are the bravest woman I know. What you did, having to choose between your daughters, give one away to save both, allow her to go far away so she could have a better life—I couldn’t do that. I was angry with you, but now, having met Nisha, my Nini, I think you made the right decision. I have lived in Sompur and I know how narrow-minded, how closed the people can be. My sister, she is so accomplished, so clever, so quietly confident, so beautiful. Her life would have been very different here. I salute you, Ma.

  I love you.

  Devi.

  Chapter 27

  Shilpa

  Whirlwind

  Dear Diary,

  I have lost interest in cooking. I am not concocting recipes anymore. No new recipes to add and I can’t seem to remember the old ones. I… I am not able to summon the energy to move from here, my bed. It is dark I think. When I get up, I will write in you. Until then, I will just talk to you if that’s okay. I know you won’t mind, old friend.

  I have this dream. In it, Devi is beside me, sharing the lumpy mattress, just the same as always. The smell of the evening’s curry lingers, mixed in with the phenyl used to mop the floor before laying the mat ready for bed, and the residual charred smoky scent from the fire used to heat the urn in the cramped bathroom. Devi is talking, her mouth working busily as she recounts news of her day, long chats punctuated with laughter. My daughter smells of the sandalwood talcum powder she smothers herself in before bed, her shiny oiled hair is fanned out on the pillow, long strands staining the yellow pillow the dark black of the hour right before dawn. ‘I can’t sleep, Ma,’ Devi complains. ‘It’s too hot.’ The front door is open, Bobby sprawled across the stoop. Every so often, a reluctant breeze whispers in, dispensing secrets, reeking of intrigue. ‘Listen to this joke, Ma,’ Devi says, and I watch my daughter’s beautiful face with awe, seeing in it, as I always do, the presence of my other daughter, who is loved and looked after by someone else, who calls someone else ‘Ma’. I marvel, as I always do, at how Manoj and I have managed to create such beautiful girls, twin miracles. I breathe in those liquid eyes the colour and texture of coconut oil warm from the hearth, fish-shaped and lilting upward at the corners, voluptuous lips the shape and hue of sprouting buds, the expressions flitting Devi’s face like shadows on the forest floor, as she hoards punch lines like long-anticipated, hard-earned treats. ‘Ma, you were snoring. You stopped for a bit then started up again, sputtering like Mr Rano’s scooter. Am I that boring?’ Devi is giggling. Her giggle like a waterfall, twinkling silvery bright among the bright green hills, falling from a height. Devi giggling…

  I am hot, so hot. ‘Devi,’ I call. ‘Hey, Devi, are you there? Listen to me. Remember how you loved it when I lifted you up and twirled you around in circles? “Higher, Ma, higher,” you would say. “I am a butterfly, a ballerina,” you would say, and throw your head back and laugh. “The sky is spinning, there’s a whirlwind,” you would say. And I would hold you close and kiss your sweet cheek and whisper, “The whirlwind is you.”’

  It is cold suddenly; do you feel cold, dear Diary? Of course you don’t. I think of you as a person, as the wise woman, my friend, my nemesis. In my head, I seem to have interchanged you both; I don’t know if I am speaking to the one or the other. I can’t seem to get warm, despite pulling the old sari I use as a blanket tight around me. Why is it so cold?

  I am so thirsty, my throat parched. I am too tired to reach for the tumbler I know is beside my bed, next to the book. Next to you, dear Diary. Where are you? I scramble about, blindly, too weary to open my eyes. You must be near. I picture your rough edges, your worn binding, your dog-eared pages bearing witness to my story. I root around my too-dry mouth for saliva, swallow. I want to talk to Devi again. ‘I love the way you look at things, Devi, did I ever tell you that? You make the world new for me again. I have missed you so. Come back, Devi. We have so much to do yet.’

  Why am I asking Devi to come back? Has Devi left? Do you know, dear Diary? Isn’t she beside me on the mattress? ‘Devi? Where are you? Where have you gone?’ I am so tired. I want to sleep, but my eyes feel too heavy, my body too warm and then too cold.

  Jalaja, oh Jalaja. Where is Jalaja when I want her? Has she gone to the market? She is taking a long time getting back, chatting as usual I think. She will know where Devi is, why she is not there beside me. I am so tired. My eyelids are weighted down, figures dancing across them. Ghosts from my past pay visits, tell stories. You are one of them, aren’t you? What do you see in my future, my friend? Once upon a time I trusted you; I called you wise woman when everyone else termed you mad. You were my beacon, my guiding lamp. I did everything you said. Then how have I arrived at this point, where all I see is darkness? Is the light coming? If so, when, my friend, tell me. Please tell me. What do you see now?

  I can hear a dog howling somewhere, mournfully. Why are you so sad, dog? Why do you sound like a funeral dirge? At Manoj’s cremation, I did not shed a tear. Everyone pointed, said I was cold. ‘I have forfeited that right,’ I wanted to shout. ‘He doesn’t deserve my tears. I am not worthy.’ And so I stood, dry-eyed, even though my eyes were stinging and my babies danced within me, though I didn’t know then that there were two.

