She Will Build Him a City (9 page)

‘No problem, sir, not at all.’

‘I usually don’t call so late in the night but this is very important,’ says Mr Sharma.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Priscilla Thomas…’

‘Yes, sir, Ms Thomas, the TV woman.’

‘Did you watch her show?’

‘No, sir, I was in the kitchen, my son returned late in the night.’

‘Ms Thomas is coming to Little House tomorrow at 10 a.m. to look at Orphan for adoption. This could be our moment, Mrs Chopra, the day we have been waiting for. At last, the world will get to know the wonderful work I, you, we, all of us, do at Little House. And Orphan gets a super home.’

‘Very good, sir, that’s too good.’

‘You were the one who picked up Orphan first, I want you to be there in case she wants to interview you.’

‘Sir, of course, I will be there an hour early.’

‘And on your way, please get pastries, samosas, cold drinks, Coke, that we can offer her and her crew.’

‘Shouldn’t we prepare him, sir?’

‘Prepare? Who?’

‘Orphan?’

‘Prepare him means, Mrs Chopra?’

‘His mother may be coming tomorrow, that he will be leaving us shortly. The child needs to be prepared for what is going to happen to him.’

‘Don’t jump the gun, Mrs Chopra, no need to think of the chicken before the egg. Let’s see how this goes, the only preparation I want is that Orphan should be bathed, dressed well, he should smell good, put some nice talcum powder behind his ears. Ms Thomas may want to hold him and you know how important first impressions are, especially if her camera is running. Orphan smells, or wets himself, she will say, let me go to Mumbai to get a boy. Or even Kolkata, to the Missionaries of Charity.’

‘Sir, what about Kalyani? She is his nurse. She is always with him, shouldn’t we tell her?’

‘What about her? We call her a nurse but she is little more than a maid, why do we need to tell her? She doesn’t need to know. Let’s keep this between us. Strictly professional.’

‘Of course, sir, thank you.’

‘Goodnight.’

~

Back in Little House, it is quiet. All the babies sleep.

Sitting on the floor, her back against the wall next to Orphan’s cot, Kalyani has nodded off. She is tired, her chest hurts, she feels the first flush of a fever. Her nursing exam guide slips to the floor and makes a noise which no one hears. During the night, on his rounds, Dr Chatterjee comes in to check, finds her curled up, like a child. He gets a sheet and covers her with it, up to her neck.

Kalyani doesn’t move even the slightest, so deep has she fallen asleep.

WOMAN

Your Birth

I remember, like every mother does, the first touch of your skin against mine, damp and soft, when they wheel you into my room in the nursing home after they measure you, weigh you, clean you up. I have some stitches which hurt as I hold you in the crook of my arm, sized and shaped to make you a perfect fit. When you cry, they take you away to feed you because I am not ready with milk.

Through the night, I slip in and out of sleep.

~

I remember the day before and the day after your birth, my three days of doing nothing; of having, at my service, three nurses, two attendants, two doctors, from wake-up to sleep time. My legs massaged, my back kneaded; my heels, cracked in several places, dipped in warm water from where steam rises, fragrant, then dabbed dry, gently, with a warm towel and then, in the end, softened with cold cream. My first manicure, my first pedicure, I learn these words in the hospital, someone else cutting, filing my nails to a perfect shape – all edges rounded, dead skin removed.

An attendant escorts me to the bathroom, holds my hand, like I am a little girl. I tell her, you don’t have to, she says, no, we have to be very careful, there is someone inside you now.

The bathroom floor is dry, I stand under the shower. The nurse tells me to undress, I am awkward, she says, no one’s looking, don’t worry, I am going to close the door.

I watch water run down my body, there’s a mirror in the bathroom in which I see myself, through the shower’s frosted door, my shape and, inside it, yours.

The bath soap is liquid gel, so soft in my hands it slips between my fingers, drips to the floor, mixes with the water there, foaming a puddle around my feet. The towel Jincy, the nurse, gives me is so large it wraps me in its folds, one, two, three, half a four, almost like a sari, white in colour.

Take two towels, Didi, she says, one for the shower, one for the hair. And drop them in the bathroom, leave them there, we will clean up.

They give me a blue gown, buttons in the back.

You don’t have to wear anything underneath the gown, she says, matter-of-fact.

That night, I latch the door, step out of my gown, walk around in my room, I have never done this and so I do it again and again. I stand at the window and look down at the street. At people walking by, trams, buses. I wait for a crowd to gather, to point to me and say, look up, look, there’s a naked pregnant woman at the window, is she crazy?

~

It’s like I am on vacation.

There’s no waking up in the morning looking at the clock, no dragging myself to the balcony to light the oven, clear last night’s ash, no choosing the right-sized pieces of coal so that they catch fire quickly, no putting wood or paper to help the fire spread, no closing eyes to keep the smoke out. No ironing clothes, no cooking in the kitchen, no sitting on my haunches, no sweat trickling down my back. The nursing home has a generator so there’s no preparing for the power-cut every evening, cleaning lanterns with ash, no making new wicks from old clothes, no pouring kerosene oil. So I don’t wake up once I fall sleep. Except, of course, when they bring you to me twice or thrice in the night when you cry. Even then, I just hold you close and my big sleep drags your small one into its folds.

Breakfast is cornflakes and milk in a white ceramic bowl cool to the touch. They check on me every four hours, lunch you won’t believe: three kinds of vegetables, two pieces of fish, chicken too, bread so soft, so white, so warm I don’t want to eat it, I want to show it to your father. Rice is poured onto the plate compacted, shaped like a bowl, steaming fresh with fragrance of herbs I have never smelt before. Glass of milk, chilled in the fridge; orange juice, and, on top of all this, ice cream. Strawberry one day, vanilla the other, they ask, would you like a cup or a stick, choose, we can give you both if you wish. And towels, big and small, rolled up, warm and cold, whatever feels good at that time, for the forehead, for my face.

