And with that, he picked up a big decorated basket which he’d hidden behind the door. I looked at him, surprised. ‘What’s all this?’
He moved the decorative cloth covering the top and started digging through the items, holding them up for me to see as he spoke. ‘Well, there are some backache creams, stretch-mark creams, moisturizers, chocolates, aromatheraphy bathing salts, some shopping vouchers.’ I was glad he was still looking down as I teared up.
‘The gift vouchers are for buying larger clothes you know, for when you get …’ he fumbled.
‘Fat!’ I completed his sentence and we both started laughing. I lunged at him again and hugged him tightly.
‘Well, to be fair, Sania helped out a lot. I didn’t even know what a belly balm is!’ he admitted.
‘Thanks. This means a lot,’ I told him and I meant it.
‘So you’ve had your “at arms’ length” congratulatory bro hug with your best bud, I suppose?’ I asked him.
He laughed. ‘In fact, I’m going to meet him now. And then Sania and I are inviting ourselves over for a celebratory drink. And ice cream for you.’
‘We’ll be waiting. See you at home.’ He said goodbye and headed out. I sat looking at the basket, patting my stomach for the longest time, wondering why on earth I couldn’t just let myself be less anxious and more happy about the baby, like everyone else around me. And then I also wondered what misfortune would come my way, now that the three-month ‘secret’ was clearly not a secret anymore!
19
Our Car. 8 April. 10:45 a.m.
Abhi was driving with utmost concentration. At every signal he would run his fingers through his hair while tapping his foot nervously on the brake. I was drinking water every two minutes. Sweat was trickling down my temples despite the full blast of the air-conditioner. I did not make eye contact with a single beggar or even blink at being called Mamta Kulkarni by the friendly hijra on the way. We were both focused on getting to the Peerbhoy clinic on time. That’s all that mattered. Ever since I had made the appointment, I had been getting a call daily, confirming just once more if we were sure we were going to come for the appointment, and most importantly, on time. The conversations went something like this:
Clinic: ‘Mrs Roy?’
Me: ‘Yes.’
Clinic: ‘This is to confirm your appointment with Dr Adhuna Peerbhoy on the thirty-first of March.’
Me: ‘Yes.’
Clinic: ‘So you wish to keep this appointment?’
Me: ‘Yes, sure.’
Clinic: ‘And you will be on time?’
Me: ‘We sure will.’
Clinic: ‘We have a very, very packed schedule here. Every day. If you come late, you might have to wait for a few more weeks to get another appointment.’
Me: ‘What else can I say? We promise and pinky swear we will be on time?’
Clinic: ‘Ma’am, was that a joke?’
Me: ‘No … we promise we will be there.’
Clinic: ‘On time?’
Me: ‘Even if that’s the last thing I do, I’ll get there on time.’
So it wasn’t a surprise that we were twitching with anxiety now, on our way to the clinic. I felt like I had an appointment with Ma Durga herself. Even Abhi, who never got rattled by anything, was twitching and kept checking his watch nervously.
12:00 p.m.
A parking spot eluded us as we circled the building like helpless birds. As a last option we drove into the building housing the clinic. The watchman waved us away.
‘Parking full, saar.’
‘Arey boss, my wife is pregnant. Please let me park.’
‘Arey saar, whoever comes here is pray-ga-naint. Nothing I can do.’
Clearly, the need of the hour was to be truly shameless. I looked at the badge on his uniform.
‘Dubey bhaiyyaaaa,’ I said, almost crooning in the most pathetic way I could, ‘I am not feeling too well … please, bhaiyya,’ I pleaded.
The bhaiyya card was a masterstroke. He relented. ‘Okay, but don’t tell anyone upstairs,’ he said, looking around furtively as if he was about to seal a drug deal.
He then directed us to an empty spot right behind the building but we had to give him the keys to the car, in case he needed to move it. And the two crisp hundred-rupee notes that Abhi slipped him earned us a lifetime membership in the Dubey club.
Dr Peerbhoy’s Clinic. 12:20 p.m.
The clinic, I must say, was pretty impressive. Instead of the usual austere, depressing and sterile environment, this one had very cheerful and seemingly efficient staff and helpers tottering around in heels, attending to the waiting patients. I felt like we were in the waiting area outside Richard Branson’s corporate office. The secretary perched behind a large mahogany wood table, though, looked like a school principal.
