Authors: Shilpi Somaya Gowda
O
N HER FIRST MORNING IN
B
OMBAY
, S
OMER WAKES WITH AN
upset stomach. She rolls over to a different position, but it doesn’t help.
Damn.
She tried to be careful at dinner last night with Krishnan’s family, but clearly she couldn’t handle the spicy food. That wasn’t the only thing that made her feel out of place. Everyone else ate with their fingers while she sheepishly asked for a fork. She could only understand part of the dinner conversation because Krishnan’s relatives kept lapsing into Gujarati. It was like skiing on snow and suddenly coming upon a patch of grass. She was stranded, and Krishnan didn’t bother to interpret for her.
Anyway, none of this matters, she tells herself. They’re here for one reason—to get Asha and take her home.
Stay focused. Don’t worry about the rest of it.
They have their interview at the government adoption office this afternoon, the final step in the approval process. Somer feels a sudden curdling in her stomach and barely makes it to the bathroom in time.
T
HEY ARRIVE TEN MINUTES EARLY AT THE ADOPTION OFFICE,
then wait another forty minutes in the reception area. Somer looks at her watch and at the clock above the door.
“Relax, they know we’re here,” Krishnan says. “This is the way things work here.”
Finally, they are ushered into an office that smells of stale tobacco and sweat.
“
Achha,
Mr. and Mrs. Thakkar,
namaste
.” The man wearing a yellowed short-sleeve dress shirt and a short necktie bows slightly to them. “Please, be comfortable.” He gestures to two chairs across from the desk.
“Mr. Thakkar, you are from here, no?”
“Yes,” Krishnan says. “I grew up in Churchgate, and did my BSc at Xaviers.”
“Ahh, Churchgate. My aunt lives over there.” The man asks him a question in another language.
Hindi?
Krishnan answers him in the same language, and they banter back and forth like that a few times without Somer understanding any of it. The civil servant consults his file, takes a long look at Somer, and turns back to Krishnan. “And your wife?” he says with a smirk. “You met her there, America? California girl, heh?”
She hears Krishnan answer, but the only English word she can catch is
doctor
.
The civil servant looks back at the file and says flatly, as if reading, “No children?” and then, looking directly up at Somer, “No babies?”
Her cheeks flush with familiar shame in this country where fertility is so celebrated, where every woman has a child on each hip. She shakes her head. After a couple more exchanges with Krishnan, the civil servant tells them to come back in the morning for an update on their case. Krishnan takes her arm and leads her out of the building.
“What was that about?” she says once they are outside.
“Nothing,” he says. “Indian bureaucracy. Everything is like this here.” He flags a taxi.
“What do you mean ‘like this’? What happened back there? They kept us waiting an hour, that guy clearly hadn’t even read our file, and then he barely even
talks
to me!”
“That’s because you’re—”
“I’m what?” she snaps at him.
“Look, things work differently here. I know how to handle this, just trust me. You can’t come here with your American ideas—”
“I didn’t come here with anything.” She slams the taxicab door and feels the whole car reverberate.
W
HEN THEY RETURN TO THE GOVERNMENT OFFICE THE NEXT
morning, they are told there is a delay in the approval process. Somer feels all her doubt surge back. She tries pushing it away, but it circles like the persistent mosquitoes that swarm the ripe mangoes at the corner fruit stand. They go back to the office every day, sometimes twice a day, to try to move things along. Each visit leaves Somer more frustrated. She sees the looks from the officers there—their skepticism as they size up her potential as a mother, the way their tone changes when they address Krishnan rather than her.
It is monsoon season. The rain pounds down in steady sheets until the alleys turn into rushing currents of water and debris. She has never before seen rain like this, another of many firsts since arriving in Bombay. It has been an assault on her senses: smells that suddenly overpower her, and heat she can taste, thick as dust on her tongue. Not only does she feel powerless in the face of Indian bureaucracy, but as further punishment, the torrential downpours also keep them trapped inside Krishnan’s parents’ flat.
