Duty and Desire

by Anju Gattani

  “And you agreed, knowing the Dhanrajs were messed up?”

  “You left us no choice.”

  “Everyone has choices. It just depends on the ones you make. Now I understand why nothing’s ever right. Because it was never right to begin with.” She stared at her reflection in the pools of Mama’s eyes. “Whenever I try and tell you my life is complicated and I’m not happy, you say happiness is a state of mind. How I choose to feel. You put me in this state, Mama. You chose your happiness over mine and now expect me to find happiness in this mess? How am I supposed to love a husband who’s working against me?” A secret. Isn’t that what he’d used against her on the first night?

  “Rakeshji put together an exhibition for you. You’re having his baby. Doesn’t that mean you love him and things are fine between you?”

  Having a baby didn’t incubate time for relationships to stabilize. “He had me moved to another room. I’m alone.”

  “What?” Mama blinked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “According to you and Papa, he saved me from myself. The Dhanrajs are mad. All of them. I tried to tell you so many times, and called you for help. But you didn’t listen. You plugged me there. You lied, Mama.”

  Mama gulped and leaned against the wall. “I’m so…sorry. I don’t know what to say.” Tears coursed down her cheeks. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll call Pushpaji and speak to her. Or Rakeshji and—”

  “It’s too late. Just because Papa saved you doesn’t mean Rakesh saved me. He hurt me. But that’s not all. He’s using us for something. I need to find out what.”

  ***

  Dr. Joshi unplugged the stethoscope from her ears and helped Sheetal sit up. “Everything seems normal. You should prepare for the baby any day now.”

  Sheetal swiveled until her feet dangled above the footstool and pressed both hands against the sides of her tummy. “This weighs a ton! I wish it was out.”

  Over the last two months, Sheetal was surprised at her body’s ability to balloon beyond comprehension and was convinced that if she expanded another inch, she’d explode.

  The nurse drew aside the curtains that separated the examination area from the office.

  Sheetal slid off the examination table, sat opposite Dr. Joshi, rummaged in her purse, and pulled out a small, transparent polythene bag. “Can you tell me what these are?”

  Dr. Joshi took the bag, slipped on her eyeglasses, and examined the contents. “Are you on them?”

  “Oh no! They dropped from a friend’s purse,” she lied. “I was just wondering.”

  “They’re anti-depressants. Does your friend have a history of clinical depression?”

  “Not that I know of.” Naina wasn’t on a diet; she was chronically sick. “What exactly is clinical depression? What’s the cause?”

  “A persistent low mood that affects your everyday life. A number of factors are believed to increase the risk of getting it, such as an imbalance of chemicals or hormones in the brain. Genetic factors are possible causes. In most cases, it’s triggered by life-changing events like bereavement or separation due to loss of a loved one. Sometimes it’s the effect of another illness, stress or an unstable home environment.”

  Perhaps Mummyji was right about Ashok’s death affecting Naina. “How can you tell if someone has depression?”

  Dr. Joshi handed Sheetal the bag. “There are a variety of symptoms. The most common is a persistent low mood. Feelings of worthlessness. Patients often lose interest in life. They no longer seem to enjoy things they once did, like hobbies and recreation. They may become irritable.” She removed her eyeglasses and lay them on the table. “Physical symptoms like poor sleep, impaired memory and an inability to concentrate are common, along with drastic changes in appetite, and weight gain or weight loss.”

  Naina was underweight, for sure. Irritable. And always in a foul mood. And she’d never shown an interest in anything besides marriage and her dowry. “Some of what you said describes my friend. Does that mean, if she still has the symptoms, that the medication isn’t working? Or should she consider other types of treatment?”

  “Mmmm…” Dr. Joshi tapped a thumb on the desktop. “It’s possible the dose is wrong. Another drug might be more suitable for her. Or perhaps she’s not taking her medication regularly. Many people stop treatment after a few weeks or months because they think they’re fine. They appear fine. But then they relapse and fall into depression again.”

  Phases. Isn’t that what Mummyji called them? Perhaps Naina was fine when she was on Elavil but fell into depression when she went off.

