Mr. and Mrs. Mehta cannot understand what has become of their once dutiful daughter. When Kavita speaks to them on the phone, her voice is filled with such venom that they wonder if a rakshasa has taken possession of her. Their relationship with their daughter has been fraught with tension for years now. Finally, she gives them an explanation for her behavior. But you had such a good time that summer, they proclaim. The wedding, the fireworks, your tenth birthday in India with our entire family. When they repeat the phrase, Kavita wails and hangs up on them.
A few days later, when they reclaim some of their courage, they call their daughter once more. Kavita explains that her condition is called PTSD. It stands for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It’s what I have, she explains slowly. They dutifully write down the initials, repeating the full term until they can say it clearly. It’s what’s wrong with me, why I don’t feel safe. Ever. It’s why I cut myself. They can understand her fear for her own safety, but they cannot fathom how she can purposely harm herself. She tells them that she has been a prisoner of her own pain and of their toxic culture. They feel as if she is speaking a foreign tongue. Their culture is her culture; they are one and the same. She tells them that this is why lately she has refused to touch the feet of her elders during religious ceremonies or even bow in obeisance. She says she cannot be held to their cultural values. How can their own daughter devalue respect and duty, they ask? These were the cornerstones of their religion, the very fabric of their family life. The desire to comfort their daughter, to assuage her pain proves difficult to reconcile with the traditions of their culture. What hope is there for her if she turns her back on her dharma?
They insist on visiting her to make sure she is all right. They make the hour and a half drive to Sacramento so they can spend the day with her. Mrs. Mehta wakes up early to cook her daughter’s favorite eggplant dish and dal. She empties a cup of uncooked basmati rice into a plastic container along with a separate container for cilantro. When she gets into the Toyota Camry, she asks her husband if she should carry ghee, as well. She worries that Kavita has not been eating well. Mr. Mehta reminds his wife that there is a good Indian grocery store near their daughter’s apartment if they should need anything else. The Mehtas arrive exactly when they told her they would. Kavita greets them wearing a short-sleeve t-shirt and shorts. They were not expecting to be confronted by the raised scars on her arms, the half-moons on her wrists, the places where she had dug in so deeply with her nails that her skin bled.
During the quiet dinner, Kavita pushes at her food and glares at her parents. While her mother clears the dishes and rinses them before putting them into the dishwasher, her father asks her for recommendations on books that might help them understand her situation better. Kavita immediately sends them links to three books. On the futon that doubles as a sofa, Mr. Mehta glances through the bookcase on the opposite wall. Next to a long section on architecture and textiles there are three books on sexual abuse. One title in particular, The Courage to Heal, looks promising. Browsing through the table of contents with chapters titled “Believing It Happened”, “Breaking Silence”, and “Understanding That It Wasn’t Your Fault”, his mind spins with foreign notions. He closes the book and sees Kavita look at him, the judgment and disappointment plain in her eyes.
During the drive home, husband and wife vow to try and help their daughter. Mrs. Mehta cries herself to sleep that night. Over the internet they buy one of the books that Kavita recommended. Mr. Mehta cannot make it through the first chapter. It seems as if every page, every paragraph, indeed every sentence contains the term “sexual abuse”. The words freeze up his mind’s ability to keep reading. Mrs. Mehta flatly refuses to read any further saying she cannot bear the pain.
During their next phone call, Kavita cries and screams at them. They need to stop making this about them, she yells; that she cannot take care of them anymore. They do not understand what she means by this kind of language; it is the parents’ duty to take care of their child until they are grown, then the duty reverses to the child. Had she forgotten this tenet of their culture, too? But with each new accusation and her unrelenting cries, they understand that they can no longer share their pain with her. It only brings more anguish to their already tormented daughter.