‘We have an appointment for twelve-thirty, but we are ten minutes early,’ I announced proudly.
Not sounding very impressed, she said, ‘So is everyone else here, darling. Please sit down. We will inform you when it’s time.’
1:40 p.m.
I had read every magazine in the room, investigated every crack in the walls. Abhi had politely chatted with all the other dads in the room, and even the cleaning attendants. And still we waited.
2:15 p.m.
I looked around for public support for this injustice, but we were mostly met with benign, resigned smiles. ‘You will get used to it. She is too good. Worth the wait,’ a heavily pregnant woman told me while rubbing my arm. Even if the doctor handed out diamond-studded nose rings after every appointment, this was still such a colossal waste of time!
3:30 p.m.
Finally, after about three-and-a-half hours of waiting, my name was called. We felt euphoric, like we’d just won a year-long membership at a spa. Almost punching the air in exhilaration, I walked into a room with Abhi in tow. Another stern assistant asked me to strip waist down. I was ‘to be prepared’ for Dr Peerbhoy.
‘Sounds like I’m a Christmas turkey about to be carved!’
Abhi suppressed a smile, looking down at the bright lights that had been focussed on me. ‘You clown!’ He laughed.
Suddenly there was a commotion outside the door. ‘And here comes the ringmaster,’ he added in a hushed tone.
With two doctors flanking her and her white coat billowing behind her like Superman’s cape, in walked Dr Peerbhoy. I was expecting to see an old dragon with too much make-up, Botoxed lips and a heavy accent. Instead, Dr Peerbhoy was a gorgeous woman, possibly in her late forties. She had a smile that could light up a room. She was dressed professionally in a silk button-down blouse and a fitted white skirt. I just felt like staring at her radiant face. Now I knew why scores of seemingly sensible people were ready to wait for hours to see her.
‘Hi there, darling. Congratulations! And many congrats to the daddy as well,’ she said, turning to Abhi. ‘I’m Dr Peerbhoy. Let me show you your baby.’ She started moving the probe around my belly. My hand tightened around Abhi’s as the static black-and-white sea on the monitor came to life. She kept moving the probe and then nodded her head. ‘Seems about right,’ she said while briefly scribbling something in my file. ‘You are quite far along, around ten weeks or so. Say hello to the little one.’
Two sets of eyes scoured over the black-and-white sea, which was now moving. I could have been looking at the Sunderbans. Nothing made sense. Till she pointed to a dot on the screen. It was a small, black and determined dot. Steady and resolute, as if saying, ‘You guys can freak out about having me but I’m here to stay anyway.’ Abhi and I let out a soft ‘oh’ together. This black dot on the screen was little Roy, now rechristened RJ (Roy Junior). This was our baby. She removed the probe and asked the assistant to clean me up. ‘All good,’ she said, smiling. ‘My office, please. I’ll take you through the usual dos and don’ts.’
4:20 p.m.
We were driving back home. I had a small copy of the ultrasound with me, which I was staring at.
‘
A penny for your thoughts, ma’am!’ Abhi interrupted.
‘Abhi, there’s a small cupcake baking inside me. And I don’t even know if I’m a good baker. What if I put the wrong icing on it? What if I use a bad ingredient? Am I making sense?’
‘Yes darling,’ said Abhi with a wan smile, the only person who could have made any sense of the gibberish I was spouting.
20
Dham Dhaam. 9 April. 10 a.m.
Abhi peered into the computer screen. ‘Sorry, ma. Aami bhishon boro gadha. I’m an idiot. Aami bolchi toh sorry!’
At his repentant best, he was trying to placate my mom-in-law, Mrs Mithu Roy, who was even refusing to look at him during the ongoing Skype call. This Sunday morning had kicked off on an emotional note amidst high drama as Abhi’s parents were finally informed about my being pregnant. Since having grandchildren had been his mother’s lifelong dream, right from when Abhi was five years old, Abhi had wanted to be extremely sure about the baby and finish off the doctor visit before giving them the news.
This had upset Auntie beyond belief, and all she could do was cry – the ultimate weapon that could bring mankind to its knees. Auntie used it rather liberally. It was fascinating how quickly she could produce tears.