  “Many patients find counseling helpful because medication alone isn’t enough. Is your friend consulting a psychiatrist or counselor?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t know. How serious can it get?”

  “It’s beyond my expertise, but psychological and social support management can help stabilize the patient. But the feeling of sadness, it’s like a sinking feeling, from what I’ve heard. It can be so severe, the patient contemplates or has recurring thoughts of suicide or death.” She looked at Sheetal warily. “Does that sound like your friend?”

  “She keeps to herself a lot, so I can’t really say.”

  “Unfortunately, in our society, having any type of mental illness is a stigma. People do what they can to hide it. Maybe that’s why she’s never brought it up.”

  “Maybe.” Did that mean Mummyji had lied to the Malhotras and the world about Naina? How long could the charade continue?

  “You’re sure you’re not on these?”

  “No, but thank you.”

  “No problem.” Dr. Joshi appeared slightly relieved. “Take care. The baby can come any day now. Remember to call my mobile if you can’t reach me at the office.”

  ***

  The next day, Sheetal was at work on her forty-seventh painting when a wave of pain rode up her lower back. The pain had begun as a tiny ache and persisted for an hour, but Sheetal had been uncomfortable for weeks. Now, however, it felt as if someone had rammed a doorknob into her back and twisted the handle tighter with every passing minute.

  Megha walked in. “Have a minute to talk?”

  Sheetal didn’t have a spare minute. She needed to finish three more paintings. Once the baby was born and her forty-day confinement ended, she’d have less than a week before the paintings had to be delivered to the exhibition hall. She didn’t want Rakesh thinking she’d failed to meet his expectations yet again. This opportunity was her one chance to prove her worth.

  “It’s urgent.” Megha sat on the sofa and patted a cushion.

  Sheetal put down the brush and joined Megha. “Go ahead.”

  “Something’s been nagging at me for days.” Megha knotted the end of her T-shirt. “It’s personal and I…I haven’t told anyone.”

  A torque, like an electric shock, rode up her back and around her belly. Sheetal squeezed her fingers into fists and locked them by her side, taking deep breaths.

  “Bhabhi? You listening?”

  Sheetal cradled the underside of her belly, but another spasm worked its way up. They were coming faster, harder, and driving deeper. She was burning inside. She gasped and grabbed the sofa’s edge.

  “There’s this…at college…and I think I—”

  “Go on, I’m listening.” She took a deep breath, but now the pain was a knife slicing her apart.

  “I think I’m—”

  A sear-wrenching pain she’d never felt before tore at her gut. She squeezed the cushion and grabbed Megha’s hand. “Get me to the hospital now. My water broke.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Baby Baby

  At seven twenty-five a.m. on October tenth, Dr. Joshi emerged from the delivery room and joined the Prasads and Dhanrajs in the hospital lounge. “Congratulations, everyone! It’s a boy.”

  “A boy.” Pushpa smiled from ear to ear. “A boy! Why, I tell you, a boy.”

  Rana put a hand on Rak
esh’s shoulder. “Congratulations! You’re a father, my son. A father.”

  Warmth spread through Rakesh’s body as both families congratulated each other, filling the Waiting Room with cheers and excitement. He couldn’t believe it. He was a father. Father to a baby boy. His baby. His boy. His heart melted. “How is Sheetal? All right? Can I see her?” he asked Dr. Joshi. “And the baby? Can I see the baby?”

  “Soon enough. She’s being taken to her room now so it might be another hour or so. The nurses are on their way to the nursery to weigh and clean the baby.”

  Rakesh remembered like it was yesterday. He had visited Mumma at the hospital and peeked through folds of the pink blanket in her arms. Megha’s face was scrunched up like a delicate sponge ball of wrinkled skin, and she looked like an old man. Mumma laughed and said the baby’s skin would smooth out in a day or two. Then Mumma had promised to come home soon, but she never did.

