Monsoon Summer (36 page)

“And were the midwives glad for this?” the man on his left rumbled.

“Some were,” I said. “Some wanted the old ways.”

“Who started the fire?” asked the hitherto silent Dr. Masudi with a penetrating look.

“I don't know,” I said, startled by this sudden detour.

“But you were there first.” Dr. Masudi cleared his throat noisily.

“Was I? I honestly don't know.”

“One of the nurses said you had the key.” I saw in his eyes the frozen look of a cat about to pounce. “What was the purpose of the fire?” he asked softly.

“I don't understand the question.”

“For money? To cover up false records and end an already hot potato: the death of Mrs. Nair's baby?”

“This is madness.” I seemed to be speaking out loud. “It makes no sense.”

“Like much of what you've said to us today.” Dr. Diwan blew his nose loudly.

“Don't bully me.” I was suddenly furious with Dr. Diwan and his frowning friends. “Many women here die horrible deaths because nobody gives a damn about them.”

“Watch your tongue, madam,” Dr. Diwan almost shouted. “Don't you point your finger at me.”

“It was your midwives who told us about women with sticks in their cervix trying to abort babies; about thirteen-year-old girls ripped to pieces in childbirth. I didn't make this up.”

I was determined not to cry. “So we tried to discover the best in each other, and now it's gone.”

Silence in the room. I've done it now, I thought. They'll lock me up—the madwoman in contempt of court. Instead, Dr. Diwan suddenly looked intensely bored. He licked his finger, rustled through the book. He gave a deep sigh.

“Midwife certificate is not here,” he repeated like an automaton, “so don't make any arrangements to leave the country. We know where you live, and we know your husband's family. If you thought you could hide that, you were wrong.”

“I won't be leaving. I love this country.”

He gave another sniff; he was not impressed.

“All I can repeat is not to leave until we have decided. In the meantime, my strong view is that the Home must be permanently closed.”

-
CHAPTER 51
-

“Y
ou said
what?”
I was sitting on the floor in front of Anto, who was stroking the nape of my neck where the muscles stood out like organ stops.

“I was stupid. I got angry—the stupidest thing possible.” I moved his hand to the worst spot. “God knows what will happen now.”

“I think they are trying to bully and intimidate you. Some other drama will soon obsess them. A bribe may settle it.”

“Anto, I can't believe you said that.”

“Your greatest danger is the woman lawyer.” He was thinking hard. “If she decides to take you to court, the newspapers will hear about it and then they'll have to do something.”

He was right of course. She was highly trained, she was angry and hurt, she could put me in jail, and what kept me awake for the next two nights was the thought that if I put my hand directly into this wasps' nest, I might make everything worse and seal my fate. But if I'd messed this one up, and the baby's death was my fault, maybe my career as a midwife should end; it would be the final proof that I wasn't up to it.

* * *

It wasn't hard to track her down, there not being many female lawyers in Fort Cochin. She lived in Quiros Street, a few blocks away from us. Her ground-floor flat, one of three in the house, was so
small, the veranda was piled high with cooking pots and suitcases, a cot, and a baby bath.

If she was surprised to see me at the door, she didn't show it. She stood there, very tiny, very poised, very neat, with oiled black hair and in a blue salwar kameeze.

“I'm so sorry, Mrs. Nair,” I said. “I've only just heard.”

“So you haven't forgotten me?” she asked when she could speak.

“Of course not.”

“I'm sorry.” She blurted out.

She beckoned me inside a tiny, dimly lit sitting room that looked like an office with a large typewriter on the desk and bookshelves piled high with legal books.

“Sit down, please.” She moved a manila folder from the battered sofa. “I'm surprised to see you.”

“I came because I heard about your baby. Do you mind talking about him?” I said, very tentatively.

“No,” Mrs. Nair said. “And please call me Saraswati.” She leaned forward, her brow creased and concentrating. “I wanted to see you,” she said faintly at last, “to talk about Sanje.”

“He was beautiful,” I said, remembering his black hair, his little fists punching the air. “He really was.” I watched her anxiously. How much could she take?

“Nobody really knew him but you and my husband,” she said. “And now my husband has gone too.” Close up, I saw she'd been crying before I came.

“Your husband's gone?” Still feeling my way gingerly, sure the anger would come soon.

“Back to my mother-in-law's house.”

“Will he come back?”

“No. Can I tell you the story?” She said this eagerly, hopefully, as if she'd been waiting for me to come.

“Of course.”

“Well . . .” She swallowed hard. “We tried for a very long time
for this baby. I had my daughter twenty years ago, and then nothing. Everyone was so happy when we got Sanje, but now his family blame me for being too old and for working too hard before the delivery.” She shot me a look of wild distress and clutched her handkerchief. “There was so much work since Independence, I did work extra hours, so tell me honestly, was it my fault?”

