The paramedics came surprisingly quickly. During the ambulance ride her mother couldn’t speak as she had an oxygen mask on, but her eyes focused on Jyoti every now and then, as though she wanted to say something.
“Blood pressure dropping,” a paramedic shouted to the driver. Jyoti teared up. The paramedic jostled Jyoti out of the way in order to administer an IV, and soon they were at the hospital, rolling her mother on a gurney, out of the ambulance, and down drab hospital corridors with fluorescent lights. Jyoti tried to keep up, wanting to glean something, anything, from the frantic medical talk between the paramedics and nurses, but before she had a chance they whisked her mother away. A nurse held Jyoti back, saying, “You’ll have to remain here, dear.”
Jyoti languished in the waiting area over the next two hours. Despite her pleas for information the nurses at the administration desk told her, “She’s being treated. We’ll inform you of any changes at once.”
Jyoti thought about calling Gavin from the pay phone a hundred times. But what would she say? That her mother might be dying and her period was two weeks late? She thought about calling her father but decided not to until she had more information. What could he do half a world away besides worry?
She kept telling herself that she couldn’t be pregnant, that she and Gavin always used protection. Always? Made her sound like the town whore. She’d only done it three times. But the last time, in the heat of the moment, Gavin was inside her for a minute—not even a minute—without a condom, but then they stopped and made sure to put one on like they always did. The orgasms she’d had that night were overwhelming; she’d had no idea it was possible to feel that amount of pleasure, euphoria, followed by deep calm.
If she could hear herself thinking this way a few months ago she’d never have believed it. The old Jyoti wouldn’t have recognized the new mad-sexpot-possibly-pregnant Jyoti who couldn’t think straight while her mother lay dying. The antiseptic smell of the hospital made her stomach feel queasy, and again she felt tipped over into a state of vertigo.
After two cups of tea, she finally called Gavin. When he picked up and said hello, she hung up.
After another hour and a third cup of tea, a female Indian doctor only a few years older than Jyoti came to speak with her.
“I’m Dr. Whiteman,” she said. They shook hands. The doctor explained, “Your mother’s condition is stable now.”
Dr. Whiteman summarized: “Your mother had gastrointestinal bleeding, likely from a stomach ulcer, which made a perforation in her stomach. If she were to have come any later, the ulcer could easily have made the perforation rupture, possibly eroding a blood vessel, which would very likely have been catastrophic. She’s lucky you called the ambulance in time. There was considerable blood loss so we’d like to administer a blood transfusion. We need your permission for that.”
“Of course,” Jyoti said, signing a form the doctor handed her.
“We’ll need to keep your mother overnight, monitor her recovery, but with some medicine and good luck, she should be able to return home in a day or two.”
Jyoti couldn’t help but note the irony in Dr. Whiteman being neither white nor a man. Jyoti assumed Dr. Whiteman was married to an actual white man and wondered if they were happily married, if Dr. Whiteman’s family had any objections to it, if she’d been disowned by them. It was unlikely. She seemed at ease, confident, and even though Jyoti had never been envious of coconuts like Dr. Whiteman, she now found herself coveting the doctor’s independence, her impunity, because she grew up and lived in a country where every single neighbour didn’t gossip and judge her, where people were free to do what they wanted, choose who they would marry, or at least a lot more than in India.
“Thank you,” Jyoti said. “I’m a student and I have National Insurance but my mother doesn’t.”
Dr. Whiteman said, “Well, you’ll have to fill out some paperwork with the nurses for the bill then. I suggest you fill this antibiotics prescription, make sure she takes them, and get her home as soon as she’s well enough to travel to see a doctor.”
“Of course. Thank you. Can I see her now?” Jyoti asked.
“Certainly,” Dr. Whiteman said. She paused before adding, “While your mother was being given anesthesia, she said something about you being pregnant? She seemed very alarmed.”
Jyoti shook her head and let out a little laugh. “It’s nothing, she just worries about everything.”
Dr. Whiteman said, “If you’d like to do a test, we can provide you with one. Your choice.”
