17 January 2000
Three days ago, Boudi was rushed to the hospital. It was a close shave.
I was kept away from most of the discussions but I heard the words ‘bleeding’ and ‘placenta’ and ‘danger’ and ‘risk’ and ‘miscarriage’.
That’s the reason Boudi was brought home today. Dada was sent to get her clothes and other belongings while Maa–Baba set about dutifully shifting things around in the house to make it more pregnancy-conducive. Dada seemed uncharacteristically happy about the whole thing, despite the sleepless nights he had spent in the hospital. Maa–Baba had stayed with him, running after doctors, pleading and praying. Despite my protestations that I wouldn’t leave Boudi alone in the hospital I was made to go to school on both days.
‘You’re a child. You shouldn’t be around here, shona,’ said Maa.
While Boudi rested in Dada’s room, Baba got freshly cut chicken for Maa to cook biryani.
‘That’s a little presumptuous. Just because she’s Musal—’
I was made to shut up and go clean my room before Boudi woke up.
‘What will she think about you? That we brought you up like this? And take a shower!’ said Maa.
‘Baba finished all the hot water,’ I complained.
‘He hadn’t bathed in two days, shona. Wait then, I will warm up some water on the stove,’ she said.
A couple of hours later, the house smelt like the inside of Nizam’s, the legendary biryani outlet. Boudi had woken up. Dada was helping her to the living room when Maa saw them.
‘What are you doing out of bed? Stay there! I will serve there only!’ said Maa.
We spread newspapers on the bed, dragged the TV trolley to Dada’s room and ate. Boudi couldn’t eat much but she lavished praise on Maa’s cooking. Maa blushed suitably. Dada and I joked quite uncomfortably about Maa’s decision to cook biryani. We laughed and jibed like everything was normal. For a few brief moments I even stopped obsessing over Brahmi’s absence, over her possible boyfriend.
‘Both of you have gone through a lot,’ said Maa. ‘Take rest now.’ Maa caressed Boudi’s face and told her, ‘Now that you are here I will take care of everything. If you need anything tell me.’
Smiles were exchanged and we left Dada and Boudi alone.
I helped Maa–Baba clear the plates. Dada had cheekily given me his Walkman and a list of sad songs to get over my Brahmi problem. I had been listening to them the entire day on loop, and doubting whether it was a good choice to do so. I couldn’t hear Maa–Baba over the music at first. But then, I ran through side A and heard a bit of their conversation.
‘Did Anirban tell you what had happened? How did the bleeding start?’ asked Maa.
‘Just that she was sleeping.’
‘She told me she was in the kitchen. But I know what she was doing. She was praying, I’m telling you, that’s what she was doing. She was reading the Quran, that’s what she was doing. Can you imagine? Risking the baby for that!’ Maa griped.
‘Why would you expect anything different? Didn’t you know what we were getting into?’
‘My son now lies to me every day.’
‘Is this why we brought him up?’
‘I see her office papers lying around, I see bills of places they go to without telling us. They lie through their teeth about everything,’ said Maa.
Baba shook his head and his shoulders drooped, more disappointed than angry. As if he knew his anger now meant nothing. Not only had he lost to his son, he had lost his wife to hate too.
‘Did you notice those framed verses of the Quran she has put up everywhere?’ asked Maa.
Baba said, ‘It’s your son’s fault too. When was the last time he prayed at the temple you set up for him? Does he even light an incense stick?’
I stood there pretending I was to listening to my songs on the Walkman as Maa–Baba kept cursing their wretched luck.
‘Look at how sweet she is right now. She has cast a spell on my son. What do you think she would do to our grandchild?’ said Maa.
‘What about the prayers the child hears five times a day?’ asked Baba angrily. ‘What do you think she is trying to do?’
‘I won’t let her pray near my grandchild. You just see! This girl thinks too much of herself! Took our son away, turned him against us . . . How much more do you think I will suffer? No, enough, this girl will see what I can do. I will not be helpless. I will bring up the child, you see. She can do all her career stuff for all I care.’ Maa started to sob softly. ‘You just see what I do.’
‘Ei, hey,’ said Baba. ‘Talk softly and don’t do anything stupid. All that you have done for the past few months will go down the drain.’
‘I don’t know how much longer I can take this. How long can I pretend that everything is okay? That I love Anirban the same! I don’t! Which mother would? Why do you think Raghu is like this now? All because of that Anirban.’
Baba sighed deeply. ‘Don’t you think I feel like slapping him every day? Strutting around his wife everywhere.’
‘How much long—’
Maa started to weep softly. Baba held Maa and said, ‘Just wait till she delivers. Just a few more days. It’s either this or our son lets our grandchild grow up as a Musalman.’
‘Over my dead body. You see how I teach this girl a lesson once our grandchild is here,’ said Maa.
‘Hmmm . . .’ said Baba. ‘What about that other girl? Brahmi?’
‘She has left him,’ said Maa. ‘Thank god for that. She wasn’t even beautiful from what I hear, that shakchunni.’
Back in the room, I curled into a little ball when the pain became physical.