A Life Less Ordinary

by Baby Halder

  IN THE HOSPITAL I—A CHILD, NOT EVEN FOURTEEN YEARS old—I, Baby, lay there alone crying and screaming. When the other patients began complaining, Baby was moved to another room, where she was put on a table and her arms and legs were tied. An ayah and a nurse came now and again to look at her. When she began to scream louder, the ayah called a doctor. The doctor put her on a saline drip and pronounced that she was in a bad state. “Don’t leave her alone,” the nurse was told. Around ten at night, Baby felt that something had come out of her. She asked the ayah if the baby had been born. The ayah and nurse burst out laughing. Then, suddenly, she got such a huge cramp that she became mad with pain. Had her hands and feet been free, she would have picked up whatever she could find and shattered it to pieces. The ayah said, “Poor thing, she is in such pain but nothing is happening.” Then she told Baby, “Turn your mind to God, or to Maha Kali, and everything will be all right.” Baby did as she was told. “Oh, God, jai Ma Kali,” she cried out, “your Baby can take no more! Please, either cure her or take her away, but don’t leave her to suffer like this.” Along with the prayer came another spasm of pain so strong that all Baby could do was to shout, “Ma!”

  The ayah and the nurse were standing at the foot of the table. The nurse said to the ayah, “I can see the head, but the baby is not coming out.” And so saying, she ran to fetch the doctor. By this time, Baby had taken leave of her senses. The doctor came and tied Baby’s stomach with a belt and then he felt the stomach and said the child had turned. The nurse fetched another doctor. Baby’s hands and feet were jerking with the pain, and she was straining so much that her bonds broke. Quickly, four people came and tied her up again. She continued to scream for her mother, “Ma, oh, Ma! I’m dying, Ma! Save me, Ma! Where are you?”

  The doctor caught hold of the baby and pulled it out. Suddenly Baby’s screams and wails died down and she became still. The passage had ruptured and had to be stitched up, and the nurse brought what seemed like frightening-looking scissors and knives to the doctor. Fearfully, Baby asked the ayah, “What is he going to do with all that? I am perfectly all right now.”

  “It’s nothing. Just lie still like a good girl.” Baby lay there, listening to the child’s whimpers. “Your son has been born on a good day,” the ayah said. “It’s ten minutes after ten on the night of Janamashtami, and his weight is not too bad, either: three kilos and ten grams.” And talking away like this, she kept Baby distracted while the doctor did his work. Once he was finished, he told the ayah that she could clean up. Oh God, there was so much blood—buckets full of it! Can one still have any strength after losing so much blood? “Clean her up properly,” the doctor said, and left.

  After the doctor had left, they took Baby off the table and tried to stand her up, but she fainted and fell to the floor. The ayah ran to call the doctor. The moment he came back, he said he was afraid something like this would happen. Then they picked Baby up and put her on a stretcher and took her to a bed. All Baby was aware of was faint voices in her ears, but she could not speak or even see anything. They tried to put her on a drip, but they could not find a vein in her hand. Another doctor then came along and said, “Here, let me do it.” He turned her hand this way and that and found a place and pushed the needle in. He then told the nurse that when one bottle finished, she should put a second one on. The nurse did that with first one, then another and then a third bottle and then she went away, telling the other patients that even if Baby asked for water, she should not be given it. In the dead of night, when Baby awoke, she felt fine but when she tried to get up she couldn’t. Her body felt as if there were nothing in it: she felt light and thin and as if she were glued to the bed. And she was very thirsty. She asked for water, but no one would give her any—they had been told not to. Just then, Baby noticed a bottle on a table nearby. She was beginning to feel that if she did not drink water she would die. She managed to stretch her arm out and grab the bottle, and drank all the water down in one go. In the morning when she woke up, she saw that her eyes and face were terribly swollen. When the doctor saw her he shouted at her: “Do you want to die? Why did you drink that water?” Baby could only weep. She had no answer.

