JUST MARRIED, PLEASE EXCUSE

by Yashodhara Lal

  The problem was that I had just got my underarms waxed two hours earlier. Only those individuals familiar with this particular form of beauty-enhancing self-torture can appreciate how much pain and after-the-event soreness is involved in such an activity. And it was my right armpit that Vijay had now grabbed and was refusing to let go of. In short, it really hurt.

  Lois Lane was told reassuringly by Superman, ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got you.’ She looked confused and disoriented and asked him the relevant question: ‘But who’s got you? ’

  It was a similar situation with Vijay and me, except that I was squealing in agony and my question was ‘What’s with you? Lemme go … Aaaaahh …’ Finally, gravity won the battle, I slipped out of Vijay’s hand, swung around and landed heavily, but safely, on my bum.

  I sat on the road, catching my breath. There was absolutely no dignity left in my life any more. But then, if I had to be completely honest about it, there hadn’t been much to start with, so I supposed it was okay. At least I had a husband who still didn’t seem to care much about my oafishness and was always around to lend that long, helpy-helperton steadying arm.

  Eventually, I decided that there wasn’t much point in ruminating on life while sitting on a busy road in a highly pregnant state as traffic rushed past, and so I allowed my husband to help me up and dust me off. And held his hand the rest of the way.

  5

  Make Way for Peanut

  As difficult as the beginning of the pregnancy had been, the last three months were definitely giving the first three a run for their money. The so-called golden trimester was over and I was huge and uncomfortable, having already gained about ten more kilos than recommended, and discovering that simple things like breathing could no longer be taken for granted.

  What made things worse was that to our chagrin, for the last trimester, Vijay and I would be living away from each other. Since we had decided to have the baby in Delhi, I would have to move from Mumbai at the beginning of the seventh month because travel after this stage was not recommended. I had a sneaking suspicion that I was more torn up about the prospect of our living apart than he was, though he steadfastly maintained that he would miss me.

  As the seventh month began in May, I breezily bade goodbye at work to the various shampoo teams – the local team in India, the regional team in Bangkok, and the global team in London. I even cast a silent and respectful farewell skywards to my fictional interplanetary team which I imagined to be located on or at least somewhere near Jupiter. After a surprise farewell party, organized for me by Vivi, during which I gave everyone at work several false reassurances about how quickly I would be back, I went off on my extended maternity leave.

  I kept putting off the packing right upto a few hours before I was due to leave for Delhi and then had a panic attack about it. Vijay kindly took over, neatly folding my clothes and tucking them away into my suitcase. I watched him and then looked around our home. I would definitely miss this beautiful little pigeon-hole of an apartment. But the fact is, if I were to be completely objective about the situation, it really wasn’t big enough for the both of me any more.

  One of the things I would miss most about Mumbai was Vivi’s company. Despite being somewhat giddy and woolly-headed, she had proven to be a major comfort during my pregnancy, and had been second only to Vijay in terms of fussing over me needlessly and offering to carry the slightest of burdens, often even snatching my purse away from me at work despite my protests that carrying half a kilo extra was nothing for my new-found bulk. I had been quite touched. She really was a good friend.

  I also knew I would miss my help. As a parting gift, I bought Zarreena a cellphone, a device that she had never owned before, and she was thoroughly kicked about it. I also gave Vinod a handsome tip, which he shyly tried to refuse before I pressed it firmly into his hands. I instructed them both to take good care of my husband, which they promised sincerely to do.

  As I left to be driven to the airport, Zarreena was all teary-eyed, and reached up from her four-foot-two-inch height to give me a hug, extracting the promise that I would be back with the baby soon. When I got out of the car at the airport, Vinod looked at his feet and said in his sing-song, lilting voice, ‘Madam, kuchh galati ho gayi toh maafi maangta hoon.’

  I was mystified by this and hastened to assure him that he had done nothing wrong, about to add that it must have been Vijay’s fault, but I was interrupted by Vijay who explained to me that this was a standard way of saying goodbye in some parts. Strange parts, I thought, as I walked into the airport to leave Mumbai and go and have my baby elsewhere.

