The House of Hidden Mothers (27 page)

He had wanted to apologize to Shyama for their stupid row earlier, but, more importantly, he wanted to make her understand how bloody lucky she was to have these people. The rogue uncle was an aberration – every family had a black sheep and hopefully the courts would punish him for what he'd put Prem and Sita through. And luckily, tonight Yogesh had stayed away. But one selfish git wasn't enough to break the bonds he had seen and felt tonight. They've got it right, this lot, he told himself as he snuggled into Shyama's back – family first. And our child is going to be part of this. How lucky are we?

When Dr Passi had first discussed her database of egg doners with Shyama and Toby, she said they could try to find as near a physical match to Shyama as possible, Shyama had joked, ‘Couldn't we find a nearer physical match to Angelina Jolie?' And then, ‘Or Mala. I woudn't mind if the baby came out looking like her.'

It was a flippant remark, but one that had stayed with both Toby and Dr Passi. The doctor noted that this couple would have no problem if the baby emerged on the darker side of ‘wheatish', unlike most of her local couples, who were quite open about their preference for a fair-as-possible child. As one bullish father put it, ‘As we are having a baby to order like this, why not order what you like?'

This logical extension of the principles of her life's work had occasionally put Dr Passi in a difficult position. It was relatively easy to abort a damaged foetus at an early stage as frequent scans revealed any problems early enough to take preventative action. No one chose to have a disabled baby, why would they? She had seen the way many disabled children were treated once they were born – a life of being shut away in shame or abandoned to an institution – and it brought into stark relief the difference between life and quality of life. That was the whole point of selective conception, as far as she could see: to identify and remove all those defective genes, some of which could be passed on through the generations, to stop the cycle of misery and only bring forth healthy useful citizens of the world.

But when people got choosy, that's when Dr Passi began to feel a little uncomfortable: the skin tone was one such issue, although understandable, given their centuries of conditioning about the superiority of fairer skin. She had presided over some nasty cases of poisoning and irreparable skin damage during her training, hundreds of women seduced or shamed into using over-the-counter skin-whitening creams. What the European models on the packaging hadn't revealed were the long-term effects of such concoctions, which used mercury and hydroquinone. Symptoms would range from skin thinning, raised capillaries, tell-tale blue-grey patches and rampaging acne to liver and kidney failure and skin cancer. (Dr Passi herself had been considered a little on the dusky side, her childhood punctuated by regular and vigorous massages with oily gram flour and turmeric by her ayah, her mother watching anxiously to check whether this traditional cure would scrub away the darkness, leaving her daughter with glowing, paler skin. Dr Passi doubted that it worked, though one happy side effect was that she hardly ever had to wax or shave; the years of grainy exfoliation had killed off most of her body hair.) Sex selection was also understandable, at least in her clinic. If a family already had girls or boys and wanted a balance, no problem. Most of her local couples usually asked for boys first, and the way Dr Passi saw it, if she was preventing another ignorant family from aborting an unwanted girl, it was better to acquiesce than to argue. One of the reasons why she had abandoned her hospital work was the number of female foetuses she had found herself terminating, the daily scrape and sluice of healthy little girls into overflowing buckets, too many needless endings. Eventually she had left that post; she needed to be somewhere creative, literally, as her training had prepared her to be.

She was immediately encouraged by the discovery that the foreign couples in her new clinic hardly ever expressed a preference for a boy or girl. This felt like progress. But then as time went on, the demands and requirements became more specific, the boundaries of what could be done more elastic. She recalled two sets of couples whom she suspected were perfectly able to have children, but preferred having a child made to order with minimal disruption to both their careers, one lot from America, the other from France. In both cases, the women were high-flying professionals, whip-thin and efficient, their partners similarly worldly and handsome in that groomed magazine-cover kind of way. The French couple had dropped out fairly quickly when they had realized the legal complications of taking the baby back home. She had directed them towards a nearby orphanage, not expecting they would ever get there. The Americans, however, were more persistent, until it came to discussing why they could not have children of their own. That's when she knew: not just because their explanations were minimal and vague, but because every other couple who had been through the trauma of years of futile baby-making attempts wanted to talk about it in precise, emotional detail. For most of them, Dr Passi was their last hope, and they needed not only to share the suffering that had brought them to her door, but to grieve for all the ghost babies that haunted their journey. Dr Passi directed the American couple to a rival clinic, unable to condone their intention to use a surrogate as another convenient labour-saving device. Mummy-as-microwave: it calls us with a ping when it's ready and we can take it home.

That was in her early idealistic days; since then she had got used to parents being very specific about how their child-to-be should be: tall, with handsome regular features and a high IQ. They even sought assurances that only the eggs or sperm from MENSA-registered donors should be used. It was at times like these that Dr Passi would use her discretion, telling her clients what they wanted to hear, but mostly using the stock she already had, so her conscience was relatively clear. She was aware that consultants like herself were often criticized for playing God, but whose? Her reference points were the amoral deities of her Hindu upbringing, blue-hued and smiling, constantly reminding humanity to accept and endure joy and pain equally, as both are temporary, and neither can be ordered or controlled. As Lord Krishna counselled his kinsman, the archer Arjuna, before they launched into battle with their own cousins, you cannot control where your arrow lands, but fire it you must. Or words to that effect. Take action without presuming to know or predict the outcome, because to take no action, to remain static and undecided, was the worst sin of all. In her lab, under the bright lights and with a microscope to her eye, Dr Passi often recalled this verse in the
Bhagavad Gita
. Pipette in hand, piercing the filmy wall of a human egg to place a wriggling sperm inside, she knew this was one deliberate action with profound life-long consequences. She took this so seriously that her actions also extended to curbing the excessive demands of some of her clients: she knew what they needed and maybe even what they deserved.

It was a collision of circumstances that pushed Dr Passi into the decision she made that day, the day when Mala lay unconscious on the operating table waiting for her eggs to be harvested for the clinic's ever-dwindling stocks. Her British couple had no idea this was happening, that it would delay the creation and implantation of their embryo, but in Dr Passi's opinion, they seemed relaxed enough to wait another month. However, that morning, several other couples would also have their hopes delayed: a whole batch of embryos had defrosted unsuccessfully, five implantations cancelled at the last minute. It happened, but time was money, and also, as so many of Dr Passi's clients knew too well, money could not buy time.

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
goonda
s 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.