A House for Happy Mothers: A Novel

by Amulya Malladi

  “He can go to hell, that son of a whore,” she would say. “Once my daughters are married off, I’ll go stay with them. Two months here, three months there—that’s going to be my life. I’ll play with my grandchildren, stay with my daughters, and let that waste of humanity I married rot alone.”

  “When you give the baby away, don’t you feel something?” Asha once asked her.

  Ragini laughed. “Sure I feel something. I feel rich.”

  They took auto rickshaws to the theater. Five autos for fifteen people—thirteen pregnant women, Revati, and Nursamma. Two of the women had declined to come to the movies because they weren’t feeling up to it.

  “This was a great idea,” Revati said. She was in the same auto as Keertana and Asha. “I’ve wanted to go see a movie for a long time now, but these days with the TV showing everything, it seems like a waste of money. But a cinema is a cinema.”

  Revati’s life revolved around the Happy Mothers House. She didn’t seem to have any family, any life, outside of her responsibilities at the clinic, not like Doctor Swati, who had her own home and family.

  “A good, wholesome movie is exactly what I need to cheer me up,” Revati said.

  Chitra had not won the vote, and they were going to see Raju Maharaja, a nice family drama with some well-known but older actors. Young romance was not on anyone’s wish list, except maybe Chitra’s. In any case, romance movies were for college boys and girls. They were grown, pregnant women; they needed a family setting.

  “My husband and I used to see a movie every month,” Keertana said. “But now . . .” She put her hand on her belly for a moment and laughed. “But after this baby, we can go right back to it. Don’t even have to worry about taking a baby along and having it cry all through the movie.”

  Revati smiled. “You’re all doing such a pious task. You’re giving so many people a miracle. I see a lot of parents and surrogate mothers come and go, and I’m always touched by the gift you give and the joy they feel.”

  Keertana snorted but didn’t say anything.

  “My baby’s mother is coming here,” Asha said. “She won’t stay here, but she will come and visit every day or something.”

  Revati didn’t exactly make a face, but her discontent was obvious when she spoke. “I don’t like those parents who come and try to become friends with the surrogate. It doesn’t work. But they don’t understand that. I told Doctor Swati to make this a clinic where parents don’t talk to the surrogate.”

  “There are clinics like that?” Asha asked.

  “Of course,” Revati said, and screeched a little when the auto bumped hard. “Hey, drive carefully, man, I have pregnant women here.”

  “I’m careful, Amma, but what do you want me to do about holes in the road?” the auto driver said cheerfully. “I have driven lots of pregnant women in this auto, never had any problem.”

  “Pay attention, for God’s sake,” Revati screamed as the auto missed a bicycle by a hair.

  “You let me drive, Amma,” the driver said. “You just relax. So, what movie are you going to see?”

  “Raju Maharaja,” Keertana told him.

  “Mast movie, Amma,” the driver said. “Top movie. Mohan Babu, Ramya Krishnan . . . what a movie.”

  “Well, if you say it’s good, it must be good,” Keertana said sarcastically, holding on to the side bar of the auto for dear life as it found another hole in the road.

  They stopped outside the theater and Revati paid the auto. Doctor Swati was paying for the autos, but the women had to pay for their own movie tickets.

  Rangamma, the maid’s son, had gone to the theater in the morning and bought tickets so that the women could skip the long lines at the ticket counter and go straight inside the air-conditioned halls. Even though the women were buying their own tickets, they had splurged and bought balcony seats. The view was much better, and the seats were more comfortable.

  Asha always liked the smell of a movie theater. This one, Devaky Cinemas, was a big one. She remembered when Kaveri and Raman first moved to Srirampuram, they had talked excitedly about it, how modern it was and how it could seat fifteen hundred people. Sure enough, today’s show was packed.

  The balcony seats were lush, comfortable, still velvety to the touch—after all, the theater was just two years old. It even had that unmistakable smell of expensive air-conditioning and fresh samosas.