An endless number of people circulate through the flat. There
are Krishnan’s grandparents, his parents, and his two brothers with their wives and children—fourteen people in all. Across the hall lives Krishnan’s uncle, with a similarly expansive family. The front doors to the two flats are always unlocked and often wide open, so it feels like one labyrinthine living space, with people continuously milling about. Krishnan’s relatives are polite, constantly offering her tea and small trinkets, but she notices they stop talking when she enters the room. No matter how much of an effort she makes, Somer still feels uncomfortable around them.
In addition to family, there are the servants: one who squats low and moves from room to room, sweeping the floors with a bundle of reeds; another who comes every day to wash clothes by hand and hang them on the balcony; the cook; the post boy; the paperboy; and the milk boy, among others. She grows accustomed to hearing the doorbell ring several times an hour and eventually learns to tune it out as the extraneous sound of a normal day’s workings. The reality of this India clashes with the images she held in her mind, her hopes and expectations. As the days wear on, she longs for the simple comforts of home: a bowl of cereal, an ice-cold Coca-Cola, an evening alone with her husband.
As Somer observes this man she thought she knew, it becomes clear there is a side to him that is utterly foreign. This Krishnan wears white loose-flowing cotton tunics from morning to night, drinks milky tea instead of black coffee, and eats meals dexterously with his hands. He is not the least bit uncomfortable with the complete lack of privacy. She finds it curious, this person who seems to enjoy the din of a crowded household, so different from the quiet man she met at Stanford, living in a spartan bedroom with only a mattress on the floor and secondhand desk. Somer begins to wonder if she knows him at all.
T
HE BABY GURGLES AS
K
AVITA KNEADS COCONUT OIL INTO HIS
pudgy frog legs. He squirms and vigorously waves his arms in the air, as if to applaud his mother for this daily practice. She gently massages his delicate body, first stretching out one leg fully, then the other. She rubs circles on his belly, which is barely bigger than the whole of her palm. This is the one time each day she can delight in seeing every astonishing part of his body. She never tires of looking at him, inspecting every perfect detail: the soft curl of his eyelashes, the dimples in his elbows and knees. She bathes him in a wooden bucket, pouring small cupfuls of warm water over his body, taking care not to get any in his eyes. As she finishes dressing him, her mother comes to tell her dinner is ready. Kavita has been at her parents’ home since the birth of her son, enjoying the luxury of focusing on her baby, free from any household responsibilities.
When she walks into the front room, she sees Jasu sitting there, his hair freshly oiled and combed. He stands, with a broad grin, to greet them. On the table between them, she sees, he has brought a
fresh jasmine garland for her hair. Yesterday, it was a box of sweets. He has been coming here every day for nearly two weeks, and always with something for her. Now, walking toward him, she is struck by his smile, as wide as his arms, which reach out for his son. “Say hello to your papa,” she says, handing him to Jasu. Unsure how to handle a newborn, he holds the baby tenderly, almost tentatively.
Jasu eats voraciously at dinner, scooping large bites into his mouth too quickly to taste the food. She suspects he is not having much at his other meals, but he hasn’t pressured her about coming home. He told her he expects her to spend the customary first forty days with her mother. Not all husbands are so patient during this time. As she watches their son in his father’s arms, she thinks of how fortunate this boy is, what a cherished life he will lead. Tomorrow, relatives are gathering for the baby’s
namkaran,
his naming ceremony. Everyone has been overjoyed with the birth of their first son, bringing celebratory sweets, new clothes for the baby, fennel tea to bolster her milk supply. They have showered on her all the traditional gifts, as if this is her first baby, their first child.
What about the other times I’ve carried a baby in my womb, given birth, held my child in my arms?
But no one acknowledges this, not even Jasu. Only Kavita has an aching cavity in her heart for what she’s lost. She sees the pride in Jasu’s eyes as he holds his son and forces herself to smile while saying a silent prayer for this child. She hopes she can give him the life he deserves. She prays she will be a good mother to her son, prays she has enough maternal love left in her heart for him, prays it didn’t die along with her daughters.
