Shilpi Somaya Gowda’s debut novel, Secret Daughter, is about daughters. It's also about sons and husbands and wives and grandmothers, but the primary relationship she focuses on is that between mother and daughter. Mothers and daughters, whether bound by blood or not; mothers and daughters, whether they know each other by face or not.
In 1984, a poor village woman, Kavita, realizes that the only way she can keep her newborn baby daughter alive is by giving her away to an orphanage: her husband, adamant on having a son, knows that he cannot afford a daughter and the dowry she will need when she grows up – he has already taken away from Kavita her firstborn daughter and had her quietly killed. So Kavita trudges to Mumbai with her sister and hands her three-day old daughter into an orphanage.
Halfway across the world, an American paediatrician named Somer, married to an Indian neurosurgeon, Krishnan Thakkar, discovers the devastating truth after several miscarriages: that she can never bear a child. Initially reluctant to accept Krishnan’s suggestion that they adopt a child, Somer finally agrees – and the child they get is Asha, the same baby whom Kavita had left at the orphanage a year earlier.
Two stories play out simultaneously: Somer and her husband and daughter in the US, and in India, Kavita and her husband and the son she bears. In California, Somer finds herself gradually drifting away from Krishnan and Asha, their Indianness binding them together, her resentment growing even though she continues to love them both. Back in India, Kavita’s husband Jasu is driven by poverty to shift to Mumbai, and the little family arrives in the horrifying slum of Dharavi… where, years later, a twenty-year old Asha, now an aspiring journalist and yearning to find her birth parents, comes.
For a while, this seemed to me to be gearing up to be rather like an old Hindi film. The child separated from parents. The distinctive silver bangle, the only reminder of Asha’s mother, which Kavita had placed on her infant wrist. Near brushes between mother and daughter in the teeming metropolis.
Somaya Gowda, thankfully, does not go the whole hog and turn this into a Bollywood screenplay. Instead, this is a story not just of relationships, but also of how the choices we make – for whatever reason, often seeming true and good at the time - can have unforeseen consequences. It is about journeys, not just literal but also, more importantly, about the journey through life: of learning about oneself and about people around. Of forgiving, of accepting, of building bridges.
I liked the plot of this book (before you start going by the fact that it’s an international bestseller, let me warn you: this is ‘literature lite’: it’s good, just not as impressive as I'd expect from something with such rave reviews.
For me, as an Indian, what really got in the way of enjoying Secret Daughter were the number of jarring, often cringeworthy errors caused by poor research. Two names, for instance: Krishnan (as any Indian will know, obviously a name from South India) coupled with the last name Thakkar – and a Gujarati? (Yes, there could've been an interesting story about how and why a Gujarati family decided to give their son a Dravidian name, but since it’s never mentioned, I’m guessing this is a case of the author not knowing). Or the poor farmer named Jasu Merchant. Highly, highly unlikely. Or (and this one was hilarious), the motorbike and scooter tycoon Rajaj. And then there are sad distortions of Hindi words, like lengha (instead of lehenga) and khadi for kadhi. Or the bizarre explanation that a jamai (son-in-law) is the wedding procession in which the groom comes to the ceremony.
Yes, if I hadn't been Indian and/or hadn't known too much about this country, I'd probably have liked Secret Daughter much more.