A House for Happy Mothers: A Novel (19 page)

“And how would you know, Mr. Fashion Forward?” Priya asked sarcastically.

“She told me in reference to taking the Chanel suit off and getting comfortable in her suite. I had a standard room. She had a suite. She was a
top
salesperson,” Madhu said, grinning from ear to ear.

“Let’s hear the whole story from start to finish, and if it ends with you divesting her of her Chanel suit, you’d better tell me now so I can kick you out of the car,” Priya said.

Madhu laughed. “I’m flattered. I was having a drink at the bar alone after dinner. And this woman came and sat next to me. We started to talk, and somehow we were talking about our spouses and how lonely it gets on the road. And then she suggested that we keep each other company.”

“And when did she mention her suit was Chanel?” Priya asked, and turned right onto Alma Avenue.

“Right then when she talked about us keeping each other company. She mentioned she’d been wearing her Chanel suit all day and was dying to get out of it and into something more comfortable,” Madhu said. “She asked me if I’d like to join her for a nightcap in her room. She actually said ‘nightcap.’ I told her I was tired and heading to bed. And that was when . . . Are you even jealous? Because if you’re not, this is a complete waste of my time.”

“Of course I’m jealous. So no nookie in the grand suite?” Priya asked as she drove onto their driveway and buzzed open the garage door.

“Not even a peck on the cheek,” Madhu said, and leaned back on the car seat.

“You seem enormously pleased with yourself,” Priya said, and laughed. “You liked getting hit on, didn’t you?”

“You know, you get married and get settled and you stop looking at women as you used to. And you forget that feeling you get when a woman is interested in you. It felt good,” Madhu admitted.

“Stop feeling good,” Priya admonished, closing the garage door and shrouding them in the bulb-illuminated darkness of the garage. “You’re married with a kid on the way. I don’t want to be coming back from India to find panties, bras, and Chanel suits lying around.”

“I only like
your
panties,” Madhu said as he got out of the car, and then looked at Priya earnestly while she still sat in the driver’s seat. “I don’t want you to go to India for two months. Not because you’ll go out of your mind—because I will.”

He might not buy flowers or sexy lingerie, but Madhu knew romance.

Transcript from message board www.surrogacyforyou.org

Newbie1209: We’re going to Anand in Gujarat! My husband has agreed to use a surrogate. And you guys have been such a great help. I even showed him the message board and the other websites you all told me about. He never thought we’d have a baby like this, but now he’s all for it. The cost of doing this in India has been most appealing . . . what with the economy and everything. In the States it’s crazy expensive. So thank you!

LastHope77: OMG! This is great news. Fabulous. Congrats. When are you going to India?

UnoBaby: This is wonderful news. So, what do you think of the clinic?

Newbie1209: We’re going to leave next month. And yes, we have been talking to the clinic. It seems like a very professional place.

NobuNobi: We’re leaving this month as well. Our SM is having our baby soon. She crosses the thirty-seven-week mark next week. We can hardly wait to see our baby boy.

Trying1Time: My SM is not due until October, but I just got laid off and I’m thinking of going to India. My husband is Indian and he has family there, so I have someone to stay with. Has anyone done that? How does it work out?

Mommy8774: I did. I couldn’t stand it. I’m a stay-at-home mom so it made sense. I went in the seventh month and it was actually difficult. There’s the language, of course, and I had a hard time living in India. But I got to see the baby bulge every day and it sort of gave me some peace of mind. But if your husband is Indian and you speak the language, I think you should go for it.

NearlyMother: I would soooooo go if I could. If financially you can afford it, do it. And if you have family there . . . why not?

CantConceive1970: Just do what your heart says. If you want to go, go. Just remember that you’re not going to become great friends with your SM. Do you want to? And what about the language barrier, like Mommy8774 mentioned?

Trying1Time: Well, I do speak some Telugu. That’s how I have been speaking to her over the phone.

Prietysmommy: Why is it that you want to go? What do you hope to achieve? Don’t get me wrong. I fully support your decision, but have you asked yourself why you want to go?

LastHope77: I have been thinking about this, too. Our SM is nearly eight months pregnant but I have a job and I can’t just take time off and leave. But even if we could afford for me to go . . . still, I can’t think what I’d do there for a whole month before the baby was born. It isn’t like I know this woman or have anything to talk to her about.

Trying1Time: I don’t know what I’ll achieve by going there, but I’m going out of my mind without a job, sitting, worrying about the baby. My husband doesn’t want me gone for two months, but I’m very tempted. I’m half Indian but have never lived in India; this could be a way to connect with my heritage and be around my baby.

Prietysmommy: It sounds like you’re trying to run away from the fact that you got laid off. I don’t make any judgments here, but have you asked the SM if she wants you hanging around her all the time?

Trying1Time: It won’t be all the time. Just a little bit every day.

CantConceive1970: Look, you have to do what you feel is the right thing. It sounds like there’s more to your going to India than just the baby—you also want to discover your roots. You should go and if you don’t like it, it’s not like it’s for the rest of your life; it’s just two months.

