“So, what?” Madhu asked. If the driving was stressing him out, she couldn’t tell. He was relaxed as he honked, braked, and changed gears.
“You still haven’t told me,” Priya said.
They had been discussing it for the past few days, and Madhu got squeamish each time she brought up the topic.
“I don’t want to talk about this,” Madhu said, and Priya could see he was embarrassed.
“Come on, did you or did you not need any of the porno movies they gave you?” Priya asked with a smile.
“I don’t want to talk about this,” he repeated.
“You know I would’ve told you if it were me,” Priya said. “And it isn’t the first time you’ve had to . . . you know”—she paused for effect—“masturbate into a cup.”
“And I didn’t tell you then, either,” Madhu said.
They both knew they were talking about this to avoid dwelling on whether their surrogate was pregnant or not. They had chosen this particular woman over two others. Madhu had been drawn to her because of her age. She was twenty-five and had two children. This would be her first time as a surrogate. She came from a good family and had a sister-in-law who had also been a surrogate. Her husband was a house painter, and they lived in a village close to Srirampuram.
The other two women were slightly older than this one and had been surrogates before. For some reason, the fact that they had done this before made Madhu and Priya wary. They should’ve felt surer because the women were experienced, but they still wanted this woman.
And then there was the name.
Priya was immediately attracted to Asha because her name meant “hope,” just as her own name, Priyasha, did. One hope was giving hope to another hope; there was something inevitable about it, as if the universe had planned it.
Swati Gudla, their doctor and the owner of the Happy Mothers clinic, a fertility and surrogacy clinic close to Hyderabad, had been delighted with their choice, assuring them that Asha would make a wonderful surrogate.
Both Madhu and Priya had gotten to know Doctor Swati quite well over the phone during the past few months. There were many, many conversations to be had: about money, legalities, medical conditions, and more. They liked her instantly, from the very first time they had Skyped. She was down-to-earth and talked sensibly about the process, warning them about the emotional and financial toll. Financially, this was a lot cheaper than having three IVFs. Emotionally, they crossed their fingers that it would be less harrowing.
“You know I’d tell you if I had to use porn,” Priya told Madhu in a serious tone. “I wish it were that easy for women. My stomach is still churning, thanks to that extraction business.”
Madhu reached out his hand and touched hers.
“I wish you could’ve used porn, too,” he said. “I know it was painful.”
“But worth it, right?”
Madhu shrugged. He didn’t say it because it would hurt Priya, but she knew that he didn’t want a baby “at any cost,” like she did. He would’ve been plenty happy to live their lives without a child. He would’ve been happier in some ways if they had adopted. It wasn’t like Priya was against adopting, but she looked at it as a last resort. And, as yet, there was this one avenue that was still available to them. If this didn’t work out, then maybe . . . Oh God, please let this work.
“Do you think the baby will learn Telugu?” Madhu asked.
“Well, if you speak to her in Telugu, she will learn Telugu. If I speak to her in Telugu, she’ll learn crap Telugu.”
Priya always referred to the baby as “she.” She didn’t know why but she was convinced that she was meant to have one.
“Your Telugu, considering the circumstances, is fabulous,” Madhu said. “I still don’t get why Sush didn’t bother to teach it to you. It’s such a waste. It is, after all, your mother tongue.”
“I guess it wasn’t important to her,” Priya said.
Even though she had an Indian mother, Priya’s connection with India had been a fragile one at best. She had visited once as a child but could hardly remember it. There was some Indian food at home, but not a lot and not every day. There was some Indian classical music mixed in with Mozart and Mahler. There were no Indian movies, really. Priya’s uncle, who’d died years ago, had been Sush’s only relative in India besides her parents. Priya’s grandparents had not been gung ho about their daughter marrying a white man and had not visited very often. Priya vaguely remembered them and felt no connection to them.