‘Chup koro!’ she railed. ‘It’s bheen a month and mhore and oie are dha last peepals to know?’ She was angry enough to lose control and slip into English, a language which had no control over her.
‘Ma, I just wanted to be sure. We went to the doctor yesterday and I’m telling you today. Baba, please tell Ma not to be upset.’
‘Mithu,’ chipped in my obedient father-in-law. ‘Stop crying.’ I hadn’t heard him utter more than one word during most conversations. On really exciting days, he’d sometimes go up to three. It was as if he was conserving his energy to participate in some meaningful conversation which would take place at some point in his lifetime. He also had no patience for his wife’s histrionics.
Ma was not in the mood to take directions. ‘Hain hain, tumi o aama ke baulo,’ she accused him of siding with us.
Uncle grunted, after which I imagined he faded into the background with his Sunday newspaper. He was a rare breed in this community. While most other gents quaked in their dhutis in front of the fiery females from Bengal, he stood his ground quite often and refused to pander to his wife’s tantrums.
An ex-LIC agent (a job which was motivated more by socializing possibilities than ambition), my mother-in-law always had stories up her sleeves about how she was ill-treated by her horrid shaashuri (mother-in-law) and constantly reminded me about how lucky I was that I wasn’t forced to massage her stinky feet with mustard oil all night long.
I happily ate my bowl of fruit while Abhi took a one-way trip to guilt land. The Skype connection weakened and I could hear Auntie mumble behind the pixelated screen, ‘Hain hain. Kete dao,’ thinking we were deliberately hanging up.
‘Aami korchi na, Ma. I’m not cutting you off. The connection is very bad,’ Abhi protested. Not in the least mollified, she barked at Abhi again.
‘Tumi jao. Bher eej Tara ma?’ she said, asking for me. I think Bengali is the sweetest language. Every woman is addressed with the suffix of ‘ma’. Even an abuse sounds like a compliment. The worst ones are coated in such mellifluence that they are rendered soggy and ineffective. A loud, resounding ‘kutte’ becomes a harmless ‘kukur’. An insulting ‘saale’ becomes a benign ‘shala’, like your best friend’s term of endearment for you. I think smart Bengalis created this language as a silent protection mechanism. Who would ever want to take on a bechara mild Bengali bondhu (friend)?
‘Tara ma, I’m so hayppy! Bhai dhid you naat tail me aarliar? I whood sent sweets, payesh and nolen gurer sandesh phaar mhai grandchild.’ While she chirped away, I thought about how it might not even have occurred to my mom-in-law that we were super anxious about the news and still trying to process it.
‘And no payesh and sandesh for Abhi or me, Auntie?’ I played along for her sake.
‘You naat kaal me Auntie and I bheel sendh you onek onek mishti!’ Both of us burst out laughing.
10:00 p.m.
I had just about dozed off when my phone started ringing. I fumbled for the bed lamp and checked the time.
A call this late made me brace myself for the worst. Turned out it was a very apologetic-sounding Nakul on the other end.
‘Hi boss, I’m so sorry. Did I wake you up?’ he asked me redundantly.
‘No, Nakul,’ I answered in a deadpan voice. ‘I was playing hopscotch with my hubby. Now enlighten me. What’s the screw-up?’
‘Boss, one of Boom TV’s largest outdoor hoarding artworks has been printed with their biggest competitor’s logo. And Boom TV’s marketing manager Mr Vaswani is standing under the ad and screaming his lungs out!’
This did not sound good. A mistake like this could lose a temperamental client, which Mr Vaswani clearly was. ‘Please tell me how in God’s name did the artwork studio even manage to get the wrong logo.’
‘Boss, we did a project for them a few years ago, so it was in the image bank.’ Perfect.
‘The client is screaming blue murder and the whole team has landed up at the office, saying that if we can’t do our job they have to oversee all the corrections. I’m so sorry. Really sorry. I … just…’ he stammered.
I felt bad for him. Knowing he was an otherwise diligent team member with a great eye for detail, I had to rescue him. Well, up, up and away! As I was taking off from the bed, though, my cape was yanked mid-air and I turned around to see an annoyed Abhi.
‘You’re not seriously proposing to go to work this late, right?’
