A House for Happy Mothers: A Novel (24 page)

Asha smiled at her. “That’s the baby kicking,” she said, and turned Mohini to face her. She took Mohini’s little hand and placed it on her round belly. The baby kicked again and Mohini’s eyes widened.

But before Mohini could feel it again, Pratap lifted her from Asha’s lap and pointed to a butterfly that was sitting on a flower growing next to the terrace. “Look,” he said. “Isn’t that pretty?”

Mohini went to explore it, and he turned to Asha. “Don’t talk about the baby like that to them,” he said softly, his voice a bare whisper.

“Why not?” Asha demanded, not whispering.

“Because,” Pratap said, his voice still low. “Because . . . you know why, Asha.”

She did know why.

And in an instant, all her anger and resentment were washed away by an immense sadness.

“I didn’t think,” Asha said numbly, and was saved from saying more because Manoj leaped up from the ground where he was sitting with the cube in hand.

“Look, I did it again,” he said triumphantly.

“So you did,” Asha said, taking the cube from him and examining its sides, now each in one color. “You’re such a smart boy,” she said, and pulled him into her arms.

“I did it before, too,” Manoj said. “But it’s so much fun each time.
Nana
, can you mix them up again?” He took the cube from Asha’s hand and gave it to his father. “Nana mixes the colors again so I can put them back together.”

As Pratap moved the various sides of the cube, Asha watched his large hands and realized for the first time that Pratap was different from other fathers in so many ways. Her husband actually took care of Manoj and Mohini, all on his own. Sure, Kaveri was there to help, but he brought them here alone and then took them back alone. He obviously played this cube game with Manoj and sat with him while he did his homework even though he couldn’t help him. The other surrogate mothers complained about their lazy husbands and how they beat the children, but not Asha. Pratap never beat the children. Kaveri and Raman hit their kids all the time, but Pratap had told her when Manoj was little that no one would beat his children.

“I hated it when my father and mother beat me. I used to feel small and helpless, scared,” he had told Asha. “I don’t want my children to feel that way.”

Pratap was a good man. A very good man.

And Pratap wasn’t lazy. He worked and struggled to bring home money. He took care of them, but even he couldn’t make enough money to help Manoj. As a painter, he would never make that much money; it would never happen. He brought money home without complaining about it, but this one time it was her turn to bring money home, and she was doing nothing but complain, complain, complain. She felt small. She should appreciate him more, Asha thought.

“Thank you,” Asha said suddenly to Pratap.

He raised his eyebrows in inquiry.

“For never hitting me,” Asha said, making sure that Mohini and Manoj were out of earshot.

He looked bewildered.

“I know some men hit their wives and their children, but you never have. You won’t even let me hit the children. Raman hits his children. My father used to beat my brother all the time, and my mother beat me, too. But you don’t.”

“Why would I?” Pratap asked. “I have the best wife and the best children in the world.” He winked at her then, his eyes bright with laughter, and she smiled back at him, suddenly deliriously happy, sharing this moment with him.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

General Parikshit’s son, Colonel Vikas Parikshit, came to pick up Priya and Sush in an olive-green army jeep. Priya had never met Vikas before but had heard countless stories about him from her mother since they’d met at some poverty conference many years ago. The Parikshits had kept in touch since then and become family friends.

General Parikshit had two sons, both overachievers. Vikas was in the army, quickly rising through the ranks, while his brother was a neurosurgeon in New York, minting money when he wasn’t volunteering in Africa with Doctors without Borders. Priya knew Sush would have liked her to be like them, successful and impressive, an amazing child who would make Sush look good in front of her friends. “Graphic designer” just didn’t cut it.

Priya and Vikas shook hands while the driver of the jeep helped put their luggage in the trunk.

“How was your flight, Auntie?” Vikas asked.

In India everyone was auntie and uncle, though Priya had decided to stand her ground and call General Parikshit “General Parikshit.” He wasn’t her uncle, and she wasn’t about to start calling him that.

“It was long, and then we had that stop in Singapore,” Sush said with a smile. “It’s so nice of you to come and pick us up.”

She was a true chameleon, Priya thought. As soon as there was someone around who was nonfamily, she changed colors. She’d become sociable, polite, gentle even. Sush didn’t even complain to Vikas about the stupid woman at passport control. She talked about how wonderful the service was everywhere. Priya angled her head, watching on in amazement; she had to hand it to her mother.

“So, you’re here to spend time with your husband’s family?” Vikas asked Priya from the passenger seat, turning around to face them.

Before Priya could answer, Sush interrupted.

“Madhu’s mother isn’t feeling well, and Priya got laid off—you know, the recession—so she’s here to spend some time with her, take care of her,” Sush said.

Priya stared at her mother, aghast. She was keeping Asha and their baby a secret.