  Elsewhere was a place called home. The original Delhi home that I had grown up in, and it felt pretty good to be back with my mum and sister.

  ‘The Three Musketeers back together!’ I said enthusiastically, over a merry all-girl dinner that the three of us were enjoying after the longest time.

  They both agreed how great it was and I started making plans for all the various girly things we would do.

  The next morning, I woke up to an empty house. Empty except for me and our old faithful help, Kajal.

  ‘Kahan gaye mama aur Gitanjali?’ I asked her.

  ‘Pata nahin,’ she said mournfully, and then volunteered, ‘Roz kaam pe jaate hain.’

  Ah. Work. Of course. It was a Monday. Gitanjali had finally decided to stop pursuing higher and higher studies and had actually landed herself a job. And my mum of course, was serving the government until they shoved her out at retirement time. Fine, fine. I could live with that.

  I was so bored.

  It was incredibly hot in Delhi and there really was nothing to do. There were only so many times you could watch Harry Potter DVDs alone at home. I had thought it would be great to be on leave, but I actually missed a few of the approximately seven thousand people involved with my shampoo brand.

  I sat around in my bedroom watching my belly carefully. Peanut was now moving around a lot and I could not only feel it, I could also see my belly move with the baby’s movements. It was at times like these that I missed Vijay the most. These were special moments that a husband and wife should relish together. Besides, I needed someone to man the camera – it was so hard to take a picture of your own belly, the angle was never right.

  I brooded on how much I missed Vijay. I decided I even missed his wisecracks. In Mumbai, when I sat around like this with my now-too-small T-shirts unable to cover my growing belly, he had remarked that I looked like a rickshaw puller.

  ‘They also sit like that when they feel hot, their banians pulled up over their potbellies,’ he had explained.

  I had felt my blood beginning to boil at this unflattering comment and had started with ‘How dare you compare me to a rickshaw puller while I am in this state …’ He had looked a bit panic-stricken but then recovered quickly and decided to go on the offensive, crying, ‘What do you mean? Are rickshaw pullers not human? Do they not have feelings? Huh? Huh? ’

  For once, I had been unable to come up with an appropriate rejoinder and had kept silent.

  Now, I sighed as I kept a solo watch on my belly. It was a lonely task. And frankly, while belly-watching had been fun to begin with, it kind of lost its sheen when you were doing it alone all day.

  Of course, the kicking of the baby was the only thing I thought I would miss about the pregnancy. The kicks had started around the fifth month. At first, I wasn’t sure what they were – it wasn’t clear to me whether it was a baby kicking or just some strange new pregnancy-related gastrointestinal phenomenon. Then one fine day, it had become unmistakable. The baby was kicking – the actual, real little person inside me was beginning to assert its individuality. When the movements became visible, it caused no end of amusement for a month or so because Vijay and I found we could get Peanut to kick in response to some stimulation. Every time we felt bored, we would give my belly a bit of a poke and say loudly, ‘Hey Peeea-nut! Wake up!’ and then have a good laugh at the gymnastics that invariably followed.

>   Around that time, my mother and sister had paid us a visit in Mumbai, and they were slightly concerned when we did this for their benefit. ‘Come on, Peanut,’ I had hollered, poking roughly at my belly. ‘Show nani and masi what you can do.’

  We had only stopped doing this when Gitanjali drily pointed out that Vijay and I were clearly going to be the sort of parents who would put their child in the middle of a crowded drawing room and coax, ‘Beta, aunty ke liye gana gao.’ This was a wake-up call – as was my seeing on the ‘Life-in-the-Womb’ series on National Geographic that sleep deprivation in babies in the womb was not a good idea.

  Now, I was treated to a hard kick right in my rib-cage, which took my breath away and had me doubling over or as close as I could get to doubling over, in pain. Apparently the baby was beginning to get its revenge. Sure enough, the kicks got stronger and stronger over the next few days and I started getting whacked right in my rib-cage at around 2 a.m. every morning. I was completely breathless, uncomfortable and sleep deprived.

