The Forbidden Daughter

by Shobhan Bantwal

  So why was he getting upset over Isha Tilak’s unfortunate fate?

  He couldn’t find a logical answer. All he knew was that he felt compelled to do something for her—anything that would make her life easier. So he’d start helping her first thing in the morning.

  Now that the monumental decision was made, maybe he could get some sleep.

  Chapter 8

  The boardinghouse was quiet at the moment, except for the shuffling footsteps of the elderly maid, Clara, who cleaned the bathrooms and floors every other day. It was nearly eleven in the morning and Priya was at school.

  The boarders, young, active girls between the ages of nine and seventeen, made a racket each morning and noon as they rushed up and down the corridor, used the bathrooms, and gossiped and giggled before heading for breakfast or lunch, and then to the building next door that housed their classrooms. The dinner hour at sundown was the same way—noisy and boisterous—

  despite the nuns’ censorious frowns and frequent reprimands.

  Thank goodness for the stringent lights-out rules, which meant they went to bed early. It gave Isha some quiet time before she settled in for the night.

  She watched her infant as she nursed hungrily. Finally, after a day and a half of suffering hunger pangs, the poor angel was getting some nutrition. Isha’s milk had finally come in, and it was a relief. The child would have to survive on mother’s milk for God knew how long. Eight to ten months was usually the maximum a baby could be nursed. After that, what was Isha going to feed her?

  Just as she had finished nursing and had laid the baby against her shoulder to burp her, there was a knock on the door. Who could it be? Nobody ever came to visit her. “Come in,” she called.

  “It’s unlocked.”

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  The door opened and two novices carried in a large cardboard box. Isha raised a brow at the two fresh-faced young women in their stiff white habits. “What is it?”

  “We don’t know. Mother Regina asked us to deliver it to you.”

  “Is she sure it’s for me?”

  They both nodded. “She said it’s for the baby.”

  More puzzled than ever, Isha thanked them and they went on their way. Putting the snoozing baby down on the cot, she sat on the floor beside the box and ripped open the plastic tape holding the flaps together. She couldn’t wait to see what it was. Who could have sent anything for Diya? Nobody even knew of her birth other than the nuns.

  For a moment she wondered if her in-laws had experienced a change of heart. In the next instant she dismissed it as wishful thinking. Those people had no heart.

  Discovering a folded sheet of paper inside the box, she began to read. There was something familiar about the handwriting. It took her a second to recognize it. Dr. Salvi! Again it took some time to decipher the scribbled words, but she managed to read it all the way through.

  Dear Mrs. Tilak,

  Enclosed is the powder formula I promised for Baby Diya, and a few other items I felt you will need at this time. I added some chocolates and books for Priya and you. Please consider them a humble gift.

  Once again, please ring me if you need any help.

  —Harish Salvi

  After reading the letter once again, Isha put it aside and stared at the box for a long time before taking inventory of its contents. Incredible! These were gifts from someone she barely knew. She started lifting out each item, marveling at the thoughtfulness of the sender.

  In addition to most everything an infant could need, from THE

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  nappies and pacifiers to baby lotion, there were two children’s books and three bars of chocolate for Priya. And as if that weren’t enough, he had two paperback novels for Isha.

  He had thought of everything and everyone. Oh God!

  She buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. Such kindness from a man she’d technically met yesterday. What was she going to say to him? Of course she couldn’t accept such a generous gift. And yet, would she hurt his feelings if she returned it? Besides, most of the items she badly needed.

  Had he asked his wife to help him with this package, or had he taken it upon himself to do it alone? But then again, the types of things in the box seemed to show a woman’s touch, especially the paperbacks for her and the chocolate for Priya.

  Whoever was responsible for the gift box was very caring and gracious. And the thought made her weep some more.

  After a lot of deliberation, she decided she’d offer to pay for it. She wished the insurance money had come through. Didn’t those lazy, callous people realize how desperate she was for that cash? Had they no idea how difficult it was for a widow with two children to make ends meet? The bureaucratic red tape in India was tangled beyond imagination.

  All these years, with her sheltered way of life, she’d never had to deal with any of it directly. But now she knew exactly why Nikhil used to get so frustrated at times with the business of selling tires. She also realized why he had to go against his principles and bribe several people just to be able to get some simple things done. It was a matter of survival.

  From deep inside her suitcase she pulled out the mobile phone Nikhil had bought for her a while ago—for use in an emergency. She’d kept it hidden from the nuns. They didn’t approve of such expensive, modern gadgets. It went against their puritanical code of living.

  But the mobile was the one thing she intended to keep. Fortunately, in spite of her lack of enthusiasm about owning a mobile phone, Nikhil had insisted on buying her an advanced model along with a comprehensive, unlimited-calls service plan for an 80 Shobhan Bantwal

  entire year in advance. “Just keep it in your purse. You never know when you’re going to need it,” he’d advised her.

  She gazed at the phone for a moment. Was this, too, something Nikhil had anticipated as her future need? She’d hardly ever used the phone, but now it was her lifeline to the world outside the convent walls.