  A crow calls, the sound like a sob breaking.

  I was blessed with two daughters, tw
ins. Now both are gone from me.

  I was blessed with a husband who loved me. And I killed him. I did.

  I am boiling. So hot. So hot. I want… I want. Manoj. Manoj? Where are you?

  My throat is parched. Too dry. Why? Is there a drought again? Has the well dried up? I do not have the energy to get water from Sumitranna’s well. Perhaps Devi will. Devi? Where is she?

  * * *

  Dear Diary,

  Am I speaking to you? Or to you, Oh, Wise Woman? Manoj, could I dare to hope it is you?

  There is a girl. Devi? She sponges me, cool fingers ministering when my head feels too hot. She is real, this girl. Unlike you, whoever you are. The ghost of a feeling. A shadow from my past.

  When she is here, I am able to sleep. This girl makes me feel calm, restful, looked after. I do not worry now she is here. Not about the past, the decisions I had to make. She has a soothing aura about her, this girl. Is she an angel?

  It is dark but not silent. The hum of machines. The soft murmur of voices. Where am I? It takes such effort to open my eyes; I much prefer to be with you, populate this shadowy world of dreams. The beep beep sound of a monitor. Machines crooning. A tube leading from my body to a gurgling pipette. The girl. Slender. Fair. Vulnerable. Her tall body folded into a chair beside my bed. Fast asleep. Her head dropping sideways, curtain of hair obscuring her face, casting it in dappled shadow. I want to reach out and hold her, let her rest her head on my shoulder, but I cannot move. I am strapped in place. What is it about this girl that arouses the protective instinct in me? Tugs at my heart strings. Makes me want to wrap my arms around her and hold her there forever. Something in the curve of her face, something familiar. Who is she?

  Soft words muttering endearments, gentle fingers, smelling of something floral, on my face, wiping away my tears. ‘I do not deserve this,’ I say. ‘I am a horrible woman, a cursed woman, I do not deserve kindness.’ I open my eyes, look at that face. The curve of her chin. Those eyes, the colour and texture of warm sunflower oil. The complexion like burnished sandalwood. Hair the colour of ripe tamarind, cascading down her back in glossy waves. The face I have watched take shape, grow into its contours. The face whose every expression I can predict, I know by heart. So familiar, so desperately loved. She’s here. My daughter is here. The only thing marring her perfection is the ridge of bumpy skin above her upper lip. I reach to touch it.

  ‘What’s happened there, Devi? When did it happen?’ My heart sings with joy. She’s here.

  ‘I’m not Devi,’ the girl says.

  I must not have heard right above the hum of the machines. ‘When did you come, Devi?’ Every word is a trial. Every blink drags me back into that restful state, blessedly free of pain.

  ‘I’m not Devi,’ the voice soft, her eyes gentle. ‘I’m Nisha.’ The lips curved up in a soft, hesitant smile.

  Nisha? ‘Am I dreaming?’ I don’t realise I have spoken aloud until my daughter, my daughter, the one I chose to lose, smiles at me. That smile, the miracle of which I had never expected to see. The mouth, whole again. Even pearly white teeth.

  ‘My girl.’ I am touching her, unable to believe it. She is perfect. She is here. She has found me. ‘I prayed and prayed for you. And here you are. A miracle. An angel. My girl.’

  Chapter 28

  Nisha

  Home

  The woman is tiny, barely taking up any room on the bed, lost under a shell of machines, tubes poking out from various parts of her. Threadbare blue sari bunched up around a slip of a body, wispy hair, flesh the colour of coconuts. She is looking at Nisha like she cannot believe her eyes. Nisha watches as the wonder in her eyes overflows, spills down her cheeks, pools under her chin. Her mother lifts one hand to cup her face and with a finger, traces her features—her eyes, her hair, her cheek, the ridged skin above her upper lip. She whispers something, her lips barely moving, her eyelids fluttering. She whispers again, the dust motes beside her mouth fluttering like trapped moths, and Nisha bends down to catch what she is saying.

  ‘I am sorry,’ the woman whispers, every word uttered with great effort. ‘So sorry. I…’ Her mother’s gaze settles on her upper lip, the ridged skin marking it. ‘It was the hardest thing I had to do in my life.’

  Nisha bends down beside her mother, brushes her hair away from her eyes. ‘I know,’ she says softly, holding her mother’s gaze.

  ‘Nisha.’ Her name a hymn of longing on her mother’s lips.

  She cups the scorching face, mapped with busy lines, ‘I am here now,’ she says.

  And holding her mother in her arms, in that hospital room smelling of phenyl and very faintly of urine, mosquitoes buzzing and feasting on flesh, the ceiling fan droning, the breeze wafting in from the open windows, smelling of overripe fruit, Nisha realises she feels whole, like she belongs, that rootless feeling gone. She was loved. She was wanted, so very much. She was longed for and missed. She bends down, pushes her mother’s grey hair gently from her eyes and places a soft kiss on her papery cheek and it feels right. She has come home.