  They had the first row; this meant that they didn’t have to move once they sat down, and they had good leg space as well. Asha settled into her seat. When she was young, her favorite thing to see was when the curtains on the screen parted and the movie began. The opening of the curtain was like opening a treasure and seeing what surprise lay within. She sighed contentedly.

  Doctor Swati had agreed that even though they couldn’t eat anything at the theater because the fried samosas could make them sick, they could have a cold drink each, her treat. As soon as they found their seats, Chitra called out to the cold-drink boy who was walking around the theater with a case of drinks strapped to him.

  The women all cried out for what they wanted: Thums Up, Fanta, Limca . . .

  “Ah,” Chitra said, sighing at the taste of lemony Limca as it coated her throat. “This is so good.”

  “We should have cold drinks in the house, Revati,” Gita said, enjoying her Thums Up.

  “These drinks are not good for the babies. Too much sugar,” Nursamma said before Revati could respond. “It’s OK to drink one here and there, but not every day.”

  “It’s not my baby, so why do I care,” Keertana said in a low voice so only Asha could hear.

  “Keertana, you’re so bad,” Asha said, and slowly drank her Fanta, not wanting the bottle to empty too soon.

  The women came back from the movie in high spirits. Such high spirits that Ragini went into labor an hour after they returned. Her parents were in the United States and had been informed. They had tickets to come to India in a week, so they would get the baby then. During that time, the baby would remain at the Happy Mothers clinic and be taken care of by the baby doctor and nurses there.

  Ragini’s labor was short. Just two hours. She came back the next day, not looking like a woman who had just given birth, but a carefree woman without a worry in the world.

  “How did it go?” someone asked.

  “How are you feeling?” someone else piped in.

  Ragini told them that it went fine. There was hardly any pain, and Doctor Swati had been very good with her.

  “Did you see the baby?” Asha asked as she helped Ragini pack her things. Ragini was going home the following day; she couldn’t wait to see her daughters again.

  “No,” Ragini said. “No need to see the baby. It’s not mine.”

  “Did you see any of the babies?” Asha asked. This was Ragini’s third time. The last time.

  “No,” Ragini said. “Neither should you.”

  Asha nodded. “I know,” she said as she folded Ragini’s blouses and put them neatly into her black steel trunk.

  “You do this a few times and you stop getting attached,” Ragini said. “First time, I also thought, how will I give up a baby and all that nonsense. Now I don’t even think about it. All I think about is the money in the bank and good matches for my daughters.”

  Asha sat down on the bed next to the trunk.

  “Did you meet your parents?”

  “No,” Ragini said. “No need to.”

  “My parents call me once a week. They send me presents. And now the mother is going to come to India . . . early. She will come and visit every other day or something. I don’t want her to, but I can’t tell her that,” Asha said. “I don’t like her.”

  “It’s still her baby,” Ragini said.

  “But what if I know that she’ll be a bad mother?” Asha demanded. “What if I know? How can I—”

  “It’s her baby and it’s none of your business what kind of a mother she is,” Ragini said. “Don’t do something stupid, Asha. When you do some
thing stupid, it doesn’t just mess up your life, it messes up the lives of all the other surrogate mothers. For people like me, this is the only way out. Don’t bring this place a bad name.”

  “I’m not doing anything,” Asha said.

  “Good,” Ragini said, and smiled at her. “It’s always hard the first time. When you do it again—”

  “I’m never doing this again,” Asha said.

  Ragini laughed lightly. “That’s what I said. But when you need money . . . you’ll do what it takes. And this is better than being a whore.”

  Asha told Doctor Swati about her conversation with the mother during her checkup. While Doctor Swati looked at the baby’s picture on the ultrasound machine, Asha voiced her doubts about having the mother in India before the baby was born.

  “She just wants to feel close to the baby,” Doctor Swati said. Asha wiped her belly with the paper napkin the doctor gave her.

