She Will Build Him a City (10 page)

‘Here, take this,’ he says, one hand on the steering wheel, the other extended behind him – with the cash, 5,000 rupees, in 500-rupee notes.

‘You can get change from any shop.’

The mother’s fingers brush against his.

She is cold as ice.

Balloon Girl is fast asleep.

He will wake her up when the time comes.

~

Drop-off is perfect.

He closes the door, doesn’t wait to see which way they go.

~

On the way home, traffic has surged. A long line of cars is backed up at the highway toll gate. Sixteen lanes, all full, he slips into the Tag Only lane but even that’s choked, bumper to bumper, but today he’s fine with the waiting because there’s nothing to worry about any more. Relief washes over him, from his head to the tips of his fingers. There’s a strong whiff of detergent in the car, he must have poured a lot more than needed, just five pieces of clothing he should have measured more carefully. He will tell Driver to wash the car, maybe take it to the carwash. He lowers the four windows to let wind come in, blow away all traces of Balloon Girl and her mother. He has done nothing wrong, he is sure of that, but as extra caution, he should get the seats and the floor wiped clean. Disinfected.

All fingerprints removed, too.

Still not moving, to his left, in the next lane, he sees two mynahs, both the birds hopping between two cars, pecking away at something he cannot see in the dark.

These are brave birds, so close they move to the cars’ wheels. Even when the vehicles move, these birds don’t fly away, they hop a few steps back, to the left or right, resume pecking at something invisible. Maybe dead insects, traces of food dropped from cars? Chips, gum? There is another one he can see, a third bird; yet another one, a fourth, and, three cars farther down, he sees a fifth. A little flock of mynahs has landed and is looking for food in the lanes, between the traffic. He has never seen this before.

Where have these birds come from? There are no trees along the highway all the way up to the airport, all were cut, so where do these birds live? Perhaps, in the rafters high above, underneath the sprawling roof that covers the thirty-two lanes in two sweeping arcs. Maybe the lights from the cars and trucks have confused the birds. He watches them more carefully. The yellow beak, the yellow splotch around each mynah’s eye is the colour of the cones placed on the road to mark the lanes, their wings the colour of the carpet he has at home in the living room, the carpet he doesn’t let Balloon Girl and her mother step on because it’s invaluable, he paid so much for it he doesn’t remember.

His car inches forward, he watches one mynah hop back, stand still, this one so close to his car that he can see its feathers, silky and brown, moving in a faint rustle in the gust of the exhaust from the car.

He wants to open the door, reach out and touch the bird, run the tip of a finger in its soft down.

Let the bird nibble at his finger, but traffic clears, the line is moving, it’s his turn.

~

He drives up, waits for the all-clear beep as the toll sensor reads his tag, lifts the barrier to let him pass.

Up ahead, the sky stains red with the first light of day and, behind him, the cars begin to move, the mynahs flutter, rise from the road and fly up, looking for their perch.

CHILD

Priscilla Thomas

‘Your email strikes a chord, Mr Sharma, it calls out to me. I have a million-and-a-half followers on Twitter and no message I receive after the show can match the power of yours. That’s why I am here, alone, no camera crew. This is a meeting off the record because today I am here as a prospective parent, not as anchor of
Camera India.
’

Priscilla Thomas is in his office.

He cannot believe this, he looks again.

Yes, Priscilla Thomas, across from him, he can reach out and touch her. So close.

~

Mr Sharma wishes he could record this so that he could show it to his wife who keeps telling him she has no idea what he does at work, to his son who rather than doing his homework keeps playing with his mother’s cellphone, to all his friends who will never believe that the same Ms Thomas, who walks waist-deep in the waters of the tsunami, dragging a corpse, the same Ms Thomas who walks the streets as a prostitute to expose the city’s seamy side, the same Ms Thomas who gets actor Katrina Kaif to dance with the Army chief as a Happy New Year gift to the nation, the same Priscilla Thomas is sitting in his office in Little House.