CHAPTER TWELVE

There were two white people and three Indians as part of the TV crew that came to Happy Mothers. They brought cameras, big awkward lighting equipment, umbrellas, and shiny round surfaces with them. They talked to one another in English and had taken over the TV room and hall. But no one wanted to watch TV, anyway. The crew talking and yelling at one another was far more interesting than anything on television.

“Light OK?” seemed to be the phrase that was thrown around the most.

Asha wore the nicest sari she had, yellow
pattu
silk with a red border. It had been given to her at her wedding. She had asked Pratap to bring it the previous day. Divya had gotten them jasmine flowers for their hair, and the three women chosen to speak to the news crew were all dressed up as if they were going to a posh wedding.

They all looked like they came from well-off families rather than being poor women who came from slums and were forced to carry the babies of rich people. They looked like women who were indeed doing this out of the goodness of their hearts.

Divya checked on them, asking them if they were OK, if they needed anything, suggesting extra powder on their foreheads, even though the makeup person kept saying that she had been told to do just the minimum, especially since their faces would be covered.

“This is a documentary, not a feature film,” the woman said.

Divya introduced Asha, Gangamma, and Vinita to one of the Indian women in the crew. The woman wore brown pants and a loose white shirt. Her name was Farida. A Muslim name. But she didn’t wear a burka, as Asha had seen other Muslim women wear. She spoke in Telugu with them, sprinkled with many English words, most of which Asha understood. Hindi and Telugu movies these days were littered with so many English words that even India’s most illiterate could pick up some of the language.

“If you’re not comfortable with anything, let me know,” Farida said to them in Telugu, using the English word
comfortable
.

She introduced them to the others then. Asha didn’t pick up the white man’s or the white woman’s name. The cameraman, as Farida called him, was Indian, and his name was Ashok. He was young, maybe in his twenties, and wore a white T-shirt with the word
B
ENETTON
written in English. He spoke no Telugu and tried to communicate with them in a mixture of Hindi and English, which they mostly understood.

“This will be simple,” Farida told them. “Sissy here will ask the questions”—she pointed to the white woman, who smiled at them—“and I will translate so you can answer.”

Vinita was visibly nervous. This was her first time as a surrogate.

“It will be just like we talked about,” Divya said to them. “You don’t have to be nervous.”

Farida walked around with the cameraman and the white man, moving lights and a large microphone on a stick.

The other women peeked in from the door leading into the television room. There was an air of excitement throughout the house. The daily routine was interrupted. The interviews had replaced the afternoon soap operas for the day.

Keertana had pushed her way ahead and was shushing the women behind her, asking them to quit shoving.

“We would also like to shoot the bedrooms,” Farida said to Divya. “Maybe we can interview one of the women there?”

“Sure,” Divya said, and looked at the three of them, as if making a decision as to whom to pick. “Gangamma can be in her room when you talk to her.”

“OK,” Farida said. “Maybe you could wait outside, Divya? We’ll start doing some test runs now, and it will be less inhibiting for the women to talk to us without you here.”

Farida was speaking in Telugu to Divya, so Asha could understand them.

“But they’re nervous, and I think they will feel more comfortable if I’m here,” Divya said adamantly.

Vinita and Asha looked at each other. It was obvious that the TV people didn’t like it that Divya was here with them. They seemed to want her gone so they could get the “real” story from the women.

“We’ll start with you, Asha,” Farida said, moving Asha to a comfortable chair in the TV room. They checked the lighting, taking a small device and flashing it next to her and around her, moving the shiny round surface.

“Is this angle good? Am I out of the frame?” Farida asked the cameraman after they had moved the chair and Asha several times. The cameraman gave her a thumbs-up sign.

“We’re ready to roll,” the cameraman said.

Asha felt her nerves twitch and asked Farida before she could start speaking. “And my face will not show, will it?”

“No,” Farida said. “No. We’ll hide it. I promise. After the filming you will get a release . . . a contract to sign. And even there it will say that your face cannot be shown. It will be in Telugu. You can read Telugu?”

“Yes,” Asha said, but put her sari’s
pallu
over her head, covering her face the best she could, just in case.

The white woman started to speak in rapid English to the cameraman, and then she turned to Asha. She came and sat in a chair opposite Asha.

“How pregnant are you?” she asked, and Farida translated.

“Six months,” Asha said, keeping her head down.

Divya was standing by the door, her arms folded as she stared at Asha, willing her to say only what they had practiced.

“How did you decide to become a surrogate?” the white woman asked, and Farida translated almost before the woman was finished speaking.

“Someone in my family had done this also and she said it would be OK,” Asha said. “And I wanted to do something to help people who can’t have children.”

Divya had told them all not to mention money at all unless the interviewer asked, and even then she had coached them on how to answer the question.

“You are getting paid for this. How is this money going to help you?”

Asha licked her lips. “My son is very smart, and the money will help send him to a good school. A school for smart children. Whatever money we have left will go to buy a flat.”

The white woman asked about their village and Asha felt a little more relaxed.