T
HE NEXT MORNING, THE HOUSE HUMS WITH ACTIVITY
. K
AVITA’S
mother has been up early frying
jalebis,
the sticky sweet delicacies essential at their celebrations. Family members arrive in a steady stream, each one seeking out Kavita and Jasu to offer their congratulations
and gifts. When Jasu’s parents arrive, they take Kavita aside and hand her a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.
“It is a new
kurta-pajama,
” Jasu’s mother says, “for the baby to wear at the
namkaran
.” She smiles so widely her missing molars are visible. Kavita unwraps the package with care and pulls out a maroon silk outfit, embroidered with gold thread. A cream-colored vest covered in small round mirrors and a pair of impossibly small pointed ivory shoes complete the outfit. Kavita strokes the smooth fabric. It is genuine silk, and the embroidery is done by hand. The outfit is beautiful, impractical, an indulgence, and one that Jasu’s parents cannot easily afford. She looks up to thank her mother-in-law and sees pride in the older woman’s eyes. “We are so happy,
beti,
” Jasu’s mother says, grabbing Kavita to her large bosom in a spontaneous embrace. “May your son live a long life and bring you much happiness. Just as Jasu has for us.”
“
Hahnji, sassu
. Thank you. I will go dress him in this now.” Kavita can’t remember ever seeing such a show of generosity or emotion from her mother-in-law. She feels her cheeks flush, a rising tightness in her chest as she turns away. She pushes her way through the guests, who are all drinking
chai
and admiring the baby. She has felt nothing but love for her son during these weeks she has been alone with him. But now, the adulation of others makes her cringe, the shameless celebration in his honor fills her mouth with a bitter taste, the bitterness of raw green wood.
When the
pandit
arrives for the ceremony, the two dozen relatives gather around him in the crowded drawing room. Jasu and Kavita take their places on the floor next to the
pandit,
with Jasu holding the baby in his lap. The
pandit
lights the ceremony fire and begins by offering prayers to Agni, the god of fire, to purify the proceedings. He begins chanting, invokes the spirits of the forefathers, and asks them to bless and protect this child. The priest’s melodic voice is soothing. Kavita looks deep into the flames and is
transported back to the stone steps of her morning
pujas
. The scent of incense mixed with
ghee
rises in the air, and she closes her eyes. Images flash through her mind—Daiji’s face between her knees, the red-lettered sign on the door, the clanging iron gate of the orphanage.
“Precise time and date of the baby’s birth?” she hears the priest asking from a distant place. Jasu answers him, and the
pandit
turns to his astrology chart to determine the boy’s horoscope. Kavita feels her body tense even further. This reading will determine everything in their son’s life—his health, prosperity, marriage, and today, his name. After some deliberation, the
pandit
looks up at Jasu’s sister, seated next to him. “Choose a name beginning with
V
.” All eyes in the room turn to her. She thinks for a moment, then a smile comes to her face and she leans down to the baby’s ear to whisper the chosen name.
“Vijay,” she says, beaming. Jasu turns to the crowd, and holds up his son for everyone to see. The
pandit
gives an approving nod, and everyone else cheers, repeating the name to one another. Somewhere in the noise of the crowd, Kavita hears a lone voice, an infant’s piercing cry. She looks at her son, who is sleeping. Her eyes dart around the room, trying to find the origin of the cry, but she sees no other babies. Jasu places the baby in a cradle decorated with garlands of bright orange marigolds, white and red chrysanthemums, and begins to rock it from side to side. The other women in the room slowly come forward and surround them. Kavita is engulfed by their singing voices, but even this cannot drown out the high-pitched cry she still hears. For a moment, she is struck with the disturbing thought that everything in her son’s life might be bittersweet for her.
She looks into Vijay’s face to see whether his new name suits him. It means victory.
A
QUIET KNOCK AT THE DOOR ROUSES
S
OMER FROM SLEEP
. S
HE
hears Krishnan mumble something, then hears the door open and feet shuffle across the floor. Through half-opened eyes, she sees one of the household servants walking toward their bed with a tray.