‘Thank you, Ms Thomas,’ Mr Sharma says, ‘I knew that someone as sensitive as you would respond. I am going to, very briefly (he has learnt, watching her on TV, that her attention span has no time for anything longer than ten words), tell you what the rules are. The rules which we shall fast-forward for you, obviously.’

‘I appreciate that, Mr Sharma, I do. What’s the process, in short?’

There is no camera – the absence of a TV crew has surely disappointed Mr Sharma although he doesn’t show it – but he behaves as if there is one, as if she’s interviewing him. He takes a long, silent breath, lifts his face an inch so that his double chin doesn’t show, counts the steps off on his fingers.

‘It’s simple, Ms Thomas.

‘One, you register yourself with us since we are also a certified adoption agency.

‘Two, we do a child study report, a report on Orphan, his health, mental and physical, his social, emotional development.

‘Three, a home study of the prospective parent which means a study of your background, of your place of work, your financial details, two letters of recommendation, a bank reference, we assess your capability to take care of the child, then after the home study has been accepted by us, four, we submit the papers to the court and inform the Child Welfare Department. Then the match-up, we see whether your background matches the child’s needs. Fifth and final.’

Has she heard all this, he wonders?

Because Ms Thomas is texting, tweeting, retweeting, Facebooking, he isn’t sure, raising her head only twice to acknowledge Mr Sharma, without looking at him, and hardly has he finished when she asks:

‘How long will the whole thing take? Guesstimate?’

‘Normally, four to six, eight months but in your case child study is done, for home study you just fill up the form. We all know who you are, your reputation precedes you, the match-up you are already doing today. I can have Orphan in your house in less than a month. Three weeks, if we are lucky.’

‘Don’t break rules for me, Mr Sharma,’ she smiles, still texting.

‘No, no, no, Ms Thomas, no breaking rules. Every day in your news show you issue a clarion call to this benighted nation against corruption, how can I break the rules for you? Just a little adjustment.’

‘I like adjustments, Mr Sharma.’ Ms Thomas gets up from the chair. ‘Come, let’s go see Orphan. What a strange name, very matter-of-fact. I get a good feeling about this kid.’

~

‘There he is, look, in the corner. The boy sitting all by himself at the table, let’s walk up to him.’ Mr Sharma points to Orphan in the activity room, crowded with children, all girls.

‘Let’s not disturb him right now, what’s he doing? What’s a map doing in front of him?’ says Ms Thomas.

‘Ms Thomas, that’s a very interesting story. Our doctor, a very bright gentleman, had this idea that Orphan should draw a line on a map of Delhi and that’s the route they would take on his first day out. Since then, he loves looking at maps, drawing lines.’

‘What a story, Mr Sharma, you should have told us that day itself, we would have sent a reporter and a crew. Meet the orphan who charts his own course.’

‘Excellent headline, Ms Thomas,’ says Mr Sharma, ‘but I decided against publicity at that stage. You know that would have harmed the child.’

‘Quite the contrary, Mr Sharma, publicity never harms, it only helps. The public gives you publicity. Ordinary strangers who lead dull, ordinary lives, whose existence you’ve been unaware of, start talking about you, you give them a story to get excited about. That’s why I think if we had done the story then, about a lonely kid plotting his route on a map, Orphan would have, by now, found a home.’

‘But he’s found one now, Ms Thomas,’ says Mr Sharma, ‘he’s found yours.’

‘You have only one boy?’ Her response is like a whiplash. Sharp, quick, entirely unexpected.

‘No, no, Ms Thomas, we have another one but he’s much older, about five, his name is Sunil but…’

‘… but what?’

‘He has Down’s syndrome, even that would have been fine but his is a severe case, there are other complications too, he has a defective heart, also leukaemia. In fact, Ms Thomas, his days are numbered. Our medical board has given him one to two years at the most.’

‘Where is he?’

‘He’s sleeping, I think,’ says Mr Sharma. ‘He always is, but, of course, we can see him if you wish.’