“We had a hut, just one room, where we all slept—my husband, my two children, and my mother-in-law when she lived with us,” Asha told the woman. “Now we stay with my brother-in-law and his family. They have three rooms. In the village there were no bathrooms, but here we have one with a toilet; it helps a lot for us women.”

“How does it help?” Farida asked.

“You know how it is in the village, you have to look for a place somewhere and . . . this is better, more clean,” Asha said.

The next question was about the parents. What were they like, and how did Asha feel about them? Asha talked about how they sent presents and talked to her regularly. They seemed like good people, and they were very happy that they were going to have a baby.

“Do you like being a surrogate?” Farida translated the white woman’s question.

Asha nodded. “Yes.”

“But it’s a big thing to do, give birth to a baby,” Farida said. “Do you worry about something happening to you during childbirth?”

Asha swallowed; her shoulders were stiff and she was nervous.

“No, I don’t worry. Doctor Swati has explained everything to me, and this is a good hospital, better than what I had for my children, and that went well enough,” Asha said.

“Do you feel that this baby is being taken care of better than your own babies?” Farida asked, translating the white woman’s question.

Divya had not included this question in their practice session.

Asha bit her lower lip, not sure how to answer. She didn’t want to look at Divya. She felt frozen. What could she say?

She cleared her throat to buy time and smiled uneasily. “Yes, that is true.”

“Do you resent that?”

Asha could feel Divya’s nervous energy slam into her.

“No,” Asha said simply. “That was then and this is now. I have two healthy and happy children. And I hope that this baby will also be healthy and happy. That’s all we can do. The rest”—she looked heavenward—“is up to Lord Venkateshwara Swami.”

After that, the questions were simple, just like they had practiced. It took about a half hour at the most, and then it was over.

“You did very well,” Divya said, all smiles, taking both of Asha’s hands in hers. “So very well.”

“Really?” Asha said, glowing under the praise. No matter how old you got, you always wanted to be told that something you did was good.

“I just hope the others are as good,” Divya said.

So now Doctor Swati will get my son into the school, yes?
Asha almost asked. But she knew this was neither the time nor the place nor the right person to ask. In any case, you didn’t say these things out loud. They were done silently, quietly, with nods and smiles and movement of the eyes.

They interviewed Gangamma in her room and then interviewed Chitra in the kitchen while Revati chopped vegetables for
sambhar
. The questions were almost the same for all the women, with small variations. They asked Gangamma if she would do this again. They asked Vinita how she felt about being away from her family for nearly ten months, as she had come to Happy Mothers as soon as she became pregnant.

They were all done and gone before lunch, to everyone’s surprise. Divya went with them to the clinic to show them the hospital rooms and interview Doctor Swati and others who worked at Happy Mothers.

The surrogate house was abuzz with TV show talk.

Everyone wanted to talk to Gangamma, Vinita, and Asha. What happened? How did it go? Did Divya really tell them exactly what to say? When would it air? Was there a chance they would be recognized?

Vinita and Gangamma were more amenable to the questions than Asha. She couldn’t get the words out. She was stumbling on her thoughts. She hadn’t wanted to talk to these people and put her business on display, but Doctor Swati hadn’t left her a choice.

Keertana noticed her sullen mood and swooped in for the kill.

“You don’t look happy,” Keertana said, sitting beside Asha on the coconut charpoy on the verandah.

“I’m fine,” Asha said.

“Gangamma and Vinita are so proud that they were chosen to speak with those TV people,” Keertana said.

Asha shook her head and felt a weariness engulf her.

“Are you in pain? Are you OK?” Keertana asked.

Asha shook her head again.

“I hate this,” Asha said, her anguish making her voice husky. “I hate this.”

“Hate what?”

“I can’t think like you. I can’t think of myself as a coolie,” Asha said. “This baby . . . it isn’t mine. It’s humiliating to do this for money. It’s humiliating that Doctor Swati made me talk to those people by saying that she wouldn’t help my son get into the good school if I didn’t.”

“She said that?” Keertana’s eyes widened. “That
lanja munda
, the dirty bitch.”

Asha sighed. “She’s just helping her business. We’re just business. We’re not people. We’re just . . . nothing. I’m a womb . . . a belly. If tomorrow, they could save me or the baby, who would they save, you think?”

“You,” Keertana said. “That is in the contract.”

“Oh, like they’d tell us the truth. They’ll just let me die and let my children grow up without a mother,” Asha said.

Keertana put her arm around Asha. “You’re not going to die. Women don’t die anymore during childbirth.”

“I know,” Asha said, her shoulders slumping. “But now everyone wants to talk to me and take care of me, but not me, just this person growing inside me. I feel like no one cares about
me
.”

Keertana dropped her arm and leaned back on the wall. “Of course they don’t care about you. No one cares about us. My own husband doesn’t care about me. My kids are only interested in what I can buy them. No one cares, Asha. That’s why we have to care for ourselves. A woman in this country is already nobody; now take a poor woman, someone like us . . . we’re less than nobody. A dog in the slum has more rights than we do.”

“So this is our lot in life?”

“You’re changing your life,” Keertana said. “You’re doing this so that your daughter can study and be a
lanja munda
like Doctor Swati. Strong. Independent.”