A Suitable Boy(454)

‘Upset her?’ said Maan.

‘Yes, you know, did you wave your stick at her or something? Throw a stone perhaps?’

‘Nothing,’ said Maan with great vehemence. ‘She just took one look at me and charged. And I’d done nothing to upset her. Nothing. Nothing at all.’





13.11


EVERYONE had told Savita that the baby would be a boy; her way of walking, the size of the bulge, and other infallible indications all pointed to a boy.

‘Think nice thoughts, read poems,’ Mrs Rupa Mehra was continually exhorting her, and this Savita tried to do. She also read a book called Learning the Law. Mrs Rupa Mehra advised Savita to listen to music, but this, since she was not particularly musical, she did not do.

The baby kicked from time to time. But sometimes it seemed to sleep for days on end. Lately it had been very quiet.

Mrs Rupa Mehra, while telling Savita to think restful thoughts, often shared her own birth experiences and those of other mothers with her. Some stories were charming, some not. ‘You were overdue, you know,’ she told Savita fondly. ‘And my mother-in-law insisted that I must try her own method of inducing labour. I had to drink a whole glass of castor oil. It’s a laxative, you know, and it was supposed to begin my birth pangs. It tasted horrible, but I felt it was my duty, so I had to drink it; it was lying on the sideboard. It was winter, I remember, bitterly cold, the middle of December –’

‘It couldn’t have been December, Ma, my birthday’s in November.’

Mrs Rupa Mehra frowned at this interruption of her reverie, but she quickly saw that the logic of it was irrefutable, and continued calmly:

‘November, yes, winter, and I saw it lying on the sideboard, and I drank it in a sudden gulp on the way to lunch. I remember we had parathas for lunch, and so on. I normally didn’t eat much, but that day I stuffed myself. But it had no effect. Then came dinner. Then your Daddy came with a pot full of my favourite sweet, rasagullas. I had one, and then I had a second, and the second one was just going down, when it suddenly felt like it had turned into a fist in my stomach! The birth pangs had begun, and I had to run.’

Savita said, ‘Ma, I think –’

But Mrs Rupa Mehra continued: ‘Our Indian remedies are the best. Now they say that in this season I should eat lots of jamuns, because they are good for diabetes.’

‘Ma, I think I’d better finish this chapter,’ said Savita.

‘Arun was the most painful,’ continued Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘You must be prepared, darling; with the first child the pain is so terrible that you want to die, and if I hadn’t thought of your Daddy I would have surely died.’

‘Ma –’

‘Savita, darling, when I’m talking to you you shouldn’t be reading that book. Reading about law is not very restful.’

‘Ma, let’s talk about something else.’

‘I am trying to prepare you, darling. Otherwise what is a mother for? I had no mother living to prepare me, and my mother-in-law was not sympathetic. Afterwards she wanted me to be in confinement for more than a month, but my father said this was all superstition and put his foot down, being a doctor himself.’

‘Is it really that painful?’ said Savita, quite frightened now.

‘Yes. Truly unbearable,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, ignoring all her own admonitions about not scaring or upsetting Savita. ‘Worse than any pain I have ever had in my life, especially with Arun. But when the baby is born, it is such a joy to behold – if everything is all right, that is. But with some babies, it is very sad, like Kamini Bua’s first child – still, such things happen,’ ended Mrs Rupa Mehra philosophically.

‘Ma, why don’t you read me a poem?’ said Savita, trying to get her mother off this latest subject. But when Mrs Rupa Mehra turned to one of her favourites, ‘The Blind Boy’ by Colley Cibber, Savita regretted her suggestion.

The tears already starting to her eyes, Mrs Rupa Mehra began to read in a tremulous voice:

‘Oh say, what is that thing called Light,

That I must ne’er enjoy?

What are the blessings of the sight?

Oh, tell your poor blind boy!’



‘Ma,’ said Savita, ‘Daddy was very good to you, wasn’t he? Very tender – very loving –’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, the tears flowing copiously now, ‘he was a husband in a million. Now Pran’s father would always disappear when Pran’s mother gave birth. He couldn’t stand childbirth – so when the baby was young and noisy and messy he would try to be away as much as he could. If he had been there, maybe Pran would not have half-drowned in that soapy tub as a baby, and then all this asthma would not have happened – and his heart would have been undamaged.’ Mrs Rupa Mehra lowered her voice at the word ‘heart’.