Song of the Cuckoo Bird: A Novel (36 page)

“Don’t think because he’s the opposite of Ravi, he’s the right man for you,” Kokila told her. “Don’t rush into anything.”

Chetana assured Kokila she wasn’t about to rush into anything but she was not exactly telling the truth. On a trip to Visakhapatnam she used all her savings from the tailoring shop to have her tubes tied. She told no one, not even Kokila. She stayed at a ladies’ hostel while she was there and chose a good hospital. She would not take the risk of ending up with infections and the like by going to a cheap hospital. Within a day she was healed and ready to go back to Bheemunipatnam. Chetana didn’t want any more children but since Srinivas had started showering her with gifts and interest, she wasn’t sure she didn’t want physical relations with a man.

And it had been easy to get her tubes tied. The entire country was trying out the slogan “We are two and we should have two.” Couples were encouraged to have only two children to control the population of India, which was threatening to surpass the Chinese population in a few years. A decade ago, Prime Minister Indira Gandhi had ordered forced vasectomies but now things were not so extreme. Now it was more subtle. There were advertisements on television promoting birth control pills and the IUD. The address of the hospital in Visakhapatnam where women could have their tubes tied was flashed on local TV all the time. Chetana had just copied the phone number and address and then phoned, discreetly, from a telephone at the cinema to get more information.

Physically she felt ready to start having sex with Srinivas; emotionally she wasn’t sure if she would ever be ready for another man in her life.

While Chetana was working on ensuring that she never had any more children, Kokila felt the pang of lost time. She was thirty-seven years old, middle-aged, with no prospects of ever having a child of her own. Her menses were becoming irregular and she worried she would stop bleeding soon. There was a raging inferno of motherhood inside her, warm as breast milk and just as painful when not released. She wanted to be pregnant, wanted to feel a baby inside her womb, wanted to have someone who would love her as unconditionally as Meena loved Chetana. Even Bhanu loved Chetana. Chetana had turned away from Bhanu when she was a baby, but Bhanu still looked up to her mother, wanted her approval, demanded her validation, and fought her every step of the way.

Kokila wanted all of that, the good, the bad, the beautiful, but with every passing year she knew she was further from getting her desire.

It was the year that Doordarshan, the only Indian television station at the time, started to show the classic epic
Ramayana
that a regular and wealthy devotee of Charvi’s showed up at Tella Meda with a baby.

Charvi, who had for the most part avoided television, was mesmerized by the story of Lord Rama unfolding so beautifully in color. Everyone at Tella Meda agreed that buying a color television had been a wise decision. In any case, black-and-white televisions were becoming less popular as color televisions became more affordable.

Even though the TV serial
Ramayana
was in Hindi and most residents of Tella Meda didn’t speak much Hindi, only Telugu, no one could be moved away from the TV room between nine and ten in the morning. Puttamma came to watch as well, her hands folded as if she were sitting in a temple.

Other devotees who came on Sundays to pay their respects to Charvi also joined her in the TV room to watch
Ramayana.
Even Subhadra and Sushila watched
Ramayana
while they ignored the preparation for lunch. The usual rhythms of Sundays at Tella Meda changed forever after that. The devotees were asked to come after 10 AM instead of at eight and lunch was served at one in the afternoon to allow for enough time to cook after the television program.

“Even you watch it,” Bhanu accused Kokila, who was rarely found in the TV room except for Sundays. Kokila didn’t understand the fascination and between dealing with the day-to-day business of Tella Meda and the Telugu typing school, she didn’t have the time or the energy to sit in front of the television and try to grasp the story line.

“I watch
Ramayana,
yes,” Kokila admitted. These days it was becoming increasingly difficult to speak with Bhanu. She picked fights on purpose, always wanting to needle anyone she could find.

“But you never watch other TV, so why do you watch
Ramayana
?” Bhanu demanded.

Kokila was thinking about what to say to that when she saw a man come into the temple room with a squalling baby in his arms.

“Oh, another crying baby,” Bhanu said angrily. “Why do they bring their babies here? I hate babies.”

“You hate everything these days,” Chetana said with a smile, undaunted by her daughter’s tantrums. Everyone went through some of this at this age, she told Kokila.

