by Meera Syal
The ultrasound the previous day had confirmed that the drugs had not over-stimulated Mala’s ovaries but had done their job well: she had produced a pleasing number of healthy eggs, glistening like unwashed pearls on the grainy monitor, ripe, unused. Hadn’t Shyama herself said she would be happy if their child looked like this handsome village woman? And how long would it be before the stringent new rules became law and Dr Passi would lose perhaps half her clientele, bowing before a power greater than her own ambition, desire and conscience? In this moment, she could become goddess of her own small universe, unleash her bow and accept the outcome, however it might fall.
So it was that harvest and planting defied Nature’s rules and occurred on the same day, the seasons collapsed into each other within the glass walls of a small test tube, the hand of fate holding steady the pipette, the universe contained within the eye of a microscope. Five days later, Mala was called back to receive the embryo that would settle and burrow and feed and become the child that would be half hers, half Toby’s, all of Dr Passi’s creation.
Her other eggs would go on to bring forth an architect, a naval engineer, two teachers, a professional saxophonist and a beautiful manic depressive who would kill herself on the eve of her twenty-seventh birthday. Her parents, in their grief, wondered about Mala then, though they did not know her real name, and what she may have passed on in her DNA that brought years of torment to a child so beloved, so wanted. But by that time, the clinic no longer existed, and what difference would any answer have made?
Less than ten miles away, Sita walked out of court number four, Patiala House, wrestling with her own arrows of outrageous fortune. It had started so well, they had been called up first on the list – a good sign, as this had never happened before. Ravi had spoken eloquently and with less drama this time, thank God, emphasizing the length of time this case had been dragging on, indicating the ‘respectable and elderly couple who have been cheated, like so many others, out of their legitimately bought home’. The fact that they had paid for the flat in clean, declared cash seemed to impress the judge, and this time, Yogesh’s son-in-law Sunil had not even bothered to turn up for the hearing. His lawyer was there, a moustachioed, middle-aged man with the typical Punjabi barrel-shaped belly and spindly chicken legs, who sat bored throughout Ravi’s address, picking food from between his teeth with the edge of a business card. He has given up, Sita thought, hope flaring in her breast. Even his lawyer is hardly bothering to put up a fight. It turned out that he knew there was no battle worth getting out of his seat for: after hearing all the evidence and perusing the entirely correct paperwork, the judge declared that the case could not proceed further without form ‘ABCD’ from the local police and thus would have to be adjourned until this final legal requirement was produced.
Ravi stood up, shouting in indignation, ‘What form is this, your Honour? No one has mentioned such a form before? Your Honour?’
But the judge was already on his feet, declaring a break, officials scraping their chairs as they stood too, papers being shifted and shuffled, cheery conversations begun. But Sita saw it, so did Prem and Ravi: the slightest of nods passing between the judge and Sunil’s laywer as they both turned to leave.
Outside the court, Prem was saying his usual thank-yous to Ravi, a well-rehearsed speech he had delivered so many times it had the formality and familiarity of a mantra. Sita feared that if she opened her mouth, the fury she was trying to suppress would spew out of her, dragging her intestines with it. She found herself walking rapidly away from Prem and Ravi, avoiding them, until she looked over and saw Ravi with his arm around Prem’s shoulders, concern etched on his face. Sita hurried back over.
‘What’s wrong? Darling?’
‘He’s just feeling a little dizzy, Auntie,’ Ravi reassured her, leading Prem over to a shaded bench, jerking his head at the two young clerks who sat there sharing a cigarette, who got up sulkily to vacate their place of rest.
‘I’m fine. Stop fussing, all of you.’ Prem attempted a weak smile, but his face looked ashen and his hands shook slightly as they rested on his knees.
‘It’s his blood sugar,’ Sita said briskly, grabbing the emergency banana from her shopping bag and feeding Prem small morsels until his colour started to return. She handed Ravi the remains of the banana to hold as she scrabbled around in her bag and found the small polythene bag, its neck tied with a bit of old ribbon, containing a few handfuls of roasted cashews and almonds. She offered them in her cupped palm. Prem took a couple, smiling his thanks. Sita pushed the remaining nuts into his hand, then got up, indicating Ravi should follow her.