‘Sweetie, you of all people know that this is not fun. But these guys are one of my biggest clients and I can’t leave this matter just to the team. They’re panicking. I’ll just settle it and come. I’ll call a cab and …’
Abhi interrupted me, announcing in a booming voice, ‘Sure! I’m going to throw my pregnant wife into a cab in the middle of the night. That’s just what I do.’ This was accompanied by a scathing, challenging look, which instantly silenced me and I knew no further argument would help.
Richard & Davis Advertising Agency. 10 April. 12:20 a.m.
Nakul, even though the senior-most there, was running around like a canteen boy. He looked physically relieved when he saw me, as if his mommy had come to pick him up from the playschool after abandoning him in the morning. Abhi had told me he would wait at the Sheraton coffee shop nearby till I was done, a suggestion at which I snarled and chased him home, promising to give him a half-hour head’s up so he could come pick me up.
Amidst a lot of venting and hyperventilating by the client, we got down to business, rectifying the error and ensuring a smooth flow of the remaining artworks. I had come with the hope that I would need to stay for about an hour to do some damage control and then be able to vamoose. But the bored marketing manager kept calling me through the night to check on how things were progressing, and the more I answered his calls, the more involved I became. And then Tarun, one of the brand managers, came running up to me.
‘Tara, Mr Vaswani is asking when the centre spread will be ready for day after’s Bharat Times newspaper.’ What I really wanted was to tell his boss to go eat a goat but instead I smiled reassuringly. ‘Ask him not to worry. It’s going to be delivered by tomorrow noon as per the material requisition. But Tarun,’ I persisted, ‘I’ve never seen Mr Vaswani this hands-on during any campaign. Of course there was an error, but it’s been rectified. Why is he still checking up at this time?’
‘Actually,’ Tarun confessed, ‘he is attending a wedding at the Sheraton nearby, so that’s probably why he’s still up at this time.’ He smiled sheepishly, like a child would while covering up for an embarrassing parent.
5:00 a.m.
Abhi called again. ‘This is ridiculous, T! You need rest. You know that. I’m coming to pick you up. Enough! And if someone wants to take me on I’ll just tell them you’re pregnant.’
‘You know we can’t do that, Abhi,’ I whispered. ‘Okay, come. I should be done by the time you reach.’
I was talking to Nakul, standing by one of the studio machines, when suddenly my stomach started gurgling like it was churning buttermilk. Of course my stomach would gurgle, what with my messed up body clock this eventful night. Artworks were almost wrapped up, the hoarding fiasco had been taken care of and the brand managers were satiated and ready to leave, when we heard a clatter on the staircase, followed by some voices.
I walked over to see one of the night guards escorting a clearly buzzed and happy Ashok Vasvani. Oh man! Now why did this guy need to show up just when things were wrapping up? I greeted him with a smile. ‘Good morning, Mr Vaswani. What brings you here at this odd hour?’
His smile almost turned into a sneer. ‘Arey you gaaaaaaij put raaaang hoarding. What to do?’ he said, massacring every word in his usual style. Another big rumble.
‘It was unfortunate, and you have our apologies, but it’s all corrected now. The team …’ another rumble.
‘You see, once is fine but we should not … are you okay?’ Vaswani asked me mid-sentence. The rumble in my stomach wouldn’t stop and it left me looking dazed. To my horror, I knew exactly what was coming next.
21
Dham Dhaam. 12 April. 9:30 a.m.
‘All okay, baby?’ Abhi hollered from the bathroom while shaving.
‘Yes, I feel good!’ I hollered back.
‘I was actually enquiring after Mr Vaswani. Are you sending him a new pair of shoes?’ he guffawed.
‘Oh go shave, you jobless man.’
When Mr Vaswani barged into the office to ‘check in’ on work that night, he had been reeking of alcohol. The doctor had warned me that I would be sensitive to certain smells, but I hadn’t expected my first experience of this to be at work, in front of a client. As he got closer, I had thrown up a whole bucket’s worth all over his pants and shoes while everyone watched in horror. He had walked to the washroom in silence. I think the trauma had sobered him up. I, on the other hand, had given my team some more instructions and blown out of there like a light summer breeze, cloaking my horror with a casual attitude. Abhi had been ribbing me ever since.
I Didn't Expect to be Expecting (Ravinder Singh Presents) Page 7