The Stolen Girl (18 page)

B
reakfast
: Fruit salad.

I haven’t heard from the social worker. I don’t know how the visit went. Last night, I was feeling positive. Now, I feel like a failure. I think she hated me. I think she will not want to see me again.

Mid-morning snack: Kiwi Fruit.

The social worker just called! She’s coming to see me again. My daughter. That means the visit went well, doesn’t it? That means it did.

She wants to see me again. She wants to come back to visit.

Lunch: Two helpings of happiness and a serving of excitement.

A
arti cannot wait
. She cannot sit still. She paces up and down, up and down, fifteen strides each way. She paces and she rehearses what she will say to her daughter.

Aarti does not want to call her Diya, the name Vani gave her, but her child will not answer to Rupa, having inherited her father’s stubborn streak along with his eyes. Should she call him, tell him she has met his daughter, their daughter? Not just yet. For now, Aarti wants to hug the reality of her daughter close, savour the fact that she has found her, met her, is going to meet her again, before sharing her around.

She stands in front of the wardrobe, open and spilling its contents, deliberating on what outfit to wear. Something voluminous, in case her daughter feels threatened by how slim she is. Something that gives the suggestion of curves.

Her daughter is like a delicate butterfly which will fly away at the slightest hint of movement. Aarti needs to take her on her terms. As she is already doing. Aarti is so proud of herself for not asking the question that had bloomed on her lips the whole time she was meeting with her daughter, ‘How did you get so fat?’ For not bursting out with, ‘That woman abused you! Look how you’ve turned out.’ She did not say anything, but the thought hovered, the elephant in the room.

After not losing anything in her life, to lose her daughter, her most precious heirloom, to Vani was devastating beyond measure. And now is the time to even the score. To better the score. Already she is winning. Her daughter has come to visit once and is coming again. Aarti has that to look forward to. Vani has nothing but the prospect of long years in jail.

Aarti sits on the bed – the room does not feel like prison anymore; it has pleasant connotations now. This was where her daughter sat yesterday, worrying her school blazer which was too short for her by the looks of it. At this age they are always growing, shooting up overnight almost, she knows. Vani will not get to see this but
she
will. About time.

She smiles.

D
iya
, my darling,

Do you remember that Mother’s Day when you were ten?

As soon as I pushed open the door to the flat, you ambushed me. You had made me the most wonderful card: a woman wearing a shimmering, multi-hued sari, vermilion kumkum and a wide smile fashioned from red fabric.

‘That’s you, Mum,’ you said, beaming at my expression of awe.

For her skirt, you had painstakingly pinned actual sequins. The card glittered and shone. It was so beautiful it took my breath away.

And then, you produced a bouquet of the most exquisite roses. ‘Because nobody gives you flowers and a woman should be given flowers,’ you said, repeating a line you had memorised from one of your books.

You must have saved your pocket money for a week at least to get me those flowers. I was humbled, overcome, floored by your love.

Afterwards, while we were eating, you said, completely out of the blue, ‘Mum, we learnt about King Solomon’s judgement in RE today.’

‘Huh?’ I asked.

‘You don’t know the story?’ Your eyes lit up. You loved educating me.

‘No,’ I said, smiling quietly to myself.

‘Mum! How could you not?’ You rolled your eyes in that way you have and launched into the story. ‘King Solomon was approached by two women both claiming a little boy for their own. Each said she was the mother of the child.’

I choked on my rice. Had to take a sip of water while you waited, impatiently, to continue. I nodded weakly when I was able to recapture my breath. The roses grinned at me from the bottle masquerading as a vase; pink, red and yellow smiles of daughterly love.

‘So what do you think King Solomon did?’ you asked.

You were waiting for my cue, so I said, my voice shaky. ‘What did he do?’

‘He called for a sword.’ You paused for dramatic effect.

The smell of roses mingling with curry assaulted my nose.

‘He said the child must be split in two and one half given to each woman.’ You looked up at me to assess my reaction.

‘Mum, why on earth are you crying?’ You rolled your eyes. ‘It’s just a story! And he didn’t even hurt the child because the real mother cried, “Please don’t kill my child. She can have him.” And that was how King Solomon knew who the real mother was.’