As Dr. Whiteman left, Jyoti stood immobile, wondering how in the world her mother had suspected pregnancy, how astronomical the bill for her mother’s operation would be, how their lives might never be the same again.
Following the instructions on the pregnancy test, Jyoti urinated in a cup. A positive cross would appear if she was pregnant, a single horizontal negative line would appear if she wasn’t. Out the window of the toilet she could see the Battersea Power Station. Its red bricks were glowing in the evening sunset. It was similar to the view she had from her bedroom. When she’d first arrived it had seemed like a cold and foreboding giant, with its four tall smoke stacks. But just a couple of weeks ago, very early one Sunday morning, when she and Gavin were coming home from Carmen’s all-night birthday party, they’d looked at the sunrise over Battersea Park from her bedroom window and the power station seemed different then. Eerie, yet soothing, almost beautiful. It was on a famous Pink Floyd album cover, Gavin told her. He played her some of the album. She didn’t care for the music at all. It was strange, nihilistic, but she could see why it was one of his favourite album cover designs.
As she stared out now at the power station, she wondered about her kundali. The whole idea of stars and planets being in certain positions predicting your fate seemed ridiculous. But hundreds of millions of people believed it. For the sake of her mother, who was so proud of Jyoti’s kundali, Jyoti never said anything derisive about it. And yet, looking back on her life, it seemed as though her kundali had summed everything up to a T: she was shy, sensitive, excelled academically, and now she couldn’t help but think of the bit about having at least one son and a very happy marriage with her soulmate. Was that Gavin? Was she carrying their child? She stopped herself from being so mawkish and prepared herself for the test result, but before she could even finish putting her pants back on a positive cross appeared on the stick. Her heart quickened. It had to be a mistake—a faulty stick. She had expected it to take at least a couple of minutes. The fact that it yielded a result so quickly proved that the test had expired or had been unwittingly tampered with. Perhaps being in a hospital around so many pregnant women and babies did that to pregnancy tests—all those hormones in the air. She headed straight for the nurses station.
“I’m sorry, but may I please have another test?” Jyoti asked. “This one didn’t work.”
The nurse stared at her for a moment before giving her another one.
Luckily, Jyoti had a little extra urine left in her bladder from all the tea. While she waited she thought of the flowers on the floor where she’d found her mother. Obviously from Gavin. She must have met him. What had he said to her? A small bunch of daisies and irises tied together with a simple piece of string—probably not from a High Street florist, and the thought of Gavin picking them from a garden or park for her was romantic. He might have just nicked them off a table from the restaurant he worked at. There was something even more chivalrous in that.
She checked the test. Another positive cross. She expected to feel as though she were going to plunge again like a skydiver without a parachute, but instead felt a sense of exhilaration. She imagined herself as a mother, caring for an infant, and it didn’t petrify her. In fact, it comforted her. She realized she’d longed for it without knowing it. Perhaps this was meant to be, perhaps Gavin was her soulmate. She had the sensation of flying, soaring.
But she was just twenty-three. And her parents would never allow it. It would k
ill her mother. Literally. Her poor mother. Jyoti had caused a nearly fatal bleeding ulcer. And that was just because her mother suspected she was pregnant. What would happen if her mother were to find out she wanted to have the baby with the grubby gora?
Was it even possible? Maybe she could stay in London and have the baby after all. The baby would automatically became a citizen. Would she eventually as well? Would she be disowned by her family? Never allowed to return home? Would Gavin abandon her and the baby to travel to Timbuktu? He probably wasn’t ready to be a father. Would he want to marry her? Would she want to marry him? What kind of life would she have with him? He was a cook who made five pounds an hour. What would she do? There were recruiters who came to the LSE, offering jobs in the city at financial institutions and insurance companies. A few of her classmates like Carmen had gotten jobs and visas. Their grades were lower than Jyoti’s so she might not have any trouble getting a job. She could work for a while, go on maternity leave, and then go back to work while Gavin cared for the baby. But even if that were possible, the shame would be too great for her mother to bear. What would her mother tell their family and neighbours? That her daughter was living in a run-down council estate flat with her half-breed baby and the father, a dropout-art-student-cook?
