The Lost Daughter of India Page 14

  ‘India!’ thought Caroline, and she couldn’t help it; a sense of fondness, or nostalgia, settled within her. This was the place she had come to with such love, such enthusiasm, so many years previously and, like it or not, it had won a little corner of her heart. And it was Asha’s home.

  Asha! If all went well, in a few minutes she’d be holding Asha in her arms. Caroline had made every effort to maintain a positive attitude throughout everything. Clung to the belief that all’s well that ends well; that the lack of news about Asha, the lack of correspondence, had a very plausible reason and Asha would be right now – she looked at her watch –right now happily sitting in class.

  Hmmm. That meant she wouldn’t be at home. Very well, then; they’d drive straight to the school and take her out of class for the day. The school principal would understand. She smiled. The school principal – that was Viram, Sundari’s husband, Asha’s foster-father! Of course he’d understand. They’d take her out of school for a day. Do something nice with her – a day trip somewhere. And finally, she would connect with Asha. All the worry about her, the suppressed panic, had forged invisible bonds that cut through every last bit of estrangement. Asha was her daughter, her beloved; and she had finally found the deep and lasting love that had been so absent when she was a baby. All would be well.

  And so, Caroline wallowing deep in positive, loving thoughts, the taxi drove up to the Iyengar abode.

  Kamal and Caroline stepped out of the cool air-conditioned taxi interior and into the heat that already felt like an oven warming up, though it was not yet even mid-morning. Caroline removed the light cotton shawl she had been wearing to ward off the chill of the car’s interior, but then remembered that the spaghetti straps of her summer dress might count as disrespectful, and so draped it once again across her shoulders.

  They walked through the gate and approached the front door. Everything seemed the same as it had ever been. Nothing had changed. They had worried for nothing. Caroline talked the hammering of her heart into calmness. Somewhere within her fear still lurked, fear, the uncontrollable enemy that ever fought for supremacy. The enemy she forced into retreat again and again and again, tirelessly. She would beat it. She would.

  Footsteps, behind the door. Sundari was coming to open it. They would fall into each other’s arms, weeping, and all would be well.

  But the door opened and a strange woman stood there. Not Sundari. The woman looked them both up and down without speaking.

  Kamal spoke.

  ‘Is Mrs Iyengar at home?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘No Eengleesh,’ she said.

  ‘Mrs Iyengar – Sundari!’ said Kamal, louder now, as if No English translated to Deaf.

  ‘Sundari, Sundari!’ said Caroline, brightly, smiling, trying to peer into the dark interior of the house as if Sundari might be lurking there, right behind this strange woman with the green nylon sari and rattling bangles on both wrists.

  ‘Sundari…’ The woman lolled her head to one side, tongue hanging out, eyes rolled back. An unmistakable mime for a terrifying possibility.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Caroline, her voice far too loud, trembling. She had never learned much Tamil during her stay, apart from a few essential words, now forgotten. She had wanted to, but then, why bother? Everyone of consequence spoke English.

  Everyone except this woman here, who seemed to be – temporarily – of consequence.

  ‘Do you speak Hindi?’ said Kamal in that language. The woman shrugged again and made as if to shut the door in their faces.

  ‘Where’s Asha? Where’s Viram?’ Caroline tried to keep her voice low, calm, rational, but panic had already closed its cold fingers around her heart and was pressing down, and the words emerged shrill, alarmed. The woman’s gesture was unambiguous. Sundari was dead.

  Split-second emotions shot through Caroline, darts of conflicting reactions.

  First, panic gave way to joy. Because Sundari dead was exactly the kind of plausible explanation she needed for Sundari’s silence. Then joy gave way to shame – shame that she should feel joy, not grief, or shock, on learning of Sundari’s death. What kind of a woman, what kind of a friend was she, not to first care about Sundari, to wonder how she died? Then the assertion: I’m a mother, that’s who I am. Asha’s well-being comes first. Then, again, worry. If Sundari was dead, where was Asha? Who looked after her? Who was this stranger at the door? This last emotion emerged as prominent. She had to know.