“That’s very nice of you,” Vikas said. “Your husband must be so grateful that you can take time to come here and help his mother.”

Priya was about to speak again when Sush put her hand on Priya’s and squeezed.

“Madhu is a wonderful husband,” Sush said. “Just like you. I absolutely adore him.”

No, you don’t,
Priya wanted to scream.
You’re hardly ever nice to him.
Who was this woman?

General Parikshit’s house was far removed from the slums and dingy housing that they had driven past. As soon as the electric gates opened, letting the jeep through, they found a beautiful garden with a gardener busily digging up something. It was perfectly manicured. The mansion was typically Indian, with a wide veranda surrounding part of the house. The entrance was a large wooden door with an ornate brass knocker shaped like a bell.

“Vikas lives with his parents,” Sush told Priya with some pride as Vikas led them into the house. The driver and a servant who had come running out of the house when they arrived were bringing in their luggage.

“Really,” Priya said, not sure how this was a matter of great pride. Only losers lived with their parents.

“I believe in a joint family,” Vikas said, pushing the door open. “My brother, Vishal, is a doctor in New York, but when he moves back to India, he’s going to live right here with his family, too. We have the room.”

“How nice,” Priya said politely, feeling out of place. This was a different side of India, more like what you saw in Bollywood films than real life.

Madhu’s parents didn’t live like this. They had a maid to help clean and do errands, but this was a houseful of servants, just like in one of Sooraj Barjatya’s movies, where all the characters led luxurious lives, beset only by problems of unrequited love.

“Sush, darling!” a woman called as she came into the front room.

She was dressed in a purple silk caftan, her hair to her shoulders falling in salon curls. Gold and diamonds twinkled on her ears, neck, and wrists. She matched the front room, which was chock-full of gaudy Indian arts and crafts and overloaded with heavy ornate rosewood chairs and a coffee table. The legs of both the chairs and the coffee table were carved like ropes, while the chair’s cushion was covered in thick red-and-gold fabric. The coffee table had a glass cover, and underneath the glass were more carvings. A large, ornate mirror covered one wall while another had a large painting of Sri Krishna imparting the Bhagvada Gita to Arjun during the battle of Mahabharata. The painting was signed. It was an original.

The woman and Sush hugged and kissed, European-style, a kiss on each cheek.

“Oh, you must be Priya,” the woman said, and hugged her. Priya responded the best she could and smiled. She felt like she was five years old again, doing what her mother prepped her to do for guests.

“This is my mother,” Vikas said, putting his arm around his mother.

“And my good friend Romila,” Sush said.

It felt like they were actors in a play, each with their set lines. Priya didn’t know what hers were.

“Well, I’d better go and get changed,” Vikas said. “I have to go to work. I look forward to speaking more with both of you at dinner.”

“Come in, come in.” Romila held Priya’s hand and took her inside the house.

Another ornate room, the sitting room this time, welcomed them. There was no television here, and it had an unused look to it—or maybe the servants constantly kept it tidy.

The centerpiece of the room was a very large elephant made in dark metal. It filled an entire corner of the large room. There were enough couches to seat about ten people with ease and two coffee tables topped off with heavy books, Ansel Adams and a book called
Monumental India
with the Taj Mahal on the cover.

The floors were white tile with green flecks, some kind of marble, Priya guessed. The carpets, handwoven and silk, were plentiful and should have been unnecessary, since India was plenty hot, but the house was cool, and obviously air-conditioned.

“The elephant is beautiful, Romila,” Sush said.

“The Charcoal Project, everyone swears by it these days,” Romila said. “You know Hrithik Roshan? The actor?”

When both Priya and Sush gave her a blank look, Romila continued. “You don’t watch enough Hindi movies to know, but he’s a big deal, and his wife is a talented designer. She has a home décor chain of stores called the Charcoal Project, and when we were there last month in Mumbai, I just had to pick up a few pieces.”

Romila led them outside through large French doors to the courtyard. The house was spectacularly designed, Priya thought, and couldn’t wait to call Madhu and tell him about it. The courtyard was a large open space in the middle of the house with two mango and three coconut trees and several rosebushes. Metal outdoor furniture painted white stood majestically under a mango tree on some kind of brown tiled floor, the white parasol closed and probably never used, as the mango tree gave enough shade.

“It’s too hot to sit outside, but the evenings are almost bearable these days,” Romila told them as she took them across the courtyard into another living room.

This one had a lived-in look and was much less ornate than the other rooms. Casual and colorful carpets covered the tiled floor, and the furniture was light and very Western; there was not an Indian floral curve in sight.

They sat on comfortable sofa chairs, and almost as soon as they sat down, a woman arrived with a tray of food and tea.

“Would you like some tea, dear Priya, or do you want something cold?” Romila asked her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even ask. Sush drinks tea and I was only thinking of that. And I had the cook make your favorite.”