All this because of you.

~

My stay at the hospital must cost a lot, these three days in the nursing home, but your father never mentions the expenses.

When I ask him, he says he told someone at college to recommend a nursing home and that’s what led him to this place. He says they have a bed in the room for visitors and he can sleep at night but he says, no, you stay by yourself, I won’t stay the night because knowing you, you will start worrying about me, what will I have for dinner, what will I take for lunch to college, are my clothes ironed, every silly little thing, and I don’t want you to worry about these things because this is our first child and the child, you, and I, all three of us, deserve the best. Even if the best is, like this room in the nursing home, something we can afford for only three days.

~

The last night in the hospital, I cannot sleep. You have been crying a lot and although I am feeding you now, that doesn’t help.

You give her to me, says Jincy the nurse, try to get some sleep. I will take care of her until you wake up.

But I don’t sleep, I find myself standing by the window looking out at the street, quiet at this time, and I picture this city without your father in it. He must be asleep at home or reading something for his classes the next day but for a moment he disappears, he is not there, he will never come back. As this image begins to fill out, I feel fear strengthen its grip, the entire night sky enters the room minus the stars and the moon, just its darkness, nothing else. Clouds drop down as fog, slip and swirl into the room through which I see the nurse walking towards me holding you in her arms. I shout at her not to bring you into this blackness, to keep you outside where there must be light, where there must be people. But she hands you over to me and it’s then that I realise, for the first time, that, along with you, I have also been born, as a mother, and, very much like you, I am clueless in the dark.

MAN

Highway Mynahs

He needs to get Balloon Girl and her mother into his car without Security Guard seeing. That should take him five minutes, six minutes during which he needs Security Guard out of the way. So he needs to set up a little distraction. Silly but effective.

~

‘Where were you when I walked in a few hours ago?’ His voice is cold, amplified in the silence. As if he’s reading from a script.

‘Sir, I was right here,’ says Security Guard.

Unquestioning submission in his voice, in his eyes, in the way his shoulders droop, pull his head down, make his arms wilt by his side.

‘No, you were not here, I didn’t see you.’

‘I must have gone to the toilet, sir. Only for two minutes.’

‘Two minutes or two hours, you know that you are not supposed to leave this place and, if you have to, you need to get a replacement.’

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘I can complain to the security manager.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I can get you taken off duty.’

‘Please don’t, sir, it will never happen again.’

‘You should never leave this place. Your job is to guard the building.’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s something I would like you to do.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘I forgot, I left a bag just outside my door, can you get it for me? I will wait here while you are gone.’

‘Of course, sir, I will take the lift, be back in a few minutes.’

~

It goes exactly as per script.

There is no bag, of course.

As soon as Security Guard steps into the lift, he calls out to Balloon Girl and her mother. They are hiding in the shadow, on the first-floor landing.

‘Get into the car, quick, both of you,’ he says, ‘sit down on the floor, not the seats. Exactly like when we came from the hospital. You don’t want anyone to see you because they will call the police. Not a word until we are out on the street.’

They do exactly as told; he starts the car. They avoid Security Guard. He will tip him a few hundred rupees tomorrow.

They are crouched on the floor, he smells detergent from their clothes, lavender from the soap. Balloon Girl’s hair is short so it’s almost dry but her mother’s is still wet, dripping thin trails of water on her shoulders, across her blouse.

‘Careful now, we are leaving, lie low and quiet. There are cameras at the gate, we have to be very careful.’

It’s before daybreak, the darkest hour.

~

Of course, there’s nothing illegal in what he has done, he is sure of that, but to be doubly sure, he runs through the sequence of events in his head. He invites them over, he asks them clearly, in Hindi, at the hospital, do you want to come home. She says yes, the mother, an adult. No coercion there. He gets them home, he asks them to take a bath, no, he merely suggests they take a bath which they agree to. He provides them with soap, cream, the kind he uses, bathrobes, the use of his bathroom, living quarters, all for free; he even washes their clothes for them, he gives them food, now he will give them some money and he will never ever see them again. Yes, he does touch the child and the mother but there’s nothing irregular, out of place, about the touches. His fingers do brush the mother’s breasts when he adjusts her bathrobe but that was accidental and, anyway, she is asleep when that happens, he is sure of that. There is no camera in his room that would have recorded anything.

He is safe, he rolls down the car window.

‘We are all clear,’ he says, ‘you may get up from the floor and sit next to the window, the wind will dry your hair.’

But the mother doesn’t move. In his rear-view mirror, he sees Balloon Girl looking out, the wind in her hair, yellow neon lights, from the street outside, dappling her face.

~

He will take Ring Road, he decides, because traffic is thin at this time of the night although these days they have police everywhere with speed guns and breathalysers. He hopes no one stops him but if they do, he has his story ready, the same one from last night. They are his maid and her daughter and he is taking them back home. He will drop them off in Yusufsarai Market, at least two traffic lights before AIIMS, near Green Park Metro Station, Rhythm Restro Bar, closed at this time, at a place where no one is looking, where there is no police van. Then he will keep going straight, take a left at the next light and get onto the highway via the Dhaula Kuan exchange. They don’t know how to open the car door so he will have to do it. Sitting in the driver’s seat, he will reach back and click the door open. Close it as soon as they are out and then there will be no looking back.