  ‘Where is Asha? Who looks after her?’

  ‘No Eengleesh,’ said the woman again and this time succeeded in slamming the door in their faces.

  Caroline and Kamal stared at each other in confusion. Then Kamal said the only sensible thing in the circumstances.

  ‘Let’s go to Viram’s school. Ask Viram what happened. And Asha’ll be there too, at school. It all makes sense. Sundari has died. There was no one to reply to our letters, send the birthday photographs. With all his grief and everything, Viram must have forgotten, or didn’t even know about our correspondence. We’ll go to him.’

  ‘Oh – r-i-i-i-ght!’ said Caroline, cheering up immediately. ‘That must be what happened. But poor Sundari! I wonder how she died – how suddenly. She never mentioned any illness. Poor Viram. And the children, half-orphaned! I wonder if that woman is Viram’s new wife?’

  They were back in the car by now. Kamal shook his head. ‘Probably just a housekeeper. She’s uneducated. Viram wouldn’t marry someone who doesn’t speak English. Trust me on that.’

  Quite relaxed now, Caroline chuckled. ‘You’re right about that. If ever there was an Indian Anglophile, it’s Viram. He’d marry an English-speaking woman.’

  Then she remembered again that Sundari was dead, and adjusted her voice and her conversation accordingly. How callous and cold I am, to laugh like that! Sundari is dead! I must grieve! I must be more caring!

  ‘Poor, poor Sundari. Poor Viram, poor children. It must have been devastating for them. No wonder we didn’t get any news about Asha. Viram probably didn’t even think of contacting us in his grief.’

  ‘Yes: that explains why Viram didn’t inform us right away. It would have been the last thing on his mind. It probably didn’t even occur to him that we’d need to reconsider leaving Asha with him. And with that strange woman.’

  Caroline shuddered. ‘I didn’t like her at all. She’s definitely not a fitting foster-mother for Asha. We’ll have to take her away immediately. Oh, Kamal!’

  They looked at each other and smiled, both knowing what the other was thinking. With Sundari’s passing, Asha would be theirs. No reason any more to leave her in India. Caroline reached out, took Kamal’s hand and squeezed it. She left it there, because his hand was cold. Kamal had never liked air-conditioning – he always froze. She smiled indulgently, took a deep breath and closed her eyes, her head slightly thrown back against the back-seat upholstery. She knew it! That was the logical explanation that had been missing. Sundari had died, and no one had thought to inform them. Asha was so much a part of the Iyengar family that Viram, absent-minded as he was about domestic affairs, had possibly forgotten completely that she wasn’t. She could easily imagine him forgetting that Asha had biological parents who’d need to be updated.

  She began to dream. This meant that there was no reason on earth to leave Asha with the Iyengars any longer. Not even Janiki was still here. Sure, this was Asha’s home and no doubt she loved it, loved Viram, but Caroline was in no doubt whatsoever that Asha, now twelve, would be mature enough to understand the chance now offered to her. She would go to America! Surely that was the dream of every single Indian child! She, Caroline, would pluck Asha out of India, whisk her off to Cambridge and show her a life she could until now have only dreamed about.

  Of course there was the question of Kamal, who, as her father, would also perhaps want a piece of Asha. But Kamal was a single man, a single working man. In Dubai. He could not offer her a home. She could. They would find a way. Kamal could come and work in
America, to be near Asha. They would work something out—

  ‘Here we are!’ said Kamal, jolting her out of her daydream. She had been visualising Asha in America, starting high school. Making new friends, pyjama parties, swimming pool parties. Christmas and Thanksgiving and Halloween – what a life waited for her! But first of all, a vacation. They all needed that.

  The school was a little way outside of town, a large, functional two-storey building. The taxi drove into the grounds under an arched entrance gate and parked in front of a sign that read Jawaharlal Nehru English Medium Academy. Secondary Co-Education.

  Once more, they stepped out into the broiling heat. Caroline was sure she’d catch a cold with all this back-and-forth between the extremes of hot and cold. They entered through the main door. The place was quiet, not a soul to be seen. Obviously everyone was at lessons; all the teachers, all the pupils. They found themselves in an open hallway with a broad staircase leading up, and a corridor leading off. A sign pointed towards the corridor that read, among other things, Principal’s Office.

