The Forbidden Daughter. Shobhan Bantwal
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.”
“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 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 brightness. Diya and Priya would hopefully bring that.
The new baby looked so much like Nikhil, it was heartrending. She had his hazel eyes, just like her big sister. Light-colored 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, 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 striving for more. But money was not his sole incentive for going