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

by Richa S Mukherjee

  That was it! I wasn’t going to let this nonsense go on anymore. First the poor spot dada and now Shekhar. I marched towards Vedika’s vanity van. Her security guard stood up and blocked the door. I knew he was just doing his job, but I was in no mood for this.

  ‘Please get out of my way,’ I hissed, like Mallika Sherawat from her serpentine movie. Maybe it was my dishevelled hair or my eyeliner gone rogue that made me look ominous, but the guard melted out of the way after some initial resistance.

  I climbed in and saw the ice maiden in her fancy, state-of-the-art digs. She didn’t have a bad face, to be fair, but it sat on a pile of bones with only a thin veneer of skin on them. She had those stick-thin arms, the ones that make you want to feed someone for two weeks straight. A whole lot of attitude flashed behind two very heavily mascara-laden eyes.

  ‘And you are?’ she asked me haughtily.

  ‘The voice of reason? Someone with a lot more sense? Your worst nightmare?’

  She bristled. ‘What the…’

  I moved closer and banged my bag down in front of her.

  ‘Listen up, you spoilt brat! I’ve just about had it up to here with your tantrums,’ I ranted. ‘You have behaved abominably and driven poor spot dada to tears. You’ve wasted the whole crew’s time and you also have the audacity to show your fangs to poor Shekhar! I don’t care how tired you are, or how big a headache you have, which I’m sure you don’t. But you will not take one more person from the agency or production house for granted, or I swear to God I will spend the rest of my life ensuring you do not ever, and I mean ever, get another ad film or any other film for that matter for the rest of your life, even if I have to protest outside every producer and ad-film director’s house personally! If an almost three-month pregnant woman can be professional enough to be on a set till this time, sitting her ass on an uncomfortable chair all day long, the least you can do is slap that goop on your face, get your bony ass out of your throne and have the decency to complete one last shot so people can get home to their families. Now get to the set before I complain to the client. Chop chop. Are we clear here?’

  I had no idea what had come over me, but my pregnancy hormones had lit a fire that had scorched this anorexic starlet’s world. The expression on her face was inscrutable, but the point had clearly hit home, because she actually nodded! So before she could change her mind and slap me, I collected my bag and walked out of the van. Outside, there was a sea of stunned faces, and as the door shut behind me, everyone broke into a slow applause. Shekhar walked up to me. ‘I’m so not getting on your wrong side, lady!’

  With that performance, whoever hadn’t before now also knew my ‘secret’, just before the completion of my first trimester!

  27

  Dham Dhaam. 30 April. 9:00 a.m.

  I was standing before the bathroom mirror, examining myself closely. Dr Spock had warned me, and Heidi Murkoff had told me what to expect, but I still hadn’t been expecting this. The credible and age-old university of ‘sab kehte hain’ had assured me that my face would glow like a light bulb. That those hormones would make my skin look like a hundred-watt Bajaj bulb and my hair would be just like Rapunzel’s. Well, my hair was still fine, but my face, from what I could see, was at best a fused tube light. And it was also doubling up as the title host of the international acne festival.

  Abhi took a break from his dumbells, walked over to me and put his hand on my shoulder.

  ‘I see nothing but gorgeousness.’ Despite the obvious lie, I couldn’t help my smile.

  ‘Hah! I even have acne on the tip of my nose. Now you tell me, who will focus on my eyes when my face is growing its own mushroom? Bloody movies and old wives’ tales, I tell you. My behind might be glowing more than my face at the moment. And someone sent me a link about pregnancy-related symptoms. Apparently you get black patches on your face and body after some time. It’s called the mask of pregnancy, lamely enough.’

  ‘Tara.’ Abhi looked at me. ‘Stop being so negative. You don’t have a “disease” that you’re looking up symptoms.’

  ‘Hmm.’ I continued staring at myself in the mirror, not impressed. ‘I know!’ I declared suddenly. ‘I look worse because everyone found out about the baby before the first trimester! I’m cursed.’

  ‘And who exactly has cursed you?’ Abhi looked like he was talking to a deranged person.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, but I’m sure that’s what it is.’ I shrugged while Abhi shook his head and returned to his dumbells.

  12:30 p.m.

  ‘Didi, you know what? I knew about you.’ Radha smirked.

