The next question was about the parents. What were they like, and how did Asha feel about them? Asha talked about how they sent presents and talked to her regularly. They seemed like good people, and they were very happy that they were going to have a baby.
“Do you like being a surrogate?” Farida translated the white woman’s question.
Asha nodded. “Yes.”
“But it’s a big thing to do, give birth to a baby,” Farida said. “Do you worry about something happening to you during childbirth?”
Asha swallowed; her shoulders were stiff and she was nervous.
“No, I don’t worry. Doctor Swati has explained everything to me, and this is a good hospital, better than what I had for my children, and that went well enough,” Asha said.
“Do you feel that this baby is being taken care of better than your own babies?” Farida asked, translating the white woman’s question.
Divya had not included this question in their practice session.
Asha bit her lower lip, not sure how to answer. She didn’t want to look at Divya. She felt frozen. What could she say?
She cleared her throat to buy time and smiled uneasily. “Yes, that is true.”
“Do you resent that?”
Asha could feel Divya’s nervous energy slam into her.
“No,” Asha said simply. “That was then and this is now. I have two healthy and happy children. And I hope that this baby will also be healthy and happy. That’s all we can do. The rest”—she looked heavenward—“is up to Lord Venkateshwara Swami.”
After that, the questions were simple, just like they had practiced. It took about a half hour at the most, and then it was over.
“You did very well,” Divya said, all smiles, taking both of Asha’s hands in hers. “So very well.”
“Really?” Asha said, glowing under the praise. No matter how old you got, you always wanted to be told that something you did was good.
“I just hope the others are as good,” Divya said.
So now Doctor Swati will get my son into the school, yes? Asha almost asked. But she knew this was neither the time nor the place nor the right person to ask. In any case, you didn’t say these things out loud. They were done silently, quietly, with nods and smiles and movement of the eyes.
They interviewed Gangamma in her room and then interviewed Chitra in the kitchen while Revati chopped vegetables for sambhar. The questions were almost the same for all the women, with small variations. They asked Gangamma if she would do this again. They asked Vinita how she felt about being away from her family for nearly ten months, as she had come to Happy Mothers as soon as she became pregnant.
They were all done and gone before lunch, to everyone’s surprise. Divya went with them to the clinic to show them the hospital rooms and interview Doctor Swati and others who worked at Happy Mothers.
The surrogate house was abuzz with TV show talk.
Everyone wanted to talk to Gangamma, Vinita, and Asha. What happened? How did it go? Did Divya really tell them exactly what to say? When would it air? Was there a chance they would be recognized?
Vinita and Gangamma were more amenable to the questions than Asha. She couldn’t get the words out. She was stumbling on her thoughts. She hadn’t wanted to talk to these people and put her business on display, but Doctor Swati hadn’t left her a choice.
Keertana noticed her sullen mood and swooped in for the kill.
“You don’t look happy,” Keertana said, sitting beside Asha on the coconut charpoy on the verandah.
“I’m fine,” Asha said.
“Gangamma and Vinita are so proud that they were chosen to speak with those TV people,” Keertana said.
Asha shook her head and felt a weariness engulf her.
“Are you in pain? Are you OK?” Keertana asked.
Asha shook her head again.
“I hate this,” Asha said, her anguish making her voice husky. “I hate this.”
“Hate what?”
“I can’t think like you. I can’t think of myself as a coolie,” Asha said. “This baby . . . it isn’t mine. It’s humiliating to do this for money. It’s humiliating that Doctor Swati made me talk to those people by saying that she wouldn’t help my son get into the good school if I didn’t.”
“She said that?” Keertana’s eyes widened. “That lanja munda, the dirty bitch.”
Asha sighed. “She’s just helping her business. We’re just business. We’re not people. We’re just . . . nothing. I’m a womb . . . a belly. If tomorrow, they could save me or the baby, who would they save, you think?”
“You,” Keertana said. “That is in the contract.”
