The Forbidden Daughter

by Shobhan Bantwal

  Mamma was smiling a lot, trying hard not to stare at Isha.

  She was the one Harish was most concerned about. When he’d mentioned Isha a couple of times, she had given him that watchful and penetrating look that told him she was trying to gauge whether the woman called Isha Tilak was a bad influence on her precious son. After all, every eligible girl she’d brought to his attention had been rejected by him because he’d claimed he had no time for marriage. So why was he suddenly making all this time for some upper-class widow with children in tow?

  He could sympathize with his mother’s concerns. She had only his best interests at heart.

  Prachi, as expected, carried on a friendly conversation with Isha, asking curious but not prying questions. Her dark eyes 172 Shobhan Bantwal

  were alight with interest. “Oh, your Priya is only a few months older than my Reshma? How nice! We should see if we can get the girls together on Sundays if possible.”

  His brother played the genial host by trying to join in the conversation and passing around a plate of potato wafers and glasses of soft drinks. “So, I hear you recently moved into that new high-rise building. Looks like Saraf is making a killing on that venture.” Satish was a typical accountant. Everything was judged in terms of profit and loss.

  The two older girls got along like the proverbial house on fire. Reshma, being an extrovert, had discovered an instant friend in the equally outgoing Priya. Baby Diya had crawled all over the area rug in the center of the drawing room, surrounded by some of Reshma’s old toys, and had been on her best behavior.

  But most of Harish’s attention had been focused on Isha. She looked pretty in her white sari with some kind of subdued yellow and blue print on it. All she wore as accessories were a gold chain and earrings. Perhaps in deference to his mother’s sensibil-ities, she had no bindi—the red dot—on her forehead. Hindu widows weren’t supposed to wear the traditional symbol of marriage, but most modern widows sported a bindi anyway, just as a fashion statement. He’d seen Isha both with and without a bindi at various times.

  She sat a little stiffly next to Prachi on the sofa, answering her questions with a polite smile. He had noticed Isha hadn’t volunteered too much information about her personal life.

  His family, no matter how much of an upper-crust veneer they had acquired in recent years, were still lower-middle-class in their ways. They had to try hard to entertain someone like Isha, the club-going, card-playing, wine-sipping type of woman—

  or at least that’s what they would consider her. Little did they know that she was a very down-to-earth, caring woman with no affectations. Harish had come to learn that about her nature.

  Dinner was a little less stilted than the drinks-and-appetizers portion of the evening, since Priya and Reshma kept up a con-THE

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  tinuous stream of chatter, making plans to get together again.

  Diya had been fed her baby food and bottle earlier and was left sleeping on a blanket spread on the area rug in the drawing room.

  The adults tried to carry on a conversation above the kids’

  voices. Harish was glad to have the children at the table; they made it less awkward for everyone around. His father had started to talk a little, too, and it was a relief. It meant he was beginning to thaw and feel comfortable around Isha.

  By the time dinner ended, it seemed like everyone was feeling more at ease in Isha’s presence. She was a warm and amiable woman despite her guardedness, and she’d been trying hard to be a good guest, complimenting her hosts on their home, on the food—and on Reshma, the center of their universe. Harish could find no fault in Isha’s behavior. In spite of her nervous-ness, he knew she was making a sincere effort to enjoy the visit.

  Later, when it came time to leave, Isha joined her palms in a cordial namaste to her hosts. “It was nice meeting all of you.

  Thank you so much for inviting us, and for the lovely dinner.”

  Prachi had responded with something equally polite, while Satish and his parents had smiled and returned her namaste.

  As Harish drove them back to their home, it turned out to be a quiet ride. The kids were asleep, and he noticed Isha was in a pensive mood.

  But his mind was swirling with questions. Had she hated the evening? She had smiled and said the right things, but that came from her good breeding. Courtesy and proper social eti-quette were likely to be in her blood. But who knew what she’d been going through on the inside? He’d never seen her socialize with anyone outside Sheila’s family. With them she was openly affectionate.

  For a woman who’d probably had an active social life, Isha seemed to have become a recluse. Where were all her friends?

  Had they abandoned her or had she deliberately cut herself off from them? Never having had any sisters, Harish knew very little about women’s friendships.

  Once they reached Isha’s building, he offered to carry the 174 Shobhan Bantwal

  sleeping Priya upstairs and lay her on her bed. Then he left quickly, afraid he might be tempted to grab Isha’s hand again and drive himself insane. He’d fiercely fought the need to linger.

  Oh, he was itching to linger, all right. He wanted to run his fingers along that soft-looking skin of hers, wanted to read what was buried within the depths of those honey-colored eyes. He wanted to do a whole lot more: undress her, one fold of her sari at a time, watch the color slowly rise in her cheeks, caress her full breasts till they turned to hot satin in his hands, and hear her moan and beg him to make love to her.

  Sex! It all boiled down to basic sex. For a workaholic who wasn’t obsessed with sex like most men, he’d been thinking about it a lot lately—way more than a lot. With no woman but Isha.

  But it was out of the question. She had never encouraged him, and he couldn’t cross that boundary of friendship they had mutually created around their relationship. What he had with her was infinitely precious to him and he wasn’t about to ruin it.