The man had come in a big black Ambassador. He had been to Tella Meda a few times before, usually with his wife. Bangaru Reddy was some politician from Hyderabad. Very wealthy, everyone said, and Kokila definitely believed that because he left at least a thousand
rupees
each time he came to pay his respects to Charvi.

“Are you well, Reddy Garu?” Kokila asked politely as she peeked at the baby’s face.

Bangaru Reddy just nodded tightly.

“Whose baby is that?” Kokila asked, still peering. “A boy or a girl?”

“A boy,” Bangaru Reddy said. “Would you hold him? He won’t stop crying and . . . I don’t know what to do.”

“How old is he?” Kokila asked as she took the baby into her arms.

“Ten days,” Bangaru Reddy said, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “I need to speak with Charvi Amma.”

“Well, it is Sunday and some people are here to see her—”

“It is very urgent, Kokila,” Bangaru Reddy said, panic lacing his voice. “I have formula and a bottle in the car, but he refused to drink when the driver tried. I should’ve brought a maid along but . . .”

“I’ll take care of him,” Kokila said, wondering where the boy’s mother was.

The boy was beautiful. He was only ten days old but his skin wasn’t wrinkled, and his eyes were wide and dark. Puttamma, who was also besotted with the baby at first sight, went and got the baby’s formula and bottle from the car while Subhadra started to heat water to make up the formula for the weeping baby. Kokila settled down with the boy in the kitchen as all the women watched over him carefully.

He was obviously hungry because the minute the bottle’s nipple touched the baby’s mouth he grasped it in a tight suckle and soon emptied the bottle. Kokila watched in fascination. She had held Bhanu and Meena like this and several other babies and each time it had been special.

“What’s his name?” Chetana asked as she stroked the baby’s cheek.

“I don’t know,” Kokila said. “Just that he’s ten days old.”

“I think his name should be Karthik,” Sushila said as she bent and kissed the boy’s forehead. “He looks so bright and full of light, just like Lord Murugan.”

“Yes, yes,” Subhadra agreed, as she did often with Sushila these days. “Karthik would be a good name.”

“Maybe he already has a name,” Bhanu said. “Some stupid name, like Pentaayyah or something; what will you do then?”

“No one could name this beautiful baby Pentaayyah,” Renuka said.

“Is Pentaayyah even a real name?” Meena asked.

“Sometimes when a couple is not able to have a baby they promise to name their children certain names if they do have a baby,” Renuka explained. “It’s tradition.”

“Can’t they promise to name their baby something nice? Why name anyone after
penta
?
Penta
means ‘shit,’ ” Meena said, making a face.

Shanthi came into the kitchen then. She had taken up sitting by Charvi when the devotees came to see her. It gave her something else to do at Tella Meda besides her tailoring and she liked to listen to Charvi talk to the devotees and try to solve their problems. Some Sundays there were many and some Sundays no one came to Tella Meda.

“Kokila, Charvi wants to see you in her room,” Shanthi said, and then was drawn to the baby. “Oh, can I hold him?”

“No, no, it’s my turn now,” Chetana said, and took the baby from Kokila.

Bangaru Reddy was wiping tears off his cheeks when Kokila came to Charvi’s room.

“How is he?” Bangaru Reddy asked.

“He ate and now is almost asleep,” Kokila said, but her eyes were focused on Charvi, who looked worried.

“Bangaru has come in the hope that he could leave that baby here, at Tella Meda,” Charvi said, and a small sound escaped Kokila.

“Apparently, Bangaru’s son had a small indiscretion with a servant maid . . .” Charvi shook her head, unable to speak for a moment. “The girl died during childbirth. Bangaru’s son’s wedding is set for next week.”

Kokila nodded.

“Amma, I know what he did was wrong, very wrong, but should he pay for his small mistake forever? And it wasn’t like that servant girl was a good girl,” Bangaru Reddy said. “Please, I can’t . . . I will have to leave him at an orphanage.”

“Orphanage?” Kokila almost yelped the word. “No, no, leave him here.”

Charvi shook her head. “Kokila, it isn’t this simple. This is someone else’s baby. We can’t just—”

“What if I adopt the baby?” Kokila asked, and as the unplanned words came out of her she realized that this was the answer to her yearnings. “Can I adopt the baby?” she asked again with more confidence. “Then he can be my son. Will it be okay then?” She wasn’t about to let little Karthik out of her sight. An orphanage? The poor little boy. No one was going to leave him in an orphanage.