Priya’s Indian experience really began after she met Madhu. It was a delight to her that he was Telugu like Sush, who was also from Andhra Pradesh. He had indulged Priya by speaking to her in Telugu, helping her rudimentary language skills develop. Now she spoke it half-decently, albeit with a strong American accent.
Before meeting Madhu, Priya had always felt a part of her was missing. She was half-Indian, but there was nothing Indian about her. Having a completely Indian husband who helped her discover her Indianness had made her feel complete.
They fell silent as they neared the clinic, her prayers battling the insidious thought that maybe the surrogate hadn’t gotten pregnant this first time after all and that they might have to try again in a few months, if they didn’t give up altogether.
Madhu parked and they got out. Priya stood by the car, not wanting to walk in. There had been so much bad news for so long that she was terrified to believe that this time could be different.
Her hands started to shake.
Madhu put his arm around her and kissed her lightly. “You need to relax,” he said quietly.
“I couldn’t stand it if she isn’t pregnant,” Priya said with tears in her eyes. “I . . . I don’t know what I’d do. I want a baby, Madhu.”
“I know,” Madhu said as Priya turned in to him.
When she lifted her head, she gave him a teary smile. “I’m such a shit,” she said as she wiped her tears with a tissue from her purse.
He grinned as they started to walk toward the entrance. He leaned down slightly when they stepped into the reception area.
“I didn’t use the porn,” Madhu whispered into Priya’s ear. “I thought of you in that blue Victoria’s Secret number.”
Transcript from message board www.surrogacyforyou.org
NearlyMother: Our surrogate lost our baby. This is such a painful and horrible time. I hear about people who get pregnant the first time and then have a healthy pregnancy and I can’t understand why this can’t happen to us. This was our second time. I think my husband is ready to give up.
Mommy8774: I am so sorry to hear about your loss. It’s terrible. With our first baby everything went well. With our second baby we had to try three different times to get pregnant. So hang in there.
Prietysmommy: We just got through the first trimester. I can only imagine how you feel. I was so scared. And it isn’t easy with us here in Dallas and the baby in Gujarat. Torture.
NobuNobi: My MIL and FIL are against us getting an SM and have been so mean about the whole thing. They’re visiting now and make me feel so bad. I mean they see this as my fault and that it has nothing to do with DH. I mean, DH gave his f****** sperm, didn’t he? I have some uterine problems and that’s why we had to go the SM way. This really hurts. Our SM is doing very well. She’s nearly five months pregnant and we talk every week; I see her belly over the webcam. Anyone else having to deal with family disapproval?
UnoBaby: My friends have been very unsupportive. Now I don’t even tell people. It’s nobody’s business anyway. One of my friends actually told me that I was exploiting this poor Indian woman. But my SM wants to help us and to them the money we give can help change the lives of her children.
Trying1Time: My mother is not very supportive about this either and also accuses me of exploiting the poor people of India. But I agree with UnoBaby that this is a mutually beneficial thing. We’re waiting to hear if our surrogate is pregnant. I have my fingers crossed.
Newbie1209: I’m so glad I found
this message board. You all seem wonderful. I wish you the best, Trying1Time. And NobuNobi, I’m so sorry your in-laws are giving you a hard time. And NearlyMother . . . I am so so so so sorry. I really want to go the surrogate route. Any suggestions on how I can convince my husband?
CantConceive1970: My husband flat-out refused, but once I showed him pictures, testimonials, walked him through Dr. Patel’s website, he was all for it. Now we’re working on baby #2 and he’s game for a third one if we want it. It’s a great way to have your own baby when you can’t do it yourself. It’s a gift.
Mommy8774: Just be prepared with facts and proof. I made sure I had all the information when I sat down with my husband. Turns out I didn’t need to, because he had been investigating it himself and was afraid to bring it up, thinking I would be against it! So it turned out really well. I hope it turns out well for you, too.
CHAPTER TWO
Each time the bus jerked, Asha placed her hand on her belly, trying to nestle the life within. It was an instinctive reaction, not one she even noticed.