  “How long before I can see her?” he asked, and instantly regretted doing so. What if he visited Sheetal and lost her, too? Fear clawed at his heart. He couldn’t live knowing he’d hurt Sheetal. And the baby? He numbed. The baby would have no mother and he would be at Pushpa’s mercy. Saliva lodged in his throat and he swallowed. He couldn’t do this to them.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Baby Blues

  A gentle bleating filled the air. Sheetal squeezed her eyes shut, but the crying persisted. She rolled onto her side, away from the noise, but spasms of pain shot across her lower back and spread to her pelvis.

  “Mrs. Dhanraj?” a woman, a stranger, called. “Your baby is hungry.”

  Sheetal rolled onto her back again, rubbed her eyes, and a metal trolley crystallized in her vision. A nurse in a white uniform approached with a blue bundle in her arms. “Would you like to try nursing him now?”

  She raised onto her elbows, but a blanket of pain pressed against her chest and pelvis, and her thighs burned as if on fire.

  “Here, let me help.”

  A buzzing sounded, followed by several clicks, and Sheetal’s upper torso inclined with the rising mattress. The nurse placed the bundle in the crook of Sheetal’s elbow and helped adjust its position until Sheetal was comfortable. Carefully, Sheetal lifted away the fabric from the baby’s face and her heart leapt at the heart-shape ball of dough, the size of a clenched fist. Two tiny slits for eyes. A thumbnail-sized knob for a nose. A pair of pastel-pink threads for lips. The baby opened his eyes and two dots of black, like bindis, looked straight at her. His lips parted, and a cry lifted from the soft petal-pink curves, causing an ache to well in Sheetal’s chest. She rocked him. She parted the overlapping folds of fabric and counted his fingers and toes that jutted like minute strings of dough. Five. Five. Ten. Perfect. She measured his thumb against hers; a fraction. The cuticle alone was equivalent to a beauty spot on her hand. Sheetal traced the side of his face and the curve of his shoulder, just visible behind peaks of his white one-piece, overcome with an instinct to shield him. She snugged her hold and inhaled the milky-soft fragrance seeping from the blanket. He was perfect! Perfect in every way.

  The baby sucked on his fist and, worried, Sheetal turned to the nurse.

  “I think you’re ready. Do you want to try?”

  Like most Indian mothers, Sheetal had decided to breastfeed her child. “I don’t know how to.”

  “Not to worry, that’s why I’m here.” The nurse helped Sheetal release the top buttons of her nighty, peeled back her collar, and nudged Sheetal to raise her elbows, thus bringing the infant closer to her breast.

  The infant turned his face toward her, mouth open, and Sheetal plunged the aureole between his petal soft lips. A warm tingle filled her chest. An inner tsunami spilled as his tiny cheeks pumped furiously, and a pearly white drop seeped from the corner of his lips.

  Sheetal finished nursing the baby, buttoned her nighty, and visitors, who had been waiting outside, flooded the room with flowers, balloons, laughter, and a tirade of congratulations. The door opened and closed for the next two hours as friends and family walked in and out. Sheetal peered through the gaps of moving bodies for a glimpse of the outside corridor. Rakesh was nowhere in sight.

  Two hours later, the crowd dwindled to a trickle and dispersed. Sheetal asked the nurse to leave the sleeping baby in the bassinet with her for the afternoon, before the nurse had a chance to whisk him off to the nursery.

  Sheetal was about to relax against the mattress when a quiet knock on the door made her sit up. “Come in.”

  The door swung open and a gust of mint and tobacco filled the room. Rakesh stood in the open doorway.

  So, it took half a day for him to finally visit? Sheetal crossed her arms. From the stench, he must have smoked an entire pack of cigarettes just to ramp up the courage.

  His shoulders hunched and one hand rammed into the pocket of his Chinos. He entered. “How are you feeling?”

  Is that all he had to say after nine hours? How was a woman supposed to feel after carrying a child for nine months, followed by fifteen hours of labor, knowing all too well her husband could be out flirting with some other woman? A rush of heat spiraled up her gut. She was ready to explode.

  “May I?” He pulled a chair from the opposite wall, dragged it around the medicine trolley, scraping metal against floor, and caused a loud screech.