‘You finish that, jaan, I will just get you some sweet tea, OK?’
Sita marched towards a chai-wallah who had set up his portable stall under the shade of a banyan tree on the far side of the square. Dwarfed by the twisting trunk, he looked like a long-legged insect trapped in a web of meandering bark.
Sita didn’t look at Ravi as she walked briskly.
‘How much?’
‘Sorry, Auntie?’
‘Just drop the auntie business, OK? You know what I’m saying. To bribe the clerk, the judge, buy some goondas to get them out. Just tell me how much.’
Ravi did some rapid calculations in his head. He knew people who could get it done, as they had for so many others, and not be traceable back to him; he added on only a small commission for himself, because this was almost a favour. He quoted a figure which left Sita both elated and depressed. Elated because she had enough in her teachers’ pension fund to pay it without Prem knowing anything about it; depressed because they could have paid it years ago. It was a fraction of what they had already wasted on legal fees, air travel, medicines …
‘You will arrange everything if I give the money straight to you?’
Ravi nodded, marvelling at the change in her. This sweet old lady had suddenly turned into some Mafia boss, all hard-faced and talking out of the side of her mouth. On one level he felt relieved – at least they now had a fighting chance of getting those bastards out. But on another level, he felt a stab of regret as he watched this auntie-ji’s face contorted with bitter resignation. Ah, how often had he seen that expression, even worn it himself. This old couple’s innocence, their childish belief in the goodness of the world and the triumph of justice, had somehow become a little beacon of hope for Ravi Luthra over the last eight years. Only now, confronted with its loss, did he realize its significance. Rather like his own aborted acting career, it was having the promise, the possibility of some kind of change that made life bearable. Looking around the square, everyone, everything around him was busy with the business of living: the besuited lawyers, carrying files containing the detritus of lives gone wrong; the snippy-snappy career women in their heels, laughing with each other, stumbling over potholes as they tried to keep hold of their takeaway lattes; the wiry rickshaw-wallahs with their cell phones wedged under woolly hats, weaving in and out of the honking, impatient cars; the day-tripper families with their new cameras and monkey-chattering children, unwrapping their malai kulfi which gave off icy clouds like smoke; the sweepers and rubbish-sifters in their bandanas and vibrant saris, clearing and sorting refuse that would be back again tomorrow; the scarlet mouths of the bougainvillea bushes; the pulsing green throats of the parakeets in the banyan tree; this country of his in all its greedy, galloping glory, going two steps forward and one step back. Everything changes, everything stays almost the same.
‘I will bring the cash to you myself, no need to mention it to my husband, OK? And you get a new court date as soon as possible. Any longer than a month and the deal’s off.’
Sita gave him a hard cold look, handed him a steaming earthenware tumbler of tea and walked, with the other held out carefully in front of her, towards her waiting husband.
CHAPTER NINE
FROM A DISTANCE, they looked like any other family group out for the evening, enjoying each other’s company, perhaps marking a birthday, an anniversary, tucked into
the corner of the hotel dining room. Only on closer inspection did the oddities become apparent: the older woman with her white companion, trying to fill the long silences with loud, over-polite chatter; the dark thin couple with their hands on their knees, staring at the starched tablecloth; the elderly couple with their fixed, glassy smiles. And unlike all the other diners, with not one child at the table.
Dr Passi had told Shyama that she did not think this was a good idea. ‘I understand your wish to celebrate the good news. But we don’t encourage this … level of socialization. And, of course, Mala is at a very delicate stage. We encourage as much rest as possible during the first few weeks of a pregnancy.’
‘I’m not planning to get her drunk and take her clubbing,’ Shyama replied, not looking up as she was about to tap her card pin number into the machine on Dr Passi’s desk. ‘But we are leaving tomorrow and we just wanted to … say thank you. I mean, we probably won’t meet again until the birth, will we?’
‘I don’t envisage that, no. And while I think this a very thoughtful gesture … oh sorry, is this a credit or debit card? There’s a ten per cent surcharge on all credit-card transactions.’
