The Unexpected Son (10 page)

A long time later, he got to his feet and returned to bed.

He knew what he had to do.

S
arla immersed herself in making breakfast—spicy omelets made with chopped onions, hot green chilies, and coriander leaves.

Cooking was like an old friend—warm, comforting, always ready to listen in silence. Whenever she was troubled about something, she liked to stand at her Burshane gas stove and cook. Besides, a good breakfast would fill her children's bellies and keep them going until their flight reached Bombay and they could get to Vishal's flat.

She gazed out on the awakening dawn through the open back door while the omelets sizzled and filled the kitchen with the aroma of eggs and onions cooking. The night's fog still hadn't lifted completely. Dew sat heavily on the bushes. The swing that she and Vishal had shared the previous night stood still on the veranda.

Vini used to love that swing. Because of its size it had been a big attraction for the neighborhood children. A half dozen of them could huddle together on it at the same time.

Years ago, Vini and her little friends had sat on it for hours, whispering, giggling. They would abandon the swing only when the sun started to go down and the mosquitoes would drive them indoors. Even now, Vini used it often, gliding gently while she studied for her exams or listened to her favorite Vividh Bharati music program on the transistor radio. On chilly winter mornings, she sat with a woolen blanket wrapped around her.

Picturing an innocent, young Vini on that swing, wiggling her tiny toes and singing Hindi movie songs along with the radio in a high-pitched voice, was enough to make Sarla sigh and turn her attention back to the stove. The tears came despite her efforts to stem the tide.

In the course of a single day, everything in Sarla's near-perfect life had gone upside down. It wasn't exactly perfect, but then whose life was? Her son was working so far away from home. Her brother and sisters and their families were scattered and she rarely saw them.

Her blood pressure, too, was a little on the high side lately, so she had been asked by the doctor to eat less salt. “How can anyone eat food without salt?” she'd asked him.

“I didn't say eliminate it. Just eat less,” he'd told her gruffly. “You don't want to have a stroke or heart attack, do you?”

It was hard to curb the salt, but she was trying to use less of it in her cooking, mainly because she didn't want to die early like her father, who had died of a paralytic stroke while he was still quite young. He had had high blood pressure, too.

She hadn't been able to sleep at all the previous night, even after Vishal had assured her he'd take care of everything. Bhalchandra, or Bhal, as everyone called her husband, was finally snoring after a restless night, so to allow him his rest she'd slid out of bed as quietly as she could and headed for the kitchen.

Soon they'd all be up and bustling to get Vishal and Vini to the airport. She wiped her damp eyes with the edge of her sari. From now on she'd be alone in the house during the day. Not that it was any different in these last several years, since Bhal's business had expanded and he worked late hours in his office, six days a week, and the children were in school or college most of the day.

Since Vishal had left home for Bombay, at least her daughter had been around to talk to. Daughters were usually more attached to the parents, too.

Most evenings, while Vini studied, Sarla did her cooking or worked on her embroidery. While they waited for Bhal to come home to a family dinner, their silent companionship was pleasant.

Now, all of a sudden, Vini was leaving, too. And under such a black cloud of scandal and misfortune. Why, Lord? When things were going so well for her daughter, when she was the brightest student in her class, and had such a promising future, why had the silly girl gone in search of trouble? In some two years she would have had a degree and she could have married a nice young man and had a good marriage—and a career, too.

Even though Vini had somehow ended up committing a youthful indiscretion, why hadn't she confided in them earlier? Things could have been fixed—to some extent, anyway.

Now her chances for both a career and a marriage were reduced to nothing. Who would marry a girl with a horrible reputation? And an illegitimate child on top of that? The whole world would find out…sooner or later. Their town was notorious for vicious gossip.

If the ladies at the Palgaum Club, especially Vandana and Girija, discovered the truth, the news would travel faster than the rockets the Americans and Russians were shooting into space. And how was Sarla going to face her friends over the next high tea? How was she going to explain such a shameful thing to those smirking women who were jealous because Sarla's children were so intelligent and earned such high marks in class—so much higher than their sons and daughters?

And then there were the servants. They would start asking questions about Vini. Thank goodness the washerwoman didn't start work until late morning. Vini and Vishal would be long gone by then. But seeing Vini and most of her personal belongings missing, Sulu was certain to get curious. Later in the evening, the man who helped clean the house and Bhal's office would show up. He was much more withdrawn than the washerwoman, but he, too, would surely wonder where Vini was.

