The Lost Daughter of India

by Sharon Maas

  This is your new home, she said. Isn’t it lovely? And she laughed.

  She pointed to the covered pot. That is your toilet. Someone will bring meals. Now while you sit here pondering your life you can consider whether you prefer to go to Mr Chaudhuri and be nice to him, speak English and just be kind and loving and feminine the way he wants. Think about it. You have seven days. But of course if you want to return to him tomorrow, because you cannot stand this place, you are welcome. Just tell one of your keepers, and I will come and get you. Mr Chaudhuri will be so pleased.

  And she left me there in that room and it was just as she had said with the rats and the cockroaches. But I did not say I wanted to go to Mr Chaudhuri. How could I ever be nice to a man like that?

  Chapter 41

  Caroline

  Despondency clung to her like a shroud as she picked up the receiver and punched in the US number.

  ‘Hi, Wayne.’

  ‘Sweetheart! At last! How are you? Where are you? What’s going on? Is she OK?’

  ‘Sorry to call you at the office. The time difference makes things difficult – that’s why I didn’t call sooner.’

  ‘Honey – you can call me any time. Middle of the night, any time. So tell me? Have you found her? How is she? When are you coming home?’

  ‘Oh Wayne – she’s – she’s… No, I haven’t found her. Wayne, I’ve lost her. She’s lost. I’m in Bombay, trying to find her, but, but… Oh Wayne!’ And she burst into tears.

  ‘She’s been abducted! Stolen! She’s here in Bombay and they want to sell her as a child prostitute! Oh Wayne! What am I going to do!’

  ‘Damn! Honey! Look, we need to talk. You need to tell me but, damn, this is the wrong time – I’m due in court in half an hour and…’

  ‘It’s all right. I’ll be all right. I’m sorry. I’ll call again and tell you everything. Or write an email. Yes, I’ll do that. It’ll calm me down.’

  ‘Honey – are they demanding a ransom? Listen – you still have your HSBC account in India, right? I’ll put some money on there – a few hundred grand. Whatever they ask, you pay it. I will make arrangements – I have contacts to the US ambassador to India. And Dad knows the CEO of HSBC. We’ll work it out. Send me an email to let me know the details. I’ll arrange everything. We will get her back. Don’t worry. Honey, I have to rush now but I’ll get my secretary to wire over the money. Bye honey.’

  And he was gone. That was Wayne all over. Always too busy. Never time for her. Thinking that money and contacts and pulling strings were all that was needed to get through life. But it wasn’t. If only he would actually come, join her here, help search for Asha… but he never would. Too busy.

  And what would happen when this was over? If – no, when – they found Asha would Wayne accept her? Would he be a father to her? Did she even want Wayne as father to Asha? And what would she and Kamal do? Kamal would also want Asha. She wasn’t about to fight for custody. She was far too tired. She couldn’t handle it, and it certainly wouldn’t be good for Asha, who’d certainly come away from this with a trauma to be healed. But she was a therapist; that was her job. Asha would be fine with her. But what about Kamal? The best thing, Caroline thought, would be for her and Kamal to get back together again. Be a family again, in America.

  Caroline went to the bathroom and splashed her face with cold water. She looked in the mirror. She looked terrible, terrible. But no wonder. After today, after this evening, walking the labyrinthine streets of Kamathipura yet again, this time with Gita, the futile interviews, the fake smiles, the wads of money handed out so that the women would talk, seeing those women, those girls, some so young, so very young, so resigned to their fate, the blank stares, the hardened faces, the dull eyes; knowing that Asha was lined up to join their ranks or maybe, maybe – she forced herself to think it – maybe already was one of them.

  It didn’t bear thinking about. She wished she had someone to talk to. Janiki. Kamal. Where were they anyway? Kamal had checked out of the Raj early that morning, to look for a less fancy place, he said. Where was he? The three of them should be together, comforting and supporting each other. This city – it devoured strangers, and that’s what they all were. Here she was, facing the greatest challenge of her life, and she was all alone. Even Gita had disappeared, gone back home to her husband and children. There was no one to talk to.

