The Passions of Dr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  Outside he dashed pell-mell down the stairs to the kitchen. Waking the girls who slept there, he ordered water boiled for tea, then dashed back up to the chamber where he kept his medical supplies. Over and over he kept telling himself, as he had told Jharna, that it was nothing. He didn’t believe that inner voice. In the same way he had always been able to diagnose an illness or pinpoint the cause of pain after the briefest of glances, George knew Jharna was in labor. And it was too soon. Therefore, the focus was on stopping further progression.

  Throughout the subsequent hours, George as Dr. Darcy administered every herbal treatment and Ayurvedic remedy he could think of. The dai Jharna had chosen was called, an elderly woman with considerable experience, her advice adding to George’s. The women of the household assisted and stood vigil when he left the room where Jharna had been moved. Hindu custom warned against giving birth in the chamber one slept in, it considered ill luck and polluting. Fortunately, they already had a room prepared down the hall and furnished with a simple but comfortable bed, birthing chair, and other implements George was fervently praying would not yet need to be utilized.

  Several times Jharna’s pains ebbed, once for six whole hours. Each time, they would restart, the spans between growing closer. She managed to sleep during the periods of inactivity, aided by George’s soothing voice and gently massaging hands. Keeping her tranquil was as important as the medications he served on a regular basis. His goal of postponing the delivery of their baby for weeks dwindled to a hope for days. When her water sac broke twenty-eight hours after she had roused him from the dream of marrying her, the hope for days was lost.

  He wasn’t sure what would have been worse: Jharna filled with crazed panic and fear or Jharna wearing an expression of resigned hopelessness. While the women cleaned her, George sat beside her and clasped her hands. Holding them to his mouth, he waited in silence for the intense pain to run its course. When she opened her eyes to stare at him with abject sadness, he transferred her hands to his chest, pressing them flat against his heart. Cupping her jaw with one hand, he leaned close.

  “Jharna, I never lie to my patients and I won’t lie to you. You know as well as I that our baby should stay within you longer. She is coming early; this is a fact we cannot change. What I need you to do is trust me. Do you trust me?”

  “Yes, priya. I do.”

  “Then here are the facts. I have seen babies born early who survive. It isn’t the best way, and I cannot promise all will be well. I won’t promise that. What I do promise is that I will do everything in my power to help her. What you must do is not give up hope! Pray, Jharna. Pray and have faith. Cry if you wish. But do not give up. I need you to be strong, but most importantly our baby will need you to be strong. Do you understand?”

  Tears slid down her cheeks and her lips trembled. Seconds later, a grimace marred her brow as another labor pain pulsed over her abdomen. But in those moments before she closed her eyes to concentrate on breathing, George had seen the returning obstinacy flashing behind the moisture. He smiled grimly. Jharna’s tenacity was formidable, this he knew. She was by far the most capable woman he had ever met. Furthermore, she possessed a core of serenity and a backbone of steel that would help her cope with the difficulties ahead.

  He only hoped he would hold up as well.

  For four hours, George held her, comforting through each pain and keeping her focused. The dai assumed her normal duties and rituals now that the birth was imminent: chants to the gods, massages with oils, encouragement to consume warm beverages per tradition, and the intermittent physical exam to note her labor progress. George had practiced medicine long enough in India to appreciate the various customs associated with childbirth. As long as the process advanced smoothly, he was fine with allowing the dai to be in charge.

  At the point when the birth was near, Jharna asked to deliver in a semisitting position. They helped her into the chair, and at that juncture, George took over. The dai raised her thick eyebrows and pursed her lips until they disappeared, but she said nothing. He ignored the birthing attendants who made gestures against bad luck, his focus on the woman who was about to present him with his firstborn child.

  “Push, Jharna! I can see the head crowning now. Very good! Now breathe and do it again. Harder! Here she comes. Look! Can you see her, love? You are doing so well. Yes! This is it now, priya. We shall see if Sasi has the sister he predicted. Once more will do it. Ah! A girl! Oh my God! Look at her, Jharna. She is beautiful! A blanket, quickly.”