  I was waiting for Abhi to get ready so we could leave for our lunch and movie date while she was making our dinner. Stuck between her kadhai and the window on the small kitchen counter, I had no easy exit.

  ‘Really? How is that?’ I enquired, masking my absolute disinterest.

  ‘You are becoming big, na. That’s why. You’ve also been wearing slightly dheelela clothes,’ she announced.

  The nerve of this woman. Calling me fat! To my face! My face probably showed her that I hadn’t taken this comment well.

  ‘Arey, why you feel bad, Didi? All women get motella. You give me your clothes when you get fat?’

  This was too much for even me to react to. ‘Radha, I own very few salwar kameezes. I really don’t think you will like the kind of clothes I wear.’ This oddly got her even more excited.

  ‘No, no, Didi! You don’t worry. You give me all the short, tight clothes, your dresses. I’ll wear for Ramesh at home.’ She coloured up.

  Imagination is an unfortunate canvas at times. Before the first brushstrokes of Radha and her husband’s union in my clothes started forming in my head, I ran into the other room, covering my eyes.

  Cafē Mondegar. 5:00 p.m.

  Abhi was slashing the air with his arms, trying to shield RJ and me from the smoke spreading its ghost-like tendrils towards us from the pack of smokers at the door. After watching a movie, we had extended the date by landing up at Mondy’s, one of our favourite haunts in Colaba.

  ‘Bloody fools!’ Abhi thundered. ‘Why do they have to smoke around us? And can’t they see …’

  ‘Can’t they see what, Abhi?’ I asked. ‘I don’t look very pregnant, so why would they do me the honour of a smoke-free environment? Also, that is the designated smoking area, you know. We are the ones sitting close to them.’

  Abhi still looked annoyed. ‘When are Shoma and Mani joining us?’

  ‘How about right now?’ boomed Mani’s jovial voice behind us.

  After the hugs and kisses, we settled down. Shoma joined Abhi in glowering at the smokers while Mani and I looked on, amused.

  Just then two children banged into our table. The water glasses spilled all their contents onto us while Mani almost fell off his chair. Before we could chastise the perpetrators, they were gone as instantly as they had appeared.

  ‘Why can’t people leave their kids at home?’ muttered Mani, straightening himself.

  ‘Why drag them around everywhere?’ joined in Shoma while furiously wiping herself. ‘It’s not as if everyone loves …’ she stopped mid-sentence and, as if on cue, both Mani and Shoma trained their apologetic eyes on us.

  ‘I’m so sorry, guys. I mean, this has nothing to do with you both. I mean, we will love your kid,’ spluttered Mani.

  ‘And of course you can bring RJ everywhere …’ chimed in Shoma.

  ‘Relax, guys,’ I smiled at their pitiful attempts at redemption. Then Abhi and I exchanged a look while squeezing each other’s hands tightly under the table. We had already become reluctant but instant members of the ‘those parents who can’t control their kids’ club.

  5:30 p.m.

  After the mild awkwardness passed, Abhi ordered beers for everyone.

  When the beers arrived, I asked for a lemonade to make a shandy for myself. Shoma almost fell out of her chair trying to grab the glass from me. ‘Tara, what are you doing?!’

  ‘She’s making hers
elf a drink,’ Abhi added, looking equally confused.

  ‘What is wrong with both of you? Don’t you know how bad that is for RJ? There is so much research now, proving the irreversible damage even a tiny amount of alcohol can have on foetuses.’

  ‘Hey hey! I’m allowed a drink a week. And I was just planning on having a few sips. What’s the big deal?’ I asked her, taking my glass back.

  ‘It is a big deal!’ she declared as she snatched the glass back from me. The glass went back and forth till most of it had been spilt between us.

  ‘Break it up, girls!’ said Mani, taking the glass from us.

  ‘Shoma, enough. Tara, just a few sips please,’ Abhi said, passing me the almost-empty glass.

  We had barely crossed over to normalcy when the chilli chicken arrived. As my fork dived in for the charred goodness on the plate, it was met by another fork and diverted to the garlic bread. As expected, it was Shoma. I put my fork down, crossed my arms and looked at her challengingly.

  ‘Come on, out with it. What have I done to destroy RJ now?’

  ‘Oh lord, you don’t know!’ she said incredulously.