  With some hesitation she dialed the number indicated on Dr. Salvi’s card. He was a busy man, so she was probably interrupting his work, but she had to talk to him. The phone rang several times before his voice mail came on. She left a brief message requesting him to call her back.

  Noticing the phone’s battery was low, she retrieved the cord from the suitcase and plugged it into the only electric outlet in the room, and then covered the phone with a sheet. If Mother Dora or someone else came by, she didn’t want to be caught with it. Since the walls were thin and the girls around her were naturally curious, she shut off the ringer and set it on vibrate mode.

  Half an hour later, an odd buzzing sound startled her. It took her a second to realize it was her phone vibrating and not an insect hovering around the baby. She picked it up quickly, before it could go to voice mail. “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Tilak?”

  “Yes.”

  “Harish Salvi here.”

  “Oh . . . thanks for ringing back.” Now that he was on the phone, she didn’t know what to say. Earlier, she’d had it all planned, what she would say, and how she’d say it, but now she felt awkward and tongue-tied. “I . . . um . . . I wanted to thank you for your generosity. I got the package this morning.”

  “I hope you can use most of the things. As a pediatrician I know exactly what Diya needs, but with Priya and you, I wasn’t very sure.”

  “It’s still very kind of you. You even sent me some books.”

  “It’s nothing.” He laughed. “Although, I don’t know if you’re fond of reading and whether you like that type of fiction.”

  THE

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  She couldn’t help smiling. “I love reading, and the novels are perfect for my tastes. How did you know what to buy?”

  “I asked my sister-in-law, my older brother’s wife. She reads quite a bit.”

  “Then I suppose she and I have similar tastes in books.” A long and awkward silence ensued. She ha
d to put an end to it.

  “The . . . uh . . . reason I rang was to say I’d like to pay you for the things you brought over this morning.”

  “What!” He sounded shocked. “They’re a gift. Didn’t I say that in my note? Or was it my horrible handwriting you couldn’t read?”

  “No, I read every word, but . . . but you hardly know us, Dr. Salvi. I can’t accept all this from a virtual stranger.”

  “We’re not strangers. We knew each other in college, didn’t we?” he said in a flat voice.

  “We didn’t know each other, Doctor. We attended the same college, but we never exchanged a word.”

  “Does it really matter? We know of each other and I wanted to make your life a little easier, that’s all.” He was quiet for a second. “No strings attached, Mrs. Tilak—none whatsoever.”

  Oh, no! He’d completely misunderstood her. “Dr. Salvi, I’m sorry if I didn’t make myself clear. I only meant to say your generosity is overwhelming and I feel burdened to accept something this expensive from someone I barely know. I realize there’s no hidden agenda here. You’re just being kind.”

  His drawn-out breath was audible, even over the static of the mobile phone. “I’m glad you don’t think I have an ulterior motive. Most of the baby items are samples from my clinic, so I didn’t purchase them. The rest were very affordable, so please don’t worry about it.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m positive. So let’s forget about it.” After a brief hesitation, he asked, “How’s the baby doing? Any concerns?” He was clearly relieved to move on to a safer subject.

  “She’s been waking up practically every hour. She nurses for a minute or two and dozes off, but wakes up again.” She chuckled. “Nothing unusual for a two-day old infant, I suppose.”

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  “Why don’t you let her fuss a little and see if she’ll wait for about two hours?”

  “I’m afraid to let her cry. There are dozens of young students in the building and a screaming baby is not going to be popular.”

  “Then between feedings try using that pacifier I sent you.

  Stretch the gap between meals to a minimum of two hours. She’ll gradually adjust to eating more each time.”

  She turned that over in her mind. Priya had been a different kind of baby, but then, Isha had had Sundari to help her. “Since you’re the expert, I’ll try it.”

  “Good. I’ll stop by in a couple of days to give her the TB vaccine.”

  That was an offer Isha couldn’t refuse. She knew tuberculosis was a serious threat to the baby and the vaccine was a must.

  “Thank you so much, Doctor, for everything.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Did I interrupt your busy schedule?”

  “No. This is my morning tea break,” he said. “Rama, my assistant, makes the most dreadful tea, but I drink it anyway. He’s convinced that I love his tea.” His voice was filled with mocking amusement.

  “I’m sure Rama means well.”

  “He does,” he admitted with a chuckle. “I better go. Saroj-bayi, my nurse, is trying to remind me I have patients waiting.”

  Isha thanked him again and ended the call. A smile tugged at her mouth. Now that was a very interesting conversation—and refreshing. It had been a while since she’d conversed with an intelligent adult who wasn’t a nun.

  Chapter 9

  Dinner at the Salvi home was something Harish looked forward to every evening. It was an excellent way to relax after working with sick and weepy children all day. He looked fondly at his family seated around the table.

  His father, Dinanath Salvi, now retired from teaching high school mathematics and physics, was still very much into reading and discussing politics, his favorite pastimes. He loved a good debate with his family at the table. But he had retained the stern schoolteacher stance and rarely tolerated any opinions that didn’t agree with his. He still continued to dress like a teacher, too, in black pants and white or cream shirts.