  If it was friendship she wanted, it was friendship he’d give her.

  In the recent past, he’d had dinner at Isha’s a couple of times, each occasion feeling more and more like he belonged there. He was getting addicted to Isha and her little ones. Was he trying to play surrogate husband and father to fill the emptiness in his personal life? Perhaps. All he knew for certain was that being around Isha and her children felt right, and what felt right couldn’t be all bad, could it?

  What he was experiencing wasn’t illegal, immoral, or un-healthy, either, he assured himself.

  As he shifted to set the alarm on the bedside clock, he finally came to the conclusion that somewhere between his first meeting with Isha at the convent and this evening, he’d fallen in love with her.

  In all honesty, it wasn’t all about sex. There was so much more he felt for her. It had to be love. He couldn’t think of any other word to describe his emotions.

  It seemed inevitable, too—almost like it was meant to be.

  Had fate cast her in his path at a time when he was starting to THE

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  be affected by his family’s ramblings about him getting married?

  Had her destiny thrust him onto her doorstep when she desperately needed a man, especially a doctor, to help her in her time of need? Or was he being foolish and sentimental by reading too much into a situation that was no more than a coincidence?

  Was he trying to justify his feelings by applying reason to them? But then, wasn’t he always the scientist and analyst who had to see logic in everything? This was no different.

  Whichever way he looked at it, there was no doubt he had come to love Isha. In college she was like no other girl—and she was like no other woman now. For the first time in his life he was sure he wanted marriage and family. Needed them. He wanted Isha and her children to fill that need.

  So what was he going to offer them? Back then, he’d had nothing to give a girl like Isha. But his circumstances had
changed since their college days. Now he could give her a comfortable home, security, respectability, and a lot more.

  Before he fell into a fitful sleep, he made a resolution to have a talk with his brother and sister-in-law about Isha and his feelings for her. Maybe they had a better idea as to how he should proceed. He hoped they did, since he had no clue whatsoever.

  That’s what came from being a reclusive nerd all his life.

  Chapter 21

  August 2007

  As Isha stared at the folded stack of gorgeous silks, organzas, satins, and taffetas, and the spools of lace and ribbon, she wondered how she was going to finish all those dresses. What in heaven’s name had prompted her to make promises to so many people? Or should she call them clients now?

  She had become a bit too optimistic since she’d quit her job with the convent and taken up tailoring full time. It was mad-ness to take on so much when she was alone in this enterprise.

  To top that, all she had was a beat-up sewing machine that threatened to break down any minute. She badly needed some state-of-the-art equipment if she wanted to be a seamstress.

  While she worked on an organza dress in a shade of pista-chio, she recalled the previous week, her last week at the orphanage. She had finally come to the conclusion that she couldn’t handle the dressmaking and keep her job, too. Each evening she’d been sewing well past midnight, and then waking up at dawn to get the girls and herself to school on time. It had left her feeling exhausted and irritable, constantly craving sleep.

  There wasn’t enough time to devote to the children, and Isha missed them. Sheila was kindly taking them to her place often and she kept them happily occupied. But that wasn’t fair to Sheila—after all, she wasn’t a babysitter.

  Every other day Sheila would bring in more work orders from THE

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  her friends and acquaintances. With dancing eyes she had brought Isha an armful of lovely fabrics. “Looks like you’re in business, my dear. Maybe you should make it a full-time thing and quit your job with the nuns.”

  “I’m not sure if I can do that,” was Isha’s response. The convent and the orphanage had become a part of her life. The nuns had come to depend on her and she relied on them for not just a living but the security they provided her, the feeling of solidness that came from inside those stalwart walls.

  But that was some time ago, before her dressmaking was turning into a bona fide business. She’d approached Mother Regina and explained her predicament and her regrets at having to leave her job. However, Mother Regina had wished her well and blessed her with an unexpected hug.

  So Isha had reluctantly tendered her resignation. She hated leaving the orphans, every one of them. They had depended on her to fulfill certain needs. And she had come to love them. Children, no matter where they came from, had a way of creeping unawares into one’s heart.

  It was heartbreaking to leave all of them, but she had to look at the practical side of her life. She had an obligation to her own children and herself.

  At least she was making a fair income from the dressmaking.

  The women who placed orders were willing to pay her the same amount they paid those exclusive tailors and boutiques in Mumbai and Delhi.

  The income from the second flat was helping, too, but the renters had told her they were being forced to leave in two months. The man was going to be transferred to a State Bank branch in another town. That meant Isha would have to find a new renter right away.

  Despite all the stress, she was content at the moment. After those frightening months of impoverishment, she was finally on stable ground. She was able to pay her bills, and feed and clothe her children. She didn’t need to sell any more of her jewelry, or accept handouts from Sheila, either.

  Nevertheless her workload was a killer. That’s when she’d 178 Shobhan Bantwal

  started rolling an idea around in her mind and mentioned it to Sheila. “I’m thinking of asking Sundari if she’d consider leaving your parents and come work for me. Do you think she’d be willing?”

  Sheila’s eyes had lit up. “She’ll jump at the chance! Sundari adores you and Priya. She misses both of you.”