  And she needed desperately to talk. To confess her blistering sense of guilt. Because she was guilty. Completely guilty. This was all her fault. She had abandoned Asha when she was still a toddler; rushed back to America and never returned for her daughter. She remembered Kamal’s words: we will return to America. I will get a job there, no problem. We’ll take Asha and be a real family, anywhere you like. If you prefer to go to work, you can do that and I’ll look after her. I know it’s hard, but tough it out for a few months more, Caro. Just a few months more. But she had gone back and moved in with her parents and fallen in love with Wayne and had an affair and abandoned Asha. And this was the direct result of that abandonment. Of course she was guilty. And there was no one to confess to. No one to grant absolution. Maybe Kamal was angry with her still, and that’s why he had disappeared. Maybe Janiki blamed her. Both of them knew what she had done. Both of them must hate her. Because now the little girl they all adored was lost in the worst hellhole on earth.

  Her very clothes stank of Kamathipura. It was in her hair, her skin. She tore the blue shalwar kameez from her body, shoved it into the rubbish bin. Maybe a maid would salvage it tomorrow; she didn’t care. Naked, she stepped into the shower. She stood under the gushing water for ages. Washed her hair, scrubbed her skin. The shower gel and shampoo on offer from the Taj smelt delicious. If only she could wash away her thoughts, make them smell sweet. Maybe she could. She would try to meditate afterwards. She was hungry, but didn’t think she could eat. Her stomach was churning; she’d probably throw up everything. She needed to talk!

  * * *

  After drying her hair and putting on a new shalwar kameez, she made her way down to the hotel lobby and asked for the Internet room. Found a computer, found her mail account and began typing. Telling Wayne the whole story might, perhaps, help. She began at the beginning, with the soul-destroying visit to Gingee. By the time she got to the discovery that Asha had been removed from the house in Madras, however, she began to lose control. Tears rolled down her cheek; she wiped them away with her dupatta and typed on. Now and then she sniffed as her nose began to run, but still she typed on.

  Someone tapped her on her shoulder. She looked up; it was a man, an Indian man, late thirties, smiling at her. He brandished a handkerchief.

  ‘I’m at the next computer,’ he said. His accent was British, cut glass. ‘I hope I’m not being interfering, but I thought you could use this, instead of that lovely shawl.’

  She looked up at him with anguish spilling from her eyes, still immersed in her story, not quite hearing.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I thought you might like a hanky,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t help but hear you crying. I’m sorry if…’

  ‘Oh. Thanks.’ She took the handkerchief and snorted loudly into it.

  ‘Keep it,’ he said, stepping away, and Caroline turned back to the keyboard and her typing, now crying openly, sniffing and snorting and blowing into the handkerchief, and somehow it all helped, telling Wayne everything and crying and blowing her nose, and she stood up just a little bit unburdened. Maybe she could, after all, eat now. Just a snack.

  She left the computer room. The handkerchief man was waiting for her outside, sitting in a chair beside the door and reading a newspaper.

  ‘Hello again,’ he said, smiling. ‘I was worried about you. You seem so distressed – is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘Nobody can help me.’

  ‘But it’s not good to be alone with one’s distress. Would you join me for a drink? A glass of good wine can work wonders.’

  ‘No,’ she
said again. ‘No thank you. I’m heading for the restaurant, for a snack.’

  ‘Well, may I join you there? I don’t like the idea of a lady being alone with so much sorrow.’

  Caroline thought for a moment. Why not? All that lay in front of her was food and drink and then bed with some novel or other and the anguish gnawing away at her mind preventing her from understanding a word. Maybe a little distraction would help.

  ‘OK,’ she said.

  She had an omelette and a glass of wine, and then another glass, and learned that his name was Hiran and he was a businessman in Mumbai on business and flying home to London a few days later. And he was nice and ready to listen, so she told him the whole story and he commiserated and comforted and supported her and reassured her that of course she would find Asha, of course she would, and if he could help in any way he would, but in the meantime she needed to take care of herself, seek relief, release the tension. He slipped his business card across the table, gold-rimmed. Hiran Kapur was his full name.