  George grabbed the warmed cloth handed to him, vigorously rubbing his daughter until she let loose with a series of wails. Jharna had collapsed onto the pillows piled behind her back, tears streaming down her cheeks. The baby continued to cry, her color gradually transforming from ashen gray to ruddy pink. George was crying too, his steady doctor’s hands trembling. The helpful dai cut the cord, freeing the infant to be placed onto her mother’s bared chest as George moved to sit on the stool beside the birth chair.

  “She is so small.” Jharna’s voice was rough from her efforts.

  “Yes, she is small. Very small. Three pounds and a bit more, I guess. But she is breathing, love. That is the important part. Keep rubbing her back. Do not let her stop crying yet. She needs to strengthen her lungs and press the fluid out. We must keep her breathing and warm above all. Warm should not be an issue in this heat, but no ritualistic bathing yet. Sorry.”

  The last was directed to the dai positioned between Jharna’s knees. George expected an argument, but to his surprise she bobbed her head in agreement. Peripherally, his physician’s awareness noted that the dai adequately assisted with the final stages of Jharna’s birthing process and that she showed no signs of trauma or problems. This was a boon because he did not wish to remove his discerning eyes or stimulating hand from his daughter. One second he was Dr. Darcy, and the next he was a novice father, the emotional vacillation between concerned clinician and overjoyed papa making his head spin.

  His first chance to fully examine her came when it was time for Jharna to clean and return to bed. Hindu purification rituals following childbirth were stringent. Some of these made sense, especially those involving the cleansing of her body with fragrant water laced with healing herbs and spiced oils for massage. Some were ridiculous to his Christian mindset, but they were not harmful and would ease Jharna’s heart so were vital in that respect. He carried the tiny bundle to a small, padded bed near a lit brazier in the corner. It was after noon, the temperature in Agra as sweltering as ever, but George was taking no chances with his fragile daughter’s life. Cautiously, he peeled the blanket edge back, his fingertips brushing over her delicate skin to test for warmth.

  “There you are, my precious girl. Ah, look at you! Adorable.”

  He bent to kiss her tiny forehead, another light press to her cheek added before pulling away. Absently, he swiped a tear from his cheek and forced the choking emotions down so he could study her clinically. This proved much more difficult than he ever would have imagined when he saw her eyes staring directly at him. A bolt shot through his heart, scorching his entire body with a sensation of such profound love that stinging tears clouded his vision. His exhausted muscles began to quiver, and he may well have collapsed into a weeping puddle of emotion if not for two timely distractions.

  One was the woman who arrived at that moment with a bowl of warm, aromatic water for the ritualistic cleansing necessary for newly born babies. The second less welcomed but more powerful distraction were the grunting exhalations the baby suddenly began making. Instantly, Dr. Darcy snapped to attention. George’s experience with newborns in trouble was not as vast as patching battle wounds, but he recognized the ominous sounds of an infant struggling to keep her lungs exchanging oxygen.

  A rapid general glance revealed that she was indeed small but perfectly formed. Her tiny body was proportional and not unhealthily wasted. All of her digits were present, the minute toes
so adorable that he momentarily slipped into spellbound-father mode. Her skin was intact, the honey-brown tones matching the tanned skin of his hand rather than the almond shades of Jharna’s skin. The grunting sound that had so alarmed him was not constant but intermittent and not accompanied by additional signs of severe distress. He knew this could change, but for the present, she was breathing adequately if a bit too fast. He was not overly anxious. Yet. So much could change with an infant this premature.

  The critical reality clenched his heart, squeezing painfully. He could not allow himself to be overwhelmed by fear and irrational emotion. It was imperative that he remain calm and in control, not only for his daughter but for Jharna as well. Swallowing the lump lodged in his throat and blinking away the tears, George commenced washing the baby with the fragrant water. Her loud cries were music to his ears.