‘Ten per cent?’ Shyama paused with her fingers hovering above the keypad. ‘I do have a debit card, but it’s back at the hotel.’
‘Here,’ Toby intervened, fumbling with his wallet, his face reddening as he struggled to pincer out the slim plastic rectangle and handed it to Shyama. She raised her eyebrows at him, didn’t want to say it out loud, but they both knew what she was asking. Is this OK? Can you afford this? It was a delicate area, the fact that she had been paying for him throughout their relationship, and the not-so-casual remark about their unequal finances during their row in the car still lingered between them. Toby was surprised by the knot of tension twisting his gut, the twitch in his fingers, as if he wanted to smash something. Instead he flashed Shyama what he hoped was a manly, reassuring sort of nod whilst doing quick calculations in his head, almost sure the funds he had borrowed from his brother would cover this first instalment. He hated the whole money aspect of this – it made him feel squeamish, shady. Maybe because the nameless surrogate now had a name, a face, a character. That should have made him feel better, getting to know the woman who would nurture their baby. And yet he privately agreed with Dr Passi: a cosy farewell meal somehow did not feel right.
His unease was confirmed as he sat at the table across from Mala and her catatonic husband, who did not look up from the glossy menu he gripped between his hands like a shield. Shyama was wittering on about various dishes, trying to include them both in the conversation, but fairly soon gave up on Ram and focused on Mala, who responded to her enthusiastic questioning with short whispered answers, which gradually expanded into longer, more animated ones, punctuated with pauses in which she searched for a word in English, followed by a quick, shy glance at her husband. Prem and Sita sent Ram and Mala the occasional beam, but otherwise whispered excitedly between themselves, no doubt buoyed up by their recent good news in court. They had secured a surprisingly swift hearing in front of the same judge who had dismissed them previously, who had suddenly ruled that their claim was indeed lawful and proper, and had fixed an eviction date for the end of the year, around the same time that their second grandchild was due. The bewildering speed of both these longed-for events added a frisson of anticipation to the atmosphere, Shyama’s voice a little too bright and sharp, Prem and Sita’s smiles a shade too effusive. Ram’s defences were primed and quivering, his ears pricked as if tuned to the higher-than-normal frequency of the festivities. The more Mala talked, smiled, responded to Shyama’s questions, the smaller he seemed to become, hunching his shoulders until they almost touched his ears. At one point Toby whispered to Prem, ‘Can’t you speak Hindi to him? I’m not sure he’s keeping up with the conversation.’
Prem dutifully fired off a couple of questions, which Ram answered in monosyllables. Everyone was grateful when the food finally arrived.
The steaming platters of daal, saag, chicken and rice were laid out with serving spoons. Prem picked one up and offered it to Ram, who looked so nervous that Sita briskly took over, ladling a portion of each dish on to everyone’s plate and encouraging them all to eat before it got cold.
‘Extra portions for you then,’ joked Shyama, offering a buttered naan to Mala, who took it with an uncertain smile, until Shyama added, ‘You must eat lots. For the baby.’
The mention of the B word made everyone pause for a millisecond, hands halfway to mouths, then continue as if nothing had been said, a pebble thrown into a pool causing a rippling tension which they covered with vigorous chewing and compliments to the chef.
As Mala broke into the yeasty clouds of warm flatbread, she felt another sharp dig at her side. Her evening had been punctuated with warnings from her husband’s feet and arms – a tap to the ankle here, an elbow press to her ribs there. For every answer she slowly constructed in English, for each smile she reciprocated, Ram jabbed and poked and squeezed his wife, conducting their own silent marital exchange under the table. Like ducks on water, Mala thought fleetingly, all beaky smiles up top and all kicking below. She knew what Ram was trying to do – he had made it clear before they had entered the restaurant, during a hurried conversation in the hallway of the hostel when he had come to collect her.
‘You don’t get too friendly with these people, acha?’
‘Why not? The more they like us, the more they will give us, hena?’
‘Everyone here knows.’ Ram lowered his voice, leading Mala out of the door and out into the warm night air.
