I Didn't Expect to be Expecting (Ravinder Singh Presents)

by Richa S Mukherjee

  ‘Congratulations, Tara! To you and your team,’ said a beaming Mr Vohra.

  ‘Thanks, Mr Vohra,’ I said and smiled back. ‘And now if you’ll excuse me, I have a flight to catch.’

  ‘Oh?’ He looked confused and I knew what was coming next. ‘You’re going for a holiday again?’

  I could think of four ways to respond.

  1) Clobber him on the head.

  2) Pull off his wig and throw it in the trash can.

  3) Tell him, ‘You psycho, we have discussed this ten times over.’

  4) None of the above.

  I opted for number four and got into my cab.

  My phone showed me a few missed calls from Abhi. I dialled his number and before he could say hello, hurriedly apologized. ‘I know, I know! I’m sorry, I’m horribly late but on my way!’

  ‘Hello,’ bleated a dreary voice. Who on earth had Abhi’s phone?

  ‘Who is this?’ I asked.

  ‘This is Megha,’ the voice said, very slowly.

  Oh nooo! It was Melancholy Megha from Abhi’s team. Her voice could put insomniacs to sleep and make others reach for antidepressants.

  ‘Hi Megha. This is Tara. Abhi around?’

  ‘Tara, hi. So … nice … to … speak to you,’ she droned. ‘Abhi left his phone to charge here. He asked me to tell you that he will leave in ten minutes.’

  ‘What!’ I bellowed. ‘I’m still closer to the airport. He’s in town! How on earth will he make it if he hasn’t even left?’

  ‘Dear Tara,’ she announced slowly, as if dictating a letter. ‘Don’t worry, he will make it. Just hold the line for him.’ Sure. As if I was about to stand in a line for concert tickets and could just stick my leg out or put my bag on a seat to save him a spot.

  Airport. 9:00 p.m.

  The entrance to the airport was a sea of people – moist-eyed families bidding goodbye, grim-faced students on a break, sleepy children protesting at being rudely awoken from their sweet slumber, wide-eyed first-timers with mouths open clutching their bags with trepidation – all jostling towards the gates, despite the airport security guard snarling at them to get into a line.

  There was no option but to push my way in. Sure, I earned a lot of dirty looks and angry comments along the way, but the job got done. I ran to the counter just as they were shutting it.

  Quick strategy – give the tough-looking guy behind the counter your best smile. I batted my eyelashes and flashed him a coy smile. He gave me a hard stare in return.

  ‘Are you feeling all right, ma’am?’ Great. So that wasn’t going to work. ‘And I’m sorry but the counters have shut,’ he added sternly.

  I was getting desperate now.

  ‘Bhaiyya!’ I launched at him shamelessly yet again. ‘Please listen to me. I was stuck in such a horrible traffic jam, so…’

  ‘I’m really sorry, ma’am, but rules are rules. It’s out of my hands.’ At first I was filled with despair, but then I decided that I wasn’t going to let this man take my holiday from me.

  ‘Bhaiyya, I have a very sad life. There is nothing in my life worth living for. This is my only chance at happiness. Please let me go!’

  ‘Italy is your chance at happiness?’ He looked genuinely puzzled.

  ‘Mister please. I’m with her!’ boomed a voice behind me as Abhi, out of breath, came and dumped his luggage next to mine. I looked at the brute behind the counter sheepishly as despair came knocking again.

  ‘So now both of you have nothing to live for, I suppose?’ the brute asked us with an irritated look on his face. I knew then that it was done. This guy wasn’t about to let us through, especially after my little skit. I heaved a big sigh and was about to give Abhi a conciliatory hug when our passports and boarding passes were plonked in front of us. We looked at the man as he started walking away after putting up a ‘Closed’ board at the counter.

  ‘You guys are strange. But funny. Happy holiday. Now run.’ Then he started mumbling into his walkie talkie.

  I would have jumped up and kissed him had Abhi not grabbed me and started running towards the security gates. We separated into the men and women lines but never lost eye contact or the goofy grins on our faces. As the bored officer at immigration stamped his approval on our holiday with a loud thump, we ran hand in hand to our gate while the PA in a testy tone announced the last call for its two tardy passengers.

  13

  Hotel Spadari Al Duomo, Milan. 19 March. 11:00 a.m.