You came and put your arms around me, kissing my cheeks and very gently wiping away my tears, your touch silky and delicate as butterfly wings. ‘Mum, you cry about the silliest things.’

I held you close, breathed in the apple scent of your hair and murmured, ‘Why do they have to tell you such gory tales anyway?’

And you laughed, the sound like the spring in the village of my birth gurgling at the height of summer, and I laughed right along with you.

My sweet, you must have heard from the lawyer by now. Your heart would have jumped in your throat when you heard of my request. Was it joy? Or fear? I am sorry to have to subject you to this constant upheaval, this rollercoaster of emotions.

I asked the lawyer if they would need to take your blood for the DNA test and he said no, just a swab of your mouth. I was relieved. I do not want you to hurt any more than you are already.

All my love to you, my sweet,

Mum

G
uilt

Noun:
a feeling of responsibility or remorse for some offense, crime, wrong, whether real or imagined.

Synonyms:
contrition, regret, self-reproach, shame, compunction, qualm, chagrin.

‘
W
hy did
you lie to me?’ I ask the moment the door is opened and I see the emaciated woman who claims to be my mother looking back at me.

She flinches, takes two steps backward as if she has been slapped. Jane sighs and squeezes my hand gently as if to say, ‘is this necessary?’ The room smells of old secrets and fresh regrets, a musty achy smell. A trill of feminine laughter drifts in from outside, obscene in the charged silence.

This time I did not take snacks for the journey to visit this woman. I did not need any buttress. I was alert, prepared. On the way here, the list of questions I want answers to was making circuits of my head like a racing car driver rehearsing his laps before the race.

She lifts a tremulous hand up to her cheek and rubs the papery skin as if I have slapped her and it is smarting. The bed is made, the little table beside it laid out with tea things. A pot of tea, a selection of biscuits: bourbons, custard creams and Jaffa Cakes arranged on a chipped saucer, shades of brown and white on blue. Two places set. A pang assaults me, I feel winded as if someone has punched me in the stomach, knocked the breath right out of me.

‘Tell me why,’ I say, my voice softer, less aggressive than before.

Tears are shining in her lacklustre eyes, highlighting them, giving them definition and much needed gloss. She looks glamorous, transformed.

I think of my mother, languishing in prison, of the pain this woman has put her, put me through. I have had to get used to living without the one person in the world who has always been there for me. I have had to deal with losing the one person in the world who is
mine.
I have had to depend on people I don’t even know, have had to bunk with strangers.

It hasn’t been too bad – I like Jane and Farah. Affan and Zain are cute and mischievous; they are obviously awed by me – I quite enjoy making them blush when I catch them spying on me, two pairs of huge brown eyes peeking from between the tiny gap of a barely open door. I have hardly seen Sohrab to form an opinion about him one way or another.

I don’t miss food like I used to which is a good thing as my jeans and skirts are loose on me now; I think I am losing weight. I do not need food as a crutch. I am realising that I do not need anything at all. I can endure, I can get by. I am strong. Stronger than I gave myself credit for, stronger than I thought I was.

But…there was no need for any of it; there wouldn’t have been this turmoil, this upheaval if not for this woman.

I feel a hundred years old, so far removed from the silly problems haranguing teenage minds. I even feel distant from Lily. I have no time for crushes. Seeing a girl hanging on Bhim’s arm yesterday, looking up at him adoringly, did not break me, only caused a tiny niggle of hurt. Compared to the huge pain that lives within me all the time, this was but a negligible scratch, mostly to my ego I suspect.

But I
want
to care. I want those silly concerns to be my life. I want to be an ordinary teenager and not someone carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, skipping lunch in the cafeteria – the jokes and banter, the discussion of who loves who, the rating of boys based on looks and ‘wow’ factor, the making fun of teachers – to give a swab for a DNA test. I want to have fights with my mother, hang out with my friends, get a tattoo, practise snogging in front of the mirror. I want to be normal.

And I cannot be. Because of her, this woman standing here in front of me, her hands hanging defeated by her sides, an expression of intense hurt on her face. I cannot let her off quite this easily just because she has set a place for me at the table, because it looks like she has waited all day to see me.

She has been waiting to see you for thirteen years.