What is he doing here before we’ve even woken up?
Suddenly aware of her thin nightgown, she covers herself with the bedsheet and waits for Krishnan to shoo the man away. Instead, he sits up in bed, propping a pillow behind him, and takes a cup of a tea from the tray.
“Do you want some?” he asks her.
“What? No.” Somer turns over and shuts her eyes. She hears the clatter of a china cup and spoon, and the exchange of a few words before the shuffle of feet again, and finally, the door closes.
“Ah, bed tea,” Krishnan says. “One of the great pleasures of Indian living. You should try it sometime.”
Somer buries her face into the pillow.
Is there nothing that’s off-limits here? Any corner of our lives that isn’t subject to intrusions by your family or servants?
But she swallows back the words and says instead,
“What are we doing today?” Sunday is the one day of the week the government office is closed.
“Some friends of mine called me for a cricket match, if you don’t mind. I’ll play terribly, but it will be good to see them. Friends from high school, I haven’t seen some of them in ten years. My mom can take you out shopping or something, if you’d like.”
S
OMER STANDS ON THE BALCONY LOOKING OUT TO THE DULL
ocean, its gray waves lapping against the boardwalk. It is hot and muggy, but at least there is a respite from the rain. On the first day of clear weather in weeks, Krishnan has gone off by himself. Somer feels suffocated by the thought of staying inside again today, and even more put off by the prospect of spending it with his mother. She makes up her mind to go for a walk by herself, to get away from the stultifying pressure of this flat.
Stepping outside the building, walking past the tall gates and away from the watchful eyes of the doorman gives Somer a sense of freedom. Churchgate Station is up ahead at the end of the block, and on the opposite corner stands a sandwich shop advertising
BURGERS
on a placard out front. The thought of a burger after two straight weeks of Indian food is enticing. She walks up to the order window and says, “Two hamburgers please, with cheese.” She’ll eat one now and keep the other for later, something to break the monotony of curries and rice.
“No ham, madam. Mutton burger only.”
“Mutton?”
As in, lamb?
“Yes, very tasty, madam. You will like, guaranteed.”
“Okay.” She sighs. “Two mutton burgers please.”
The burger is nothing like what she’s used to, but Somer has to admit, it tastes pretty good. Feeling pleasantly full, she heads toward the ocean boardwalk, which has now become crowded with street
vendors and pedestrian traffic. Men walk together in packs, laughing, chewing
paan
and spitting on the sidewalk. She sees a mustached man eyeing her, staring brazenly at her breasts, nudging his friends. Somer self-consciously folds her arms over her chest, and the men break into laughter.
Disgusting pigs.
She walks, trying to breathe deeply and look at the water. But her eyes are repeatedly forced back to the crowds of people she must navigate. She expects the men to step aside and let her pass, to make some space for her in the crowd, but they don’t. Each time, she must force her way through, squeezing her own body in between others. Pushing her way through a particularly reluctant group, Somer feels a body press up against her buttocks and a hand squeeze her breast. She darts around to see a couple young men snickering, one of them with stained teeth making kissing gestures at her.
Somer feels panic rise in her throat as she pushes through the crowd, looking for an opening to escape. Marine Drive is buzzing with six lanes of traffic that never seem to stop, so Somer weaves her way through, one lane at a time, with horns blaring and cars narrowly missing her. She walks rapidly down one of the side roads toward home. Once her fear subsides, indignation and anger percolate in its wake.
These men are pathetic. How can Kris be from here?
She desperately wants to talk to him, but he is still out when she gets home. Thankfully, everyone else appears to be napping, so she stashes her leftovers in the fridge and retreats to their room. She fills two pails of water in the bathroom and washes every inch of herself before dressing in a clean nightgown and lying down on the bed until Kris gets home.