  A little while later, the ayah brought Baby’s child and handed him to her, and then she demanded money to buy sweets. “Your first child has been born on such a good day: a Wednesday, and the birthday of the god Krishna. When will his father come? We have worked so hard, we’ve been awake all night, and you had such a difficult time as well.”

  Baby said, “Sister, I am terribly hungry.” The ayah went away and brought her some tea and bread and gave it to her, saying, “It’s time to feed the child.” Baby ate the bread and drank the tea, but she was still hungry.

  “Yes, and so you will be,” the ayah said, “after all, everything’s gone out of your body.” Then she changed the subject and asked again, “Isn’t anyone coming from your home?” She had barely said this when Baby’s husband arrived. The moment he appeared, the ayah said to him: “Look, Baba, we’ve stayed awake all night for her. Now give us our due.”

  Baby’s husband was delighted at the news that a son had been born to him. The nurse came and saw him and said, “Aha, look at the smile on the face of the father! Is there no one at home who could have spent the night with her here? If she had died yesterday, then who would have been there to eat this food that you have brought? You’re lucky that she survived because we had no hope that she would. What kind of man are you that you left her to suffer so much, and for so long, and without even bothering to show your face?” Baby’s husband listened to all this without a word. Baby said to him, “Show me what have you brought. I don’t know whether I will be able to eat anything or not.”

  The ayah said, “You need to give her support, she is still very weak. Feed her some good things. It’s not enough to give your attention to the child. The child’s mother also needs to be looked after.” A woman lying in a nearby bed, who was still in the hospital after delivering her child, repeated the same thing. Baby’s husband had brought some rice and dal from home and some fish curry from a restaurant. The child started to cry. Baby put him to her breast, but she had no milk. “First you should eat your fill and then the milk will begin to flow,” the ayah told her. “Until then, you should give him water with sugar in it. I’ll bring you some warm water.” Baby’s milk began to flow after two days.

  She was feeding the child when the doctor came. Startled, Baby put the child down. The doctor said, “Are you all right? You have had to suffer a lot. And look at your age, too! Why did you choose to have a child so young?” She did not answer. She kept looking around, unable even to say the child was crying and she needed to feed him. The ayah picked up the crying baby and gave him to her, saying, “Look at this, the child is crying. What kind of girl are you? You should be feeding him. I see that you know nothing at all! Tell me, how on earth will you bring this child up?” Then, her voice softened, “I think they will let you go home today. Make sure you give us our due before you go. Even if I am not here, you can pay whoever is on duty at the time. Don’t run away without paying, okay? Remember, we are the ones who have to clean up after you and there’s no way that can be paid back, but at least leave something for us.”

  The next day the doctor came around eleven o’clock. “And how are you feeling today?” he asked Baby gently. “We’re going to release you in the evening. You can leave with someone from your home. I’ll write you a prescription for medicines you need to take: just remember to take them at the right time and don’t work too much, all right?”

  Around noon, Baby’s parents came. When they did not find her in the delivery room, they went outside. She was lying on a corner bed. When she saw them she called out to her stepmother, “Ma, I’m here.”

  “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she said. “Your Baba is waiting outside.”

  “Who is this?” asked another patient.

  “My mother,” Baby said.

  Surprised, she sa
id, “My God, I find that hard to believe.”

  “It’s a boy, isn’t it?” Ma said, “You remember I told you it would be a boy? Go and show him to your father.” As Baby got up to go, another patient asked her, “Who has come? Is that your mother?” Then she turned to her mother and said, “So, Didi, aren’t you happy with your little nati, your grandson? Is he good enough for you to marry, do you think?’

  And Ma smiled and said, “He certainly is.”

  As Baby went out with the child, she saw her father, who cried out, “Don’t bring him here! Don’t!” As she continued to walk toward him, again he said, “Look at this girl! I told you: don’t bring him here. I will look at him at home.” Shortly after Ma and Baba left, Baby’s husband showed up. Baby told him that the hospital had released her. “Then let’s go home,” he said. “Wait, I will get a rickshaw. In the meanwhile, put your things together.” He walked off and then came back and told her to eat the rice that was there in the tiffin box. When Baby’s parents had come they had brought with them a cousin of Baby’s, Sadhna, the daughter of Baby’s aunt. They had asked Sadhna to go with Baby to help with the child, so when the rickshaw came, they all got into it and went back to Baby’s home.