  ‘I have the day off tomorrow, doing some sightseeing,’ he said. ‘It’s my first time in Mumbai. I was born and bred in England. Why don’t you come with me, relax a bit?’

  ‘No,’ said Caroline. ‘I’ve got to look for Asha.’

  ‘You have to think of yourself as well,’ he said. ‘Take care of yourself. You’re a wreck. You need to relax.’

  ‘It’s all my fault. That’s why I’m a wreck,’ mumbled Caroline, sipping her wine. She told him that part of the story, how she had abandoned Asha. She confessed her guilt. It felt good to talk about it but it wasn’t enough. She needed absolution.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ said Hiran, but the words sounded hollow, repeated from a thousand pseudo-psychological movies. People could repeat a thousand times that it wasn’t your fault, but if you knew what you’d done, the words couldn’t undo it.

  ‘I need to go to bed,’ she said, standing up, swaying slightly.

  ‘Why not come to my room, and enjoy a bit more wine and some music? It will help release the tension.’

  ‘So that’s what this was all about,’ she said, turned her back and walked off.

  Hiram grabbed her elbow. ‘Wait!’ he cried. ‘I didn’t mean—’

  Caroline shook him off, turned to face him. ‘Yes, you did!’ she spat. ‘Everything else, all that friendliness, was just a run-up to this, wasn’t it? Poor needy American lady needs man, right? Easy Western woman, right? Well: not this one!’

  She marched off. Men! she thought. That’s all they ever think about. She would have liked to give him a slap, but what remained of her dignity would not allow it.

  She went back to her room, stripped again and dived between the sheets. No book. No TV. Just sleep, and forgetting. Tomorrow Gita was picking her up early. Tomorrow she’d be that fake journalist again. She’d have to get some more cash. Bribing those brothel women was expensive. She fell asleep the moment her head touched the pillow.

  * * *

  The next day dawned. Gita picked her up as promised and, just as Kamathipura began to come to life, they began the same old routine: stopping at the brothels, introducing Caroline as a journalist, talking to the women, Caroline asking the questions in English and Gita translating into Hindi, and then, when the women talked, the same in reverse.

  The questions were always the same. First the general introduction and enquiries. How many girls work here? What ages are they? Where do they come from? How long have they been here? And then the specifics. Any Tamil-speaking girls? English-speaking? Educated girls? High-class girls? Could Caroline interview any of them? For more cash, of course.

  Always cash. One thing Caroline had learned by the end of the day: money talked. The cliché was quite true. But in this case, the talk was invariably empty.

  She returned to her hotel more despondent than ever, and alone as ever. A shower, a meal, a siesta. And then the phone rang. Wayne, perhaps; it would be his lunch break now. He’d have read her email and was calling to commiserate.

  But it wasn’t Wayne.

  It was Janiki, breathless.

  Chapter 42

  Janiki

  Mumbai traffic being what it was, it was almost ten when their motor-rickshaw reached Juhu Beach. Despite the late hour it was still crowded with people. The vendors were out, briskly selling veg biryani, samosas, Bombay chaats and other local specialties.

  ‘Care for some dessert?’ asked Kamal, and when Janiki nodded, bought two ice golas and handed her one: a crushed ice lollipop covered with flavoured juices.

  All around them, families were out enjoying the night breeze. The beach was well lit, and the women’s saris shone in the lamps’ glow like bright moving jewels. People sitting, walking, some running; groups of friends, couples canoodling, children playing or sleeping on their mothers’ laps. It was hard to believe that this was the same city; that such a relaxed and joyous community could harbour the evil that had swallowed Asha. That’s India, thought Janiki; the juxtaposition of extremes. The highest bliss and the deepest misery. Abject poverty next to fabulous wealth. Shining saintliness next to darkest evil. And everything in between.

  Licking their golas, they walked out towards the sea; black waves touched with ripples of frothing white surf lapping at the sand; a cool breeze playing with her hair and her dupatta.

