by Sadie Sumner
Ria walked away. Monica wove in and out of the crowd to keep up. “Ria. Stop. Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“Can I come?” Monica called out to her. “Please.”
Ria turned. “You’re crazy. No. Why would you want to come to our place? It has zero stars.” She fiddled with her helmet strap.
“My husband betrayed me. I’ve left him.” The words came as if from a stranger.
“You can’t be serious? Just get another hotel room.”
A group of Jains shuffled past, sweeping the road in front of their steps. “My mother was a devotee of Guru Kulwinder. She believed we should all be naked, all the time,” Monica said.
Ria laughed. “Sounds like a mail-order guru, specially designed for the Western mind.” She looked at Monica with more interest. “So you grew up with your mother naked?”
“Mostly, yes, she came here a lot too.”
They had reached Ria’s bike. “You can go on the back,” she said.
“Is that an invitation?” Monica almost smiled.
“I guess. But you won’t like it,” Ria said.
“I’ll follow you again. Maybe go a little slower this time.”
Ria pulled on her helmet and a mask and darted through traffic. She skirted a thicket of food stalls and sweetmeat-sellers, past dirty children who stood alone with hands outstretched and she barely slowed for the excited madness of a wedding that spilled across the road. She was clearly trying to loose the taxi that tailed her. Monica clung to the seat as the driver took up the challenge. There seemed to be no road rules beyond the clamor of horns. They followed her as she turned into a quieter street and rode down the center line beneath huge trees with leaves so large they blocked the light.
They arrived as Ria was locking her bike in front of her parents’ building.
Monica stood looking up at the tower block. “You’re crazy on that bike. It’s like you have a death wish.”
Ria laughed. “Not at all. This is how we share the road.”
“So why ride down the center line?”
For a moment Ria looked confused, then she nodded. “It rained last night. The leaves on those trees are like cups, they overflow at the slightest breeze. I do not wish to be drenched.”
“I’m picking you played video games when you were a child.” Monica said and was gratified by Ria’s smile.
“Most of the arcades are shut now.” She held up her phone. “Technology.”
“Ahh, but your skills remained.” Monica saw Ria relax a little as a cow with curved blue painted horns ambled past, and the two women watched in silence, while a game of cricket at the other end of the carpark came to a halt until the cow moved on.
“Did you grow up here?” Monica asked.
Ria nodded. “My mother too. She inherited it when my grandparents died before I was born. I loved living here.” Ria led the way across the strip of brown grass and up the three flights of concrete stairs and along the landing. As if by magic people came out of their flats to greet her. She clasped their hands and bowed slightly to the elderly. Everyone stared at Monica.
The door to the flat was unlocked.
“I like that you don’t need to lock your place.” Monica followed her inside Kavitha’s house. “We sometimes leave ours open too.”
Ria frowned. “Why, because you have nothing to steal?”
“Because I trust the universe.” Monica realized how silly she sounded, but she wanted Ria’s approval.
The flat was small, a single hallway with a bedroom, living room and kitchen running off it.
Ria hung her helmet and looked around. “Oh, Ma,” she said. “You really did sell everything.”
“Where’s your room?” Monica asked.
“In here.” Ria slid open an old-fashioned concertina door, covered in brittle vinyl. She flicked on the light. The room was hardly bigger than Monica’s wardrobe at home. There was a single mattress on the floor, a few books and a small lamp next to it. A Bollywood poster hung limply from the dark wall.
“She even sold my desk.” Ria looked despondent and opened a cupboard. “At least we still have linen. And mattresses.” She handed sheets and a small towel to Monica. “I guess you are staying. You can sleep in here.”
“Are you sure it’s alright?” Monica asked.
“No,” Ria said, “It’s not alright at all. None of this is okay.”
Monica gave Ria an awkward hug and felt lightheaded. “Did you know I’m blind in my left eye?” She took a couple of deep breaths.
“That explains a lot.” Ria coughed as though embarrassed. “But I hadn’t noticed. What happened?”