  THE RICKSHAW STOPPED OUTSIDE THE HOUSE AND AS usual, when I saw what a state the house was in, I didn’t want to go in. Sadhna told me to wait outside while she cleaned up, so I sat outside with the child. Sandhya-di came when she saw me. Smiling, she asked me, “How are you? How does your body feel?”

  “I’m okay now, but I feel very weak.”

  “That’ll be there for a while. You’ve gone through a lot. Had it been anyone else, she probably would have given up long ago.” Then, raising her voice, she said, “Oye, Shankar, it’s not enough to just look at the boy, you’ll have to look after his mother as well. Make sure you feed her properly.” Then she turned to Sadhna and said, “First light the fire and make a cup of tea for your Didi.”

  The child was in my lap and suddenly he soiled himself. It got onto my clothes and my hands. As soon as I tried to clean one place, another part would get dirty. When Sadhna saw me she said, “Eh ma, what are you doing? Here, let me do it. You’re just shifting it from one place to another!” Shamefaced, I looked at her, and then I turned away, smiling. Sadhna knew exactly what to do. Being the elder daughter, she had had to look after her young siblings. “This is all very well, but how long can Sadhna look after your child?” said Sandhya-di. “Finally, you’re the one who is going to have to bring him up, so you’d better learn how to do all this.”

  Sadhna cleaned up the child and handed him back to me, and in a little while she came back with some tea and bread. While I was eating, she cleaned up one corner of the house and made some space for me to lie down. Sadhna, the child, and I would sleep there at night. One night she told me that in her home no one would be allowed to walk in and out of the room where a new mother was before a certain time had elapsed, but I said to her, What can we do? We only have one room.

  One day Ma arrived and said to Sadhna, “Come on, it’s time for you to go back.” I asked if she could stay on for a while—at least till the child was a month old. I said that either my husband or I would take her back, but Ma was adamant. Sadhna didn’t want to go, either, but she had to listen to my mother, in whose house she was staying. She left and now I had to manage everything on my own: the housework, looking after the baby, everything. All the neighbors wondered where Sadhna had gone. Why didn’t she stay on a bit longer, they asked; it would have been good if she had. But what could I do? She had come to visit my parents, and if they did not want her to stay with me any longer, I had no say in the matter. Some of them told me to be careful, especially with water, because I was still weak and could catch an infection. They were all so supportive of me, much more so than my Ma and Baba had been, that I sometimes marveled at it. Ma and Baba had come only once since I’d been back from the hospital, and even then it was only to take Sadhna away. And not once did they ask how the child was.

  I had to continue to bear all these troubles. My child was barely a month old when my milk began to dry up. The baby would cry from hunger and I could not understand why. A neighbor once asked me, “Why is your child crying so much? Does he not get enough to eat? Why don’t you give him some other milk and see?” I mentioned this to the child’s father, but for several days, he completely ignored me. Then one day, I don’t know what came into his head, but he went out and came back with a tin of milk powder. And with my milk and this milk, the child seemed to be satisfied. We needed to get three tins in a month. Whether we ate or not, the child had to be fed. If I asked my husband for anything else, he’d lose his temper and there would be tension in the house.

  TIME PASSED LIKE THIS AND THEN ONE DAY, MY BROTHER and my elder uncle and a friend of theirs named Dharni Kaku arrived at our house. At the time, I was lying down with my child, so I quickly got up and made room for them to sit. “I won’t sit, child,” Uncle said.

  “Whyever not? What’s wrong? Why is your face looking so pinched?” I asked. Uncle did not reply, so I turned to Dharni Kaku, but he also remained silent. Finally I asked my brother, “What’s wrong? Why don’t you tell me what it is?” He told me only that our sister was no more and then he began to weep. “Which sister?” I asked him.

