I know.
Even before I can visualize myself seated beside the phone, hearing the doctor confirm it, I know I am carrying Arun’s child.
Arun’s and mine.
We have known each other for twenty seven years, been married for three years, and have been wanting kids since five years now, stealing surreptitious glances with glassy eyes at couples in restaurants who have brown ringleted daughters and spit-bubbly sons, imagining ourselves in their places, catching each others’ eye and then dissolving in twin fits of comfortable smiles and the warm knowledge that only married couples can share- that the journey of the act of loving leads to the beautiful destination called babies.
Arun hopes for a daughter.
Just like me.
A daughter who will wear my hair clips- all colour coordinated according to the day of the week, which are sealed in a plastic see-through Ziploc bag so tenderly by my mother, resting in the bottom-most drawer of my clothes cupboard. A daughter who will wear the red crochet-and-lace dress that I had worn for my first birthday, cake stains and milk stains notwithstanding. A daughter who will proudly sport the blue and pink butterfly patterned sports shoes that my younger sister had worn once and relegated to the corner most recesses of her cupboard simply because she was a tad scared of those flying thingies.
A daughter, who I will name Arisia- a combination of Arun’s name and mine- interlocked in that act of creating an individual from our best, for there is nothing more meaningful to a couple’s union than validifying its worth by children.
I glance at the silver clock in the drawing room. A full three hours to the time when the doctor said he would call with the results of the second round of tests. Arun has already called me twice since he left the house barely an hour ago. Though we are chatting as usual, both of us are aware that our lives will change drastically after this one day, and that knowledge rests like a looming cloud over us, which is going to burst forth and shower pink rose petals on us.
I am happy. I seat myself down on the velvet sofa and settle my loose T-shirt over myself.
I take a sip of the sweet lime soda which is my constant craving this past week. The servants have all come and gone. Through the silence, I can hear the distant song of a sparrow- hesitating at first, and then breaking into a full throated chirpy monologue- which I am sure, is about, the birds and the bees. I am glad I gave up my job a month back, ever since Arun’s promotion came through. I listen to all his office-politics single-mindedly, there are clean sheets and towels in the linen cupboard, there is a week’s worth of fresh vegetables in the crisper and I’m more at peace with him and myself.
I close my eyes and rest my head against the softness of the sofa. The breeze wafts in a salty smell- the smell of open spaces, green fields- the field in our school, when I was a young girl, which, on Sports Days would be aflutter with activity and the colourful tents marking seating space for parents and teachers, and through which we would all enter, class-wise, in a single queue, which would, at the end of our routines, form exotic formations with different props. As a child, I often marveled at the brilliance names of those P.T. drills- Flamboyant Fans by class Five or Rivetting Ribbons by class Eight, and the best- which I still haven’t forgotten- Dancing Decks (playing cards) by class Three. After the drills and races would be over, we would sneak out from our classes, and peep through the tent joints to catch glimpses of the Boys’ school students sitting opposite, and strain to hear the name of the Cock House and the best performance- letting out invariate whoops of joy or collective groans of sadness.
The silk curtains rustle as they brush against my face in the breeze, and I think back to the pale yellow and maroon pant –ensemble that I had worn for my second social with the Boys College. Socials were the most talked about affairs in school. There would be a sprinkling of these haloed events through the year- the April welcome social, the September cockhouse one, and the November Children’s day social. We waited for the socials with a life-defining purpose, and scrambled to get our names down on the lists every time. Held on a Saturday afternoon, those four hours of dancing, boys and delectable canteen food would mesmerize and captivate us for a whole week, when we discussed the event threadbare- including the number of boys we danced with and the envious number of cold drinks (read money) a boy spent on us. Coiffuered and perfumed, we would ascend the rather large steps of the Boys college bus, sent to us faithfully each time, feeling every inch the Cinderellas driving up to an evening of entertainment and amusement, being greeted by anxious boys running their hands nervously through their hair, and lining up to receive us as we stepped inside. Rituals like the music blaring as soon as the first girl stepped inside, never refusing a boy for the first dance, and not divulging any vital information about ourselves like phone numbers or addresses were held sacrosanct till the evening ended in a blur of No Mercy’s Please Don’t go and enthusiastic ‘Last song, sir’ by the boys. How we plotted and planned to puncture the tyres of the gargantuan bus so that we could spend some more time knowing that cute guy who had finally asked us to dance in the last fifteen minutes. Of course, established veterans like the hostellers had their regular boyfriends (exotic Anglo-Indian, brown haired, blue eyed boys with cute names like Nigel and Derek) whom they would never let go for a second, while we day scholars would eye them enviously. And that one unforgettable social, where, dressed in that cream and maroon pantsuit, and smelling freshly of Lakme’s Shie, my hair a silken sheen around my shoulders, I had danced the evening away with the most popular guy in school. My rating in school with the juniors zoomed to an unbelievable high as ten of my unwavering ‘fans’ bought me ice sticks and sweet bun-cholas every day for a week after that.
