The Forbidden Daughter (8 page)

52
Shobhan Bantwal

“That would be nice. Would you mind mentioning it to Mother Regina?”

“Not at all, my dear.”

Isha took a deep, relieved breath. “Thank you.” The bedside clock read 8:34 PM. She hoped the baby would come quickly.

“Let’s pray that all goes well.” Mother Dora adjusted her glasses, joined her hands before the crucifix on the wall and recited the Lord’s Prayer. “Our Father, who art in heaven . . .

Amen.” Then she made a sign of the cross and turned her attention to Isha.

Isha closed her eyes in an effort to brace herself for the next contraction. This one was so powerful that she felt it bearing down on her belly like a mega-ton truck. As the torture peaked, then slowly began to recede, she said one last prayer before concentrating on bringing her second child into the world.

Just before the excruciating pain gripped her one more time, her gaze went to the window and the moon outside. She’d been observing that moon rising in the night sky for a while, a cool and perfect yellow circle. There was a mystical quality about it.

That’s when she recalled something in total amazement, something she’d tucked away in a remote corner of her brain and hadn’t paid much attention to—the holy man’s prediction that her baby would be born on an auspicious night. How could she have forgotten his prophetic words?

Tonight was
Kojagari Purnima!

As her pregnancy had progressed and her life had become more complicated, Isha had discounted his prediction as hocus-pocus, a crazy old man’s ramblings. But now it seemed he was right on target—at least about the baby’s birthday. Could it be why the baby was late by a week? Was she waiting for this particular night to come into the world?

So, the
sadhu
could be a genuine oracle! Could he be right about the other things, too?

Baby Diya Tilak came into the world at exactly 9:02 PM.

Other than the high-pitched wail typical of a newborn upon its arrival, she seemed rather quiet. She was thin. Since there was THE

FORBIDDEN

DAUGHTER 53

no scale to tell Isha how much the infant weighed, she could only guess. Three kilos or so, perhaps? About six and a half pounds. But then Isha was a petite woman, and since Priya had been a small baby, she had expected this one would be, too.

Nonetheless, the little one was perfect and Mother Dora had pronounced her healthy. All her fingers and toes were well formed and she had soft brown hair with lighter streaks, just like Priya’s had looked at birth.

Isha gazed on the wrinkled pink bundle wrapped in a once-white sheet lying beside her, and breathed in her scent, the distinctive smell of a newborn. No matter how many times a mother did this, it still felt like a miracle each time, she thought, wiping away the tears. The tears just wouldn’t stop flowing for some reason.

She knew all about postpartum depression. She’d been through it after Priya’s birth. But this time the melancholy was of a different sort. She longed to have Nikhil beside her. Of course, if he were alive, she would have been giving birth in a comfortable private hospital with her doctor and nurses attending on her.

Nevertheless, in spite of the limited resources, Mother Dora had successfully brought her baby into the world, and Isha was very grateful.

The baby’s name, Diya, meant “light.” Maybe it was sheer coincidence, but once again the
sadhu
’s words came back to Isha. Diya probably was a child born to bring light into her life.

The past few months had been discolored by the grim shades of death and destruction and loss of home. But now, in looking at the sleeping infant, it was like discovering the first green shoot poking its head out of the ground after a long, hard winter, heralding the promise of spring—a reaffirmation of life.

Nikhil was no longer there to share in the joy of Diya’s birth, but the child was still a product of their love. In all the darkness surrounding her, Isha was determined to introduce some bright-ness. Diya and Priya would hopefully bring that.

The new baby looked so much like Nikhil, it was heartrend-ing. She had his hazel eyes, just like her big sister. Light-colored 54
Shobhan Bantwal

eyes like gray, hazel, light brown and even blue, combined with fair skin tones, were typical characteristics of the caste Isha and Nikhil belonged to—the
Koknastha
Brahmin community. They were a legacy of the early European settlers, whose blood had mixed with that of the local Indians centuries ago.

It was now past eleven o’clock. Mother Dora was long gone.