  Even when she was around, Gitanjali was a poor substitute for Vijay. My attempts to get sympathy from her failed miserably. As I waddled around the house with my huge belly, she often sailed past me with minor variations of ‘Hey lady. Pass the ball’ or ‘Quit hogging it. I’m open!’

  Another day, she caught sight of my belly and asked with interest, ‘What’s that dark line?’ I said knowledgably that it was the linea nigra – the vertical, dark line that appears temporarily on pregnant bellies. She nodded and then said, ‘So is that to demarcate where they’re going to cut you open?’

  As the due date for my delivery approached, I became more and more frustrated. The doctor had said it looked like I would deliver early, but there were no signs of labour even though I was now officially full term at thirty-seven weeks. My sister archly informed me that since her birthday was around the corner, it would be nice if I could choose to have the baby before or after that date, since she was in no mood to share her birthday. She even remarked that she ‘would push it back in if it tried to steal her thunder.’

  Her birthday came and went.A few days later, she saw me sitting around, fat and morose, and asked flippantly, ‘So, no Peanut yet, huh?’

  I knew this didn’t really warrant a reply but said, ‘Umm. No.’

  ‘Lost his way then, has he?’

  ‘Ha ha,’ I muttered grumpily.

  She then cupped her hands over her mouth and addressed my belly directly. ‘Heyy, Peanut … follow the sound of my voiiiice … my voiiiice …’

  As I watched her skipping away lightly, the only consolation I had was that one day she would probably be pregnant too. And then, watch out, little sister. Cue diabolical laughter. For now though, my misery was getting no company.

  It helped that Vijay visited me every weekend. I looked forward to these visits immensely, and often chattered away like a monkey late into the night, until I realized he had fallen asleep.

  The third weekend, he arrived in Delhi late at night with a viral infection, probably brought on by the excessive travel and tiredness. He was mortally afraid of infecting me, so he turned his back to me, covered himself up with all the sheets he could find and fell asleep. I could understand this behaviour, but was disappointed at not being able to cuddle and talk. Early the next morning, he woke up and was coughing away to glory, so I asked Kajal to make him some tea and toast. He drank his tea, ate his toast and took his morning dose of medicine – and then instead of talking to me, turned his back on me and pulled all the sheets over his head again. I then spent a pleasant ten minutes kicking him on his backside at half-minute intervals, declaring that Peanut had asked me to ‘Pass it on with no returns.’ I knew I was being childish but could not help it. Vijay just lay there quietly for a while, so I convinced myself that perhaps he liked it. It was only when he began to cough again that I stopped kicking.

  There were a couple of weekends in the eighth month that Vijay missed coming to visit me because he had to travel abroad for work.

  I had once read a quote somewhere that said ‘A husband is somebody who wishes he was having half as much fun on his business trips as his wife thinks he is.’ It applied to us perfectly.

  I remarked sardonically that, when Vijay was taking up the wonderful rural initiative that he was now heading, I had no idea that the US and Europe would be a part of his rural India beat. Explaining that he had to give lectures at various academies because there was so much interest in the Base of the Pyramid nowadays, he argued that it wasn’t his fault, just a part of his job. I steadfastly maintained that everything was his fault, even more so since he had thoughtlessly impregnated me. He tried to make up by shopping extensively for me during these trips – usually maternity clothes that I outgrew before he even gave them to me, and chocolates which I was not supposed to binge on.

  While he was on one of these trips, at The Hague, I felt unusually uncomfortable. Peanut was kicking my lungs viciously and I was barely able to breathe. I was still awake at 1 a.m. after hours of tossing and turning. I knew it was only 9.30 p.m. in The Hague, so I gave Vijay a call.

  He said with a muffled, ‘Huwoo.’ My immediate suspicion was that it was due to his guzzling beer. I snapped at him, ‘Where are you?’

  Vijay sounded like he was in a very good mood. ‘I am at the beach!’

  ‘A t nine thirty in the night?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said enthusiastically ‘There’s still sunlight over here. Amazing, isn’t it?’

  I was unimpressed ‘Oh, very. So what are you doing?’

  ‘Having a beer and pizza with a couple of people.’