“My mother was driving. She was just back from an ashram somewhere, Goa, I think. So she must have been jetlagged. And she was stoned. We crashed into a bank and a branch poked it out.”
“That’s awful. What happened to your father?” Ria sat opposite at the kitchen table.
“I don’t know my father. It was a point of pride for my mother, not to tell me.” Monica could not fathom why she was telling her life story to this girl, but the words just kept coming. “She was determined to be enough for me, that she would never rely on a man. She died almost a year ago. Cancer.”
“So you will never know who your father was?”
Monica shook her head.
“Does it bother you?” Ria asked.
“I think so, yes. More than I realized.”
Ria glanced at her shyly. “I thought I knew my father. But he just walked away from us.” She brushed angrily at tears. “You can use the bathroom first. It’s at the end of the walkway.”
“You share?” Monica could not hide her surprise.
“With everyone this half of the landing.”
“Could I borrow a t-shirt or something to sleep in?” Monica looked around the empty rooms and imagined them decorated and wondered if she could furnish it as a gift to Kavitha.
Ria showed Monica to the bathroom. She knocked, and they stood back against the wall and waited. Below the cricket game continued under the streetlights, and the boys’ laughter rose with the thick night air. Monica steeled herself against the coughs that came from inside the bathroom as an elderly gentleman opened the door. He carried a precisely folded towel over his arm, and his old suit was baggy and threadbare.
“Hello Mr. Batra, how is your arthritis today?” Ria spoke in Hindi.
The old man patted her hand and smiled, and Monica saw his remaining teeth were stained red. The neighbors came out to watch as Monica entered the bathroom.
Inside there was not a stray hair or a speck of toothpaste anywhere. The cracked white tiles gleamed. Monica sat on the toilet and put her face in her hands. The idea of a baby was so distant she had almost forgotten why she was in India, let alone in a crumbling tower block flat. She cleaned her teeth with her finger and washed her face. In the polished mirror, her hair was a halo of felted wool. Outside the neighbors leaned on the railing, talking and smoking and drinking tea. They stopped and turned in unison, and Monica raised her hand and went inside Kavitha’s flat.
“We still have gas,” Ria said. “Do you want chai or everyday tea?” She handed Monica a folded nightgown.
“Chai, please. I’ll get ready for bed.” She undressed in Ria’s tiny room and put on Kavitha’s nightgown, as a deep tiredness crept over her. In the kitchen, Ria poured the tea, and they sat at the table.
“How much did you say your mother makes from this?” Monica asked.
“Finally, a question. The average is two percent.”
Monica pursed her lips. “Of the total we pay?”
“I guess. You didn’t ask about the surrogates’ pay when you made the deal?”
“No.” Monica barely recognized her own voice.
“How much did you pay?”
“$80,000. All my savings and then some.”
“So my mother makes about $1600, and you bought a baby for $80,000?”
Monica wanted to cry. She thought of
Antoinette and her oversized dogs, and the old factory turned into a hostel, and she wondered where all the money went. “Please don’t put it like that. Her name is Nina. We didn’t buy her.”
“How would you characterize it?” Ria’s earlier softness evaporated. “And what if something’s wrong with her, will you still take damaged goods? I bet your contract allows you to opt out if there’s a defect.”
“You’re very cynical.” Monica felt like she was coming undone.
“Not really. So, were there conditions when you purchased the goods?”
“I don’t know. Yes. Maybe. Probably. I can’t defend myself. That was the advice the clinic gave us.” She held onto the warm cup.
“Did you try IVF?”
Monica shook her head. “I’m too old. And, well, I’ve seen how those cycles of hope and devastation take women down.”
“So you thought you’d pay another woman to go through it all instead.”
Monica tried a smile. “I think you and I are very alike. I was idealistic when I was young, and a bit quick with the judgments.”
“In school, we call it capitalist conception. I think it’s strange how you avoid the bioethical quagmires at all cost.”