She knew she was pregnant. They hadn’t done the blood test yet to confirm it, but she knew. It had been just three days since she had been through the procedure at Doctor Swati’s clinic, and already she knew.
Just this morning when she brushed her teeth, there had been blood. That was how it had been with Manoj and Mohini. A woman knew her body.
The bus jerked again, and this time Asha felt her hand move to her stomach, but she balled it into a fist and let it lie on her lap. This would not be like the other times. This baby was not hers.
Pratap slept, his head resting against the dirty glass window of the bus. They’d had to wake up at four in the morning so that they could be at the hospital by nine o’clock. Asha had worn her best sari, even though she knew that it would get wrinkled in the time it took them to get to Doctor Swati’s hospital. She had insisted that Pratap wear his nice pants and shirt and had painstakingly ironed the shirt to make sure there were no creases. It was now covered in wrinkles and sweat stains, his odor mingling with those of the other passengers.
Kantamma, the tailor in their village, had made the shirt. Asha had bought the cloth from Hyderabad when she had gone there for a wedding. It had blue and white stripes. It looked good on him. Pratap didn’t care what he wore, but it was important to Asha that they look like a handsome couple today, well-to-do, even though she was selling her womb for money, especially because she was.
She was almost grateful that her parents were dead. Her mother had died nearly five years ago, right after Asha was married. She’d had pancreatic cancer, and as soon as she was diagnosed at the government hospital, the doctors had told them that she would have just a year or so to live. Asha’s parents immediately started to look for a boy for her—her mother wanted to see her married before she died.
They didn’t have enough saved up for a dowry, and they knew this meant that they couldn’t find Asha a good match. Asha’s brother, Venkat, was supposed to get married and receive a dowry, which would then be used to marry off Asha. But Venkat had fallen in love with another clerk in the bank he worked in. Asha’s parents didn’t like the idea of a love marriage, but Venkat had always been headstrong. No one could tell him what to do, and he had gone and married the woman he loved without taking any dowry, ruining Asha’s chances of finding a good husband. The best they could’ve done was a painter. Pratap’s family was not mercenary (after all, they had no daughters to marry off) and had asked only that the wedding be arranged well and that the girl come with the basic jewelry: gold bangles, a gold chain, and gold earrings.
Venkat and his wife, Prabha, now lived all the way in Vizag. Asha rarely saw them or their two daughters. She had visited them once for her father’s funeral. Her father had moved in with Venkat after their mother died. He had not survived much longer; a heart attack claimed him just a year later.
It had been strange to meet the brother she had grown up with, with his own family. A family he cared more about than his own sister. But that’s how it was supposed to be. They wrote letters once a year to each other for Ugadi, the Telugu New Year, but beyond that, Asha knew that Pratap’s family was now her only family. Her relationship with her brother died alongside her parents. It was probably for the best, Asha thought. She doubted her brother would approve of her getting pregnant with another couple’s baby for money. And she would be ashamed if he ever found out.
It was a strange day—a day of anticipation, a day where everything, their entire lives, would be altered completely. Asha and Pratap’s neighbors, an elderly couple, were taking care of Manoj and Mohini for the day. They treated the children like their own grandchildren, and Asha knew they would be heartbroken when she and Pratap left the village.
Asha had kissed her sleeping children before leaving. Mohini was nearly two, a tiny princess, and the joy of Pratap’s life. And Manoj, such a beautiful, smart boy—just five and he could already read. It was scary that he could, both in English and in Telugu! When his teacher told them that he was one of those very intelligent boys, Asha and Pratap had known that they had to do something. They couldn’t give Manoj an education in a big-city school with what Pratap made as a painter.
Pratap made a sound and shifted in his sleep. He wasn’t comfortable in the jerking bus—but he was sleeping. Here she was pregnant with some other man’s child, and he was fast asleep, like a baby, Asha thought angrily. She wanted to wake him and make him see the atrocity she was committing.
