Birthing
Rohini Sunderam
ID 221617137 © Partha Kar | Dreamstime.comThe so-called winter in Calcutta pushed the mercury to 25C. One moment the wind was warm, heavy with humidity blasting up from the Bay of Bengal carrying with it a reminder that this had all once been a swampy rainforest. The next moment it sent us a chill message from the faraway Himalayas, it’s still winter.
My belly was large, bulbous, weighed down by the baby. I’d taken to wrapping a shawl around my waist to help support my stomach. The kicks and rolls, the tiny fist jabbing inside me had gone from a tickle that made me giggle to a physical pain. “Your previous caesarean scars are stretching as it’s growing,” the doctor had explained. 1980 was a time when an ultrasound just confirmed that the baby was okay. We neither knew nor cared about gender.
The ‘IT’ was the baby. The doctor’s face was implacable. Bedside manners hadn’t become fashionable yet. “Rest”, he advised me. His expression was stern the lines drawn down from his spectacles to his jowls were twin wrinkles, pushed deeper by bulbous cheeks. ‘Too much macher-jhol* and rice’ I thought. Back then patients didn’t make cheeky comments to their doctors.
When I limped out onto the street, I was close to tears because getting a cycle rickshaw to take me home at mid-day would be impossible. It was too far to walk and too close for a taxi to bother. I looked around and saw an old hand pulled rickshaw runner. He jangled his single large bell, that looked like the tiny ghungroo bells worn by classical dancers on their ankles. I hadn’t taken a hand pulled rickshaw until then, it seemed so demeaning to them. Reminders of the British Raj, still so omnipresent in Calcutta, were interrupted by a sharp twinge of pain. I grimaced.
He smiled, waving a fly from his grizzled face. “Daughter, where do you want to go?”
“BBD Bagh,” I said, “How much?”
He quoted a price. I readily agreed and clambered onto the rickshaw, landing with a thump on the seat as I thanked him profusely.
“I thank you,” he countered, “Not many people take our rickshaws these days, it’s my only livelihood. And many of us must give up the job.” He panted. His slow pace had picked up to a steady jog, “we barely make enough for our daily food.”
I watched his thin sinewy legs as they pumped up and down. His feet were bare and thickly calloused from years of hitting a hot tarmac.
Guilt, like a monsoon shower, washed over me when he stopped in front of my building. I wanted to make it up to him. “Where do you get your rickshaw bell?”
He laughed. “Why?”
“I want it as a souvenir,” I said.
“You can take this one,” he offered.
“How will you call your fares?” Tears of remorse pricked my eyes. “What had I done?”
“I have an extra one,” he said, pulling up the seat where I’d been sitting. Under the worn red leather cushion, he had stored his meagre belongings, an almost threadbare grey blanket, rubber slippers, an extra loincloth, and striped underwear. He pulled out the grey, aluminium bell with a leather thong strung through the hoop at the top.
“How much?” I asked. A cool breeze washed past me, a benediction, for my good deed? It cooled the perspiration around my neck.
He laughed, a few teeth were missing, the rest stained red-black with betel juice. His dark sun beaten face and grey beard were almost demonic, but his jet eyes were gentle and the crow’s feet crinkling in amusement made me smile.
“Whatever is easy for you madam. I bought it a long time ago.”
I handed him thirty rupees, “for the fare and the bell.”
“Madam, it’s too much.” His jet eyes glistened with emotion.
“From the baby and me,” I whispered, “Give me a blessing.”
“Of course, of course”, he said coughing up phlegm which he spat into the street. That was Calcutta. “Live long, daughter, bless you and the baby.”
‘May it be normal,’ I say in my mind. It’s the closest I’ve come to praying in nearly twenty years.
I put the bell into my handbag which I slung over my shoulder. Then, holding my belly under my shawl, I climbed the steps to the door, pushed past it into the cool dark foyer. I pressed the button for the old black wrought-iron lift that clanked on its way down.
I felt lightheaded when I got home and lay down as the various helpers got me water, tea, and turned on the fan.
When I awoke, I was being rushed on a stretcher past green curtains. My doctor and an elderly lady anaesthesiologist were rushing beside me. I wanted to ask, “what happened?” but my tongue was stuck to my palate, and I couldn’t get any words out. I knew where I was. Had I fainted? Where was my husband? I was in pain; his hand was on my arm. “It’s all ok”. His voice was husky.
I slept again. Jagged neon lights slashed my abdomen. Pethidine. Is my baby ok? In the early morning dark, tears burnt my eyes. Until the previous afternoon when I bought the rickshaw puller’s bell, I had abandoned God and prayer.
I tried to say, “Our Father…” but it stuck in my throat. I demanded of Him, “Give me my baby whole and complete, and I’ll return.” It was a promise. A challenge. Not a prayer.
“Your baby,” the nurse said, and I took the little girl in my arms. She had a shock of thick black soft hair. I put her to my breast, she sucked hard at my nipple. Her will to live hurt. I examined her fingers, toes, face. She was perfect.
I reached in my handbag for a tissue and felt the rickshaw puller’s bell, “Your birthday blessing,” I whispered.
A pink dawn cracked the sky. I looked heavenward, “Thank you.”
(*Macher Jhol – Fish curry)