~

Five minutes later, less than a minute after Mr Sharma shows Ms Thomas the sleeping Sunil, a white blanket covering him right up to his neck, the rasps of his breath the only sound in his room, Ms Thomas leans into him and whispers, ‘He’s my son, Mr Sharma, I have found him. Let’s go to your office. Sunil is my son, I have decided. Please start the paperwork.’

She doesn’t give him any time to respond.

‘I know what’s on your mind, Mr Sharma. You wish Orphan to be my child, yes, Orphan is a great story. A healthy boy abandoned by his mother on the hottest night of the year, a boy who may not know how to sit yet but sure knows how to read a map, he will be my new baby, it’s a great story, but trust me, I am not looking for a story here, Mr Sharma, I am in search of a son and Sunil is my son. Someone will come and take Orphan away, he’s a bright, normal kid, but no one will adopt Sunil. After gender, disability is our new cancer, Mr Sharma, I have done so many shows on this subject. I have carried people in wheelchairs to and from my show but they can’t even build a ramp in my office, forget streets and pavements. I want Sunil, I am coming with my camera, my producer and the entire crew, we will go live from Little House. We have a story, Mr Sharma.’

‘Just one thing, Ms Thomas,’ says Mr Sharma.
‘
As I said, Sunil doesn’t have long to live. Two years maximum.’

‘That’s exactly my point, Mr Sharma, that’s why he needs me more. I have been childless for so long, after two years I will be childless again, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that a mother would have done her duty. Two years later is two years later.’

So breathless, so unanticipated is the pace of events that Mr Sharma is left reeling. Little House is his domain, this is where he has worked for over fifteen years and now this woman waltzes in, takes over, as if this is her stage, her studio, while he, Mrs Chopra, all the staff and all the children are passive members of her audience whose only job is to applaud on cue.

No.

He, Mr Sharma, IAS, Harvard, will stand up to her, he will tell her that no one can choose their child, that right belongs to the State, to Little House. He will tell her that she cannot broadcast from Little House because it violates the privacy of all children there, he will tell her that he will have to process her request for Sunil just like he would do for anybody and he cannot give her a day and a time when she can take the child home.

Absolutely no short-cuts, he will do due diligence on her, so what if she is the most famous anchor in the world’s largest democracy.

But, of course, Mr Sharma doesn’t say or do any of this.

‘I understand and appreciate your sentiment, Ms Thomas,’ he says, when he walks her to her car. ‘You fix the date for the shoot, I will get all of Sunil’s paperwork done, it’s been a pleasure and a privilege.’

~

‘You were right, sir,’ says Mrs Chopra when Mr Sharma tells her what happened. ‘To tell me that night not to tell Orphan or Kalyani anything. How would we have told him that he had been rejected by the first mother who came to see him. You were right, sir, one hundred per cent right.’

‘It’s experience, Mrs Chopra,’ says Mr Sharma, ‘only experience.’

~

A fortnight later, in a two-hour special show preceded by a day-long telethon advertised on billboards plastered across the city, sponsored by Mothercare, Reliance Petroleum, Tata Motors and Life Insurance Corporation of India, Priscilla Thomas becomes a mother to Sunil, a Down’s syndrome child.

The State Chief Minister and the Union Minister for Child Welfare are the chief guests. A panel of experts discusses Down’s syndrome, the public apathy to disability, the need for a new law, they all agree that
The Amazing Adoption of Sunil Thomas
– as the show is now titled – will do wonders in raising public awareness and sensitivity not only to Down’s syndrome, in particular, but to disability in general.

A scientist from Brisbane, on live hook-up, quotes a new study in Australia that shows life expectancy for people with Down’s syndrome is steadily going up – his remarks are welcomed with thunderous applause and further close-ups of Sunil who has gone back to sleep.

As for Mr Sharma, he gets as many as 420 seconds on TV, spread across six appearances, in which he is told – by Ms Thomas’s assistants – to talk about how and why Ms Thomas’s move is a ‘landmark decision’ in the history of child welfare in India.