This was his fault anyway. It was Pratap’s brother, Raman, who had planted the idea. Last year, Kaveri, Asha’s sister-in-law, had given birth to a bald, blue-eyed baby for a British couple living in Nottingham in England. Asha hadn’t even heard of a place called Nottingham until Kaveri and Raman had told them. The parents had paid five lakh rupees to Kaveri for having their baby. Five lakh rupees! Pratap’s eyes had almost fallen out. And when the teachers told them about Manoj and how he needed to go to a better school, Pratap had started to talk about it with Asha. She couldn’t blame him entirely, not really, because five lakh rupees was a lot of money, and it had made her think as well. Could she? Could she do what Kaveri had done? And now she had done it, just like Kaveri.
Asha wondered if there had ever really been a choice for her. Could she have said no? Could she have been selfish and said, “No, this is my body, I decide”?
And now? Now it was too late. The seed had taken hold, and she could feel her body already nourishing this child that was not hers.
Asha’s mother-in-law, Puttamma, who now lived with Kaveri and Raman (they had a brick flat with an indoor bathroom), had also thought it was a great idea.
But to give birth to someone else’s baby—a stranger’s baby—how would that make her feel? Would this be an act of perversion, because it was perverse to deny nature her right to make someone barren and give that person a child anyway? Would this make Asha less of a mother to her own children? Could it somehow corrupt her motherhood, taint her soul?
“Where are you going?” the woman sitting next to Asha on the bus asked. She was a fat woman who took up a lot of space. The seat was designed for three people, but with this woman’s size, Asha was all but sitting on Pratap’s lap. It didn’t help that Pratap was a big man as well.
“Srirampuram,” Asha said, looking at Pratap’s hands, the nails always smeared on the edges with remnants of paint, this time white. “Our relatives are there. We’re visiting.” She felt compelled to embellish.
Their relatives did live there—Kaveri and Raman had bought their big flat in Srirampuram with their baby money. In any case, she couldn’t tell anyone the truth. Society had its rules, and even though many women were now stealthily carrying other people’s children in their wombs, it was all hush-hush, hidden, a dirty secret. The story they’d tell was that Asha became pregnant and then lost the baby. No one in her village would ever approve of this. Decent women didn’t use their bodies to make money. Their family name would be ruined if anyone
found out. Asha couldn’t help but wonder what else would be ruined. Her heart, her mind, her body? What if this baby destroyed her womb? What if God struck her down for going against his wishes, giving birth to a child he didn’t wish to see born?
“I’m going to Hyderabad,” the woman said. “My daughter is about to deliver—any day now. I will be a grandmother for the first time. Do you have children?”
“Two,” Asha said, and felt a pang. What would she say after this baby growing inside her came out? Would she still say two children, even though she had carried a third and given birth a third time?
Pratap changed sides to rest his head on Asha’s shoulder, snoring softly. He was fast asleep, she marveled—fast asleep with the noise of the bus, the heat, the smell of sweat, let alone the life inside her womb.
The noise of the bus engine competed with that of chickens stuffed into baskets in the rear seats. People were talking, a radio was playing Telugu songs, there was the rustle of newspapers being opened, and babies were crying, making the crowded bus feel even more stifling. A woman sitting across from Asha had a basket of vegetables on her lap—tomatoes, coriander, cucumber, and bitter gourd. People were taking their wares to the bazaar in Srirampuram. Someone somewhere on the bus was eating mirchi bajjis, and Asha could smell the chili and the oil they were fried in. Pregnancy was already sharpening her sense of smell. They could do all the tests they wanted, Asha thought; she already knew she was pregnant.
“We have a boy and a girl,” Asha said proudly. One of each, she liked to say—an accomplishment.
“We wanted to know if the baby was a boy or a girl, but they wouldn’t tell us; you know how it is these days,” the woman said. “A shame that people kill their baby in the belly because it’s a girl.”
A House for Happy Mothers: A Novel Page 2