“Oh, like they’d tell us the truth. They’ll just let me die and let my children grow up without a mother,” Asha said.
Keertana put her arm around Asha. “You’re not going to die. Women don’t die anymore during childbirth.”
“I know,” Asha said, her shoulders slumping. “But now everyone wants to talk to me and take care of me, but not me, just this person growing inside me. I feel like no one cares about me.”
Keertana dropped her arm and leaned back on the wall. “Of course they don’t care about you. No one cares about us. My own husband doesn’t care about me. My kids are only interested in what I can buy them. No one cares, Asha. That’s why we have to care for ourselves. A woman in this country is already nobody; now take a poor woman, someone like us . . . we’re less than nobody. A dog in the slum has more rights than we do.”
“So this is our lot in life?”
“You’re changing your life,” Keertana said. “You’re doing this so that your daughter can study and be a lanja munda like Doctor Swati. Strong. Independent.”
Pratap fidgeted as he sat on the same coconut charpoy a few hours later. He seemed unsettled. Asha hadn’t noticed at first, busy as she was with Manoj and Mohini.
Mohini wanted to show Asha a new dress that Kaveri had bought for her.
“Can you see the butterflies?” she asked her mother, pointing to the blue butterflies scattered around the white frock with a blue bow in the back. “This is my favorite dress now.”
Kaveri had even put on a blue headband to keep Mohini’s hair off her face.
“The headband is not new,” Mohini said when she saw Asha looking at it.
“I want you to have this,” Manoj said then, and gave Asha a piece of paper. “It’s a poem about . . . you.”
Asha unfolded the paper and saw that Manoj had written ten lines neatly in Telugu.
The ten things I love about my mother:
My mother’s name is Asha—Asha means hope. I like her name.
My mother has long black hair that comes down to her back. Her hair is beautiful.
My mother always kisses me good night.
My mother is the best cook. She makes the best ladoos in the world.
My mother always kisses me when I get hurt. The hurt doesn’t get better. But I feel better.
My mother has pink lips and pink cheeks. She is very pretty.
My mother covers my school books in brown paper and writes my name neatly on the labels, Manoj Vardhan. No one else has books covered as nicely as mine.
My mother gave me my little sister. Mohini can be annoying, but I like her.
My mother hugs me when I get scared. I don’t get scared that much, but when I do, she hugs me. She gives the best hugs.
My mother has the best laugh. It makes me laugh when she laughs. I wish she would laugh all the time.
Asha laughed out loud even as emotion grabbed her throat. She couldn’t help herself.
“You wrote this all by yourself?” Asha asked.
Manoj shrugged.
“Really?” Asha asked, looking at Pratap.
“It’s all him,” Pratap confirmed.
“Thank you, Manoj,” Asha said, and kissed her son on his forehead. “Thank you so much. This is precious to me.”
“Well,” Manoj said, standing up from the charpoy, “I
just wanted to give you that. Can we go inside and see if there is any chakli in the kitchen?”
Asha nodded, and Manoj grabbed Mohini’s hand and she squealed as they ran inside the house.
“I can’t believe he writes so well,” Asha said.
“Yes,” Pratap said, and then scratched his cheek, shifted on the charpoy, and cleared his throat.
“Is everything OK?” Asha asked.
“Yes, yes,” he said, and smiled at her. “How was your TV thing?”
“OK,” Asha said. “They will hide my face; they promised. Still, I had my pallu down to my stomach so no one could see me even if they wanted.”
Pratap nodded.
Asha waited for him to say something, and then, reaching the end of her patience, she snapped at him.
“Something is the matter. Say it or leave,” she said.
Pratap sat up, clearly surprised to hear his normally sweet-spoken wife so curt with him.
“I was wondering . . . just thinking, you know . . . a flat is up for sale . . . now, don’t get angry because I know you think it’s your money, but you’re my wife and your money is my money, too . . .”