As soon as Bhal woke up, she'd have to take him and Vishal aside and decide what explanation they were going to offer for Vini's sudden and long absence. They had better come up with a credible one.

All this plotting and lying was giving her a headache. Oh Lord, what a lifelong burden. How was she going to survive the scandal? She could only pray that Bhal's business didn't suffer as a result of this. What if his conservative clients decided to take their business elsewhere? There was no shortage of tax preparers in Palgaum.

The omelet was turning brown on the bottom, so she quickly flipped it over and let it cook on the other side. Bhal disliked burnt food.

As the dawn sky began to lighten and turn a light shade of coral, she sliced the bread, slathered the slices with her freshly churned butter, and toasted them on the cast-iron
tava.
The tea was brewing in a stainless-steel pot.

Hearing footsteps, she turned around and saw Vini standing on the threshold. “You're up early,” she said to her daughter, noticing how listless and exhausted she looked. The girl probably hadn't slept in days.

“Couldn't sleep,” said Vini, stepping inside.

Now that she knew about her daughter's condition, Sarla eyed her for a moment, then looked away. A slight bump showed quite clearly through Vini's long cotton gown. Why hadn't she noticed that before today? Was she so blind that she hadn't seen something that was as clear as that sun blooming over the horizon?

She had always assumed she and her daughter were close, that there were no secrets between them. But Vini had obviously been harboring a huge secret for months. Was she afraid to confide in her own mother? She had to be, to have concealed so much. Did Vini's friends know what was going on? If yes, how much of this had already spread through college gossip?

Even if Vini had hidden the truth, wasn't a mother supposed to know every little thing about her own child? It wasn't as if there were no signs. Vini had been eating very little, studying less and slipping in her class rank, getting irritated for the most trivial reasons, rising in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, and spending several evenings a week away from home.

With so many things going on right under her nose, Sarla still hadn't guessed the obvious. And for that reason she despised herself more than her errant daughter. A mother was supposed to protect her children, prevent them from making mistakes.

She had failed in her maternal duties.

“Why don't you have some breakfast while it's still hot?” Sarla suggested. The girl needed some nutrition, now more than ever. Despite being in the family way, she'd lost weight in the last few weeks.

“I'm not hungry,” she mumbled as usual. “I'll have some tea.”

Sarla turned off the burner. “Now listen, Vini. You have to eat something. All this starving is not good.” She pointed the spatula at her. “Look at you—thin as a bamboo.”

“But I can't help it.” Vinita sank into the nearest chair. “The thought of food nauseates me.”

Sarla bit back a remark. Why hadn't she suspected morning sickness all these weeks when Vini had wrinkled her nose at breakfast? “Tell me what you feel like eating and I'll make it for you. Starving only makes the nausea worse. Too much acid in the stomach.”

Vini rolled her eyes.

“I know what I'm talking about,” Sarla said with an irritated frown. “I had the same thing when I was carrying Vishal. But eating a little dry bread usually helped.”

With another eye roll, Vinita agreed. “All right, I'll have a slice of dry bread with my tea.”

“No more tea for you,” Sarla informed her. “You should drink milk.”

“Ugh…I don't like milk.”

“I can add a little tea to flavor a hot cup of milk.”

“All right,” Vinita grumbled, and slid lower into the chair. She let her eyelids drop and tilted her head back to rest it atop the backrest.

While the milk warmed in a pan, Sarla observed her daughter, the curve of her arched neck, the slight tilt at the tip of her nose. She was such a good girl, or had been…until now. Sarla had considered herself blessed because she had a decent husband, bright children…until now. God had been good to them…until now.

But try as she may, she couldn't withdraw herself from her own flesh and blood. Vini was still her daughter, no matter what she'd done. Sarla would have to try harder to get past the anger and disappointment and think of ways to face the bleak future. And bleak it would be, no doubt. Marriage was out of the question, so Vini's only option would be to study hard and make a good career for herself.

Using a towel to lift the heated pan, Sarla poured the milk into a cup, then stirred a little of the brewed tea and sugar into it. Putting a slice of bread on a plate, she placed both before Vini. “Try to eat a little.”

Vini opened her eyes and looked up at her, holding her gaze for a long time. And for the first time Sarla saw the anguish in her daughter's eyes, churning like a storm-driven sea. Everything the girl hadn't told her seemed to be lodged there. All her secrets were in the dark orbs glistening with unshed tears—the shame, the pain, the guilt, the remorse.

Her child had made a horrible mistake. And she was suffering.