  “Will you ask Sundari on my behalf? I can’t ring her there for obvious reasons.”

  “I’ll contact her immediately,” Sheila had promised.

  But Isha wasn’t sure Sundari would leave her employers.

  She’d spent most of her life with them, and she was a very loyal woman.

  Not long after, the doorbell rang. Diya—who had just woken up from her afternoon nap and was playing with her favorite toy, a stuffed monkey—gave an excited screech. Tossing the toy aside, she started crawling toward the drawing room. She had a built-in alarm clock. Every afternoon, after her nap, she eagerly waited for Priya to return home from school.

  When Isha hurried past the crawling baby and opened the door, she gasped. Time seemed to stand still for a few seconds.

  “Sundari!”

  The old woman stood on the doorstep, a hesitant smile on her face. She hadn’t changed one bit, except for perhaps losing a little weight. The beloved face with its innumerable wrinkles, and every gray hair that was neatly tucked into her bun, were the most welcome sights Isha had seen in ages. It was almost like seeing her mother again. But then, Sundari had always been her surrogate mother.

  Isha threw her arms around the old woman with an exultant cry. “You’re here! I can’t believe it!”

  “Namaste, Isha-bayi.” The old woman started weeping.

  “It’s so wonderful to see you, Sundari.”

  The two women clung to each other and cried with abandon.

  Isha had hoped Sundari would respond positively to her request, but it was wishful thinking on her part to assume the old woman would give up her contented life and come to her aid.

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  Even now, maybe she had come just for a brief visit. But what mattered was that she was here. And it was still wonderful to see her.

  Sundari was the first one to recover from the cry-fest. Drying her eyes and nose with the edge of her sari, she studied Isha for a second. “Isha-bayi, you have become so thin.”

  Isha gave her a watery smile. “That’s because I’m not pregnant anymore.”

  “Sheila-bayi told me that you are very busy and needed my help.”

  That’s when Isha noticed the small metal trunk and the bedroll tied with a sturdy nylon cord sitting on the floor. “You mean you’ll really come to work for me?”

  Sundari nodded. “Of course! I would never say no to you.

  Sheila-bayi said you are working too hard and not getting any rest.”

  Realizing that amidst all the excitement she was being a terrible hostess, Isha invited Sundari inside. “Please bring your things in and sit down.”

  Sundari dragged in her trunk and bedroll, then noticed Diya staring at her with curious eyes from behind the coffee table.

  After realizing it wasn’t Priya but a stranger at the door, Diya had instinctively crawled away to a safe distance. The old woman studied the child for a moment and started to cry once again. “Ayyah! This is your new baby!”

  Isha dried her own eyes and hoisted Diya into her arms. “Yes, this is Diya, my new little pumpkin.”

  “She looks just like Priya-baby and Nikhil-saheb.” Sundari brushed her hands down the baby’s face then fisted and placed them against her own temples, gently cracking the knuckles. It was an old-fashioned gesture to ward off the evil eye. When she opened her arms, inviting the child, Diya turned away and buried her face in Isha’s shoulder.

  “She’s a little shy with strangers,” explained Isha and sat on the sofa with Diya in her lap. “Sit down, Sundari, and tell me everything that’s happened since I left you.”

  Sundari, as appropriate to her station in life, sat on the floor.

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  Servants, no matter how c
lose to the family and how valued, never shared the furniture with their employers. She gave Isha a detailed account of how much she had worried over Isha and her children. Then she told her how Ayee-saheb, Isha’s motherin-law, got sick. She painted a very dramatic scenario of Ayee’s heart problems and the convalescence.

  A fresh pang of regret went through Isha.

  After Sundari had finished talking, Isha offered to make her tea. As expected, Sundari got to her feet and strode straight into the kitchen. For a woman approaching seventy, she was amazingly agile. All those years of hard work kept her in excellent shape. “I will make the tea, Isha-bayi; you sit down. I am here to work for you, am I not?”

  “You don’t know how much I appreciate that, but I can’t afford to pay you much right now.” Isha put the restless, wriggling Diya down and followed Sundari into the kitchen. “I could never match what Baba and Ayee gave you.”

  Sundari tucked her loose pallu around her waist to prepare herself for work. “Who says you have to pay me a lot? I will be eating with you and staying with you, so what expenses do I have? I am happy to work for you for whatever you can afford to pay me.”

  Isha watched the old woman as she quickly located the right-sized pan, filled it with water, and put it on the gas burner—the picture of efficiency.

  “Are you sure Ayee and Baba won’t mind you leaving them?”

  “I took care of Ayee-saheb when she was sick, no? Now she is okay and I am not doing anything special for her. But you and the children need me.” Sundari threw a fond glance at the baby, who had crawled into the kitchen on Isha’s heels and was raising herself to her feet by holding on to a dining chair.

  Being more like family than a servant, the devotion Sundari had shown to Isha and Nikhil, and especially to Priya, was beyond the call of duty. Now the strong, selfless woman was standing here, offering to work for a pittance.

  Sundari had been abandoned by her alcoholic brute of a husband while she was still young. He had left her because she had THE