  Kamal gestured and they both turned down that corridor.

  There was the door. Kamal rapped on it.

  ‘Come in!’ said a voice from within, and Kamal opened the door and they both walked in, smiling in preparation for meeting Viram again.

  The smile did not last long, because sitting behind the dark wood desk was a stranger.

  ‘Oh!’ said Caroline, stopping in her tracks. ‘Excuse me, but…’

  ‘Mr Iyengar? Where is Mr Iyengar?’ Kamal asked.

  The man at the desk half-rose, looked from one to the other. His initial smile of welcome morphed into a more appropriate expression of solemnity.

  ‘I am sorry to inform you that Mr Iyengar has passed away.’

  ‘Viram – dead too? But – when? How? He and his wife – both dead?’

  The room was not air-conditioned and the overhead fan did little more than move the hot air around, but Caroline felt suddenly cold. All over.

  The man was speaking again.

  ‘I am the new principal – Pande is my name, Gopal Pande. My name is actually on the wall outside the door. Are you friends of Mr Iyengar? I am so sorry to break the news to you; it must be such a bad shock. He and his wife were involved in a tragic accident two months ago and neither survived.’

  ‘Oh my God! Both of them! I can’t – I just can’t…’

  So not just Sundari – Viram was also dead. Caroline grabbed Kamal’s arm for support. She felt faint; she swayed, and Kamal placed his arm around her for support.

  ‘Yes. It was extremely sad, especially for the children of course.’

  ‘But – Asha? Asha Bhandari? Our daughter? We need to see her. She is a pupil at this school.’

  ‘Oh! Asha! Delightful little girl – but she is no longer with us. She was taken out of school about four weeks ago.’

  ‘Asha – not here? But – but… and the other children? The other Iyengar children? What happened? You see, we are her parents – we need to know!’

  ‘I think, Mr and Mrs Bhandari, you should take a seat. We need to talk. Can I get you a glass of water? Coffee? Tea?’

  Caroline did not bother to correct him regarding their names. She was still cold, numb inside. She needed something to shake off that numbness. ‘Coffee, please,’ she said as she took a seat across the desk from Mr Pande.

  Kamal nodded. ‘Yes. I’ll have coffee too.’

  Mr Pande picked up a phone on his desk, punched a button and spoke into the receiver: ‘Two coffees please.’ He then turned back to his visitors, shoved some papers to one side, linked his fingers on the desk in front of him, leaned forward a little and said in what was obviously meant to be a soothing voice, ‘Mr and Mrs Bhandari—’

  Kamal interrupted. ‘I am Mr Bhandari. She is Mrs Richmond. We are divorced. We came to Gingee to find Asha because we have had no news of her for all this time – usually we hear from Mrs Iyengar punctually on her birthday and this year there was only silence. No one told us the Iyengars were dead, no one told us Asha was removed from school. Who took her out of school? Where is she now?’

  Righteous anger was in his voice now, and Caroline laid a calming hand on his arm.

  ‘We do need an explanation, Mr Pande. Who removed her from school?’

  Mr Pande coughed.

  ‘Well, it was another Mr Iyengar, I believe a younger brother to the deceased. It seems he took over the care of the children and moved into the house. He came soon after the deaths and said she would no longer attend the school. It happened very suddenly. He took all the Iyengar children out of school.’

  ‘Where did she go to? Which school? This is ridiculous! We are paying fees for this school!’

  ‘Well, perhaps he sent her to another school in Gingee, a free state school? I wouldn’t know, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But we pay fees! He has no right!’

  Kamal looked at Caroline. ‘That woman at the house must be his wife.’

  He turned back to Mr Pande. ‘You say he took all the children out? So all the boys have gone too?’

  ‘Yes. The eldest boy of course has anyway graduated high school – he attends the engineering college, I believe. The eldest daughter Janiki is studying in Madras, I believe; probably married by now. There were four boys left and they were all taken out of school. I assume that Mr Iyengar the younger could not afford school fees. Although his two daughters are now pupils here – strange indeed!’

