All this because of you.
~
My stay at the hospital must cost a lot, these three days in the nursing home, but your father never mentions the expenses.
When I ask him, he says he told someone at college to recommend a nursing home and that’s what led him to this place. He says they have a bed in the room for visitors and he can sleep at night but he says, no, you stay by yourself, I won’t stay the night because knowing you, you will start worrying about me, what will I have for dinner, what will I take for lunch to college, are my clothes ironed, every silly little thing, and I don’t want you to worry about these things because this is our first child and the child, you, and I, all three of us, deserve the best. Even if the best is, like this room in the nursing home, something we can afford for only three days.
~
The last night in the hospital, I cannot sleep. You have been crying a lot and although I am feeding you now, that doesn’t help.
You give her to me, says Jincy the nurse, try to get some sleep. I will take care of her until you wake up.
But I don’t sleep, I find myself standing by the window looking out at the street, quiet at this time, and I picture this city without your father in it. He must be asleep at home or reading something for his classes the next day but for a moment he disappears, he is not there, he will never come back. As this image begins to fill out, I feel fear strengthen its grip, the entire night sky enters the room minus the stars and the moon, just its darkness, nothing else. Clouds drop down as fog, slip and swirl into the room through which I see the nurse walking towards me holding you in her arms. I shout at her not to bring you into this blackness, to keep you outside where there must be light, where there must be people. But she hands you over to me and it’s then that I realise, for the first time, that, along with you, I have also been born, as a mother, and, very much like you, I am clueless in the dark.
MAN
Highway Mynahs
He needs to get Balloon Girl and her mother into his car without Security Guard seeing. That should take him five minutes, six minutes during which he needs Security Guard out of the way. So he needs to set up a little distraction. Silly but effective.
~
‘Where were you when I walked in a few hours ago?’ His voice is cold, amplified in the silence. As if he’s reading from a script.
‘Sir, I was right here,’ says Security Guard.
Unquestioning submission in his voice, in his eyes, in the way his shoulders droop, pull his head down, make his arms wilt by his side.
‘No, you were not here, I didn’t see you.’
‘I must have gone to the toilet, sir. Only for two minutes.’
‘Two minutes or two hours, you know that you are not supposed to leave this place and, if you have to, you need to get a replacement.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘I can complain to the security manager.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I can get you taken off duty.’
‘Please don’t, sir, it will never happen again.’
‘You should never leave this place. Your job is to guard the building.’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s something I would like you to do.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I forgot, I left a bag just outside my door, can you get it for me? I will wait here while you are gone.’
‘Of course, sir, I will take the lift, be back in a few minutes.’
~
It goes exactly as per script.
There is no bag, of course.
As soon as Security Guard steps into the lift, he calls out to Balloon Girl and her mother. They are hiding in the shadow, on the first-floor landing.
‘Get into the car, quick, both of you,’ he says, ‘sit down on the floor, not the seats. Exactly like when we came from the hospital. You don’t want anyone to see you because they will call the police. Not a word until we are out on the street.’
They do exactly as told; he starts the car. They avoid Security Guard. He will tip him a few hundred rupees tomorrow.
They are crouched on the floor, he smells detergent from their clothes, lavender from the soap. Balloon Girl’s hair is short so it’s almost dry but her mother’s is still wet, dripping thin trails of water on her shoulders, across her blouse.
‘Careful now, we are leaving, lie low and quiet. There are cameras at the gate, we have to be very careful.’
It’s before daybreak, the darkest hour.
~
Of course, there’s nothing illegal in what he has done, he is sure of that, but to be doubly sure, he runs through the sequence of events in his head. He invites them over, he asks them clearly, in Hindi, at the hospital, do you want to come home. She says yes, the mother, an adult. No coercion there. He gets them home, he asks them to take a bath, no, he merely suggests they take a bath which they agree to. He provides them with soap, cream, the kind he uses, bathrobes, the use of his bathroom, living quarters, all for free; he even washes their clothes for them, he gives them food, now he will give them some money and he will never ever see them again. Yes, he does touch the child and the mother but there’s nothing irregular, out of place, about the touches. His fingers do brush the mother’s breasts when he adjusts her bathrobe but that was accidental and, anyway, she is asleep when that happens, he is sure of that. There is no camera in his room that would have recorded anything.
He is safe, he rolls down the car window.
‘We are all clear,’ he says, ‘you may get up from the floor and sit next to the window, the wind will dry your hair.’
But the mother doesn’t move. In his rear-view mirror, he sees Balloon Girl looking out, the wind in her hair, yellow neon lights, from the street outside, dappling her face.
~
He will take Ring Road, he decides, because traffic is thin at this time of the night although these days they have police everywhere with speed guns and breathalysers. He hopes no one stops him but if they do, he has his story ready, the same one from last night. They are his maid and her daughter and he is taking them back home. He will drop them off in Yusufsarai Market, at least two traffic lights before AIIMS, near Green Park Metro Station, Rhythm Restro Bar, closed at this time, at a place where no one is looking, where there is no police van. Then he will keep going straight, take a left at the next light and get onto the highway via the Dhaula Kuan exchange. They don’t know how to open the car door so he will have to do it. Sitting in the driver’s seat, he will reach back and click the door open. Close it as soon as they are out and then there will be no looking back.