  “And we’re not the type of clinic that doesn’t allow contact between the surrogate and parents. So if she wants to come, then she can. She just has to follow the rules and come here only during visiting hours. She won’t disturb your schedule, if you’re worried about that.”

  Asha stood up and started to put her sari in order. The pleats had been pulled out and her petticoat loosened for the ultrasound.

  Asha loved watching the baby on the screen. The thump-thump-thump of the heartbeat always brought tears to her eyes, but she held them back. She didn’t want Doctor Swati to think she was unduly attached. But it was amazing, a sign of life. She wished she had been able to do this with Manoj and Mohini. She wished Pratap could have heard the heartbeat, seen their baby on the black-and-white screen.

  “The baby is inside me,” Asha said. “How is the mother going to be close to her?”

  “I don’t know,” Doctor Swati said. “Honestly, I think it’s unnecessary, and I have talked to her about her expectations. Once she’s here she’s going to regret it. There’s really nothing for her to do but wait.”

  “I’m going to be nervous around her.”

  “Don’t be,” Doctor Swati said. “And if it bothers you, just tell me and I will talk to her. Do you want me to tell her that she shouldn’t come and visit you?”

  Asha thought about it for a moment, and it seemed cruel to ask a mother not to feel her baby kicking, even if it was through someone else’s belly.

  She shook her head. “It’s OK.”

  “By the way, I spoke to the headmaster at the school you want Manoj to be admitted to,” Doctor Swati said, and sat down on her chair behind the large wooden table. “He said that Manoj could definitely start there at the beginning of the next school year in September.”

  “Can’t he start this September, now?” Asha asked. She was worried about Manoj; she knew that he needed more of a challenge in his school or his brilliant mind would waste away.

  “I’ll ask the school, but I doubt it. It’s very tight this year, and it’s too late to apply now,” Doctor Swati said. “The headmaster said he’ll send the admissions materials to me. You can fill them out and pay the admission fees. I think you should wait until after the baby is born and you have the full money to pay the admission fees. They’re quite steep. And if you want Manoj to go there year after year . . . you’ll need to pay a high amount of money every year, nearly half lakh rupees.”

  Asha’s heart sank. How would they pay for this? How would they manage?

  “But that’s . . . that’s so much money, Doctor Swati.”

  “We’ll find a way. For now, just know that for next year Manoj has admission.”

  Asha’s legs felt heavy as she walked from the clinic to the surrogate house. Five lakh rupees were only enough for six years of school. He would be just eleven years old then.

  If she did this again, then they could get another six years, and then what? How would they pay for college? How many more times would she have to do this to ensure Manoj’s future?

  That evening Pratap came alone. Manoj and Mohini had gone to a birthday party with Kaveri, Raman, and their boys.

  “I’m very worried about Manoj,” Asha confessed.

  “His teachers think that it’s going better now that he’s two grades up. They think that next year they might push him another grade up and then he will be in the right place,” Pratap said.

  To deal with Manoj’s behavior, the school had moved him up two grades in one week, hoping that the schoolwork would be more challenging.

  “So you’re saying he doesn’t need to go to a special school?” Asha asked. He was going to once again talk about a flat, she just knew it, and she could feel her anger rise.

  “No,” Pratap said quietly. “I . . . I think that it’s OK if he doesn’t go to a special school right now. Here he goes to class with much older boys, and that is hard. Just because he’s good at math doesn’t mean he’s good at talking to people or is smart about things that older kids are smart about. But if we can’t afford it . . . I’m not going to sacrifice the future of the whole family to put him in a school that may or may not be good for him.”

  “You just want to buy a flat,” Asha spat.

  “That’s not true,” Pratap said, and sighed. “I do want a home. Is that so bad? I’ve never had a real home. Just huts in a village. No real walls. No bathroom. Is it so bad that I want my family to have a home? Manoj and Mohini love Raman’s flat. It’s nice. It’s big. And I want one, too. Why do you make that sound like a crime?”