Instinctively Sarla raised her hands and cradled Vini's face in them. The cheekbones and jaws felt small and fragile. Her baby was in so much pain, and could not undo the damage she'd done to herself.

In the next instant Vini's arms wrapped themselves around her waist, her face buried in Sarla's chest. “I'm s-sorry, Mummy.” The sobs that racked the girl's pitifully thin body were convulsive.

Sarla held her daughter and shed silent tears of grief, helpless to do anything beyond offering the comfort of her arms and a steady hand on the back.

Bombay—1977

A
s one more contraction crested, Vinita couldn't hold back a groan. She'd never known such torture in her whole life.

“Take a deep breath.” Her mother pressed a cold towel dipped in water to Vinita's forehead. “It will be over soon,” she soothed.

“God,” Vinita responded, coughing hard. She grabbed her chest till the coughing ceased. Then she collapsed deeper into the mattress as the contraction slowly subsided. Too slowly. In seconds it would come again…with a vengeance. This had been going on for some seven hours. She didn't know which was worse, the coughing fits or the labor pains. They seemed to coincide with each other.

The baby had not yet turned, and was breech, according to the doctor. They were waiting to see if the fetus would turn itself. Sometimes that happened spontaneously, she was told. The middle-aged nurse, Jaya, or Jaya-bai as everyone respectfully addressed her, had been rubbing her belly every now and then in the hopes that the baby would shift. But so far the child hadn't budged.

Her mother smoothed the hair away from Vinita's face. “You were a breech baby also, but somehow they massaged my stomach and coaxed you into turning.”

Vinita remained silent. She had no energy left to converse with her mother. She knew her fever was high. The coughing fits and the tightness deep inside her chest left her gasping for breath. Her eyes and throat burned. She hadn't had anything to eat or drink in several hours. Being in labor meant she couldn't have food. All she had were small sips of ice water. The hunger left her weak and shaking.

“Why are you being so stubborn?” her mother scolded. “Why didn't you take the medicine when the doctor prescribed it last week? You wouldn't have become so sick.”

“It would have affected the baby.” Her mother was referring to the antibiotic she'd refused. The baby's well-being came first, even if she herself was deathly ill. She had read somewhere that antibiotics taken by the mother could adversely affect her unborn child.

“If the mother becomes so sick, don't you think
that
is going to affect the baby?”

She didn't need to be reminded of that. It was something Vinita had been thinking about in the past couple of hours, when the contractions had gone from three minutes apart to two, and then one.

But no matter how acute the suffering, she was glad she had not aborted the baby. He'd been kicking with all his might for the past several weeks, reminding her that he was a human being, with all the rights he was entitled to.

She knew it was a boy. He had to be. He was an athlete's son. He'd grow up to be a cricketer one day—maybe even play on India's national team. What if he were to do that when his wretched father couldn't make it past his insignificant small-town team? Wouldn't that be something to rub in Som Kori's smug face?

Her mother blew out a frustrated sigh. “Then why don't you at least let them do a caesarean section now? You are too sick for this.”

“I don't want an operation…Mummy,” she insisted.

“You can't even breathe. You want to die giving birth or what?”

Vinita knew her mother was somewhat right. In the very last week of pregnancy, she'd contracted something that resembled the flu. Then it had abruptly turned into pneumonia.

Another agonizing contraction started to build up and she held her breath, waiting for the pain to engulf her.

She had been waiting a long time for this—four months of living with Vishal in his flat.

All the noisy urban crowds and the traffic and pollution pressing on the outside of the tall building had not curbed the loneliness she'd felt deep in her bones. Listening to the mix of sounds outside their flat each day while Vishal was at work was like being shut inside a self-imposed prison. She hadn't stepped out of the flat other than to visit the doctor.

She had reminisced about sitting in a cramped classroom, surrounded by her classmates—something she hadn't given much thought to at the time, during her carefree days in Palgaum. College was good. Even studying for exams had appeared much more attractive than watching the world go by while her belly grew bigger and her chances for any kind of a life seemed to diminish steadily.

Such big dreams she'd had about a career, independence, a life away from her family—with just enough space to accommodate them when she chose to do so. She loved them, but didn't want them to strangle her with their conservative ways.

Several times, she'd wondered if perhaps abortion would have been the best solution. Then immediately she'd discarded the notion. She couldn't have done it. Never.

She'd thought about Prema, her parents, her other friends, and mostly about Som. Did he ever wonder what happened to her? Was he the least bit curious about whether his child was going to be aborted like he wanted, or if it lived? He hadn't even asked when her due date was. Were there other children in the world fathered by him? If so, how old were they? Had their mothers kept them or given them up for adoption?