“Oh,
kachoris
, it’s been years since I had an authentic one,” Sush said, placing one of the flat, round pastries on a plate and handing it to Priya. “Priya loves samosas, but she won’t say no to a
kachori
.”

Priya took the plate and realized that her opportunity to ask for a cup of coffee had come and gone with the
kachori
tray. She bit into one carefully, not wanting to spill the fried lentil stuffing onto her clothes or, God forbid, the spotless sofa. She desperately needed a shower and a nap and in that order, but she felt it would be rude to get up and go.

“So, how are things, Sush? And how is Andrew? We wish he were here as well,” Romila said.

“Andrew and Edward have a whole week of fly-fishing planned,” Sush said. “They’re driving down to Oregon.”

Edward was Priya’s father’s best friend, a professor at NYU.

“We just love Edward,” Romila said, and seeing the puzzled look on Priya’s face, added, “We met last year in New York. We were visiting our son Vishal, and he was there with Andrew and Sush. Such a brilliant family.”

They chitchatted some more about how wonderful Sush’s family was and how wonderful Romila’s family was. It was your average scratch-each-other’s-back kind of exchange, Sush glossing over the facts a bit to tell Romila how wildly successful Madhu was, and how his family was just “so intelligent.” Even Mayuri was praised for her “fabulous” career as a fashion designer in London. She was swelling so enormously with made-up pride that Priya didn’t have the heart to burst her bubble by telling her that Mayuri had been laid off, too.

Priya was about to keel over and had decided to politely excuse herself when a little woman in tight jeans and a white blouse came running into the room.

“Sush Auntie,” the petite woman cried out, and launched herself at Sush, hugging her.

Wow,
Priya thought. If she hadn’t seen it, she wouldn’t have believed that her mother could evoke such affection in another person. It was almost a revelation to watch her with her friends. If Sush were only this pleasant with her, they would get along just fine.

“Mona, my darling,” Sush said.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you,” Mona darling said.

Priya popped another
kachori
in her mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully. This was better than watching television.

“Priya,
beta
, this is Mona, Vikas’s wife,” Sush said.

“Hi,” Priya said, blinking away the surprise at being called
beta
, daughter, by her mother. Mona was gorgeous, no way around it. And she was young, midtwenties at most.

“Mona and Vikas got married two years ago,” Romila said. “A love match made in heaven. We absolutely adore our Mona.”

These people seemed to
absolutely
love and adore everyone, Priya thought. This was far, far away from her world.

“You just have to hear how they met,” Romila said. “It’s the loveliest story.”

Mona’s eyes glittered. “And I’ll tell you during dinner. You look tired, Priya. Why don’t I show you to your room? How about you, Sush Auntie?”

“We’ve put you in your regular room,” Romila said to Sush with a smile.

Sush Auntie has a regular room here,
Priya thought. Her mother had this whole life that she knew nothing about. It was good to get to see this side of her; it made her . . . well, less annoying.

“I’ll just catch up with Romila for a bit first,” Sush said. “You go on, Priya. Get a little sleep. I’m going to tough it out and go to bed after dinner. I want to get done with jet lag as soon as possible.”

Mona took her through a corridor lined with bedrooms and walked her into one with a view of the courtyard.

“I hope you’ll be comfortable here,” Mona said as she drew thin white curtains on French windows facing the courtyard.

“This is lovely,” Priya said.

Better than a hotel for sure. The bed had four posters with a wooden bedside table, and there was an en suite bathroom with a glassed shower cabin and shell scoop sink.

“Vikas’s parents built this house, and they spared no expense,” Mona said, and flopped on one of two chairs flanking a small table by the French windows.

Priya sat down on the bed. She really wanted to lie down but felt guilty, considering how grimy she was.

“Oh, Nandita unpacked your things and put them in the closet,” Mona said. “I hope that’s OK.”

Priya had to bite her tongue from protesting. She had all those baby clothes; where did they go? She walked up to the closet and opened it.

Her clothes were either hanging or neatly arranged on shelves. All the baby things were placed on shelves as well.

Mona could see the contents of the closet. “Are you visiting a friend who had a baby?”

Priya turned to look at her. She didn’t want to rain on Sush’s parade, but she also didn’t want to lie. She wasn’t ashamed of how she was having a child. She was proud, happy to have it any way she could. It was important that she remember this.

“Actually,
I’m
having a baby . . . that is, my husband and I are having a baby,” Priya said. “But I’m unable to carry to term, so we’ve hired a surrogate to do it for us. She’s due in October, and I brought the clothes along for then.”

“You’re going to stay here until October?” Mona asked. “Oh, I mean, you’re welcome of course, very welcome to stay here. I’m just surprised that you’ll be away from your husband for that long.”