  Sheetal winced and the baby stirred. “Sit wherever you want. You’re paying for all this.”

  Rakesh circled the bed and examined the baby as if he were a finished product. He nodded and returned to the chair. “He’s beautiful. Our son.” He wrapped his fingers around Sheetal’s hand, but she pulled away.

  “What’s pickling you now? Every time I come near or try to be nice, you back off.”

  “Every time?” She stared. “How many times have you tried to come near me in the last six months?”

  He shook his head. “You’re impossible.”

  “Impossible when I’m kicked out of my room. Forced to live somewhere else. Impossible when I give birth to another human being and don’t know where the father is.”

  “I was outside with the others in the Waiting Room.”

  “I’m talking about the last nine months, not the last nine hours.”

  “There were reasons.”

  “Of course, there’s a reason. There’s always a reason for everything.”

  “If you didn’t snoop around my den or—”

  “I wasn’t snooping.”

  His fingers tapped the chair’s armrest in waves. “Looking for evidence to hold against me. Is that it?”

  “People look for evidence when they’re suspicious. I was simply trying to find you. Talk to you. But you’re so wrapped up in hiding this…this affair of yours—”

  His expression stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Your trip to Amsterdam with Vipul Sahib. He was never with you. He told me himself. He was in Goa with family, on holiday. I checked—”

  “You what?” Rakesh jumped to his feet and the chair screeched against the floor. The baby cried. “You dared to question him about me? Besharam! Do you even know what a fool you’ve—”

  “I didn’t mean to. It’s not like I was trying to find evidence against you. We’re married. I trusted you—or, at least, I tried to.”

  “Sweet! I organize an art exhibition. I step in and take your side when Naina insults you. Tell me, what man protects his wife the way I do?”

  Her insides boiled. “Protect? You’re not protecting anyone. You didn’t think I’d find out about Vipul Sahib, but I did.”

  “You know nothing.”

  Sheetal reached across to the bassinet, scooped the baby into her arms and rocked him. “You should leave.”

  “You deserve to be alone,” his tone was hard. “You’ve turned my life into a fucking hell!”

  “And you spend all your time hiding. Isn’t that why you moved me out of the room? Because you’re hiding—” />
  “You want the truth? All right, have it then. I am. On purpose. Want to know why?”

  Sheetal held her breath and tightened her grip on the baby as the medicine trolley blurred. “It’s not true. You don’t mean it.” Hot tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “It’s what you wanted, right? Maybe now you’ll fuck off!”

  Sheetal gulped. “That night on Diwali when we made love. The painting, Dawn at Dusk, and all those evenings we spent together. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

  He made for the door. “You’ve left nothing between us.”

  “Who is this other woman?”

  The hospital door opened and Mummyji rushed in. “Is everything all right? I heard the two of you— Hai Ishwar!” She grabbed the crying infant from Sheetal and turned to Rakesh. “Just look at what you’ve done. A woman gives you the perfect family. A son. And what do you do? Make a mess of it all.”

  “She gets worked up over nothing.”

  “You should leave.” Mummyji circled the bed to reach the bassinet.

  “I shouldn’t have come in the first place.” Rakesh left and slammed the door.

  “These men, I tell you,” Mummyji said. “They just don’t understand. At least Anand will grow up to be better than him.”

  “Who’s Anand?”

  “Why, the baby, of course.” Mummyji lay the infant in the bassinet and rocked it gently.

  “I didn’t know you had decided on a name.”

  “I called the priest a few hours ago.”

  It was considered inauspicious to decide on a baby’s name until after birth. Mummyji had obviously consulted the family priest—who used the configuration of stars and planets at the time of birth to determine the newborn’s initials.

  “Isn’t that what the two of you were arguing about, I tell you? The name? I filled the birth certificate an hour ago.”

  Sheetal raised her eyebrows. “Who decided on Anand?”

  “Why me, of course.” Mummyji beamed. “The pundit said his name must begin with ‘A,’ I tell you. And I thought, Anand, a little happiness, would do you both some good.”