‘What is your story?’ I ask. ‘Why are you here?’

She is silent, looking at me, her eyes huge in that emaciated face. Voices raised in argument drift in. A car sputters, once, twice, dies.

‘I had to give a swab for a DNA test this lunchtime,’ I say, holding her gaze. ‘My mother…’ she cringes as if I have hit her again, ‘…says I am hers.’

She shakes her head vigorously. ‘No. Nononono.’ Her voice is shrill.

Why is she acting like a petulant child? Why do I feel like I am the adult here, like I have to take control of the situation? For God’s sake, if anyone has been wronged, it is me.

‘I know my mum,’ I can hear my voice getting louder.

She shuts her eyes, sways on her feet.

‘She wouldn’t put me through this if she wasn’t sure, if I wasn’t hers.’ My voice wavers at the last.

She opens her eyes and walks up to me. She abruptly kneels down next to me and I can hear her brittle bones shift audibly, the sound like the crack of a whip. She leans close, her breath on my face and I try not to flinch, to move away. Her breath smells fusty, of mouldy onions with a slight tang of mint. Her eyes flash.

This close I can see the droplets clinging to her lashes like children reluctant to let go of their mother’s skirts. Lines emanate upwards and outwards from the corners of her eyes. I catch a whiff of lavender mixed with something lemony. The cream powder she has caked on her visage has dried and cracked; it has seeped into the lines of her face affording glimpses of leathery brown skin beneath.

‘You are mine,’ she hisses. ‘She stole you from me.’

She closes her eyes, rocks on her knees. Tears snake out from beneath closed lids and create runnels in the powder, which, when wet, looks like pink sludge. ‘You have no idea what I have been through. She betrayed me. She hurt me so much. She was my only friend in the world.’

I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to know. But…she seems so impassioned, so convinced. Suppose, just suppose she is telling the truth… Guilt sears, hot, laced with pain. Why would my mother put me through the agony of a DNA test? Why would she get my hopes up only to have them crushed? No, Mum wouldn’t do that to me. She wouldn’t. But what if her lawyer forced her into it? What if the DNA test proves that my mother is not actually…? No. No. I will not entertain that option. I will not.

Aarti stands up all of a sudden with another creaking of fragile knees. Her hand brushes mine and I look at it, bony, old. I don’t know what to think, what to feel. I am so weary. I just want all this to end.

Instinct takes over and I reach out, stuff a bourbon biscuit in my mouth, then another. The bilious, acrid taste of fear, of guilt. I rush to the adjoining bathroom, spit the biscuits out, gargle.

‘Here,’ Aarti is holding out something when I come back.

A crinkled piece of paper. I am afraid to take it, worried as to what I will find. But she is thrusting it at me and there is no way out.

I look down at the brownish yellow sheet in my hand, worn like the age-scarred skin of an ancient man, each line mapping out the years he’s lived, the experience he’s amassed. What am I about to discover?

A birth certificate. Father’s name: Sudhir Shetty. Mother’s name: Aarti Shetty. Child: Rupa Shetty.

It’s amazing how much a wrinkled little slip of paper smelling of mothballs and secrets has the power to hurt.

I do not know that child, I think. I cannot identify with a girl called Rupa Shetty. I am Diya Bhat. The girl on this sheet of paper, who is she? What could she have become? I imagine growing up in India, answering to the name of Rupa, walking to school with my hair tied up in two plaits on either side of my head, weighed down by a satchel of books like the children I have seen on television. I cannot. I imagine calling this needy, twig-like woman in front of me ‘Mum’; a masculine version of me, an unknown entity, ‘Dad’. I cannot. All I know is the life I have lived as Diya, with the woman the very thought of whom unleashes a flood of yearning in my heart.

I plop myself into a chair, holding my stomach. The piece of paper flutters with a soft sigh onto the carpet, an incriminating brown patch on creamy beige.

‘Tell me about her,’ I say and my voice is wounded. Soft. Like snow falling on a winter’s day, swirling and settling with a gush and a sigh, turning the whole world white like lies. ‘You said she was your friend.’

And sitting there on that hard wooden chair that bites into my back, in my school uniform that is a little too short and a little too loose, I listen to this woman recount tales of the young girl who came to work for her, who was her only friend and confidante, with whom she made a pact of everlasting friendship.