“Are you sure?” Charvi asked. “This will be forever.”

“Yes, yes,” Kokila said, looking at Bangaru Reddy, whose eyes were spilling over again.

“I want you to think about it first,” Charvi said. “Bangaru, why don’t you wait outside for a moment while I speak with Kokila?”

As Bangaru Reddy was walking out of the room, Kokila realized that Charvi was against the baby being here.

“Are you sure you can take care of this baby?” Charvi asked Kokila. “Think carefully before you answer, very carefully.”

Kokila shrugged. “There’s nothing to think about. I want to keep the baby.”

“What will you do when you go to your typing school?” Charvi asked. “Who will care for the baby then?”

“Shanthi will,” Kokila said, even though she hadn’t asked Shanthi. “Or Subhadra will, or Sushila will, or Chetana will. Or I will stop going to typing school. I can’t let Reddy Garu put Karthik away in an orphanage.”

Charvi’s eyebrows rose. “Who is this Karthik?”

Kokila’s lips lifted and she smiled sheepishly. “We were wondering what his name was and we thought Karthik was a nice name for him.”

Charvi sighed. It was evident that Kokila was already attached to the baby.

But how could she be attached to a baby she had just met? Charvi understood that women had needs and that as age came their womb shrank and shrank, reminding them that it would forever be empty.

She had dealt with her desire of wanting a traditional husband and children and family. But it had never been this intense. There had been babies in Tella Meda and she liked to hold them and play with them, but now, in her mid-forties, she couldn’t imagine being burdened with a baby for the rest of her life.

“I don’t approve of this,” Charvi said even though she knew that Kokila didn’t care much about what she did or did not approve of. “It’s an illegitimate child. God only knows what blood . . . I know, I know, Chetana is illegitimate and she’s still a daughter of Tella Meda. But—”

“Charvi, I want this baby,” Kokila said. “I need this baby.”

Charvi nodded. “Okay, ask Bangaru to come in. You better look in the storeroom in the back for all of Meena and Bhanu’s old things.”

Bangaru Reddy was most grateful when he heard Charvi’s decision to let his illegitimate grandson stay at Tella Meda.

“Every month, Kokila Amma, I will send you money. A thousand
rupees
for the boy, every month. But no one can know, you understand, don’t you? Baby born out of wedlock . . . our good name will be destroyed,” Bangaru Reddy said, not looking at Charvi because he was ashamed of what he was doing.

Kokila assured him she had no intention of telling anyone anything about Karthik’s real parentage. “But when he grows up and wants to know? What should I say then?”

Bangaru Reddy seemed uncomfortable as if he had not thought about the boy growing up. “Why don’t we worry about that then?”

So it was settled. There were no legalities involved, no documents to sign, but in the Tella Meda social court, where no judge sat, it was known that Kokila now had a son, Karthik, and he was beautiful.

The months flew for Kokila. Having a child was, she discovered, an intensely selfish experience. You could spend days, entire weeks only worrying about the child and caring for the child. When Karthik fell ill for the first time when he was six months old, Kokila had gone into total panic. He was sad, weepy, and uncomfortable and Kokila worried that he would never laugh again the way he used to.

Chetana and Shanthi took turns staying up with her and Karthik at night, but Kokila couldn’t rest if he didn’t. And when he did sleep, she was scared that if she slept he would slip away in his sleep. A few months earlier she had had only herself to worry about; now she hardly worried about herself, her appearance, her life, because Karthik was the center of her life and she didn’t have time for anything else.

Charvi warned Kokila to not let her life slide away in caring for Karthik. “The boy will grow up and leave. What will happen to you after that?”

But that seemed so far away that Kokila couldn’t focus on it because the needs of the present were overwhelming her.

She quit working in the typing school and used the money Bangaru Reddy sent for expenses.

Karthik was the most beautiful boy Kokila had ever seen. From his chubby hands to his dark eyes to his fair skin, everything about him was special, a delight. When he first started to sit up on his own, Kokila felt such pride surge within her that she forgot for a moment that all babies learned to sit on their own at one time or another. For her everything Karthik did was an indication that her son was a genius in the making. He was an easy baby, always happy and rarely prone to tantrums and crankiness.