  It was perfect. A bubble of delight stolen from the anguish that defined her life right now, and his.

  ‘So what did you want to talk about?’ asked Kamal after a while.

  ‘Your grandmother,’ said Janiki.

  He stiffened, and looked at her abruptly.

  ‘My grandmother? What do you know about my grandmother?’

  ‘I met her,’ said Janiki. ‘I’m sorry; I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet – everything’s been about Asha up to now. I was looking for you when Asha first went missing and I had no contact details, nothing at all. But I remembered Amma being so impressed that you were actually a prince, and—’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Kamal, cutting in. ‘Don’t go repeating that nonsense.’

  ‘Kamal, I know you reject—’

  ‘You listened to her lies? Yes, they are all lies. We are not a royal family. Not a drop of our blood is blue. No maharajas and maharanis. It’s all a huge big lie. What happened is this: we’re a very wealthy family. We’re from a long line of silk merchants; we made all kinds of silk, but our speciality was and is patola silk. Patola-weaving is a closely guarded family tradition; only a few families know how to do it. It can take six months to one year to make a single sari; that’s how precious the silk is. In the past it was only royalty that wore patola silk; it’s still only the fabulously wealthy. Anyway. A few generations back one of the Indian royal families was getting poor and so they married one of my ancestors. That’s the whole story. That’s our only link to royalty. All this talk of maharajas and the Maharani of Jaipur and her wedding – it’s just stupid boasting. Daadi is a fake, Janiki. That’s why I cut all ties with her.’

  ‘She said it was because she was trying to arrange your marriage.’

  ‘Nonsense. Why would I be annoyed for that reason? It’s normal in India, and all I had to do was ignore her. Which I did. I married Caroline, didn’t I? No, Janiki, marriage wasn’t the reason. When I was in America I did the research and discovered who we really are. That she had tried to raise me on a pack of lies. Made my childhood miserable. I was so furious – I wrote her a letter and told her not to contact me ever again. And went my own way. I had a trust fund, still have it, for that matter, though I’ve not needed it for a long time. It’s for Asha. No – I just couldn’t deal with the lie. She tried to brainwash me with it when I was just a boy, kept me practically imprisoned in the palace – which by the way was never a real palace. Just a huge luxurious home some ancestor built a long time ago. She fed me all that nonsense about being a prince, and by the way, all those women she tried to marry me off to – she fed them the lie as well. Her dishonesty is what enraged me, and she kn
ows it. She just won’t admit to anyone, not even to herself, that she isn’t royalty. She’s crazy.’

  ‘She’s just an old woman who’s very lonely, Kamal. I mean, why would she make up such a huge fiction? Surely it can only be because she feels insecure? She’s desperate for contact with you. Did you know she’s been following you around with the help of private detectives, all this time? She knew exactly where to find you. She even called your office in Dubai while I was there. I bet she’s got a detective following us right now. That’s how obsessed she is. And she’s interested in Asha, too, Kamal. That’s what I wanted to say. Why don’t we get this private detective of hers to help? She’s dying for you to make contact. And one day she will die, Kamal. Her health isn’t at all good. You should make up with her before she dies. You really should.’

  All through Janiki’s little speech Kamal had repeatedly tried to interrupt, but she had just ploughed on. She had to have her say. She paused slightly now to take a breath, which she knew would give him a chance to speak up, but he didn’t, and so she just continued.

  ‘It’s not good to harbour resentment for so many years, Kamal. It’s not good for your mental health. It just gnaws away inside you and it’s not good. Like a little leech that won’t let go. You should contact her. Reconcile. It would do you good. I promise. You know, this might sound strange, but I feel sorry for her. I really do. She’s really lonely, stuck in that palace with her Bollywood movies and her luxury and not being able to walk and having to be cared for. She’s just a disabled old woman.’

  ‘A fat disabled old woman.’

  ‘She probably got fat because she’s so unhappy. And then it becomes a vicious circle; you eat and you get fat and you get unhappy and you eat because you’re unhappy and you get fat. It’s no reason to hate her.’