The Forbidden Daughter Read online

  “Yes.” Isha shifted in the chair to try to ease the agony. It was time to summon Mother Regina and Mother Dora. Mother Regina was the elderly Italian nun who was also the principal of the school and chief administrator of the convent. Mother Dora was the Indian nurse-midwife who took care of the everyday medical needs of the convent’s residents.

  Isha had been putting off calling the two nuns for the last hour or more. Let the contractions get a little stronger before I ask for help, she’d convinced herself. Seeking assistance was still alien to her, despite the fact that she’d been forced to do it time and again lately, much of it from strangers, no less.

  “Is it hurting a lot?” Priya stood up and bit her lower lip, telling Isha that her little girl’s nerves were tightening. She was a compassionate child.

  “Yes,” replied Isha, now having ridden the wave of pain.

  “But I’m not sick, so don’t be scared. It always hurts a little THE

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  when a baby’s coming. As soon as it comes out, the pain goes away.”

  “Why does a baby hurt?” Priya put a hesitant hand on Isha’s belly.

  Isha smiled and smoothed her daughter’s stray curls away from her face. “It’s the way God meant it to be. Sometimes good things come with a little pain attached. Remember what your PE teacher, Miss Maria, always repeats in your physical education class? ‘No pain, no gain.’”

  “But in PE we don’t have babies.”

  Despite her discomfort, Isha couldn’t help laughing at the innocent remark. “Thank goodness for that.” Only a child could think in such quaintly logical terms.

  “Do you want me to call Mother Regina?” Priya asked.

  “Yes.” With some difficulty Isha rose from the heavy arm-chair the nuns had generously moved into her room so she could relax in it when her feet swelled up and her back hurt.

  “I’m going to the bathroom now. Go tell Mother Regina that the baby’s coming.”

  “Okay.” Seemingly relieved at being able to do something constructive for her mother, Priya ran out of the room. Isha watched her race down the long corridor, her skinny legs moving at lightning speed, her pigtails waving like a moth’s wings.

  With slow, careful steps Isha went halfway down that same hallway to the row of toilets. Her bladder had been working overtime in the past several months, as expected, but the past week had been worse than ever. That was when she’d known her uterus had descended in preparation for birth. The nervous jitters had been increasing since then.

  How in heaven’s name was she going to raise two children on her own? She was already a burden on the nuns. They were feeding two mouths at the moment. Soon there’d be three.

  Moments later, as she came out of the bathroom, she felt another one of those killer contractions coming on, and she stopped in the corridor. Leaning against the wall, she started taking quick, shallow breaths. She heard Priya and Mother Regina coming up behind her.

  50 Shobhan Bantwal

  Mother Regina caught her by the shoulders. “Come, my dear.

  Let me help you back to your room.”

  A buxom woman who easily weighed about a hundred kilos, well over two hundred pounds, Mother Regina let Isha lean on her and trudge back to the room. Priya walked beside them with a pinched look. With her pregnant belly protruding from her slim frame, Isha’s gait was more like a waddle—a walking pen-guin.

  She went to her cot and lay down. “Thank you, Mother,” she managed to murmur.

  Mother Regina slipped a large sheet of rubber padding underneath Isha’s loose kaftan and adjusted it in preparation for the coming event. Then she studied Isha for a second, her bright blue eyes narrowed in thought. “How far apart are the contractions?”

  “About a minute and a half.”

  “Then you’re ready. I will get Mother Dora,” she said. “Is there anything you need while I fetch her?”

  Isha glanced at her daughter. “Could you please make sure Priya is kept occupied while the baby comes?”

  “Certainly.” Mother Regina took Priya’s hand. “Come on, Priya, let us go tell Mother Dora that your baby sister is about to come.”

  Priya shook her head. “I want to stay with Mummy. I want to see my baby.” She had taken to calling the unborn child “my baby” ever since Isha had explained to her that the two of them were in this together, and that the baby was going to need both of them.

  “You can see your baby when she comes, dear. Until then your Mummy needs Mother Dora to take care of her.”

  “Can I stay, please . . . ?” Priya tugged on Mother Regina’s hand.

  Mother Regina wasn’t known for her patience. Isha knew that from experience. She had a few scars on her knuckles from her own student days at St. Mary’s, inflicted by the sharp edge of Mother Regina’s infamous ruler. So she wasn’t surprised THE

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  when Mother Regina’s face hardened. “No! Pick up your homework and let us go do it with the other children.”

  It broke Isha’s heart to see Priya’s lower lip tremble and the tears gather in her eyes. But what could she do under the circumstances other than let Mother Regina take the child away and keep her in a secure place?

  Despite the nun’s forbidding and sometimes cruel ways of disciplining children, Isha knew her child would be safe with the older woman. As the next wave of pain started to crest, Isha watched Priya quietly pick up her book and pencil and follow Mother Regina out the door.

  Priya turned around one last time to look at her, the tears now rolling down her cheeks. Isha managed to send her an encouraging smile. “Go, sweetie. I’ll be okay.”

  A few minutes later, Mother Dora appeared with a bucket of hot water, a steel tray with some formidable-looking surgical instruments (to be used if needed until an obstetrician could arrive), and some towels and sheets.

  She looked frail in her heavy white cotton habit. The starched white cap with its black border seemed to overwhelm her tiny cocoa-brown face. “Don’t look so worried, my dear. We’ll take care of this,” she assured Isha.

  “I’m trying . . . but babies can sometimes be born with problems, right?” There was no incubator or resuscitation equipment if the baby needed them. How could she not worry? The next contraction was so painful that Isha groaned. She couldn’t wait for her ordeal to be over.

  Mother Dora wiped the sweat gathering on Isha’s brow with a towel. “We may be able to ease your worries about the baby.

  The orphans are scheduled for their inoculations tomorrow, and the pediatrician will be here to do that.”

  “He comes here to vaccinate them?” Isha’s eyes went wide.

  “Oh, yes.” Mother Dora looked amused. “I know it’s hard to imagine a man in a convent, but it’s necessary, and the doctor is very kind and reliable.” She glanced at Isha. “Maybe Mother Regina can request him to take a look at your new baby.”

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  “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

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  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

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  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.”