  Chapter 29

  Shilpa

  Kaleidoscope

  Dearest Manoj,

  It is you. Here beside me. Keeping me company. I don’t deserve you, Manoj. I wasn’t there for you when you needed me the most, and yet, here you are. Beside me.

  Nisha. Our daughter. I had to give her away, Manoj. But you know that. You know everything. And despite that, you are here with me. I am lucky. I am blessed.

  Isn’t she beautiful? Aren’t they both? Didn’t she turn out well? I did the right thing by her. Though it hurt. It did. It hurt like hell.

  I can feel your presence, Manoj. I know you are there. Why can’t I see you? Talk to me, Manoj. Please. Talk to me. Do. I’ll listen. I’ll do anything you ask. This time round I will not let you down. I am so pleased, so honoured you are here. I am.

  I want to see her. I cannot get enough of seeing her. Nisha. Our daughter. Her perfect face. So like Devi’s. I want to stay here with you, Manoj. But I want to see her too. Just once more. I want to breathe her in. Lethargy weights down my eyelids, dragging them closed. I won’t let them. I won’t. Here we go.

  Oh. I am alone. The room silent except for the regular beep and hum of the machines keeping tab on me. The bitter tang of medicine, of illness and fear. Has my newfound daughter—Nisha—left already?

  The wise woman had not predicted this, any of this. Had she known? Seen it in the future and kept mum? But surely, if she had, she would have told me, not directly perhaps but via prophesy. Perhaps I set too much store by Destiny, like our Devi said countless times. Perhaps I believed too much and shaped my life to concur with the prophesy. Perhaps I would have had Devi and Nisha anyway, wise woman or not, praying at that temple in Manil or not. And perhaps our girls would have been fine if I had stayed with you, Manoj, that terrible evening instead of abandoning you like I did. And perhaps they would have recovered that fateful day even if I hadn’t given Nisha away to the convent like the wise woman dictated. But how could I have taken the chance, prophesy or not?

  Regrets—they keep me company; hound me here in this strange state I find myself in. So many mistakes. Committed in the name of Destiny, blaming the inevitability of Fate.

  Where are our daughters?

  I am tired, Manoj, tired to the bone. Everything hurts, despite the medicines, despite the joy of seeing Nisha, meeting with her. And Devi. My feisty girl. How I’ve missed her. Devi’s back from England. And she’s pregnant, Manoj. She is. We are going to be grandparents! Is it possible to be too happy, Manoj? Is there such a thing?

  Nisha came looking for me, for her sister. She has turned into a fine girl, the scar above her upper lip adding somehow to the air of vulnerability, of fragile beauty. And she has a man who loves her, she tells me. A man she’s going to marry. Her face lights up when she speaks of him. The dreams I had for her when I gave her away—they’ve realised, Manoj. They have. All that pain, the hurt, was worth it. It was.

  I hope bot
h our children are blessed with many children. I hope neither of them has to live with the loss of losing a husband, the ache of missing a child, have it grow up without them by its side, have it call someone else ‘Ma’.

  Emotionally I am rejoicing, Manoj, but physically I am spent. Weary. I ache. Everywhere. Intensely, immensely. My body is giving up on me. Is that why you are here, Manoj? To help me into the next world? I do not deserve it. I do not deserve you.

  I cannot keep my eyes open any longer.

  Pictures float in front of my closed lids—a kaleidoscope of images. Can you see them? Our daughters being born, first Devi, then a miracle. Another baby. Caramel eyes the exact shade of yours, Manoj. A gash for a mouth. Someone yelling, ‘A monster. You’ve produced a monster.’

  Your eyes, Manoj, full of pain. Your laboured whisper, ‘Stay with me. Please.’

  The wise woman lying under the peepal tree, those constantly moving hands finally at rest. ‘Come back, Devi, my friend, come back to me,’ I had begged, that jasmine-scented, cerise-tinged evening, shaking my friend, unable to let her go, unequipped to face the future alone.

  Jalaja sitting on the veranda beside me, munching on paan, her mouth working busily as she updates me on the latest gossip, her expressive face working overtime.

  Devi, my beautiful, beloved Devi, laughing at something, her whole face lighting up with joy, transforming from beautiful to stunning. Devi scraping dregs of the burnt mixture congealing in the kadai on the rare occasions I made biryani off the pan, her face puckered in concentration. Devi putting her little hand in mine and tugging me along, unable to contain her excitement when we visited the sea for the very first time. Waves undulating gently, the expanse of blue and frothy white. Leading her to the edge of the sea so the waves kissed our bare legs, depositing gentle caresses. The awe on her face. The sheer delight. Looking at her and fantasising she was Nisha, that I was doing this with both my girls. ‘Ma, look.’ The sun a tangerine orb, sliding towards the sea across a rain-splattered sky. Devi bending down and grabbing fistfuls of water, spluttering as the salt assaulted her tongue. The look of utter surprise on her face, replaced by disgust. ‘It tastes horrible, Ma; how can something that looks so inviting taste so horrible?’ I had thrown my head back and laughed.