  While he cleaned the blood and birth fluids from her skin, the woman aiding him began chanting in Hindi, calling upon the gods to watch over the new life. George added his own prayers, the ladies in the room accepting this as wise and a beneficial aspect of the jatakarma ceremony of welcome. A drop of ghee was placed onto her tongue, the clarified butter and honey mixture a hope that the parents’ good qualities would be passed on to the child. George may not have ascribed to the belief in the same way tradition intended, but he was open to anything that might help her to be strong and healthy.

  All of it was done swiftly, the baby dried and wrapped in a clean, warmed cloth to be taken to her mother. Refreshed as much as possible after nearly two days of pain, Jharna lifted the blanket and cuddled their baby against her breast with a sobbing sigh of relief. George stretched onto the bed beside her, tucking them both under his arm, and pressed them to his side. Later they would note that her hair was thin and wispy, and that the color was brown rather than the ebony tresses of her mother. Who she resembled most was impossible to ascertain, her features immature and diminutive, but they would memorize every inch of her from head to toe, the image never to be forgotten.

  It wasn’t until she wiggled her way to Jharna’s breast, her tiny mouth seeking and then, with some direction, grasping the nipple for her first sucks that Jharna bravely asked the question haunting her.

  “Will she live, priya?”

  “I will never lie to you, my love,” he reminded her, whispering the words as he tightened his grip on her shoulder, “so I have to confess that I do not know. She is very small and immature. She breathes on her own, but it is slightly labored. Not as badly as I feared, however, and that is a positive. We can keep her warm easily enough between your body and mine. She will stay in contact with the people who love her most. That is essential. My greatest concern is weakness and inability to nurse.”

  “She knows what to do but tires already.”

  “Yes. But often times mature infants do that at first, is that not true, dai?” The midwife nodded at his hopeful query, her eyes unreadable. “We will be diligent. And I will do everything I can think of, Jharna. You know I will!”

  “I know.”

  Her weary, sad tones broke his heart. He desperately wanted to make promises and instill hope. He wanted someone to say the same to him, to tell him with confidence that their tiny baby would be just fine. For one of the few times in his life, he wanted the delusion, wanted to toss fact out the window and cling to ignorant optimism. If only he could.

  “She is beautiful, isn’t she?”

  Jharna’s declaration broke into his dark thoughts. He peeled the blanket away from his sleeping baby’s face, studying her closely for the first time as a father and not a doctor. Despite the resident fear, his heart leapt and he smiled.

  “She looks like her mother. Beautiful. Delicate. A flawless angel. Cherished. Always and no matter what, she is cherished.”

  He laid his hand over her head, the whole of her round skull fitting underneath his palm, and caressed one satiny cheek with his thumb. Jharna traced her fingertip alongside his.

  “You have chosen her name, as is custom.” Jharna tilted her head back and smiled at the startled expression on his face. “The pita chooses the name. Bhrithi. Cherished. It is perfect.”

  George nodded slowly. “Yes, it is perfect. Bhrithi. Our cherished daughter. Bhrithi Alexis Dhamdhere Darcy.”

  ***

  There were several times in George’s life when he would struggle to accept fate. During those times, he held on by a thin thread to his faith in a God who was in control, loving, and omnisciently seeing how everything works for the best. Not permitting the thread to break so that he fell into a state of despair and disbelief became the greatest of trials. Afterward, when the thread did not break but was miraculously reinforced with renewed fibers knit into a stronger mesh than before, he would know that God was real, because only a divine being could have saved him from the fall. Only a God who personally loved him could have kept him from the darkness. Only a God who touched his heart, speaking to him in a quiet but persistent manner could help him see beyond the pain to what was beautiful. Learning to be thankful for what was rather than what might have been could only be taught by a loving, wise Creator.

  In the weeks and months that followed the death of his daughter, Bhrithi, George would again see this truth come to pass. It was a bitter truth, one he would rather not learn since it meant losing her in the process. Nevertheless, amid the pain he was aware of his God’s presence and thankful for the comfort mercifully granted.

  Bhrithi lived for eight days.

  It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

  But it was more than he had imagined a year before.

  For too long, most of his adult life, in fact, the possibility of having a child did not appear to be in the cards. George had given up on a dream he had not even been aware he held. In comparison to nothing, eight days was a glorious blessing. Not that he accepted this immediately. While dangling on the thread of his consuming grief, he did not see this at all.