  I gave him my best stony silence. He finally realized something was amiss, as he now remembered having said goodnight to me several hours ago. ‘What happened? You okay?’

  I gave him the melodramatic sigh of the long suffering wife. ‘I cannot sleep.’

  Vijay said, ‘Mmm-hmmm.’ He was trying to be sympathetic, but the effect was ruined because his voice was muffled by the mouthful of pizza he had just bitten into.

  I snapped, ‘Okay, fine. Let’s do it this way, shall we? You sit on a beach at night in Europe, enjoying your beer and pizza, and I will lie here in complete discomfort, unable to sleep, making your baby. Okay? Sounds fair?’

  There was a long silence as Vijay manfully swallowed his pizza and tried to come up with an appropriate response to this masterful display of emotional blackmail.

  The protest that he finally came up with was admirable. ‘But honey! The pizza isn’t even that good …’

  Yes. That made it all better for me.

  Was this pregnancy ever going to end?

  6

  The Peanut Arrives

  ‘No, dear, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be in the delivery room,’ said Dr Gouri to Vijay.

  My due date was now just a week away, and this was probably our last visit to the doctor before Peanut arrived. Our comfort levels with this doctor were much higher than they could ever have been with Dr Kiran because Dr Gouri was an old, old friend of my mother’s and had even delivered my sister a couple of decades earlier. However, she seemed firm about not letting Vijay be an active participant in the delivery.

  Vijay could not conceal his dismay. ‘But aunty! I really want to be there and she wants to be there, too.’ Before Dr Gouri could point out that it was important for me to be there for my delivery, he corrected himself: ‘I mean, she wants me to be there, too.’

  He looked at me for support and I nodded. Actually, I wasn’t so sure I wanted him there because I had recently watched a birthing video as part of my research. It was such a singularly horrifying sight that I suspected if Vijay were present during my delivery, we might just end up celibate for the rest of our lives.

  Dr Gouri said, ‘Look, I’ve delivered many, many cases. It’s generally not such a great idea for the husband to be there. There’s so much blood and gore that some husbands even faint at the sight, and I don’t relish the idea of having two patients to
deal with, instead of one.’

  Vijay looked affronted at the suggestion that he couldn’t hold his own. She went on in a lighter tone, ‘In any case, you do realize that she’s probably going to be just heaping abuses on you, right? Do you really want to be around then?’

  Vijay drew himself up. It was his moment. He said, ‘Aunty. If I were to let that kind of thing deter me, I would have left her months ago.’

  I scowled while Dr Gouri laughed. He could sense her weakening and said, ‘Come on, aunty. I’ve been practising to be her labour coach. She needs me there.’

  Dr Gouri seemed to soften further at this statement. My scowl deepened as I recalled asking Vijay umpteen times to read the ‘For the Labor Coach’ section of What to Expect. Every single time I had opened it to the relevant page and thrust it upon him to absorb, I would find him five minutes later with his nose buried in the book – literally, because he would have fallen asleep with it on his face. In fact, the only time he had referred to himself as the coach before this day had been in jest, when he had blown a piercing whistle in my ear and screamed, ‘As your coach, I say you go into labour now! And give me forty push-ups while you’re at it.’

  However, he was looking so beseechingly at Dr Gouri now, that I could see he genuinely wanted to be with me to give me some much-needed moral support. So I too turned my most pleading smile towards her. She then said that we could ‘take it as it comes’, but looked more positive about it than before.

  ‘Are you sure you want the epidural?’ Dr Gouri asked me as I lay there writhing in the midst of a contraction.

  I swallowed the words that were dancing on the tip of my tongue – ‘You bet your ass’ – and went with the more polite version. ‘Yes, aunty – I’m sure. Please.’

  Since Peanut had refused to come out on the due date, Dr Gouri had insisted on inducing labour. And so, all my worry and preparation about the drill that we were to follow when my water finally broke had been rendered irrelevant. Instead, it was all very planned and after a mere four-hour labour and a lot of screaming, I lay back exhausted. So much for the pre-natal classes in which I had invested back in Mumbai during the second trimester. So much for all the breathing exercises – one short ha, two long hoos – all that had just been hoo-ha in the end.