I smile fondly- my daughter would be more popular than I was.
In a weird pact that three of my group members had made in a fit of undying loyalty towards the school, we had agreed that our children would also study in the same school- perhaps revive our names carved so painstakingly on the Bio lab benches, and find our names in the Prefect register, but now I felt I wanted to give my daughter the best education- and the best school- a school better than mine.
Only ten minutes have passed since my reverie, and I place the cordless phone on the low coffee table, and ease myself on the sofa, carefully arranging the cushions around me. Cushions that Arun and I had picked up at a fair held in our hometown. I look around at my flat- built carefully, brick by loving brick, bought on months of intense saving in the best suburb in Mumbai, affording a view of the boundless ocean- the hallmark of Mumbai’ s existence. How we had scrounged all the streets of Bandra to finally rest in this reclusive yet accessible block of apartments- the decision to settle in Mumbai weighing on our hearts as much as the hefty sum we would have to shell out as EMIs – for both Arun and I were small towners- a little lost in this city of bigness, this city of impersonality, this city where the only constant was people, people and more people.
I remember the small town smell of Lucknow- that perfumed waft which hit my nostrils as I walked through the tiny Arrival lounge a few months back- to my frantically waving parents. There’s something about the way a town smells, and its funny that you don’t even notice it unless you return to it. The smell of Mumbai was commercial- air heavy with moisture seeped in germs, half cut watermelons, thickly boiled elaichi tea and the collective sweat mixed with talc as people mingled with more people everywhere.
My daughter will only be loved, and caressed as soon as she enters the world.
Living with Arun has been one of the greatest gifts I’ve given myself. We have grown up together. His family is probably closer to my family than any of our blood relations. He is older to me by a good two years and I had been seeing him around my house for as long as I can remember. Yet all that familiarity did not develop into predictability and even though I knew he had a soft corner for me, I was completely taken by surprise when he had proposed marriage. He’s a true gentleman who never fails to surprise me, whether it is shopping or cooking. He’s comfortable, like a worn shirt and I know that there are no nasty surprises that he will spring on me.
Even though we have known each other for the past twenty-seven years (that’s how long I’ve existed), we keep discovering each other every day.
I know we both will change after this one day, and I’m happy. I catch my reflection in the TV screen and I make a little toast to myself with my soda glass, feeling like a little incandescent soda bubble inside.
My family, and Arun’s have morphed themselves into each other seamlessly- playing out the role of longtime friends into relatives. My father and she, as well as Arun’s parents had always known that this fondness between us would coalesce into a relationship. Thus this joy was doubled when we finally got married at a super-lavish ceremony three years back.
Somehow, knowing Arun had given me the freedom to march ahead in my chosen career, and despite performing well, I had begun to find that corporate life so empty and stripped of meaning. “What do you mean, empty?” exclaimed my boss when I had informed her I was quitting- she had seen me rise through the years and had pinned her hopes on me as her next Manager. But I had stuck to my decision, and suddenly I was loving not doing anything. It gave me the greatest satisfaction when I responded to fat aunties and balding uncles’ questions of ‘what are you doing these days’ as ‘nothing- I’m a housewife’ and see the look of undisguised amazement on their faces.
And my daughter will be free to choose whatever she wants. Although, of course, a tiny spark inside me wants her to be a doctor- that age-old profession hammering its goodness into my soul.
I’m thinking-these long flights of memories that have bled me dry and I’m glad for this unbroken silence- this peaceful rest which has stolen over me. I’m not quite sure when I doze off.
The shrill ring of the telephone breaks into my reverie. I can hear the commotion at the back of the doctor’s clinic. He wants me to come down as soon as possible. I wait for a fraction, expecting him to say those magical words. When he doesn’t, I can’t hold myself back, and I ask him. He again repeats it, saying he would want to explain something to me, and it cannot be done over the phone. I ask him again- why is he behaving so differently?
And then he says it.
Says those words that will turn our world upside down.
Says those words which will change our lives.
But there is no happiness in them.
I am sitting by the phone, and there are no smiles on the other side.
The sparrow’s song has ended.
The sweet lime soda is finished.
And the looming cloud over us has burst and deposited only sadness and tears for us.
And my daughter- whom I’ve come to love so much in the past thirty days, will be just that- a dream.
My tears that are a silent obituary to that dream that will die unrequited.
