The taller policeman took a piece of paper from his pocket. “Your name is Miss Kit Smallwood?”
“Yes.” I felt my mouth go dry.
“We are here with a warrant for your arrest. We will take you down to the Cochin Police Station for questioning. We must warn you that anything you say will be taken down and used in evidence. It is advisable to bring a suitcase with you.”
“A suitcase!” I was shocked. “Why?”
“You may stay down there.”
“I can’t! I have a child here.” Except by horrible timing he wasn’t. On the previous afternoon Raffie, clutching his teddy and a small bag, had walked with me, in a state of high excitement and a few nerves, to stay at his cousin’s house a few streets away in Cochin. His first night ever away from me. The cousins had said they’d drop him back this morning, and now I imagined him racing up the front steps, bursting with news about his important adventure, and I wouldn’t be there.
Anto was away too: he was giving a paper at a conference in Quilon. It was an important step professionally for him, and the thought of him coming home and finding me gone was horrible too.
“Can’t I wait until my husband gets home?” I said. The small policemen leaned close enough for me to see mean dark crevasses from his lip to his chin.
“You have servants here?”
“Yes, two.” I’d just seen Kamalam’s frightened eyes peering around the door.
“So, let them see to your child, and they can tell your husband where you are,” he told me. “There is a room waiting for you.” I shuddered thinking of the dark, pee-smelling police station I’d been to with Neeta.
I gave rapid instructions to Kamalam. She must feed Raffie and reassure him I would be back soon. I’d bought his favorite cashew barfi to celebrate his return; she must make sure he got it, and tell him that Mummy loved him. She was not to worry; I would be back soon.
In the back of the car, the small policeman took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. He locked one around my left wrist and one round his right.
I was driven to a small police substation near the docks and was locked into an interrogation cell—a high-walled room with a small window close to the roof that showed about one square foot of sky. A chair, a potty, a narrow cot, that was it. I listened to their footsteps echoing away; someone in a nearby cell was shouting and crying.
After hours of waiting in the cell, I sat in the chair and fell into a clammy sleep and woke to hear evening sounds outside: the market men putting up their stalls, the shouts of the rickshaw men, and then, suddenly, a policeman appeared in my cell—youngish, with a gap-toothed smile. He was wearing a cheap gold wedding ring and carrying a manila folder. He placed a chair a couple of feet away from me and sat down with an amiable grunt.
“Sorry for all the noise earlier,” he said, fixing me with large sad eyes. “We had a man in too much for the toddy. He was calling for his mother.”
I tried to smile. I desperately needed him on my side.
“So.” The wedding ring flashed as he opened the file.
“My name is Inspector Pillay. You are Miss Kit Smallwood, from the Moonstone Clinic, Fort Cochin?”
“Correct.” You blithe bloody idiot, I thought. It was clear from the thickness of the file that they’d had their eye on me for months, maybe from the moment I’d arrived. “And you are married to Dr. Anto Thekkeden.” So much for protecting the family name.
“Can I speak to my lawyer?” How corny this sounded; I was in a bad play, one that made my voice tremble and my limbs turn watery.
“Name of the lawyer?” I’d been thinking about this earlier, stubbing my toe on the same door. Saraswati wouldn’t do. When I’d asked her, in the early days, whether if the case ever went to court she’d represent me as a lawyer, she’d said it was impossible. “Because they’ll call me as a witness, and the law is you cannot be both witness and lawyer.” Our only slender hope was that the medical authorities wouldn’t want her as a witness because they’d lied about her accusing me and they wouldn’t want that can of worms opened. Appan, as my father-in-law, was no good either.
I had a vague memory of Appan mentioning another lawyer who might help, but I’d forgotten his name, and Pillay was saying impatiently, “So you don’t seem to have a lawyer, and anyway, that would delay our proceedings tonight, and you have a child to attend to at home?” The sweet smile had turned sour and faintly incredulous. “Isn’t that what you think of first?”