‘She was my servant. And yet, I loved her. I loved her with all my heart.’ Hurt and accusation creep into her voice. She sounds whiny, like a child with a complaint.

‘She is very easy to love,’ I say softly.

Her eyes well with tears. Silvery-blue like baubles. Like the sun shining on my mother’s favourite cream sari, making it glimmer and twinkle. How can the manifestation of grief look so lovely? So unabashedly beautiful.

Her sorrow overflows onto her face. Her make-up, which has collected in grey splodges on her cheeks, dissolves and regroups into flat little cakes when she wipes her eyes roughly with the back of her hand.

She reaches across and I baulk. I cannot help it. I see the hurt bloom in her eyes, and more tears squeeze out and join the others. I move closer to her and she touches a tentative finger to my cheek. Her finger comes away with a shining drop like a pearl balanced on the tip. I did not realise I was crying.

‘I was so shocked. I felt so betrayed. She was my friend, my confidante, my family. What she did…in one fell swoop, I lost all the family I had.’

‘Do you miss her?’ I ask softly, choking the words out past the lump in my throat.

‘Every day,’ she whispers. ‘Every single day.’

‘Then get her out. You can. You have that power. She is your friend, your family. How can you let her fester in prison?’

Her expression hardens; her gaze loses its shine. She wipes her eyes, smudges the grey splodges and looks at me, her countenance rigid, uncompromising. ‘Was. She
was
my friend. Not anymore. Not after this…’

‘She’s the only mother I have known.’ My voice ruptures. ‘I love her. Please.’

She stands up, looks towards Jane, wrings her hands. ‘I can’t. I cannot forgive her. Ever. You don’t know what she put me through.’ Her voice is cold as the blue-veined stones in that quarry we visited with my previous school, brittle as her bones. ‘I was a model, an actress, at the top of my game, one of the best in India. She took that from me. Afterwards… I couldn’t do anything, I had a breakdown. She ruined my career. She ruined
everything
.’

She looks at me and her eyes are like bullets, little black stones that glare at me. ‘Look what she’s done. My own daughter will not acknowledge me. My own daughter loves her, calls her mum, begs for me to forgive and forget.’

She slaps a hand on the table and Jane looks up from the perusal of her phone. It hardly makes an impact, though her bones crack audibly. ‘I hate her. I will never forgive her. She could have had everything. Instead she took everything
I
had, even the name I chose for you.’

I think of my mother, of that kind, soft face, those tired eyes that always lit up at the sight of me. ‘She loved me. She loves me. She has brought me up well.’

‘Exactly.
She
has brought you up. She has denied me the pleasure of rearing my daughter. Even now, you call her Mum and me Aarti. How can I forget? Forgive? Why should I?’

‘She did it because she loved me.’

Another crack on the table. ‘No.’ Her voice is a screech. ‘She did it because she wanted what was mine. She stole my life. She destroyed it. She wanted what I had. The one thing I wanted more than anything in the world. She knew that… She knew… And yet…’

She collapses in a flood of sobs.

Jane stands, comes up to me. ‘Time to go,’ she says and I nod, relieved to leave that room populated by the unassuaged grief, the blatant need, the searing anger of the woman I cannot think of as my mother.

Before I leave, I pat her shoulder awkwardly. I squeeze her bony hand, not too hard, aware of its fragility, its unbearable vulnerability.

‘Bye,’ I say, not being able to add ‘Mum’, to give her what she wants to hear, the word sticking in my throat, making me want to gag, making me ache, my heart yearn for another woman, the yellow taste of longing filling my mouth, the purple stain of guilt bruising my insides.

She pulls me close and I endure her hug, the feel of her bones jutting into my surplus flesh like accusatory fingers.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers into my hair and my heart perks up, hoping she’ll say the words I long to hear, hoping she’ll promise to talk to the police and help bring about my mother’s acquittal.

But instead she utters a jumble of words that I have to strain to catch. ‘I did not offer you tea or biscuits even.’

I hide the dullness in my heart, the hurt with a bright smile.

‘I will come back tomorrow after school,’ I say and her face lights up, shimmering, radiant, as she smiles through her tears.