“Really?” Asha demanded, standing up, her rounded belly making her tilt a little. “So you just want to buy a flat and let’s not do anything about Manoj’s school? I even talked to the TV people for that, and now you don’t want to save money for it.”
“Sit down,” Pratap said. “I didn’t say I was going to do it; I said I wanted to talk to you. What is it with you? Whenever you’re pregnant you’re like Mahakali, goddess Durga in warrior incarnation.”
“I’m not like Mahakali,” Asha said, sitting down. “And I’m not like this every time I’m pregnant.”
Pratap laughed, which only fueled Asha’s temper. He held his hand up. “When you were pregnant with Mohini, you broke the earthen water pot because it was empty and you were thirsty.”
“That was an accident,” Asha said. Then, seeing the humor in his face, she smiled as well. “So I get a little cranky when I’m pregnant.”
He looked at her belly. “And you look beautiful when you’re pregnant.”
“Don’t say things like that,” Asha whispered. “This isn’t our baby.”
Pratap nodded gravely. “But you’re still beautiful.”
Asha looked at her feet, feeling incredibly shy.
“I can’t wait for that baby to be out so I can have my wife back.” He put his hand on Asha’s. “I want you back, in more ways than one.”
It had never happened before, this feeling of . . . desire. But his hand stroking hers suddenly gave her goose bumps and she found herself wanting to kiss him. This was what Kaveri talked about—this wanting to sleep with her husband, this feeling that Asha had never felt.
They always did it furtively, aware that the children were sleeping in the same room and sometimes even Pratap’s mother. She had never liked it. Never enjoyed it. Hated his harsh breathing and the sounds he made. She used to turn her head away, closing her eyes to block the sounds and the smell.
But now . . . now she wanted to . . . what?
“The children will be hungry soon,” Pratap said. “I should take them home.”
Asha watched her family walk away. Pratap carried Mohini in one arm and held Manoj’s hand with his free hand.
The baby kicked softly inside her then, and she wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if she just got up and left with them—womb, baby, and all.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
They had spoken to Asha the evening before, and even Madhu admitted she sounded off. They had talked to Doctor Swati as well, who had assured them that everything was just peachy. Pregnant women were just hormonal, and Asha was nearly in her third trimester, so maybe she was tired, nothing to worry about.
She didn’t sound tired, Priya thought; she sounded angry.
They went over the conversation as they drove to Nina’s house for a dinner party.
“She said that the TV interview thing went fine. Do you think that’s what pissed her off?” Priya wondered.
Madhu sighed. “I don’t want to start going down this guessing-game path. What has upset her? Why is she angry? I just . . . you know, maybe some of the parents have it right. No contact with the surrogate is best.”
“But you agree I’m not imagining things,” Priya said.
“I agree that she sounded off. Maybe she was having an off day. Everyone is entitled to an off day,” Madhu said.
But what if she hurts the baby because she is having an off day? Priya wanted to ask, but she didn’t have the courage to voice the thought. It was a silly thought, anyway. Asha was in a house at the clinic. There were other surrogates there, nurses, a doctor. Nothing could go wrong even if Asha wanted it to go wrong. Right?
“Do you think she’s depressed that she’s pregnant with a baby that isn’t hers?” Priya asked.
Priya thought about all those stories she’d heard about kicking babies keeping mothers awake, and she wondered if Asha stroked her stomach when the baby kicked. All the delights and traumas of being pregnant, she had heard them all—and again she felt the Grand Canyon–size regret inside her that this was the only way for her to have a baby. She would never know what it meant to be pregnant. Never know the flutter of life inside her.
But Asha knew. This was her third time. Genetically, Priya knew, the baby was theirs. But it was Asha’s blood that was feeding their baby, helping it grow. It was Asha who was nurturing the baby inside her.
“I think the TV show upset her. We should have said no to Doctor Swati,” Priya said thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s a bigger deal for them there. We should have refused.”