  I was curled up on a large comfortable chair next to Abhi, who was reading a book as steam from our hot espressos swirled around our faces. The sun was streaming through a half-open window, pricking the shroud of the cool seven-degree weather that had settled around us. The owner of the café located right in front of the Duomo, a rotund, affable lady called Cecelia with the biggest breasts I had ever seen, was bustling around, carrying orders. I pulled my shawl closer and smiled with heavy lids, fighting the mild jetlag that was descending. Fontacelli, her cat, (of course a cat would be named Fontacelli here) understood my state of mind and curled up next to my foot. I was at peace. Eager to discover a new country, new people, a new language, have new experiences and make new memories.

  3:30 p.m.

  We had just finished walking around and visiting a few of the tourist spots in the area. Now we were back at the Duomo, the central iconic structure that the whole city pulsed around. It had taken thousands of workers and over six centuries to complete, and every nook and cranny of this masterpiece stood testimony to those skilled hands.

  As we sat down to grab a slice of pizza that looked larger than the suface area of both our faces combined, the manager approached us with a merry expression and launched into a heavily accented and animated medley, ‘Ek do teen, char pach cheh, humma humma … oooo … humma!’

  As we looked on, amused at his performance, he went on to stereotype India in every way. He asked about snake charmers and rat temples and seemed acutely disappointed when we informed him that there were no cows to be seen in our neighbourhood. A complimentary bottle of wine was planted in front of us as we winked at each other and toasted to a great meal with free alcohol.

  4:30 p.m.

  Abhi looked like he’d seen an Italian ghost. I took the bill from him and gasped.

  ‘120 euros! They’ve made a mistake!’

  ‘No, they haven’t. It’s an expensive wine and there’s the bottle of water as well,’ Abhi explained.

  ‘That smooth-talking chor!’ I was fuming. ‘He said it was complimentary.’

  ‘No, he said it was his pick for us, which could mean anything!’ Then Abhi started guffawing – clearly a sign of post-traumatic stress. ‘We also ate a four-thousand-buck pizza!’

  20 March. 8:30 p.m.

  We had driven to Oultrepo Pavese wine region, 50 kilometres south of Milan. After touring the vineyard and taking a million selfies, we attended the wine-tasting with our host family, who also shared their lipsmacking Italian dinner with us. Eight wine samples later, I was trying to look more sober than I felt when I suddenly heard the faint strains of a familiar song. A very familiar song. ‘Chikni chameli’! I could hardly believe my ears, so I went to investigate whether this was real or the result of the excellent wine.

  I dragged Abhi along as well, and soon we stumbled upon about four male members of our host family swaying away to the tune like Italian Katrina Kaifs! It felt so good to suddenly hear a Bollywood song that Abhi, who normally stands like a totem pole while people dance around him, joined in like an excited child. I kicked my shoes off, lifted my long skirt and jumped into the fray as well.

  Firenze. 21 March. 11:00 a.m.

  We were staring at the world-renowned statue of David while other tourist groups milled around. The group closest to us was filled with elderly Indian tourists who were looking on in amazement. I heard one Punjabi auntie exclaiming in disgust, ‘Chhee. Sab nange hain!’ aghast at the nudity.

  ‘There is more nudity awaiting the poor auntie at the Uffizi gal
lery,’ I whispered to Abhi.

  Pensione Pendini. 21 March. 7:30 p.m.

  I sat on the window seat sipping wine, my head resting on Abhi’s shoulder. We were back at our hotel to rest a while. It was a stunning little hotel, situated next to a landmark – the Piazza della Repubblica. Quaint, warm, full of creaking wooden floors, it was like we were in another world. We had walked around all day, discovering cosy nooks, corners, cobbled streets. We’d stopped for multiple limoncello shots, which were available at nearly every store.

  ‘Abhi, I’m going to return to India an alcoholic and it’s all your fault.’ I hiccupped loudly.

  ‘Poor baby. I’m sorry for tying your hands and pouring eight limoncello shots down your throat!’ Abhi smirked and pulled the wine glass out of my hands.

  ‘Hey, hey! I’m on vacation!’

  ‘Your kidneys are not,’ he admonished.