Monica sighed. “Wow. Okay, bioethical quagmires? How about I just say good night. Thank you for the bed. It’s a little chilly. I wasn’t expecting that.”
“I don’t know what happened to our air-conditioning.” Ria took the cups to the sink and rinsed them. “There’s an extra quilt in the cupboard.”
Monica slid the vinyl door closed and lay on the mattress in the dark. She squeezed her eyes, clenched all her muscles then relaxed in a rush of breath and thought about Gil and how she would ever care for a baby. The room was musty, and she worried the peeling paint was lead based. Ria was right. She had not considered Kavitha at all. Antoinette had tried to warn her. Arrive on the designated day and collect your baby, she’d said. Now she was inside another family’s drama, and somehow it had blended with her own.
With her knees to her chest, she rocked from side to side. She could no longer work with brides. She would need to sell her share of the business. Or the townhouse. In reality, she had almost no savings and had paid for the baby with her personal and business credit cards. A restless sleep rolled over her, and she fell into an old dream of a dappled swimming pool, as she sunk beneath the smooth surface without a ripple. Ria shook her awake as she gasped for breath.
Twenty-Four
“Wake up. There’s someone here.” Ria knelt beside the mattress in the airless room.
Monica had been asleep less than an hour, and her limbs were heavy, waterlogged with exhaustion. She followed Ria to the door. A stooped man in rags with thick braids of matted hair stood before them.
“A Sardhu,” Ria whispered, and Monica caught a sense of fear. “We have no food sir; we can only offer you tea,” Ria said respectfully.
The man peered in. “Daughter, what have you done to your hair?”
“Daddy?” Ria yanked the door wide and glanced outside. Only Mr. Batra was watching from his stool. Ria pulled her father into the flat and hugged him.
“Daddy. Where have you been? We thought you were dead.”
“I was in Varanasi.” His voice was croaky. “Ah, daughter, it’s good to see you.” He spied Monica. “Who is this? Where is your mother?”
“I think you had better sit down, Daddy.”
“Where is all our furniture?” Arun shuffled through the almost empty flat.
Monica put the kettle on and opened cupboards looking for tea while Ria sat her father at the table.
“Top left,” she said to Monica, who found the ingredients in a plastic container and laid them out on the bench.
Ria stood beside her father. “You smell bad, Daddy. I would not recognize you on the street.”
“I know, daughter. I know. But why did you cut your hair? Your mother will not be pleased.” He scratched at his knotted dreadlocks and stared at Monica. “And who is that? And why is she wearing your mother’s nightgown?”
“I’ll tell you everything when you are clean.” Ria gave her father a towel from the cupboard and brought him his robe. When he was gone, she opened the small window and flapped a cloth while Monica mixed the powdered milk with water and tried to whisk out the lumps.
“There’s a technique, and he likes it the way Ma does it.” Ria took it over and whisked the milk till it was smooth and set it on the stove to heat. She measured whole spices into a mortar and crushed them with the pestle.
When Arun returned, the kitchen was fragrant with cardamom, ginger, cloves, and cinnamon, and he stood in the doorway and breathed deeply. “I have missed your mother’s masala chai so much.” He had shaved and tied back his matted hair, and his robe hung from his hunched shoulders. “Mr. Batra seems well.”
“Daddy, you’ve lost so much weight, you look just like a Sardhu.” Ria held the saucepan high and poured the hot masala chai in a long stream, and they watched, mesmerized by the steaming, fragrant milk.
Monica tried a small smile. “I’m Monica by the way.” She stretched her hand across the table.
Arun wrapped his hands around his cup.
“How long have you been gone?” Monica tried again and wondered if she should have taken Rufus’s advice to run a blog on her experiences in India.
Arun looked at the clock. “Eleven months, three days, four hours and 43 minutes.”
Ria snorted. “Did you call her, even once during that time?”
“Ria, you cannot speak to your father in this tone. And where is your mother? And who is this woman, wearing her night clothes?”