  His mother, Shalini, was a plump, homely woman who chose not to argue with her husband on most topics. If she didn’t happen to like his views, she merely shook her head and rolled her eyes—always behind his back, never to his face. A good Hindu wife wasn’t supposed to disagree with her husband, at least not overtly.

  Harish’s older brother, Satish, a chartered accountant with a prosperous financial consulting business, was a gregarious individual who liked to tell the family witty stories about his vast number of clients. Satish’s wife, Prachi, was an ob-gyn, with a flourishing practice of her own and her own repertoire of anecdotes.

  Satish and Prachi had a four-year-old daughter, Reshma, an adorable girl with her father’s sense of adventure and her mother’s 84 Shobhan Bantwal

  lively, dark eyes and capacity for laughter. Being the only child in the family, she was the center of attention in the Salvi clan. She had been fed by her doting grandmother earlier and was asleep in her room at the moment.

  With three professionals who worked odd hours, dinner was usually at a late hour. But there was always plenty of interesting conversation at the table.

  “So, what’s going on with your tiny tots lately, Harish?” his brother asked him. “You haven’t told us a single interesting story this month.”

  Harish shook his head. “That’s because there’s nothing to tell.

  Most of my patients are too sick with the flu these days.” He gave his brother a wry smile. “You’re the one with the funny stories.”

  As compared to Satish’s tales of stingy old foxes, who tried every dirty trick to avoid paying taxes and were amassing a fortune, Harish’s anecdotes about naughty and snotty kids seemed too tame.

  Prachi’s hilarious accounts of how some woman gave birth while taking a bath or how one patient’s husband insisted on singing at the top of his lungs in the delivery room because he wanted his child to appreciate good music and recognize his father’s voice, were so amusing, they had everyone in stitches.

  Anyway, Harish, the more serious of the two brothers, preferred to be entertained rather than play the entertainer.

  Tonight, they were eating their mother’s Kolhapuri Chicken Curry, dal— seasoned split lentils—cauliflower and peas cooked in a coconut gravy, cucumber salad, and chapatis—thinly rolled whole wheat bread. Harish helped himself to more of the chicken. “Mamma, this is superb,” he told his mother.

  His mother’s round face lit up. “I will give you the leftover curry with some chapatis and rice for tomorrow’s lunch.”

  “I don’t have time to eat an elaborate lunch. I rarely have time to eat at all,” he told her.

  His father frowned at him across the table. “Arré, what kind of nonsense is it to skip lunch? If you don’t eat properly, then how can you advise your patients about proper nutrition?”

  “Dada, my patients are young, growing children who need THE

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  good nutrition,” Harish reminded his father. “I’m a grown man and can afford to miss a meal or two.”

  “No missing-bissing of meals, understand?” chimed in Mamma.

  “I will not hear of it!” His mother could be just as rigid as his father when it came to nutrition and health matters. “Have Rama heat up the chicken in that costly microwave oven you bought for your office.”

  “But, Mamma . . .” He shrugged and gave up. When his mother decided to fill him up with food, there was no arguing with her. Besides, her chicken curry was the best.

  She gave him one of her hopeful looks, her soft brown eyes turning softer. “You know something, Harish? I got a letter from an eligible girl’s father today. He says your horoscope and hers are matching nicely.” She gave Harish a second for that little tidbit to sink in. “Nice girl she is, good-looking and clever also. She is a children’s doctor, just like you.”

  Harish shifted in his chair. Here we go again, he thought wearily, talking about eligible girls and marriage. He p
ut a hand on his mother’s to soften the impact of what he was about to say. “Mamma, how many times have I told you I’m too busy to get married?”

  This time Satish jumped in, looking so much like their father when his expression turned serious that Harish was amazed at the resemblance. They had the same sharply angled jaw and the hooked nose that reminded Harish of a hawk’s beak. They both had the schoolmaster look.

  But their personalities couldn’t be more different. Dada didn’t have a single humorous or adventurous bone in his body, while Satish had an abundance of both. Which ancestor had passed those on to him? It was still a puzzle.

  “If this girl is a pediatrician, then she’s the best solution to your problem of overwork,” said Satish. “She and you can share the practice.” He threw Harish a grin. “Perfect arrangement, if you ask me.”

  Unfortunately for Harish, his sister-in-law, too, nodded en-thusiastically. “All the girls so far were not pediatricians, but this one is. Satish is right. What could be more perfect?”

  86 Shobhan Bantwal

  Having finished his meal, Harish rose from his chair. “I’ll think about it.” Usually that appeased them for a while. Seeing their dubious expressions, he added, “Seriously.”

  That was all the encouragement his mother needed. “Very smart she is, just like Prachi, no? My sister says she knows the family and the girl is very beautiful—”

  “In that case,” Harish interrupted her, “she may be far too good-looking for me. Why would she want to settle for someone as plain and boring as me?”

  Satish chuckled and leaned back in his chair, looking smug.

  “That’s the lamest excuse I’ve heard. Prachi married me in spite of my looks, didn’t she?”

  “But you’re a handsome specimen compared to me,” argued Harish, despite knowing that in their culture a man’s looks didn’t matter one bit as long as he had a healthy income and a good, solid family background. Only girls were assessed by their appearance. How unfair was that?