  Suddenly, we heard a big commotion from the square below and looked down. A couple was surrounded by four children, all under the ages of ten, by the looks of it. The children were looking agitated and screaming. The man who we assumed was the father was armed with a backpack which looked as large as him, and was carrying five other slightly smaller bags. The mother was holding a pram and had multiple juice boxes in her hand. The couple looked lost, tired and miserable.

  Abhi looked on sympathetically, shaking his head, as I glared at him. ‘Don’t you dare put a baby inside me ever!’

  14

  Hotel Paganelli, Venice. 24 March. 12:00 p.m.

  Vaparetttttto!

  Paganelllli!

  Moraaano!

  Buraaano!

  Oh, Italian accent. How I love you!

  I watched in fascination as the hotel manager’s mouth moved while Abhi positioned my hanging jaw back into place. Just then the church bells started ringing in the campellinis.

  Piazza St Marco. 25 March. 7:00 p.m.

  ‘Abbb … hh … eee,’ I said, my teeth chattering. ‘H … hhelp me!’

  We had merrily stepped out for a romantic walk, not realizing that while we’d been taking an afternoon siesta, the pleasant, cool weather had dropped to a treacherous 6 degrees Celsius. We had frozen instantly. Draped in our Mumbai ‘winter’ clothes, it felt as cold as if we were naked.

  ‘I feel like sitting inside that wood-fired oven,’ Abhi confessed, looking wistfully at a nearby restaurant. ‘Let’s head back to the hotel.’

  ‘I can’t move!’ I complained, not being able to feel my fingers as the biting cold wind picked up pace.

  ‘Bhaisaab!’ called out a voice. We both turned around. A portly gentleman with a big smile on his face came waddling towards us.

  ‘Myself Junaid.’ He raised his hand in an aadab. ‘You are from Pakistan?’ he asked expectantly.

  ‘No. India,’ Abhi replied. Junaid’s grin became wider. ‘Ek hi baat hai! Please come to my restaurant. It’s right there,’ he said pointing at a nearby restaurant. He noticed our wary expressions. ‘I give you special butter chicken and free T-shirt!’

  We were about to decline but then we exchanged a look. There were two cultural codes at stake here. Never say no to butter chicken or anything free. We held hands and followed Junaid towards the best meal of our entire trip.

  Roma Termini. 27 March. 12:30 p.m.

  ‘This looks just like VT station!’ exclaimed Abhi as we looked around the Central Station in Rome. There was grafitti on the walls, I had definitely seen poop on the train tracks, we were being jostled around in a sea of humanity and there was a peculiar odour emanating from the washroom.

  ‘Stinky washroom and I have to pay two euros. Chors, I tell you!’ complained Abhi.

  28 March. 5:00 p.m.

  We were rooted to the ground, bereft of speech. Tourists and locals and vendors were flitting around the Colosseum like flies but it stood its ground like a regal beast, looking as poised and mysterious as ever. If a crowd of Japanese tourists hadn’t pushed us, we would have gaped at the structure for another hour at least. We had done the rounds of all the famous spots, Fontana di Trevi, the Spanish steps, the Pantheon, each one more breathtaking than the other, but this mammoth guardian of the past was stunning beyond belief.

  ‘Wow,’ drooled Abhi while eating his thirtieth cup of gelato. I was buying our standard travel fare of fridge magnets and shot glasses from a stall nearby. Next thing I knew, his sticky fingers had found mine. ‘Eww!’ I complained. ‘Boundaries, Abhi!’

  He laughed and hugged me harder. ‘I want to do this for the rest of our lives. You know that?’

  ‘Buy fridge magnets?’ I asked, surprised.

  ‘No, watch the wonders of the world, travel everywhere holding your hand. Promise me.’

  I smiled and hugged him back. ‘Till we see our last country! I promise! Nothing will stop us.’

  11:30 p.m.

  Something was making me feel restless and uneasy. And this same feeling had, oddly enough, made me walk into a chemist shop earlier in the day and grab a small test kit. Abhi was sleeping peacefully, possibly dreaming about our next destination on the last day of our trip.

  I peeled open the kit with trembling hands and completed the test. And then I saw the two lines that would change my life forever. My heart leapt into my mouth as I realized that I was pregnant.

  15

  Airport Cab, Rome. 29 March. 7:00 p.m.

  I was wondering how to give the news to Abhi.

  1)Look coy, bat eyelashes and say, ‘Ek nanha mehmaan aane vaala hai.’ (Yikes!)