The sun was setting over the glass towers of the luxury hotels, its fiery trails like scratch marks on the curved cheek of the sky. Mala felt the familiar heavy pull in her belly: only a few weeks in and already nausea and tender fullness were affecting her body.
‘Knows what?’ She took a gulp of air, tasting cooking smoke and metal. Over on the wasteground, oil lamps were being lit. She looked for the woman with the small child on her hip, but her hut was dark.
‘I heard them.’ Ram cocked his head, indicating she should keep up as they walked. ‘Saying you are thinking you are a madam yourself, acting like you’re special.’
‘Let them. Bored, fat chickens all of them, pecking for any bit of dirt. That place becomes a prison, once you are pregnant. Nothing to do except sit, eat, get bigger, like they are fattening you up for a festival killing. They are only jealous. Most of them can’t even write their name.’
‘Why should you? You want them to notice you even more?’ Ram strode along the path parallel to the clinic’s outbuildings, their industrial air vents whirring like the beating wings of some huge iron bird. ‘Theklo, think, woman. If anyone finds out we said we had two kids … If they want to make trouble for you … Maybe we can end up in jail, hah?’
Ram had continued berating her until he noticed he was talking to air. He stopped and looked behind. Mala was leaning against the wall, supporting herself on one arm as she tried to draw breath. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed him sauntering back towards her. Bastard can’t even run to me, she thought, and wheezed even harder, coughing up a little bile which she spat out, only narrowly missing his chappaled feet. Hah, now you’re sorry, she noted as the annoyance drained out of his face, replaced by an anxious curiosity. He placed a tentative hand on her forehead, the back of her neck, so gentle it made her want to weep.
‘You’re not sick?’
‘I’m carrying a baby, idiot. What do you think?’
My husband is offering me his arm, noted Mala with wonder, walking me like a memsahib, making his voice low and sweet like a river. Now he is telling me not to worry, he will take care of everything as long as I am well, we are safe. For a few minutes Mala wasn’t walking along a litter-strewn pathway smelling of fried food and disinfectant, she was the wet sari in the fountain, the wind-swept dancer on the hillside, the garlanded goddess on a plinth. Until she realized that what he was worshipping wa
sn’t her, but inside her, what he longed to protect wasn’t his wife, but his investment. Otherwise, why hadn’t he thrown flowers under her feet the first time she was carrying a baby? Their baby?
By the time they reached the restaurant, Mala had made up her mind. You want me to look at the floor and chup like a half-wit? Watch me.
No one saw it coming. One minute Mala was chatting away to Shyama, expanding on the face scrub she had invented that every woman in her village now used. ‘Only yellow channa, not black … small-small pieces,’ then suddenly Ram was on his feet, yanking Mala up by her wrist and overturning his Vimto in his haste to escape the table.
‘Thank you … sorry … thank you,’ he muttered as he pulled her towards the exit, Mala banging her leg against the edge of a chair and letting out a small involuntary hai of pain. Shyama and Toby were both on their feet, Toby blocking Ram’s path, Shyama scooting around the other side to pull the table out a little, trying to reach Mala. Sita was busy applying serviettes to the fizzy brown stain invading the tablecloth.
‘Hey hey, steady now,’ Toby said somewhat foolishly, using the tone and words he employed to herd the cows towards the milking shed.
‘You OK?’ Shyama took hold of Mala’s hand. Now she and Ram were on either side of her, pulling at an arm each like a party cracker.
Mala glanced from one to the other, Ram sending her a death-stare, daring her to break rank.
‘Tell them you’re tired,’ he whispered to her in Hindi, forgetting that Prem and Sita were sitting opposite, Prem’s hand still hovering above his plate, dripping spinach.
‘You are tired, Mala?’ Sita asked gently, and then in Hindi to Ram, ‘If she’s tired, of course you must go.’
‘Hahn-ji … tired,’ Ram repeated and tried to tug Mala with him, but found himself eye to eye with Toby. Even though Toby was the broader and stronger of the two, as he faced Ram he saw the eyes of something wild, cornered, with fangs bared. He lifted up his hands, an old gesture, like the namaste, assuring him he held no concealed weapon.