S
OMER WAKES UP TO LOUD CLANGING NOISES FROM OUTSIDE THE
bedroom door. She looks at her watch and realizes hours have passed. She hears Kris among the raised voices outside, steps into the hallway,
and Kris’s mother rushes past without acknowledging her. Somer walks into the living room, where she sees Kris arguing with one of the servants. The balcony outside is littered with various kitchen items—pots, pans, cooking utensils, dishes, cups—and another servant is furiously scrubbing each one of them. She walks toward the kitchen and sees a third servant dumping jars of flour, rice, and beans into the trash. Somer watches in disbelief as the servant empties out the entire platter of spices, at least two dozen small steel bowls.
“Kris?” Somer says. “What’s going on?”
Kris spins around, his face creased in anger. Without a word, he takes her by the arm, walks her into their bedroom, and closes the door. “What were you thinking?”
“What do you mean?” She feels her heart rate quicken.
“What the hell were you thinking bringing meat into this house? You know my parents are strict vegetarians. You polluted the entire kitchen.”
“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”
“My mother practically had a heart attack. She wanted to throw out every single dish and pot, but I convinced her they could be disinfected.”
“Kris, I didn’t know.” She gets up from the bed. “I’ll help clean it—”
“No.” He grabs her arm. “Don’t. You’ve done enough. Just leave it alone now.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” She sits back down and begins to cry.
“What do you mean, you didn’t know? Are you so wrapped up in your own head you don’t notice where you are? I’ve told you they’re vegetarians. Did we cook any meat when they came to visit us? Have you ever seen meat served in this house?” He shakes his head.
“I should go apologize to your mother,” Somer says, standing up.
“Yes,” Kris says, “you should.”
Somer finds Kris’s mother in one of the bedrooms, sitting with Kris’s brother’s wife on a bed draped with various multicolored silks. She gives the open door a polite knock. “Hello?” she says. “May I come in?”
“Yes, Somer,” Kris’s mother says, unmoving.
Somer perches on the edge of the bed. “These are beautiful,” she says, running her hand over a pile of red silk.
“We are choosing saris for a wedding this weekend, one of Dr. Thakkar’s colleagues.”
“Oh. Well, I just wanted to come and apologize to you for the…for your kitchen. I didn’t realize…I didn’t mean any offense and I’m very sorry.”
Kris’s mother nods her head from side to side. “What’s done is done. Let’s put it aside.”
“I guess I wasn’t thinking. I was a little upset.” Somer takes a deep breath. “I went out for a walk and had a disturbing experience. This man—or two men, I’m not sure—they touched me, on the boardwalk.” Her mother-in-law, brow furrowed, peers at her. “They touched me,” Somer continues, gesturing to her chest, “you know, inappropriately.” She exhales and waits for them to understand.
Her sister-in-law speaks for the first time. “Krishnan let you go out by yourself?”
“Yes, well, no. He didn’t let me, exactly. He was at his cricket game, so I went for a walk.”
“No, of course he wouldn’t do that. Krishnan knows better,” his mother says. She turns to Somer. “It is not appropriate for women like you to walk on the streets alone. You should not have gone without one of us, for your own safety.”
“Women like me?” Somer asks.
“Foreign women. Your bare legs and arms, your blond hair. It’s asking for trouble.” She shakes her head firmly with a disapproving look.
Somer thinks back to the midcalf-length skirt and T-shirt she wore this morning.
Not appropriate?
“I’ll…remember that next time.” She folds her arms and stands up. “Sorry to interrupt.” She walks quickly down the hallway to their bedroom and pulls the door closed behind her. She tries to fight her growing resentment toward this country, the feeling that everything here is tainted: that the biased adoption process, the opaque cultural rules, and the oppressive weather, all are wrapped up with India as a whole. She expected to feel at home with Krishnan’s family, not so utterly out of place.
Is this how I’ll feel in my own family, like an outsider?
Asha and Krishnan will look alike, they will have their ancestry in common. Her daughter will always be from this country, which feels so foreign to her. She rummages through her suitcase for the pair of sweats she hasn’t worn since the plane, and despite the sweltering heat, pulls them over her nightgown.