  Gradually, in some ways almost against his will, when self-pity sounded like the preferable choice, George started to see the blessings. Every time he whispered or cried her name—Bhrithi—he would feel the meaning underneath.

  Cherished.

  Oh! Indeed she was cherished!

  He cherished every time she opened her thickly lashed eyes, the midnight-blue orbs scanning over his face and reaching into his soul.

  He cherished every cry, whether of hunger or vexation, whether robust or feeble; her voice was unique.

  He cherished all the minutes of every hour when he held her naked body cuddled warmly against his chest. Her slowly weakening heartbeat and shallow breaths were bolstered by his sturdiness. Her tiny fingers curled around the hairs on his chest and her miniature toes pressing into the skin of his abdomen the sweetest of sensations.

  He cherished the vision of Bhrithi nestled against Jharna’s breast and the beatific expression that would wash over his precious lover’s face as she nursed or even when she merely held their sleeping baby.

  They had known from the beginning, deep inside, that she was not destined to dwell with them for long. It was bitter indeed, and not openly verbalized for days while George fought to improve her stamina with all the knowledge he possessed. Tonics dribbled carefully into her mouth, Ayurvedic massage with healing oils, Jharna’s breast milk fortified and given to her when she was too weak to suck. All this and more was done.

  Was it pointless? Or had it given them the eight days that would forever be viewed as a blessing? Eventually, George and Jharna would agree that the latter was the truth. She was a blessing. Her short life touched them and was a gift that enhanced the love they shared. If ever George doubted this—and he rarely did—he would remember the day when Jharna proved the extent of her understanding of his soul.

  “George, I know you do not wish to leave, but you must do something for me. And for you. No, listen. You must go take Bhrithi to the church
you attend for worshipping your God and you must have her baptized. You have permitted all of my Hindu customs, performed some of them yourself, but none that are vital to you. It must be done or you will regret it later. I cannot bear to witness your sadness in thinking your daughter will not be in your heaven with your ancestors. Or that your God does not know her if her name is not written in the church’s book.”

  In the end, the rector came to the house and blessed Bhrithi without the need for her to go far. George was not overly superstitious about such things, his heart sure that her soul would ascend to heaven, probably joining Alex on his cloud, as he had always joked. It wasn’t only the ceremony itself that moved him but that Jharna had been willing to part from her baby and risk further damage to her health for the sake of George’s peace of mind.

  He had never loved her more and did not think he ever would. But Jharna was a woman who had forever surprised him and surpassed his expectations.

  They were together when Bhrithi breathed her final breath. Their daughter was cradled in Jharna’s arms, Jharna cradled in George’s, and both their hands were touching her when she quietly passed. Sasi and Nimesh sat nearby, their tears joining in. Together, the family grieved. Together, they tended to the Hindu purification rituals, dressed her in a colorful gown, and wrapped her in a white linen shroud before laying her in a beautifully wrought casket of rosewood and silver. Together, they insisted on upholding George’s wish to have her buried as a Christian. Together, they made the trip back to Junnar so she could rest at their home. Together, they comforted each other.

  On a sultry evening in late June, George sat on the bench located near Bhrithi’s grave in a shady plot under a giant, flowering ashoka tree. The location had been chosen purposefully, not only because the area was tranquil and secluded, but also because the tree, known as the “sorrowless tree” and planted around temples, was revered by Hindus as a symbol of love. Oddly enough, this place was one he frequently had retreated to when he sought solitude and did not feel like walking to the stone-skipping pond further on down the trail. He had a letter in his hand and his journal on the bench beside him. He had no intention of addressing the journal to his daughter, however. She was missed profoundly but had died too young for him to share his adult musings with. He would continue to tell his father of the latest events in his life and unload his innermost thoughts. If the departed Mr. Darcy wished to share with his granddaughter in heaven—the two probably sitting with Alex and laughing together at the antics of George Darcy—that was fine by him! It comforted him to imagine it, as nonsensical as the vision was.