Read Online Secret Daughter by Shilpi Somaya Gowda - Free Book Online

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. Thereare 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