After Mrs. Mehta hangs up the phone, she sits down hard on the dining chair, slaps her palm to her forehead. We have made a grave error, she says to her husband. The reason for our daughter’s bad luck is all in her name. Mr. Mehta does not understand the relationship between their daughter’s name and the current state of her life, but over the years he has learned to simply bear witness to his wife’s superstitions. I’ve been speaking to my sisters, she tells her husband, they say that we were wrong not to name Kavita according to her rashi, Leo. Names under that sign should start with an M or a T. If I had followed our tradition, then she would have had luck in her life instead of well, what she has now. She puts her head down into her hands, her elbows on the dining table. She places the blame on herself for her daughter’s misfortune. She wonders if she was too selfish to name her daughter according to her own fanciful wants. Clearly her desires were the central cause of this trauma. But there exists a remedy for her daughter’s suffering. They say I must consult Panditji for guidance, she says finally.
The family astrologer, known for his accuracy, claims that Kavita was born under a waning moon which is one source of her problems. Confirming the error of going against her rashi, he says that names starting with M or T would have brought her luck. Mrs. Mehta asks, Meenakshi or Tania, maybe? Then she interrupts her own thoughts, grasping for the right words, But did her chart foretell this kind of… incident, she asks. The astrologer hesitates before answering. She hears the shuffle of papers on the other end of the phone line.
You must understand, I cannot predict everything, but yes, there is an indication of what we call victimization. This is the second source of her suffering. But we can cure this condition by marrying her to someone who also has this sign in his chart.
But Panditji, she says, it is too late for that; she is already a divorced woman! Her divorce from a perfectly good Gujarati boy a few years prior had brought its share of shame on their family.
The final nail in the astrological coffin of Kavita’s misfortunes is a moving target. It seems that your daughter is prone to the evil eye. The astrologer explains. She garners jealousy from women because of her beauty and from men, due to her intelligence. But all can be assuaged with the purchase of certain gemstones to offset these harsh attributes in her chart. The gemstones can protect her from further damage from the evil eye. Mrs. Mehta prays that these astrological interventions might be a means to right an egregious wrong.
Mr. Mehta wires the astrologer the money for the consultation and the gemstones. On their next visit, she gives the small cache of gemstones to Kavita and tells her to keep them in her purse for protection. When she calls, her mother discreetly enquires about the stones, careful not to push. Kavita tells her that she put them exactly where they belong. Mrs. Mehta is troubled by her daughter’s answer, but is afraid to ask for fear of angering her further. Mrs. Mehta tells her husband that they made a mistake by not consulting the astrologer before they married her off. To think all this could have been avoided, she cries to her husband. The whole of her life, she clasps her hands together in prayer, moving them back and forth from her forehead like an axe, could have been avoided.
Word spreads through the family of Kavita’s accusation. The Mehtas do not know what kind of repercussions to expect from their extended family, since the uncle now lives in the States with his wife, Kavita’s masi and their two children. The Mehtas explain to the family members that Kavita’s charges are not baseless. They carefully relay what Kavita has explained to them about repressed memory. But whispers and questions infiltrate the family: Did she find the uncle attractive? Was she in love with him? Did her imagination play a horrible trick on her? With each phone call, their resolve ebbs and flows until finally, they are left standing alone on an island far away from their daughter and isolated from their relatives.
Mr. Mehta vows to join his wife during her weekly pujas and attempts to read Hindu scriptures that he hasn’t touched for decades. He is unclear as to what these acts will accomplish, only that he must take action. At the request of the Mehtas, the pundit from their local temple performs a puja on their daughter’s behalf. The pundit instructs them to take the offerings from the puja, cooked rice, the heads of marigolds and carnations, and a red powder made from burnt turmeric, and deposit them into a large body of water.
Driving fifteen miles to the closest body of water to their home, the Carquinez Strait, they cross the Benicia Bridge and look for a place to park. The items, which they’ve secured into a white plastic Safeway bag, hold the hope of healing for their only child. Mr. Mehta makes his way carefully to the edge of the guardrail; his wife warns against going too far. He calls to her to stay where she is. She continues to shout her warnings as he hurls the bag like a cricket ball towards the water. It lands on a bank of rocks, a few feet from the shore, missing the water altogether. What have you done? His wife cries. He stares at their lone offering to Lakshmi, now just a piece of refuse among a few discarded bags of fast food and some soda cans. Defeated, he makes his way back carefully to the car. They drive in silence, all the way back to their single-story home in a safe neighborhood within a top-rated school district. It was all they could do. It was all they knew to do.
Photo by Sydney Latham on Unsplash