‘Here, take this,’ he says, one hand on the steering wheel, the other extended behind him – with the cash, 5,000 rupees, in 500-rupee notes.
‘You can get change from any shop.’
The mother’s fingers brush against his.
She is cold as ice.
Balloon Girl is fast asleep.
He will wake her up when the time comes.
~
Drop-off is perfect.
He closes the door, doesn’t wait to see which way they go.
~
On the way home, traffic has surged. A long line of cars is backed up at the highway toll gate. Sixteen lanes, all full, he slips into the Tag Only lane but even that’s choked, bumper to bumper, but today he’s fine with the waiting because there’s nothing to worry about any more. Relief washes over him, from his head to the tips of his fingers. There’s a strong whiff of detergent in the car, he must have poured a lot more than needed, just five pieces of clothing he should have measured more carefully. He will tell Driver to wash the car, maybe take it to the carwash. He lowers the four windows to let wind come in, blow away all traces of Balloon Girl and her mother. He has done nothing wrong, he is sure of that, but as extra caution, he should get the seats and the floor wiped clean. Disinfected.
All fingerprints removed, too.
Still not moving, to his left, in the next lane, he sees two
mynahs, both the birds hopping between two cars, pecking away at something he cannot see in the dark.
These are brave birds, so close they move to the cars’ wheels. Even when the vehicles move, these birds don’t fly away, they hop a few steps back, to the left or right, resume pecking at something invisible. Maybe dead insects, traces of food dropped from cars? Chips, gum? There is another one he can see, a third bird; yet another one, a fourth, and, three cars farther down, he sees a fifth. A little flock of mynahs has landed and is looking for food in the lanes, between the traffic. He has never seen this before.
Where have these birds come from? There are no trees along the highway all the way up to the airport, all were cut, so where do these birds live? Perhaps, in the rafters high above, underneath the sprawling roof that covers the thirty-two lanes in two sweeping arcs. Maybe the lights from the cars and trucks have confused the birds. He watches them more carefully. The yellow beak, the yellow splotch around each mynah’s eye is the colour of the cones placed on the road to mark the lanes, their wings the colour of the carpet he has at home in the living room, the carpet he doesn’t let Balloon Girl and her mother step on because it’s invaluable, he paid so much for it he doesn’t remember.
His car inches forward, he watches one mynah hop back, stand still, this one so close to his car that he can see its feathers, silky and brown, moving in a faint rustle in the gust of the exhaust from the car.
He wants to open the door, reach out and touch the bird, run the tip of a finger in its soft down.
Let the bird nibble at his finger, but traffic clears, the line is moving, it’s his turn.
~
He drives up, waits for the all-clear beep as the toll sensor reads his tag, lifts the barrier to let him pass.
Up ahead, the sky stains red with the first light of day and, behind him, the cars begin to move, the mynahs flutter, rise from the road and fly up, looking for their perch.
CHILD
Priscilla Thomas
‘Your email strikes a chord, Mr Sharma, it calls out to me. I have a million-and-a-half followers on Twitter and no message I receive after the show can match the power of yours. That’s why I am here, alone, no camera crew. This is a meeting off the record because today I am here as a prospective parent, not as anchor of Camera India.’
Priscilla Thomas is in his office.
He cannot believe this, he looks again.
Yes, Priscilla Thomas, across from him, he can reach out and touch her. So close.
~
Mr Sharma wishes he could record this so that he could show it to his wife who keeps telling him she has no idea what he does at work, to his son who rather than doing his homework keeps playing with his mother’s cellphone, to all his friends who will never believe that the same Ms Thomas, who walks waist-deep in the waters of the tsunami, dragging a corpse, the same Ms Thomas who walks the streets as a prostitute to expose the city’s seamy side, the same Ms Thomas who gets actor Katrina Kaif to dance with the Army chief as a Happy New Year gift to the nation, the same Priscilla Thomas is sitting in his office in Little House.
‘Thank you, Ms Thomas,’ Mr Sharma says, ‘I knew that someone as sensitive as you would respond. I am going to, very briefly (he has learnt, watching her on TV, that her attention span has no time for anything longer than ten words), tell you what the rules are. The rules which we shall fast-forward for you, obviously.’
‘I appreciate that, Mr Sharma, I do. What’s the process, in short?’
There is no camera – the absence of a TV crew has surely disappointed Mr Sharma although he doesn’t show it – but he behaves as if there is one, as if she’s interviewing him. He takes a long, silent breath, lifts his face an inch so that his double chin doesn’t show, counts the steps off on his fingers.
‘It’s simple, Ms Thomas.
‘One, you register yourself with us since we are also a certified adoption agency.
‘Two, we do a child study report, a report on Orphan, his health, mental and physical, his social, emotional development.
‘Three, a home study of the prospective parent which means a study of your background, of your place of work, your financial details, two letters of recommendation, a bank reference, we assess your capability to take care of the child, then after the home study has been accepted by us, four, we submit the papers to the court and inform the Child Welfare Department. Then the match-up, we see whether your background matches the child’s needs. Fifth and final.’