  “Our Sushila Didi,” he said. But I couldn’t understand what could have happened to Didi. As the implications of what he had said sank in, I felt a chill spread through my body. I stood as if rooted to the ground. Dharni Kaku repeated the news two or three times and suddenly I screamed. I ran straight out of the house all the way to Baba’s place. There, I beat my head on the ground and wailed, “Baba, now we’ve lost Didi as well. First it was Ma—and she’s there and not there—and now it is Didi. We thought even if we don’t have a mother, at least we have an older sister. And now she’s also gone.” Baba held my arm and lifted me up and told me gently to calm down. “I’m going to find out what has happened,” he said.

  “But what’s the use?” I asked him. “No one ever bothered to find out anything about her.” Every time I went to see Didi, her neighbors would ask if her father had completely forgotten her, for he never went to see her. Was it because of his new wife, they asked, that our father now had no time for his own children? I told Baba that he had no idea how sad it made my sister to have to listen to all these things. “And now look at you. You never really cared about her,” I said to him between sobs.

  When I had run off to see Baba, my uncle and Dharni Kaku left to see my elder brother, who lived in a nearby village with his wife. When Uncle got there, he found my brother just sitting down to eat. He started to rise, but Uncle said to him, “Son, finish your meal first.” When my brother’s wife saw everyone she started to light the fire again but Dharni Kaku said to her, “Daughter, there’s no need to cook for us.” My other brother had left Uncle and Dharni Kaku at my brother’s house and gone to give the news to Grandma. My brother sat back down to eat and was halfway through his meal when my grandma arrived. “Arre, Ajay, what is this I hear about your Didi dying?” My brother was shocked. Dharni Kaku said to my grandma, gently, “Look, we just arrived here, and didn’t want to tell him anything at least until he had finished eating. But you’ve just come and blurted everything out.” My brother left his food half eaten and ran to meet Baba.

  I was with Baba at the time. When my brother arrived, his eyes were bloodshot and it looked as if he were ready to kill someone. He couldn’t even cry. It took quite a while for the tears to come. He was watching Baba strangely: here was a man who had just lost his elder daughter, yet there was not a tear in his eye. Suddenly my brother began to cry loudly. Dharni Kaku tried to comfort him, but it was no use and the more he cried, the more my tears fell. When he had run off to meet Baba, Grandma had followed him. Now, wiping her tears, she said to him, “I have never seen your father lift a finger to help your sister. It was only when we forced him that he took the trouble to find out about her.”

&nb
sp; “But none of us bothered about her,” said my brother, “that’s why that bastard thought that there was no one to care for her.” Then, softly, he asked Uncle, “What happened to Didi, Uncle?”

  “Mangal came to see me,” explained Uncle, “and he told me that she was very unwell and we should go to see her.”

  Mangal was my Didi’s husband. This was all he told Uncle and then he disappeared. Uncle’s wife asked after the children, but he did not even stay to answer. As he was leaving, Uncle asked him what was wrong with Didi and all he said was that she had smallpox. Uncle did not even stop to eat anything: he just rushed off straightaway to see Didi. But when he got there, he found her lying wrapped in a sheet in the courtyard. He was shocked, and the fruit he had hurriedly picked up for her fell from his hands and scattered on the ground. He had taken along a tender coconut to offer her so she could bathe with its healing water, and that, too, fell from his hands. There was no sign of her husband: it seemed he had disappeared after he went to Uncle’s house. My heart was hammering in anger at hearing this story but Baba’s eyes were still dry. Once, in anger, Didi had said to Baba, “How can a father be like this? It’s as though I have already performed my father’s last rites, his shraadh.” And now Baba kept repeating, “Now we’ll see who will do whose shraadh.”

  Grandma chided him: “Is that all you can think of at a time like this? Your daughter has died and you have not the slightest concern or sorrow for her.”

  “No, Didi, that’s not what I mean…”