No other questions. When he left, I knew it must be dark by now outside. I heard cell doors slamming, shouting, a subdued whimpering, and then a dead silence. An old woman in a sari came in, she gave me a bowl, some water, a square of cotton to wash myself with.
Don’t you dare panic, I told myself. You don’t ever, ever, ever have to tell anyone about this. Anto will come soon, Appan’s fine legal brain will think of something, and you’ll be home soon. You’ll bathe Raffie, tuck him into the new “big boy” bed he was so proud of, smell his hair, kiss him Night night, sleep tight, hope the fleas don’t bite, then a whisky and soda on the veranda with Anto, trying to laugh about what a close shave this had been.
When night fell, the lights went out. A leaking tap in the slop room next door went drip, drop, flop. The sounds swelled and magnified and became the nightmare accompaniment to a mood in which I hated myself intensely. I could practically see the lurid headlines already: “Unqualified English Midwife Kills Indian Babies.” Anto could lose his job as a result of the fallout. My fault: my laziness, my pride, my condescension, drip, drop, flop, and worst of all, I was bringing fear and misery to a child who was too young to understand.
When morning came, the old woman who had strip-searched me appeared. She put a flat bread on the stool, and a small bowl of rice.
When Anto came, two hours later, pale and huge-eyed with shock, I saw him in the visitor’s room, a bare space with spittoons in the corner full of sand. When I asked him how Raffie was, he said, “I was hoping they might release you today, so I wouldn’t have to tell him.” There was a long, tense silence. “I’ll tell him tonight.”
His expression made me think I had pushed him over the line that separates love and support from complete exasperation, contempt even.
“Are you angry?” I asked him.
“No,” he said eventually with the yes-no gesture. “Only with myself.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
He didn’t answer.
“Haven’t they said anything?”
“Nothing. Only that it will go to trial. I’m worried they’re going to make an example of you.” He put his head in his hands.
“Anto,” I said, “if it does go to trial, you must tell Amma.” I winced with shame at the thought of it. “She’ll help with Raffie.”
“I can’t. I’ve already spoken to Appan. He doesn’t want her to know.”
“That makes no sense: she’s bound to find out.”
The muscle in Anto’s jaw was twitching, never a good sign. “He’s adamant, but as soon as I leave here, I’m going to talk to him again. And if he won’t help, I’m going to borrow Saraswati’s law books and work through every precedent for voluntary and involuntary manslaughter, which is what Saraswati says they will charge you with if they charge you at all. She’s confident this is just a saber-rattling exercise. The case is so full of holes, it’s a farce.” His smile didn’t make it to his eyes, which were red-rimmed as if he hadn’t slept all night.
“How was the conference?” I asked shortly before he left. “Did the paper go well?”
“I didn’t give it. I came home when I heard.”
“I’m so sorry.” He’d spent months writing his paper on the management of epidemics with particular reference to African sleeping sickness. We’d rehearsed it together.
He looked away. “Forget it, but if you do have to stay, I can’t just stop
work.”
We stared at each other.
“Let’s wait,” I said. “The whole situation might resolve itself quickly,” though I knew from Saraswati that the legal system was clogged with cases. “What about Raffie? Should he go to Mangalath?”
“Appan’s taking Amma away as soon as possible in case the newspapers get onto it.”
“I thought they were strapped for cash at the moment.”
“They are. He’s not happy about it.”
“Will they be bad? The papers, I mean.”
“Sticks and stones,” he said wearily. “Who cares?”
“Anto, I’m so sorry. I should have listened.”
“Don’t keep saying that,” he said with a twisted smile. “And try not to worry too much. I’m going to talk to Appan again tomorrow. And if it kills me,” he repeated, “I’m going to get you out.”
- CHAPTER 56 -
He’d lied. The newspapers had pounced on the story with the speed of a dog spying a fillet steak.