“She’s having a baby.” Ria spat the words.
“Who is having a baby?” Arun asked.
“Ma.”
Arun sat upright. “What are you saying? She is with another man? My Kavi?”
“You deserted us. And now you are jealous?” Ria was amazed.
Arun pushed back his chair. “Who is he? I’ll go there now and bring her back.” He began to shout. “And could someone please tell me. Who are you?” He glared at Monica.
“The mother, I’m the mother.” Monica felt the words rather than heard them.
“The mother of what?”
“Daddy! It’s her baby.” She pointed to Monica.
“My Kavi is having your baby?” Arun frowned and shook his head.
“And my husband, Gil.”
Arun picked up his masala chai and sniffed it. “Maybe I am drunk? Where are you from?”
“Canada.”
“Why are you in my flat, wearing my wife’s clothes? And where is my furniture?”
Monica felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. Ria’s phone pinged at the same moment, and she held it up. “Ma.”
Monica read her text. “Oh god, the baby. She’s coming early.”
“We’ll go on my bike,” Ria said.
“It’s too soon.” Monica was frightened.
Arun pushed back his chair. “I’m coming too. She was early last time.”
“No!” Monica and Ria spoke together.
“You don’t understand, when she had you, she panicked very much. A little crazy.” He touched the side of his head. “She needs me there to calm her.”
They dressed fast, and Ria scribbled the address on a slip of paper for her father. Arun stood with his head down. “I have no money.”
Monica opened her bag and gave him a handful of notes as she grabbed Ria’s helmet from the hook.
The neighbors were gathered on the landing in their nightclothes as if they had been listening through the walls. They held their palms to their chests and Ria did the same. Mr. Batra pressed his hands to hers. “Om Gam Ganpataye namah,” he said, and Ria bowed her head.
“What did he say?” Monica asked as they ran down the concrete steps.
“He will pray to Lord Ganesha. And before you ask how they all know, that is the mystery of our landing.”
Despite the late hour, the city w
as busy. Ria threw them around corners and slid in front of a line of taxis in a crescendo of horns. Monica pressed herself into the girl’s back and felt her heartbeat as she rode on the sidewalk and through an alley where birds rose in a green curtain as they rushed past. They slewed in front of tall wrought iron gates. Monica pushed them with her foot and the gates swung open.
They were in a graveyard, dark with looming trees. Mist veiled the lichen-covered headstones. In the faint yellow glow of old light stands Monica felt the beauty and strangeness slink up her spine as they sped through. They came out onto the road in a rush and raced around back streets and slammed to a stop in front of Planete Bebe. Ria’s breath was short, as though she’d run a marathon. The place was in darkness, the front door unlocked, the reception area empty.
A low animal sound that clenched at Monica’s gut came from the room at the end of the corridor. She grabbed Ria’s arm but Ria shook her off and opened the door, and bright light spilled out.
Kavitha’s hands were flat against the wall, her head hung low, her hair loose and disheveled. The doctor came out from a bathroom, drying her hands. She saw them and silently pointed to the door, but Ria shook her head and pressed herself into an alcove where Kavitha could not see her.
Monica leaned against the wall. When Kavitha straightened, her face was slick with perspiration, and she stared at Monica without blinking.
“We are moving at a good speed here,” the doctor said. “All is well. I have a nurse arriving any minute. The reception is very comfortable.”
But Monica was pinned in place. She had caused this agony, and she wanted to crumple to the floor and cover herself so no one would see her again.
The door flew open, and Arun rushed past. His white shirt was too big, and his dark trousers hung over his feet. He stopped as if he’d hit a wall.
Kavitha’s breath came in hard, short pants. She saw him and let out a wail that drew all the light and energy in the room towards her. “You. You’re alive. You bastard.” A wave of pain took her, and she gripped the end of the bed.
Arun went to her and stroked her back. “Kavi, I’m so sorry, please my chucklee, we will resolve this.”
The doctor glared at him. “You need to leave.” She pointed to the door again.