Jyoti told herself to stop dreaming. She’d only known Gavin for a couple of months. Did she really even know him? If he were to find out about her being pregnant he’d be scared out of his wits. He was only twenty-one. He’d most likely conceal his panic, tell her that he’d support her in every way, but hope for an abortion. They were too young. It was the kind of thing that ruined lives.
“Would you like to see your mother?” a nurse asked.
Jyoti nodded and was led to her mother, who was sleeping and hooked up to machines that beeped reassuringly. The nurse left them alone. Jyoti touched her mother’s tepid hand. Would Jyoti ever be able to forgive herself?
How in the world had her mother intuited Jyoti’s pregnancy? Would Jyoti have that kind of clairvoyance with her child one day?
Outside the window the gloaming sky was darkening. Jyoti scanned the horizon for the power station, but from that room it was nowhere to be seen.
- 27 -
1997
ON THEIR WAY TO THE women’s clinic, seated on the top deck of the double-decker bus, Jyoti and her mother rode past verdant plane trees. Jyoti’s stomach grumbled. As per the instructions on the pamphlet, she was to refrain from eating before the “procedure” (her mother refused to call it an abortion).
In the waiting room, while flipping through a magazine, Jyoti came across a serene photograph of a lovely English estate complete with ducks and a pond. It reminded her of the evening picnic at St James’s Park—the night she’d lost her virginity. Was that the night the baby was conceived? It wasn’t really a baby, Jyoti kept reminding herself. At this stage it was a tiny, microscopic sea monkey. A zygote. A blob of cells dividing and multiplying. She’d leafed through medical textbooks about prenatal development in the library. Her pregnancy was at week seven or eight. Complex cell division didn’t begin till week eight or nine, which is when cells divided and grew a heart, a spine, lungs, and other major organs. Right now, it was just a blob. But didn’t the blob have a soul? Contain the necessary DNA that would lead to life?
A few days ago, as soon as her mother had been released from hospital, she prayed a few malas at home, sitting cross-legged on the floor, and calmly asked Jyoti, “Is it true? You’re with child?”
Unable to look her mother in the eye, Jyoti confessed. “Yes.”
“We will take care of it. And never speak of it again.”
Jyoti’s mother refrained from reprimanding her. She barely spoke to Jyoti, who felt as though she was drowning in shame. Over the next few days, Jyoti did nothing but work on her thesis and sniff lemons to subdue her nausea.
When it was time to go into the operating room, Jyoti’s mother followed her in. Jyoti wanted to go in alone, but feared that her mother would feel hurt, further betrayed, so Jyoti remained quiet.
The room was sterile. The bleached white sheets and shiny metal instruments made the room seem even more antiseptic. Naked under her gown, Jyoti lay on the bed and placed her feet in the stirrups. A kind nurse held her hand. The anaesthetic needle pierced sharply, making Jyoti wince. Her mother grasped Jyoti’s other hand and began to mouth the gayatri mantra. The numbness followed quickly. She could faintly feel the doctor, a middle-aged man, broaden the entrance to her uterus, then begin scraping, and then the suction machine began. Jyoti stared at the empty white ceiling, willing herself not to cry. The postcard from Turkey that she’d received yesterday came to mind. Cobalt blue water, surrounding a lush green island with a white sandy beach all drenched with bright sun. On the back:
Dear J,
It’s bloody brilliant here. Working on Jerry’s uncle’s boat is hard work, but fun in its own way. I tried to see you before I left to explain the last-minute excursion. I’ll be back in a week or two. Can’t wait to see you! Was that your mum I briefly met?!
Gavin. xo
PS: I got us 2 tix to Glastonbury! Radiohead are playing!! We can camp in a tent!
Jyoti had remained in the lobby for ten minutes, reading the postcard again and again, then ripped it up and threw it in the rubbish bin before going up to her flat. There was no point in keeping it. If her mother were to find it, it might trigger another ulcer.