  ‘What?’ asked Abhi innocently.

  She shrugged. ‘MSG! Chinese food is especially loaded with it. Terrible for all human beings, but especially for babies. You can’t eat that!’ I sighed and put my hand on my tummy. I know, baby. Till the time you’re out, be prepared to listen to loads of ‘well-meaning’ advice. My tip: stuff part of that umbilical cord into your ear and block them out, just like I will!

  7:00 p.m.

  On the way back home, I was nodding off to sleep when Abhi suddenly started talking.

  ‘I’m feeling bad for the parents of those two kids at the restaurant.’

  ‘You’re still thinking about that?’ I asked him.

  ‘I mean, they’re kids. With so much energy. Barring sitting on them, how do you stop them?’

  ‘You’ve suddenly become quite sympathetic.’ I smiled, then stifled a yawn. ‘Do you think our friends will continue being polite if RJ turns out to be like those kids?’

  Abhi thought for a bit. ‘Well, not for too long. Maybe our best bet is to lock RJ up when there is a tantrum?’

  ‘Sure, because we’re talking about a chimpanzee and not a child,’ I drawled.

  ‘Well, if we don’t have any answers, let’s just promise not to roll our eyes at parents who can’t control their children, at least until we come up with our strategy!’

  28

  Dham Dhaam. 14 May. 8:30 p.m.

  My phone rang.

  ‘Hello, Tara madam. How are you this evening?’

  ‘Oh my God. You again? Mr “Gifter of Life”?’

  ‘Yes, madam!’

  ‘You are as persistent as a fly.’

  ‘Excuse, madam?’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Ingle, madam. Saurabh Ingle.’

  ‘How very James Bond of you!’

  ‘Madam, can I please meet you and explain this gift?’

  ‘Saurabh, buddy, I don’t want to be rude, but I am not interested. Now go get a drink with your wife or whoever. It’s a Sunday night, for God’s sake. Thank you!’

  Shoma looked at me curiously. ‘I’ve heard about some cord blood banking guy troubling you. Him again?’

  I nodded. Shoma and Mani had come over for a movie. The original idea had been dinner outside followed by a movie, but a horrible bout of acidity and heartburn, courtesy RJ, had necessitated the change in plans.

  ‘I’ve been nasty, sweet, sarcastic and super rude, but it has had absolutely no effect. He is like Crocin, the golden retriever next door. As exuberant as ever, each time he calls!’

  ‘Umm, the neighbour’s dog is called Crocin?’

  ‘Yes. And the other, a Lhasa apso, is called Headache.’ I chuckled.

  ‘Oh lord!’ exclaimed Shoma, shaking her head. ‘Where is the simplicity in life anymore? Kids have to be called Ahilyaaaaana, Arinkyavan, Priyaansha. Dogs have to be called Medicine and Alcohol. Gee! You better not have some weird new-fangled name for RJ.’

  ‘I’ll try my very best.’

  ‘By the way, you do know dogs aren’t the cleanest creatures to be around when you’re pregnant. A friend of mine…’

  ‘Shomaaaaa!’ I looked at her menacingly.

  ‘Okay okay okay. I’ll shut up. I promise. Just be careful when you play with the ailment and remedy next door.’

  ‘I promise.’ I laughed. ‘By the way, where on earth are the boys?’ Our husbands had gone out to pick up dinner.

  As if on cue, the bell rang. ‘We’re back, ladies!’ announced Mani as he sank into one of the sofas. ‘So what are we watching tonight?’

  ‘Well,’ said Abhi, settling down next to me and peering at the downloads folder. ‘The options on hand are Bride Wars, This is War, The Reader or Look Who’s Talking.’

  ‘But I thought we were watching Fast and the Furious 7 or Shawn of the Dead. What are these chick flicks!’ moaned Mani.

  Shoma turned to Mani while I smiled and settled back with the popcorn and antacid.

  ‘Her insides feel like those of a dragon spitting fire, she is bloated and uncomfortable, she is making a human being inside of her, so she gets to choose, buddy. Is that alright with you?’

  ‘A chick flick it is!’ exclaimed Mani, sensing trouble.

