The Unexpected Son

by Shobhan Bantwal

  “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.

  Chapter 11

  Bombay—1977

  As 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 hal
f 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.

  Chapter 12

  Bombay—1982

  The toddler squirmed and wailed at the top of his lungs. “Shh, chhup, beta,” his mother said, shushing him. She managed to hold him tight against her chest despite his loud protests. If she let the little devil have his freedom, he’d be sure to run into the oncoming traffic.

  Standing in the winding bus-stop queue, Vinita watched the young mother in front of her trying desperately to bring her toddler under control. The little boy looked about three years old.

  He was quite adorable, despite the large quantity of scented oil his mother had slapped over his curly hair. He had a runny nose and a suspicious-looking wet stain on his shorts.

  Vinita stared at the boy for a long time, until the red and white city bus arrived and picked up its passengers. As she climbed in, or rather got shoved into the bus along with the thick mass of fellow commuters, she somehow lost sight of the boy and his mother. But such was the nature of public transportation in a large metropolis.

  Bombay was a harbor city that attracted the richest and the poorest of folks. It was India’s equivalent of a cross between Hollywood and New York City, where movie stars and business tycoons lived in their high-rise palaces in perfect harmony alongside the shanty dwellers. No one begrudged the other their lifestyle.

  In typical Indian fashion, everyone accepted their lot in life as their destiny. One’s previous lives dictated what one ended up with in the present one. The rich moved around in their chauffeured imported cars while some drove their own vehicles, and the vast majority, like Vinita, used public transportation. The city had its own distinct rhythm.

  Sandwiched on the narrow seat, between a large, sweaty woman and an elderly man, she craned her neck to catch one more glimpse of the boy. She heard his voice somewhere in the front of the bus, still protesting loudly about being confined. For some strange reason she had the urge to make eye contact with him, touch his smooth, coffee-colored face and watch his reaction—see if it would bring a smile to his lips.

  Her son would probably have looked somewhat like that imp. If he had lived. But her baby never had the chance. The familiar tears pricked her eyes. She blinked them away. It wouldn’t do to cry inside a bus filled with people.

  It was her fault that her child had come into the world dead. She had refused antibiotics when the pneumonia struck, then she’d put off the surgery for hours, long after the doctor had recommended it. In her misguided effort to avoid hurting the baby, she’d done the very opposite: she’d taken away the only chance he’d had of coming out alive. She had more or less strangled him all on her own.

  Waking up from the anesthesia and discovering that her baby was gone was the most devastating thing she’d ever had to face. After nearly nine months of protecting that child, she’d lost him. She’d blacked out immediately upon hearing the news. That hazy image of an infant floating near the ceiling while s
he was being prepped for surgery had been her son. She was convinced of that. It was her dead son’s soul that was up there, saying good-bye to her.

  She hadn’t even had a chance to see him. Allegedly it was a miracle that she herself had survived. The severe infection combined with the trauma of surgery had nearly killed her. By the time she had woken up and become aware of her surroundings, the baby had been long dead and cremated by her family.

  She’d grieved for her son for a long time. For a while she’d even sunk into a depression. But then, with Vishal’s goading and her own will to survive, she’d gradually pulled herself together, and gone back to finishing up college and getting her bachelor’s degree in statistics.

  As Vishal reminded her occasionally, having no child was a blessing in disguise. She wasn’t sure she agreed, but what could she have offered her son as a single, teenage mother? It would have been a struggle for both her and him. But she still missed her son, still grieved and prayed for his tiny soul. What would he have looked like? Every time she saw a toddler boy, she wondered about him.

  Attending a college in Bombay instead of returning to Palgaum had been a wise decision, too. It had been her bossy brother’s decision, but staying with him and attending a local institution had been the best balm for her battered spirit. It was far from Palgaum. And from all the ugly gossip her disappearance had spawned. And Som.

  She never wanted to lay eyes on that horrible man again. She’d finally recognized that what she’d considered love was nothing but a serious case of lust mixed with hero worship. She’d been in love with the idea of being in love.

  For their friends and extended family, her parents had made up some story about a malignant tumor in Vinita’s abdomen. She had supposedly needed surgery and specialized treatment in a hospital in Bombay. At the moment she was allegedly in remission. But she was continuing to live in Bombay at the suggestion of her doctor—in case of a relapse.