The baby kicked from time to time. But sometimes it seemed to sleep for days on end. Lately it had been very quiet.
Mrs Rupa Mehra, while telling Savita to think restful thoughts, often shared her own birth experiences and those of other mothers with her. Some stories were charming, some not. ‘You were overdue, you know,’ she told Savita fondly. ‘And my mother-in-law insisted that I must try her own method of inducing labour. I had to drink a whole glass of castor oil. It’s a laxative, you know, and it was supposed to begin my birth pangs. It tasted horrible, but I felt it was my duty, so I had to drink it; it was lying on the sideboard. It was winter, I remember, bitterly cold, the middle of December—’
‘It couldn’t have been December, Ma, my birthday’s in November.’
Mrs Rupa Mehra frowned at this interruption of her reverie, but she quickly saw that the logic of it was irrefutable, and continued calmly:
‘November, yes, winter, and I saw it lying on the sideboard, and I drank it in a sudden gulp on the way to lunch. I remember we had parathas for lunch, and so on. I normally didn’t eat much, but that day I stuffed myself. But it had no effect. Then came dinner. Then your Daddy came with a pot full of my favourite sweet, rasagullas. I had one, and then I had a second, and the second one was just going down, when it suddenly felt like it had turned into a fist in my stomach! The birth pangs had begun, and I had to run.’
Savita said, ‘Ma, I think—’
But Mrs Rupa Mehra continued: ‘Our Indian remedies are the best. Now they say that in this season I should eat lots of jamuns, because they are good for diabetes.’
‘Ma, I think I’d better finish this chapter,’ said Savita.
‘Arun was the most painful,’ continued Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘You must be prepared, darling; with the first child the pain is so terrible that you want to die, and if I hadn’t thought of your Daddy I would have surely died.’
‘Ma—’
‘Savita, darling, when I’m talking to you you shouldn’t be reading that book. Reading about law is not very restful.’
‘Ma, let’s talk about something else.’
‘I am trying to prepare you, darling. Otherwise what is a mother for? I had no mother living to prepare me, and my mother-in-law was not sympathetic. Afterwards she wanted me to be in confinement for more than a month, but my father said this was all superstition and put his foot down, being a doctor himself.’
‘Is it really that painful?’ said Savita, quite frightened now.
‘Yes. Truly unbearable,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, ignoring all her own admonitions about not scaring or upsetting Savita. ‘Worse than any pain I have ever had in my life, especially with Arun. But when the baby is born, it is such a joy to behold — if everything is all right, that is. But with some babies, it is very sad, like Kamini Bua’s first child — still, such things happen,’ ended Mrs Rupa Mehra philosophically.
‘Ma, why don’t you read me a poem?’ said Savita, trying to get her mother off this latest subject. But when Mrs Rupa Mehra turned to one of her favourites, ‘The Blind Boy’ by Colley Cibber, Savita regretted her suggestion.
The tears already starting to her eyes, Mrs Rupa Mehra began to read in a tremulous voice:
‘Oh say, what is that thing called Light,
That I must ne’er enjoy?
What are the blessings of the sight?
Oh, tell your poor blind boy!’
‘Ma,’ said Savita, ‘Daddy was very good to you, wasn’t he? Very tender — very loving—’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, the tears flowing copiously now, ‘he was a husband in a million. Now Pran’s father would always disappear when Pran’s mother gave birth. He couldn’t stand childbirth — so when the baby was young and noisy and messy he would try to be away as much as he could. If he had been there, maybe Pran would not have half-drowned in that soapy tub as a baby, and then all this asthma would not have happened — and his heart would have been undamaged.’ Mrs Rupa Mehra lowered her voice at the word ‘heart’.
‘Ma, I’m feeling tired. I think I’ll turn in,’ said Savita. She insisted on sleeping alone in her bedroom, though Mrs Rupa Mehra had offered to sleep with her in case her labour pains started and she would be too helpless to move or get help.
One night at about nine o’clock, while she was reading in bed, Savita suddenly felt a severe pain, and called out aloud. Mrs Rupa Mehra, her ears preternaturally sensitive to Savita’s voice these days, came rushing into the room. She had taken out her false teeth already and only had her bra and petticoat on. She asked Savita what the matter was, and whether the pains had begun.
Savita nodded, gripping her stomach, and said she thought so. Mrs Rupa Mehra promptly shook Lata awake, put on a housecoat, roused the servants, put in her false teeth, and telephoned Prem Nivas for the car to be sent. She could not get through to the obstetrician at his home number. She phoned Baitar House.
Imtiaz answered the phone. ‘How often are the contractions taking place?’ he asked. ‘Who is your obstetrician? Butalia? Good. Have you called him yet? Oh, I see. Leave it to me; he may be at the hospital with another delivery. I’ll make sure that they have a private room ready, and are prepared for everything.’
The pains were more frequent now, but irregular. Lata was holding Savita’s hand, and sometimes kissing her or stroking her forehead. When the pains were on, Savita closed her eyes. Imtiaz was over in an hour or so. He had had a difficult time tracking down the obstetrician, who had happened to be at a party.
Once she was in the hospital — the medical college hospital — Savita looked around and asked where Pran was. ‘Shall I get him?’ asked Mrs Rupa Mehra.
‘No, no, let him sleep — he shouldn’t get out of bed,’ said Savita.
‘She’s quite right,’ said Imtiaz firmly. ‘It would do him no good at all. There are enough of us here for support and company.’
A nurse informed them that the obstetrician would be coming very soon, and that there was nothing to be alarmed about. ‘First births take a long time in general. Twelve hours is quite normal.’ Savita’s eyes opened wide.
Though she was in great pain, she did not cry out aloud. Dr Butalia, a short Sikh doctor with rather dreamy eyes, arrived, examined her briefly, and again assured her that things were fine.
‘Excellent, excellent,’ he said with a smile, his eyes fixed on his watch while Savita writhed on the bed. ‘Ten minutes — well, good, good.’ He then disappeared.
Maan turned up next. The nurse, noting that he was a Mr Kapoor, and that he looked quite dishevelled and concerned, decided that he must be the father, and addressed him in those terms for a few minutes before he corrected her.
‘I’m afraid the father is another patient in this hospital,’ said Maan. ‘I am his brother.’
‘Oh, but how awful,’ said the nurse. ‘Does he know—’
‘Not yet.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes, he’s sleeping, and it’s his doctor’s orders — and his wife’s — that he not move or suffer unnecessary excitement. I’m standing in for him.’
The nurse frowned. ‘Now lie quietly,’ she advised Savita. ‘Lie quietly and think calm thoughts.’
‘Yes,’ said Savita, tears squeezing themselves out of her eyes.
The night was hot, and despite the fact that the room was on the second floor there were a number of mosquitoes. Mrs Rupa Mehra asked for another bed to be brought in so that she and Lata could take turns to rest. Imtiaz, having made sure that things were in good order, left. Maan sat on a chair in the corridor and went off to sleep.