“English midwife may be held responsible for new baby deaths” was front-page news in the daily newspaper, the Malayala Manorama. The Hindu led with a picture of the charred remains of the Moonstone Home. “First arson, now baby slaughter. What next?” was the caption.
When Anto went to work on the following day, his boss, Dr. Sastry, looked grim. The conference organizers were furious that Anto hadn’t presented his paper. Their research team would never be asked again. “This won’t help matters.” Sastry stabbed at his copy of the Hindu. “Soon her name will be connected with yours. How many English midwives are there in Fort Cochin?” The same Dr. Sastry who had been so genuinely kind and welcoming was clearly frightened of contagion, and Anto understood why: research grants could be slashed overnight in the new India.
When Anto asked for three days off, Sastry agreed with bad grace, slamming the door behind him. Anto took a taxi and went at breakneck speed to Mangalath, to see Appan. As the car turned into the drive, he saw a pall of black smoke rising above the house, messing up the clear blue sky with cinders and soot.
“I got up early and burned all the newspapers I could find,” Appan told him in a furious whisper in his study, where the windows were shut. “If your mother sees them, she will die of shame.”
“Those are lies, Appan!” Anto said. “Do I really have to convince you of that? The important thing now is to get her out of jail.”
“All I know,” his father said, pale with rage, “is that up until recently, I have been systematically lied to about the true facts of your wife’s occupation, and I find it hard not to blame you for not controlling her better.” Anto said nothing, just stared at his father and shook his head. The final betrayal.
“Are you saying you won’t help?” he said at last.
Appan heaved an enormous sigh. “Here are the two possibilities: she could be tried for involuntary manslaughter, which is a serious offense.”
“I’ve looked it up,” Anto said, “but it doesn’t apply: involuntary manslaughter means you have shown a callous disregard for human life, the same thing you might be charged for if you drove a motorcar while drunk or left someone old with a mad dog.”
“So, you’re a lawyer now too, are you?” Appan’s voice was a slap. “Some midwives are charged with this when things go wrong, but the other possibility is a charge of manslaughter and gross negligence. This could bring up to ten years in jail, if your wife had no license to practice. What was she thinking of?” His eyes bulged with disbelief.
Anto bowed his head.
“So reckless conduct is there too,” Appan continued, tapping one hand impatiently on the desk. “And you want me to put my whole career on the line for this? Well, I won’t. All I can do is thank God her name is listed in the papers as Smallwood, not Thekkeden.”
“Well, what a wonderful relief!” Anto sprang to his feet. “As long as we’re all right.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Anto saw two blue veins bulging in Appan’s forehead, the glimpse of back teeth, a sure sign his father was losing his temper, but Anto no longer cared. Let the old bully boy rot in hell.
“I’m talking to you, Appan,” Anto said, “and what I have to say is this: my wife is innocent, but you don’t give a damn about that, let’s just worry about your reputation and the noble Thekkeden name.” A drop of his sweat fell on his father’s blotting paper.
“Leave my house,” Appan said eventually in a quiet voice. “And don’t come back if this is how you’re going to be. I’ve spent my whole life in the service of the law. I won’t throw it away.” He took a handkerchief from the drawer and mopped his face.
“She’s innocent. She was asked to help.”
“Her innocence was dangerous and naive. How many warnings did you need?”
Anto picked up his coat. “I think we should end this conversation here. I won’t come back until she’s out.”
“Do what you want.” Appan shrugged. “Your mother is my main concern now. She’s coming away with me to avoid the scandal. If your wife is charged, I’ll tell the family she’s gone to Madras to do more studying. That way, we won’t have to talk about it.”
“If that’s what you want.”
“It’s what I want,” his father said, his eyes straight ahead.
Anto closed the door behind him and walked away.