A hacking cough hauled her back into the present moment. And the wrenching pain.

It was another half hour before the doctor showed up again. He was busy delivering other babies and treating other patients. But Vishal hadn't lied when he'd said Dr. Ram Gupte was a kind and caring man. He was all that and more. Not once had he made her feel dirty for carrying an illegitimate child or asked her any questions about the baby's father. Ram had large brown eyes that seemed to see beyond the patient's face. He was a gifted doctor.

Ram checked her chart and shook his head. “Listen to me, Vinita,” he said with infinite patience. “Your fever is too high and your breathing is extremely labored. And the baby hasn't moved. We have to do a C-section.” This was the second time he'd repeated it in two hours.

“Can't we give it a few more minutes?” begged Vinita. Her skin felt like it was on fire and she felt her strength ebbing with every minute. Each breath was harder in coming.

But the thought of a major operation was even more alarming than giving birth. Surgery was so extreme. They'd cut open her abdomen and lift the baby out. She hated blood and gore. She'd heard ghastly stories of serious postoperative infections. And the baby. What if something went terribly wrong when they were administering the anesthesia?

The doctor shook his head. “The baby could suffocate and die inside, you know. It's been trying to come out for a long time, but it can't. And you don't have the strength to push.” He let his words sink in. “You could die.”

She pondered silently for a few seconds. Maybe she and her baby would die together. If that happened, it would serve Som Kori right. He'd have that on his conscience for the rest of his life and many lives afterwards. If he had a sense of right and wrong, that is. But her own conscience wouldn't allow her to let her baby die. She contemplated for a moment.

“Okay, then, let's do it,” she murmured finally, and closed her eyes. “But I want to see Vishal first.”

Jaya-bai hurried out and brought Vishal in. Her brother had been waiting outside for hours, probably pacing the length of the small waiting room all that time and driving himself insane. She hadn't given much thought to what he might be going through.

“What's the matter?” Vishal looked alarmed as he rushed to her bed. “Why aren't you allowing Ram to perform the operation?”

She braced herself for the next contraction and nearly screamed when it gripped her. As her face scrunched in agony, she managed to notice Vishal's expression. Pure panic. The poor chap was even more scared of all this than she.

A minute later, when she could think rationally, she looked at her mother and brother by turns. “Vishal, I want you to promise me something.” It would be Vishal and her father who'd make the decision, so it wasn't worth including her mother in her request. Mummy would go with whatever the men decided.

“What?”

She moistened her parched lips with her tongue. “If I die—”

“You won't die!” he said, cutting her off. He turned to the doctor. “Tell her, Ram. Tell her she won't die.”

The doctor adjusted his glasses. “It is major surgery. And Vinita has an infection.” Perhaps seeing Vishal's terrified expression, he patted the air with both hands. “Don't…jump to conclusions. We perform them quite frequently—and our success rate is very high.”

Vinita noticed his answer didn't exactly diminish Vishal's concerns. And it left her with little hope, too. “Vishal,” she said, “I want you to take care of my baby if I die.”

Her brother thrust his hands in his pant pockets and raised his face to stare at the ceiling—for a long time. Meanwhile, another contraction came and went.

She couldn't see his expression, but she knew he was hit hard by what she'd said. He'd been very gentle with her these past few months, more than she deserved. He'd made sure she was comfortable and was seeing the doctor regularly and eating well. She hadn't expected that from an old-fashioned brother who was so dead set against her decision to have her child.

It was several seconds before he lowered his gaze to her, by which time he had his stern mask in place. “I'll do my best.”

“You promise?”

He nodded.

She reached out and grasped his wrist. “Make sure you keep him away from Som.”

He nodded again. His eyes met Ram's and Jaya-bai's across her bed and the three of them exchanged a glance.

In the next instant, Ram and Jaya-bai were lifting her onto a gurney and wheeling her away into surgery. Too fatigued to think anymore, she sank back and let them take her wherever they pleased. Ram's clinic was small, so the ride was brief. Even through closed eyelids she could tell when the gurney came to be placed under bright lights.

She wasn't sure if it was the fever that made her hallucinate or the pinprick she felt in her arm as they hooked her up to the anesthesia that immediately started dulling the pain, but she could have sworn she saw a baby above her. It was a tiny infant, bald, naked, floating just beneath the ceiling. She saw the hazy image briefly, wanted to reach out and touch it. But her hands and arms felt like lead, impossible to lift.

Then everything went still and dark.