  “It’s not a crime,” Asha said. “But Manoj has to be our first priority.”

  “A proper home will be important for Manoj and Mohini, too,” Pratap said confidently. “I’m getting some work . . . business is bad all around the world, but I’m getting work here and there. And I hope to get more. And once business starts to pick up, Raman and I will start our own business. But a home . . . if we have a home, the other dreams can come true, too.”

  Asha smiled at him. “You’re different,” she said softly. “Before, you would’ve just told me how it was going to be. Now you ask me what I want.”

  Pratap smiled back. “You’re different, too, you know. You never would have said what you wanted before. If you had, I would’ve listened.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” Pratap said. “My mother did what my father wanted. You did what I wanted. The only woman I know who fights with her husband is Kaveri, and I’m glad you’re not like her, screaming and yelling all the time. But Raman loves his wife. And I love mine.”

  He had never said this before. Never used the word love. People like them didn’t talk about love.

  “I love you, too,” Asha said shyly, embarrassed, her eyes not meeting his.

  “When you come back, we’ll go to Tirupati,” Pratap said. “Get Lord Venkateshwara Swami’s blessing.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Asha said.

  “It’ll be over soon,” Pratap said. “And then you’ll come home.”

  “And then I’ll come home,” Asha said. She grabbed his hand then. The first time she had ever done that, ever initiated touching him. They held hands in silence until it was time for Pratap to leave.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” Priya said to Madhu. “And you can stop smiling.”

  Madhu burst out laughing. “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t funny, but in all your fantasies, or your nightmares, I’m not sure which, I’m sure you never saw yourself going to India with your mother.”

  It had been like all the other times. Priya and Sush had fought, Sush had stopped speaking to her, and then a few weeks later they had sort of made up.

  Priya had called to let her father know that she was going to India for two months. Madhu would join her for the last two weeks before they brought their baby home. In those two weeks, they had to get their daughter a passport and get the legal work in place to bring her to the United States.

  “Sush has been planning a trip to India as well,” her father said. “To Hyd
erabad for some meetings. You should go together; you can take care of your mother.”

  “Right, like Sush needs taking care of,” Priya said. “And I don’t think Mama would be too keen on that.”

  Priya had been wrong. Sush was quite keen on that.

  “Well, we haven’t been to India together since you were a little girl. This will be an excellent opportunity,” Sush said.

  “And you can also meet Asha,” Priya suggested, testing the waters.

  “I must admit I’m curious to see this clinic and the house where these pregnant women live,” Sush said. “It’ll be informational.”

  Sush seemed to have forgotten about her last visit and their fight, and Priya let her. Why fan the flames of a miserable old fire?

  So it was decided: Sush would fly into San Francisco, and they would then fly to Singapore together, where they had a three-hour layover before a three-hour flight to Hyderabad.

  That was a lot of hours to spend with her mother, Priya thought. They could barely stand each other for a couple of hours; twenty-four hours of nonstop company could cause bodily damage. And once in Hyderabad, it wasn’t going to be a picnic, not with Madhu’s sister visiting as well.

  “My mother, your mother, and Mayuri . . . this isn’t happening,” Priya said, and leaned her head against Madhu’s shoulder.

  Mayuri and Sush had met only once and had hated each other. The vendetta started during Priya and Madhu’s wedding.

  Priya and Madhu got married at a hall near Madhu’s parents’ home in Hyderabad. The whole wedding had been a blur. The muhurat, the “auspicious time,” fell at 2:07 a.m. on the twelfth of July. An excruciatingly hot time to begin with, without the added burn of sitting around a fire for the wedding ceremony, wearing a ton of jewelry and a heavy sari.

  The whole ceremony had felt alien, and though parts of it had been interesting, by two in the morning, with jet lag hitting hard, Priya had been too tired to enjoy any of it. Madhu had been a rock, his arm around her waist, even as his mother kept asking him to keep his hands to himself.