“Do you think it was our call?” Madhu asked. “I think it was up to Asha. And if she had said no, we would’ve backed her. No one’s forcing her to do anything.” Madhu paused, seemingly lost in thought as they drove in silence for a few minutes. “Still, it’s a heavy price to pay,” he continued. “If you were pregnant and then you had to give that baby away, I’d go berserk. They might be poor, but I imagine they have the same emotions we do.”
Priya felt small. While she had spent her time curbing her guilt and emboldening her righteous feeling of using a surrogate, Madhu had obviously given this a lot of thought.
“Do you think she hates carrying our baby?” Priya asked.
“I don’t think so. God, I hope not,” Madhu said.
“I wish I hadn’t said that out loud,” Priya said as soon as she tasted her words, the fear behind them.
“Yeah, me, too.”
Nina loved throwing dinner parties. It had been her “thing” ever since she had quit her career to be a mom with a capital M.
The party was one of those elegant affairs with no kids. Nina’s girls were with her mother for the weekend, which left Nina and Jordan without responsibilities for the morning after. This meant that they were both on their second glass of champagne before the guests had even arrived.
Nina was a good hostess but a lousy cook, and they had the sushi catered from Fuki Sushi in Palo Alto. They used to live in Palo Alto, but after Jordan’s company had gone public all those years ago during the Internet boom, they had moved to Los Gatos, into a sprawling house that had been renovated to the nines.
The house looked like something out of Santa Fe on the outside, and inside it was all hardwood floors and beautiful tile. When they first bought it, Nina had loved it. It was a testament to the great careers they had built and all their hard work. Once Nina quit her job, she confessed it sometimes felt like a mausoleum—a trap she couldn’t get out of. It irked her even more that they could afford the house without her salary.
It probably didn’t help that Jordan had had an affair while Nina was pregnant with their second child, living in the fabulous house she could not afford if she were on her own.
“Sometimes I feel like I didn’t divorce him because I was worried about losing the house,” Nina had once told Priya, though she followed a f
ew seconds later with, “I’m being stupid. I love Jordan and it worked out, didn’t it?”
As Priya walked into Nina and Jordan’s home, she wondered if Nina’s decisions to quit her job and stay with Jordan despite his adultery had really been worth it. And what did “worth it” really mean?
“I love this wine,” Nina said as she took the bottle Priya handed to her. It was a bottle of Barolo—not something Priya would buy while jobless, but they had one lying around, a gift from someone for some dinner party they had thrown. Since Nina loved Italian wine, she’d brought it along, hoping that Nina had not been the one to give it to them in the first place.
“I hope you’ll enjoy it,” Priya said, watching Madhu be dragged away by Jordan to meet someone.
“Krysta is going to be late,” Nina said as she started to walk toward the kitchen.
It was Priya’s least favorite room. It was too heavy, all done in dark wood. It didn’t have the cozy feeling a kitchen was supposed to evoke.
Priya and Madhu’s kitchen opened onto their dining room and living room—and was the heart of their house with the occasional chipped china and cookbooks with dog-eared pages and grease stains. They loved to cook, and when they used to throw dinner parties, their dining table would sag with food and fifteen people eating at a table designed for ten. Once the baby was here and she got a new job, Priya promised herself, she would throw dinner parties again.
“Champagne?” Nina asked, pouring Priya a glass. “You’re going to love Anne and Steven. They’re a wonderful couple. Anne is French, from Lyon—she’s lived in the United States for fifteen years but still has the cutest French accent. And Steven is from New York. Anne’s an artist. She sculpts—she’s going to be a big deal someday.”
Priya sipped her champagne and made the appropriate sounds.
“So, Krysta told me that you lost your job,” Nina said as she led Priya into the living room. “Best thing for you. You will have a baby soon, and then you and I can do lunch. What do you say?”
A House for Happy Mothers: A Novel Page 17