Priya, after she’d had a chance to make sure her mummy was okay, had kissed the baby’s cheek, looking thrilled about being the big sister. Now Priya was fast asleep on her bedroll on the floor, enjoying the kind of blissful sleep only children can lose themselves in. Forgotten were the earlier tears and Mother Regina’s reprimand. The arrival of a new baby and hence a new doll to play with had meant putting aside everything else for one night.

The birth of a healthy child should have been a joyous occasion. Instead, Isha was here, in a gloomy convent—a cold building with ten-foot-high stone walls surrounding the compound, and with no more than a midwife to help her in delivering the baby. But as a young, nearly penniless widow and mother of two small children, who had nowhere else to go, this was better than being out on the streets.

At least here she had a place to sleep, eat, and keep her girls safe and dry. For now this was home.

Chapter 6

Harish Salvi plopped into his office chair. This was his much-needed five-minute afternoon break, when Rama, his Man Friday, made him a cup of tea. Harish took a sip of the now-tepid brew. Peeling off his glasses, he closed his tired eyes for a blessed moment.
Phew,
what a day!

The latest strain of the flu virus had turned out to be more invasive than anyone had anticipated. He’d seen more children with the flu and its secondary complications in the past week than he had in the past three years put together. Ear and throat infections, sinusitis, bronchitis, pneumonia—he’d treated them all.

Gulping down the rest of the tea, he put aside the cup and looked at his wristwatch. Nearly five o’clock and he still had three more patients to see. After that he had to go to St. Mary’s Convent to inoculate the orphans. He hoped those kids hadn’t caught the flu bug, too. Now
that
would be a disaster, since they lived together in such cramped quarters with minimal hygiene.

When Harish had started his pediatric practice in Palgaum a few years ago, he’d never imagined his life would get this hectic.

But here he was, often working six days a week, and on some days, up to twelve hours or more.

Of course, he was earning a considerable income, much more than he had anticipated. After growing up in a lower-middle-class household, one of the reasons he’d pursued medicine was to be able to have a better life. Living in a tiny, badly ventilated, 56
Shobhan Bantwal

two-room rented home in the heart of town along with a sibling, and watching his father struggling to raise the two of them on a schoolteacher’s salary, had taught Harish the value of striv-ing for more. But money was not his sole incentive for going into private practice.

Fortunately he was brighter and more motivated than most of his contemporaries. He had qualified for a scholarship at the local science college and then again at a medical college, en-abling him to become a pediatrician.

The only problem with all this work was that he didn’t have much time for a personal life. He was thirty years old, and his old-fashioned parents wanted to see him married, but he had yet to make time to meet a girl from amongst the several his mother had chosen after having matched his horoscope with theirs.

The intercom on his desk buzzed, rousing Harish from his thoughts.

“Doctor-saheb, patient number nineteen is waiting,” announced Saroj, his nurse-receptionist. She had a loud, gruff voice that belied her petite size. In spite of using the respectful handle of
saheb
—sir—she was more like his mother. With two grown sons and three grandchildren, she considered herself old enough to boss Harish around. In deference to her age, everyone called her Saroj-bayi, including Harish.

But Saroj-bayi’s authoritarian attitude had its advantages. It helped in keeping his more rambunctious young patients in line.

All she had to do was toss them a certain look over the rims of her glasses, and the little hooligans went back to their seats and hung their heads.

The door opened and Saroj-bayi stuck her head inside for a moment. “Just wanted to warn you that your next patient is the Motwani boy,” she informed him in a conspiratorial whisper.

“He has a nasty cough. My guess is bronchitis, and his mother is very agitated.”

“Oh no!” Harish groaned. The Motwani boy was a spoiled brat. He was the Motwanis’s only son and he’d been born after three daughters. As usual, Mrs. Motwani would expect Harish THE

FORBIDDEN

DAUGHTER 57

to find an instant cure for her son’s ailment. If only it were that simple!

Putting his glasses back on, he rose from his chair. “Send them in.” He opened the connecting door to the examination room and went in.

It was well after six o’clock by the time the last patient left.