  Just when we had settled down in front of the TV, Sania called. My phone lay between Shoma and me, so I caught her expression as she identified the caller. Ever since the fiasco of ‘you told her and not me’, she had maintained an icy demeanour towards Sania. For my sanity’s sake, I was hoping these feelings were transient and would pass. I hung up quickly enough, smiling indulgently at Shoma.

  29

  Dham Dhaam. 20 May. 11:30 a.m.

  We were watching a movie and sipping coffee when my phone beeped.

  ‘It’s Auntie.’ I sat up. ‘She is asking me to come on Skype.’

  ‘Hmm. Strange.’ The usual chain of command for Skype chats with them was different. First Uncle would call Abhi. Then Abhi would set up the Skype call. Then Uncle would call saying he couldn’t get through. We would explain to him that it wasn’t like a trunk call, which couldn’t get through. It had to get through if we were online. Then Auntie would call me, complaining about ‘this phoolish techno-logy’ which was made to confuse old people, finally followed by the actual video chat.

  Our laptops weren’t charged, so I sat in front of our giant desktop, possibly the last one of its kind that anyone owned in the country. In a few seconds I was staring at the ageing yet pretty face of my MIL.

  ‘Kaimon aacho, Auntie?’ I asked about her health.

  ‘Khoob bhalo, bouma.’ She smiled, but she was fidgeting.

  ‘All okay?’ I enquired.

  ‘Well, if it’s not too maach problaim, I’d like eu to take aadhvice from a phew of maai friends … They are bhery nice.’

  I caught a glimpse of Abhi frantically shaking his head but I ignored him. Seconds later, I found out why I shouldn’t have.

  I felt like I had been transported to a Dan Brown novel. Sitting in front of the screen were nine wise councilwomen, in beautiful starched cotton sarees and big bindis. On the table in front of them were snacks for about fifty people. That mountain of mishti, shinghadaas (samosas), cakes and sandwiches was possibly why so many people had turned up in the first place.

  I was suddenly aware of my electric-blue shirt, which declared in bold letters IF I FART, YOU’LL BE THE SECOND TO KNOW, and my extremely tiny shorts. I smoothed back my messy hair, hoped to God my acne would not be too noticeable, and looked amiably into the camera.

  ‘Namaste, everyone!’ Big smiles all around the table and one round of rosogullas disappeared on that note.

  ‘Tara ma…’ Listening to my MIL, I was reminded yet again of how much I loved this mellifluous language, though it really irritated Mom. Her logic was ‘If I have done all the hard work and you are calling an eight-year-old “ma” in front
of me, where is the sanctity of the term? It’s like calling everyone a manager in a company.’

  I was called back to reality with the round of introductions.

  ‘This is Bela mashi, this is Tutul mashi, this is Pratibha mashi,’ she continued as all the mashis smiled and nodded their heads graciously, as if their names had been called out to collect Filmfare trophies. I remembered some of the faces from our Kolkata wedding reception.

  ‘…and this is Dudul mashi,’ she said, announcing this name with particular reverence. So this seemed like the big daddy of the group. Dudley spoke.

  ‘So oe oil (read: we will) give you some tips for pregnant moms. Please make a note.’ Wow! This felt like I was sitting in a classroom. ‘Let’s begin,’ she said solemnly, while downing two samosas.

  One by one the mashis started off.

  ‘Please ensure that during your pregnancy, you are not photographed. That new sail-phee business is purely inauspicious,’ said one mashi.

  ‘Please do not eat any payesh made in your MIL’s house.’

  ‘But …’ I protested. My MIL’s kheer was the best in the world.

  ‘Please be inside the house when there is an eclipse outside.’

  ‘Please listen to two hours of Rabindrasangeet every night before sleeping. This will help your child be musical and cultured from inside the womb.’ I had the mental image of RJ playing a sitar on the delivery table.

  ‘The shaad needs to take place in the seventh or ninth month. It will be organized by your mother-in-law.’

  ‘Please keep four elaichis in a red piece of cloth in your pocket before leaving the house. It will protect you and baby.’

  ‘But what if what I’m wearing doesn’t have a pocket?’

  She looked miffed at this cross-questioning, so I shut up.

  12:30 p.m.

  Finally, it was done, and all I was left with was a throbbing headache. Auntie signed off excitedly, asking me to make a note of all this and stick it by my bedside.