- CHAPTER 57 -
I was tried at the High Court of Travancore-Cochin at Ernakulam at eleven o’clock in the morning of Friday, May 5, 1951. The date and the time are engraved on my mind. My crime: manslaughter for gross professional misconduct. Saraswati, who had expected right up until the last moment to be called as a witness, was not called. The sentence: three months at the Women’s Correctional Facility, Viyyur, a prison seventy-four miles north of Fort Cochin. The judge said I was lucky to get off so lightly, that gross professional misconduct was a very serious crime.
Six inches of rain fell on the day my case was heard. From the dock, the whoosh of bicycles going through puddles, windows rattling, puddles forming from dozens of sopping umbrellas near the door, steaming bodies—I remember those details but surprisingly little of what was said. The court had a blue ceiling, wicker chairs. Anto sat staring at me, trying to look encouraging, looking desperate; Saraswati Nair beside him, concentrating fiercely, wincing at the shortcomings of the only lawyer we’d been able to find at such short notice, a Mr. Kurup, a cold-eyed man in a badly fitting shiny suit, who mispronounced my name and spoke so fast I could barely understand a word.
Long before the judge—an old foe of Appan’s—sentenced me, I had a swooping feeling that I’d started down the path of my own destruction. When the sentence was read out, I felt light-headed: this was happening to someone else.
When Anto came to see me afterwards in my cell, we agreed that he should tell Raffie that night.
“But I’m not going to tell him for how long.” He tried to smile. “Saraswati says it could be much shorter than that. She says it’s a slap on the wrist.” The smile was even less successful this time.
Before he left, I said, “Can you bring Raffie to see me?”
He said, almost curtly, that he’d see what he could do. “It may upset him more.” And that was it. I longed for him to touch me, to say something, but this unbelievable thing had left us both stunned and disconnected.
“So, I’d better go home now,” he said, even though the guard hadn’t asked him to.
“Yes, go.” I said. “Give Raffie a kiss from me. Tell him I love him.”
He tried to give me strength then: to tell me he was starting to understand the laws of manslaughter as well as any professional lawyer. That a retrial was inevitable, that it might only be a matter of days and weeks before I was set free. I heard these words as if through a thick pane of glass. He was surely talking about someone else.
And then he did kiss me,
our arms and heads in a desperate tangle of love and sorrow.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said.
* * *
I was taken in a prison van to Viyyur, a drive of roughly three hours from Fort Cochin, still too shocked to think straight. Before, I’d imagined that Appan with all his powerful friends would pay some fine, pull some string, or that Saraswati with her administrative genius would do something, or even, in my wildest dreams, that Dr. Annakutty would appear and admit that she had asked me to do the deliveries, and we had done them well. Now I felt like the most credulous idiot alive.
I thought about all the unremarkable things I normally did as part of a day’s work. Getting up, getting washed, playing with Raffie, then housework, the meals, the study, the letter writing, the walks with Anto, all the seemingly unimportant acts that make up a life. All shut down. The Department for Correction owned me now—my body and my time. A terrible thought.
When we stopped south of Thrissur for petrol, the guard in the van put his hand on the diary I kept from time to time. “What are you writing?”
“Nothing,” I said. “A journal.” And then, with as winning a smile as I could muster, “You can read it if you like.”
For the few seconds his hand hovered over the pages, I almost stopped breathing. Then he sniffed, his face contemptuous, and turned away. Why would an important man like him want to read a stupid diary?
“They may take it away in prison,” he warned, when the van had coughed into life and we were moving again. I decided then and there I had to hide it, and hide it carefully. Started on this path of my own destruction, I needed an outlet, and for the time being this would have to be it.
* * *
First sight of the prison: worn earth, tired buildings, barbed wire, birds, blue sky, only the tips of trees.
As we drove down its long central road, the guard threw me a few scraps of information. This was mostly a prison for long-term male prisoners locked up for murder, for robbery, for theft. The women’s prison was contained in two blocks: F and E in the center of the jail. There were two factory buildings where the women made baskets and clothes for a small wage every week. There was a prison garden.
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