  ‘And you don’t know which school they are going to?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I’m sorry; no, I don’t. There are two or three state secondary schools in Gingee.’ His face brightened. ‘But we could ask one of his daughters. She would know!’

  At that moment a woman knocked and entered the room bearing a tray with two mugs. She placed the tray on the desk and handed Caroline and Kamal a mug each. The coffee, of course, was already milked and sugared. Caroline had forgotten that that was the way coffee was served in South India. She liked hers black and no sugar; she sipped at the milky liquid, then put down the cup. It was horrible. Much too sweet.

  ‘Miss Pillai, please ask Miss Sohini Iyengar to come here at once. She is in fourth standard.’

  An awkward silence descended on the room once Miss Pillai had left. Kamal sipped at his coffee, and Caroline decided to give hers a second chance, simply so that she’d have something to do. Mr Pande spoke of the heat and the drought and obviously wished them gone.

  Sohini Iyengar rapped on the door, Mr Pande called ‘Enter!’ and she did, standing before the desk with hanging head.

  Mr Pande spoke to her in Tamil, and then explained,

  ‘She and her sister don’t know a word of English yet. It’s hard for them – they struggle. I just asked her which school her brothers and Asha attend.’

  He turned back to the girl, and gave her a sign to reply.

  She said something in Tamil. He asked more questions; she gave more answers. Mr Pande said, ‘She says she doesn’t know what school the boys attend. And Asha has gone.’

  ‘Asha, gone? Gone where?’

  More conversation in Tamil. Mr Pande raised his voice and the girl seemed to visibly shrink. He then sent her away; she shuffled to the door and disappeared.

  ‘I’m sorry – she doesn’t know much. She just says that Asha was bad. She doesn’t know any more than that. The family is living in their deceased uncle’s house. She just says that Asha is a bad girl. She won’t say more than that.’

  Kamal stood up, his face like stone.

  ‘Thank you for your time and your help, Mr Pande. I think we must have a little talk with this Mr Iyengar. Come, Caroline.’

  Caroline nodded her thanks, turned and walked to the door, coffee hardly touched.

  Chapter 26

  Caroline

  Kamal and Caroline slid back into the taxi’s back seat. The driver, who had been sleeping upright behind the steering wheel, sprang back into life, turning to ask for fur
ther directions.

  ‘Same house,’ said Kamal, meaning the Iyengar house, and the driver seemed to understand at once (they are so intuitive! thought Caroline) turned the ignition key, rolled up the windows, switched on the air-conditioning and drove off.

  Caroline reached into her backpack for her water bottle. The water was now lukewarm. It didn’t matter; her throat was parched. Her body was parched. She finished it off.

  ‘Kamal, I’m scared,’ she admitted. ‘What’s going on? Why did no one tell us that Sundari and Viram were both dead? Why did they take Asha out of school?’

  ‘I don’t know but we’ll find her. Viram’s brother has a lot to answer for. We’re paying school fees for Asha and she should have been left in the school no matter what the circumstances.’

  ‘Kamal – look! I’m shaking. I can’t help it. I’m shaking.’

  She held out both quivering hands. Though it wasn’t yet cold in the car, Caroline’s teeth began to chatter involuntarily.

  ‘I’m so scared, Kamal. Where’s our daughter? I want my daughter!’

  She began to whimper. She placed her hands under her armpits and curled up on the back seat, into a ball. Kamal placed a comforting arm around her. She leaned against him, for courage.

  ‘She’ll be fine. Viram’s brother will tell us which school she now attends. We’ll drive right there, pick her up, and on to Madras. Don’t worry. She’ll be fine.’

  But in spite of his confident words Kamal, too, could not shake off the sense of dread that gnawed at his bowels, and he too felt the cold that comes from inside and freezes the very blood. He tapped the driver on the shoulder.

  ‘No AC!’ he said, and the driver turned off the cold and they opened the windows so that the warmth from outside entered the car, but it did not help, for the ice of fear had them both in its grip.