A few minutes later, the doctor was done and Jyoti was surprised the procedure was already complete. She wondered how the blob/baby was discarded. Did they incinerate it? Or just chuck it in the rubbish? She was about to ask but realized how morbid her curiosity would seem. Twenty minutes later, she was permitted to leave with her mother.
In the taxi on the way home, Jyoti’s mother asked, “What can I get you, my baby? Anything. You name it. Chocolate pecan ice cream? I still have some kaju-katri that I brought from home.” The silent treatment was over. Now that the bastard half-breed blob/baby was expelled, Jyoti was forgiven.
Jyoti was aware that she’d have to live with this secret forever. It wouldn’t be difficult to keep hidden. No one else in India would ever know. But she wondered if it would haunt her one day. Would telling Gavin be the right thing to do? He was having fun on boats and beaches with plenty of cute girls in bikinis. He’d forget about Jyoti soon, if he hadn’t already.
A few days later, her mother convinced Jyoti to finish her thesis in Bombay. “Everybody at home is so excited to see you. Chaya’s wedding is in two weeks.”
Dr. Whiteman had recommended her mother return home soon so it wasn’t a difficult choice for Jyoti to make. And ever since the procedure, Jyoti had been glum, apathetic. When it came time to pack their bags, Jyoti’s mother was the happiest she’d been while in London.
Walking towards the terminal at Heathrow from the underground station, Jyoti thought she saw someone who looked like Gavin from the corner of her eye. There were dozens of people, all busy with their bags, saying goodbye or hello, looking at signage to guide them to or from the airport. As she got closer to him she realized he was due to return from Turkey around then. He didn’t spot her in the crowd. She hadn’t seen him in nearly a month. His hair was a little longer. As she kept walking with her mother, who was trying to figure out where their airline kiosk was, Jyoti recognized one of his friends with him. It was definitely Gavin. He looked different with a tan—healthier. He was walking in her general direction. The crowd was thick. He was busy laughing and talking to his mates while carrying his luggage. He’d still not spotted her. What were the chances of running into him at the airport like this? Was it a sign that they were soulmates? Should she call to him? His name was on the tip of her tongue. What would she say? Hi, I just aborted our child. I’m going back to India. Have fun at Glastonbury and have a nice life!?
“I found it. Air India—this way. Come,” her mother said.
Jyoti continued walking with her mother into the terminal, grappling with the
fact that she’d never see Gavin again.
- 28 -
1964
WALKING ALONG WALKESHWAR ROAD, VAROON made his way to Wilson College, down Malabar Hill towards the beginning of Marine Drive, near the Chowpatty sea face. Unlike most of the other students from the affluent Malabar Hill area, who would either get driven by their fathers’ drivers or take the bus, Varoon walked, along with servants, washerwomen, vegetable sellers, and the like, sharing the thin road with buses and cars and rickshaws that careened around corners. To be safe, the pedestrians had to stay on the inside of the road, the side that wasn’t on the precipice of a cliff, which, depending where on Walkeshwar Road you were, dropped more than a hundred feet into the governor’s verdant residence or the ocean.
Draped behind a lush grove of thick palm trees and Sonneratia mangroves, the gothic stone structure of Wilson College stood more like an impenetrable fortress than a school. The monsoons, along with the new school year, had just begun, but a heavy downpour had not yet submerged the city. Instead, light showers drizzled, licking the dry grey stones of the college into a slick black sheen, and the faded red roof had turned into a dark shade of maroon in the saturated air.
Like many students at Wilson College, the twenty-one-year-old Varoon Sharma was enrolled as a bachelor of commerce student and would graduate in a year. Despite not having many friends, Varoon liked most of his classes. He enjoyed reading how Henry Ford created quality cars and sold them at an affordable price while paying workers a fair wage. It was the type of thing India needed. Varoon often came home from college with ideas of how to increase production and revenue at his family’s small furniture shop, but his father insisted the few workers they employed do everything by hand, not machine. The old man had a penchant for antiques and didn’t bother making newer styles of furniture. Over time they argued about it less.
An Extraordinary Destiny Page 18