Has she heard all this, he wonders?
Because Ms Thomas is texting, tweeting, retweeting, Facebooking, he isn’t sure, raising her head only twice to acknowledge Mr Sharma, without looking at him, and hardly has he finished when she asks:
‘How long will the whole thing take? Guesstimate?’
‘Normally, four to six, eight months but in your case child study is done, for home study you just fill up the form. We all know who you are, your reputation precedes you, the match-up you are already doing today. I can have Orphan in your house in less than a month. Three weeks, if we are lucky.’
‘Don’t break rules for me, Mr Sharma,’ she smiles, still texting.
‘No, no, no, Ms Thomas, no breaking rules. Every day in your news show you issue a clarion call to this benighted nation against corruption, how can I break the rules for you? Just a little adjustment.’
‘I like adjustments, Mr Sharma.’ Ms Thomas gets up from the chair. ‘Come, let’s go see Orphan. What a strange name, very matter-of-fact. I get a good feeling about this kid.’
~
‘There he is, look, in the corner. The boy sitting all by himself at the table, let’s walk up to him.’ Mr Sharma points to Orphan in the activity room, crowded with children, all girls.
‘Let’s not disturb him right now, what’s he doing? What’s a map doing in front of him?’ says Ms Thomas.
‘Ms Thomas, that’s a very interesting story. Our doctor, a very bright gentleman, had this idea that Orphan should draw a line on a map of Delhi and that’s the route they would take on his first day out. Since then, he loves looking at maps, drawing lines.’
‘What a story, Mr Sharma, you should have told us that day itself, we would have sent a reporter and a crew. Meet the orphan who charts his own course.’
‘Excellent headline, Ms Thomas,’ says Mr Sharma, ‘but I decided against publicity at that stage. You know that would have harmed the child.’
‘Quite the contrary, Mr Sharma, publicity never harms, it only helps. The public gives you publicity. Ordinary strangers who lead dull, ordinary lives, whose existence you’ve been unaware of, start talking about you, you give them a story to get excited about. That’s why I think if we had done the story then, about a lonely kid plotting his route on a map, Orphan would have, by now, found a home.’
‘But he’s found one now, Ms Thomas,’ says Mr Sharma, ‘he’s found yours.’
‘You have only one boy?’ Her response is like a whiplash. Sharp, quick, entirely unexpected.
‘No, no, Ms Thomas, we have another one but he’s much older, about five, his name is Sunil but…’
‘… but what?’
‘He has Down’s syndrome, even that would have been fine but his is a severe case, there are other complications too, he has a defective heart, also leukaemia. In fact, Ms Thomas, his days are numbered. Our medical board has given him one to two years at the most.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s sleeping, I think,’ says Mr Sharma. ‘He always is, but, of course, we can see him if you wish.’
~
Five minutes later, less than a minute after Mr Sharma shows Ms Thomas the sleeping Sunil, a white blanket covering him right up to his neck, the rasps of his breath the only sound in his room, Ms Thomas leans into him and whispers, ‘He’s my son, Mr Sharma, I have found him. Let’s go to your office. Sunil is my son, I have decided. Please start the paperwork.’
She doesn’t give him any time to respond.
‘I
know what’s on your mind, Mr Sharma. You wish Orphan to be my child, yes, Orphan is a great story. A healthy boy abandoned by his mother on the hottest night of the year, a boy who may not know how to sit yet but sure knows how to read a map, he will be my new baby, it’s a great story, but trust me, I am not looking for a story here, Mr Sharma, I am in search of a son and Sunil is my son. Someone will come and take Orphan away, he’s a bright, normal kid, but no one will adopt Sunil. After gender, disability is our new cancer, Mr Sharma, I have done so many shows on this subject. I have carried people in wheelchairs to and from my show but they can’t even build a ramp in my office, forget streets and pavements. I want Sunil, I am coming with my camera, my producer and the entire crew, we will go live from Little House. We have a story, Mr Sharma.’
‘Just one thing, Ms Thomas,’ says Mr Sharma. ‘As I said, Sunil doesn’t have long to live. Two years maximum.’
‘That’s exactly my point, Mr Sharma, that’s why he needs me more. I have been childless for so long, after two years I will be childless again, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that a mother would have done her duty. Two years later is two years later.’
So breathless, so unanticipated is the pace of events that Mr Sharma is left reeling. Little House is his domain, this is where he has worked for over fifteen years and now this woman waltzes in, takes over, as if this is her stage, her studio, while he, Mrs Chopra, all the staff and all the children are passive members of her audience whose only job is to applaud on cue.
No.
He, Mr Sharma, IAS, Harvard, will stand up to her, he will tell her that no one can choose their child, that right belongs to the State, to Little House. He will tell her that she cannot broadcast from Little House because it violates the privacy of all children there, he will tell her that he will have to process her request for Sunil just like he would do for anybody and he cannot give her a day and a time when she can take the child home.
She Will Build Him a City Page 7