“Time to go to the orphanage, Doctor-saheb,” Saroj-bayi reminded him.

“Thanks.” He didn’t need reminding, but she delighted in keeping a strict eye on his schedule. “Could you please help me pack the supplies?”

“Of course.” Saroj was quick and efficient in her ways. In spite of all the hours she’d worked in the office, her starched white sari still looked crisp and wrinkle-free. Her mostly gray hair was neatly twisted into a bun at her nape. For her age, she was amazingly fit and trim.

Within minutes she had a cardboard box filled with vaccines and other items ready to go. “You should start thinking about charging those nuns for your services, you know,” she said blandly. It wasn’t the first time she’d expressed her opinion on the subject.

“That’s out of the question.” Harish took off his lab coat and put it on a hanger. “These are orphans we’re treating. The nuns are barely able to feed them, let alone pay for medical care.”

Saroj-bayi rolled her eyes. “I know that, but if you keep giving free treatment, how are you going to provide for a wife and children?”

He couldn’t help smiling. He knew his mother and Saroj conspired behind his back about ways to nudge him toward marriage. “Why worry when I don’t have a wife and children?”

“Then it is about time you got yourself a wife,” she sniffed.

“That poor mother of yours is longing to see you settled. Right now she has half a dozen nice girls lined up for you.”

He patted her shoulder. “One of these days I’ll see what I can do to make Mamma and you happy.”

“If you keep putting it off, all the good girls will be taken and 58
Shobhan Bantwal

you will be stuck with some ugly old maid with dentures and a balding head.”

With an amused laugh he slung his medical bag over his shoulder and grabbed the box. “Thanks for helping me. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He put his gear in the trunk of his compact four-year-old Ford, got behind the wheel, and headed out to the convent. It was a trip he made every three months. This was something he looked forward to, even though he didn’t get paid for it. It was his modest contribution to the community. He was blessed, and as a good but not devout Hindu, this was the only way he could give something in charity.

When he got to the locked steel gates of the convent, he stopped, pulled out his mobile phone, and called Mother Regina’s number so someone could let him in. Returning the phone to his pocket, he smiled to himself. The nuns took their job of protecting the girls under their guardianship very seriously indeed.

However, neither stone walls nor steel gates could prevent the really tenacious and enterprising ones from sneaking in or out.

The previous year’s bizarre episode was a prime example. In spite of the keen-eyed nuns watching over their wards day and night, one of their teenagers had still managed to become pregnant.

The baby’s father was a boy from St. John’s School for Boys, located across the street from the convent. It was run by Catholic priests. St. John’s was Harish’s alma mater.

Nobody could figure out how those two teenagers had managed to meet, let alone have sex. It was still a mystery, but a testimony to human ingenuity.

Eventually, the boy and girl had been expelled from school and each sent home to their parents. And that’s where it ended.

The nuns never talked about it afterward. Anything that sinful wasn’t meant to be discussed in the hallowed atmosphere of a convent.

A minute later, a novice came to open the gates for him. Har-THE

FORBIDDEN

DAUGHTER 59

ish drove his car around to the back of the cluster of buildings.

That’s where the old stone boardinghouse and the orphanage were located. The more modern brick buildings facing the street were reserved for classrooms, where day-students as well as boarders studied together.

The same novice who had opened the gates appeared from somewhere. “Good evening, Dr. Salvi. I’m Sister Rose,” she said. “I’ll be helping you with the children this evening. I can carry some of your supplies if you’d like.”

“Thank you, Sister Rose. Appreciate the help,” he said and handed her his bag. He hadn’t seen her before. Like the other novices, she was very young and didn’t wear a cap. They were also referred to as Sister. He had learned that the white cap with black border was something that came after they took their final vows and shaved their heads. That’s when they dropped the title of Sister and took on the venerable title of Mother. Until then, they usually braided their hair and twisted it in the back in a severe knot.

He picked up the box from the trunk and followed her brisk steps into the building. She looked like a teenager—fresh-faced and innocent—too young to give up everything the world had to offer and embrace this austere lifestyle. Was she an orphan, too?