  2)Stuff a pillow under my shirt and ask him, ‘Who’s in there?’

  3)Shout, ‘Do you even know how to use a condom?’ at him.

  4)Throw up nervously but violently. That always seems to work in the movies.

  Roma-Mumbai flight. 30 March. 12:30 a.m.

  Option four it was. When we reached the airport. While boarding the flight. Before we had even taken off.

  ‘Baby, we have to take you to a doctor if this throwing up doesn’t stop,’ said Abhi.

  I just smiled weakly.

  1:30 a.m.

  Abhi was snoring softly next to me, but my mind was buzzing too much to submit to a nap. I picked up an in-flight magazine, flipping through it without really reading anything, till a picture of an adorable baby and mother in some diaper ad caught my eye. Right across from the ad was a detailed article on abortion laws in India. The article was pretty nuanced, arguing both sides nicely, but my eyes kept straying back to the ad, and the baby sleeping peacefully in his mother’s arms. I shuddered and put the magazine away.

  Dham Dhaam. 2:00 p.m.

  ‘Bhaiyya, is Didi feeling okay? She was making a very weird face and staring at me. You know, it happens sometimes. My sister’s sahib went out of India and came back with a bad spirit. I know a good baba. Should I get him with me tomorrow?’

  ‘Umm. Didi’s ma knows a lot of babas already. And Didi is fine. She is just tired,’ explained Abhi to an excited Radha. I had to do something quickly before I was sent to an asylum.

  6:00 p.m.

  Abhi and I were stretched out on the bed, watching TV.

  ‘It was a very good idea to skip work today, T. I think I would have yawned all day long.’ He followed this up with a long yawn.

  ‘Abhi, can you please change the channel?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Please change it again,’ I ordered.

  Abhi looked at me. ‘Why? What’s wrong with this one? Just ads everywhere anyway.’

  ‘Why can’t you just listen to me?!’ I said irritably. ‘I don’t want to see these diaper and baby lotion ads. When I’m ninety and need to use diapers, I’ll watch them.’

  Abhi switched off the TV and turned to me. ‘This is clearly not just lack of sleep speaking. Tell me what’s on your mind.’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said testily.

  ‘Tell me what’s …’

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ I said.

  ‘If you don’t tell me what’s wrong then how …’ Abhi froze mid-sentenc
e.

  I looked at him searchingly. His face was expressionless.

  ‘Ki bolcho tumi, Tara? “I’m pregnant” mane ki?’ He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  ‘Why’re you suddenly speaking in Bengali?’ I demanded, even though I already knew the answer. This was Abhi’s nervous response to uncomfortable situations.

  He muttered on in Bengali to himself, and I let him have his moment, watching him in silence. My rock of Gibraltar had been reduced to a muttering Bengali babu. Sigh.

  31 March. 2:00 a.m.

  I woke up to a kiss on my forehead.

  ‘Aama ke … I mean, I’m sorry, T.’

  I switched on the bedside lamp and peered into Abhi’s face, looming over mine. He looked like he hadn’t slept all night.

  ‘That was rather foolish of me, wasn’t it?’ he asked sheepishly.

  I nodded.

  ‘So we are pregnant?’ he asked hesitantly.

  ‘Umm, no. I am,’ I corrected him.

  ‘But all the dads say “we” now!’

  ‘Too bad,’ I argued. ‘The oven that bakes the bun reserves that right.’

  ‘What nonsense!’ Abhi laughed.

  ‘Coming back to your question, yes, it seems I am. I found out in Rome.’

  ‘But … why didn’t you tell me right away?’

  ‘Because I was freaked out already. I didn’t want to spoil the last day of the holiday,’ I muttered. ‘And by the way, you did freak out when I told you.’

  Abhi started to say something and then lapsed into silence.

  ‘Anyway, I’ll have to get a blood test done to be absolutely sure.’ I shrugged.

  Abhi looked at me with an inscrutable expression. ‘I just can’t believe it.’ I knew he was attempting a brave front for me but deep down, he had voiced exactly what was running through my mind.

  16

  Dham Dhaam. 31 March. 8:00 a.m.

  A baby with long hair and sharp teeth was chasing me down Bandstand. Just as it sunk its teeth into my leg, I woke up with a start. I rubbed at the phantom bite and looked sideways. Abhi was watching me, propped on his elbow.