“That's extremely unlikely,” I said as gently as I could. “We have women coming in after working incredible hours in the paddy fields or hauling bricks. Tell me what you think happened.”

She took a deep, jagged breath and after a while began. “I was frightened when I came to you, but the Moonstone had a good reputation and I knew English doctors were there.” I winced at this. “You were all kind to me and I thought my delivery was good.”

“It was,” I said. “You were calm, you were . . .” The word
excited
seemed too cruel. “Well prepared, your body strong. You didn't seem in the least tired. Most of the women we see are much more tired; some are very ill-nourished too.”

I kept going. “I can see Sanje's head, his beautiful black hair, and you held him in your arms. You said, ‘God is good.'” I couldn't go on. There were no words of consolation to cover this loss.

“He died two weeks after I brought him home,” she whispered, glancing towards the veranda as if he might just suddenly and miraculously appear. “He was feeding well, all lovely and fine at night when I put him to bed, and then gone.” She opened her arms wide. “White like this.” She pointed to the tablecloth under the typewriter. “Cold.” The word reverberated like a clanging of a bell. “Mother-in-law says it's God's punishment to me.”

“Why on earth would God punish you for that?”

“She is a very strict Brahman. When we first met, I tried to follow all the rules for women, but I found them too constricting.” She waved a weary arm at the books, the typewriter. She bowed her head, then looked at me directly. “My husband and I were becoming more isolated from religion, both trying to hide it. I
loved my job. I loved my freedoms. But I must have done something wrong.”

“Nothing,” I said, leaning towards her. “Nothing.”

I wanted to hold her hand, but I only had words and knew if I chose the wrong ones, they could wound her for the rest of her life. “Babies and small children are always vulnerable,” I said. “Particularly in the first few weeks after birth. We don't want them to be, but they are. It's hard to live independently.”

“Yes.” She was wiping her eyes discreetly, her mouth working violently. “But they don't die like that in your country,” she said angrily.

“Yes, they do. It happens many times in our country, to women who are strong and healthy, and to the weak. No one really knows why: it's one of those horrible mysteries.”

Beyond her sigh I heard the angelus bell chime from the church. I was going to be late home. A home where my live boy was waiting for me.

“Saraswati,” I said urgently, “I'm so, so sorry, but I have to go now. If you like, I'll come back, but I have one important thing to ask you before I go: do you blame me for Sanje dying?”

She lifted her head. “No.” She looked absolutely bewildered. “Why?”

“I was told that you may have reported me.”

“No!” Even more shocked. “Why would I do that?”

“You said sorry to me when I came in,” I said as gently as I could. “Why did you say that?”

“Because I lost our baby,” she said. “You were so happy when he was born.”

“But forgive me.” I was starting to falter. “Last week I had to go before a medical tribunal. I was told before I went that you had something to do with it.”

“
Me
?
”
She looked horrified.

“That you were unhappy with your treatment at the Home and thought it had led to Sanje's death.”

“Who said this?” It was her turn to look flabbergasted.

“I don't know.” I believed her instantly; the best actress in the world couldn't have put on that show. “Saraswati,” I said, “what happened after you found Sanje in his cot?”

“My husband called a doctor he knew. From the local hospital, an old family friend. It was six thirty in the morning. He examined Sanje, confirmed what we knew. Later, he was the one who told my mother-in-law I'd been working too hard, that my milk was thin. But this man is very traditional, doesn't like me, doesn't approve of working women.” Her face darkened when she said this.

“Did he have any idea where you'd delivered the baby?”

“Yes,” she said, as we shared the same thought. “He told me not to go there.”

Her eyes were wide open now. She stayed like this, thinking, for a while. “So, the Home burned down,” she said at last in a faraway voice. “I read about it in the papers. That was a terrible thing.”

“It was awful.” I felt it in my gut again. “The worst feeling in the world. I think someone put a match to it.”

She gave me a sightless look, did some more staring and thinking. She tapped her fingernail on her front tooth. “Don't forget that I am a lawyer,” she said at last. “I have a first-class honors degree. If I can help, I will.”

* * *

Three weeks later, on a wet November afternoon, she turned up on my doorstep—thinner, taller-looking, her hair bobbed and shining, and wearing a raincoat over a chic salwar kameeze. If she hadn't said her name, I wouldn't have recognized her. It was a Friday, and I was packing for Raffie and me to go down to Mangalath and see Glory, who still wasn't well enough to travel.

Saraswati asked if I'd had any news from the tribunal. I told her no, nothing, but that I worried about it constantly.

“We must wait and pray,” she said. “Don't forget you have a friend in me now.”

We sat on the veranda, drinking tea, and talked for ages.

“There were things I couldn't tell you last time,” she said, “but I'm ready to now.” Turned out that the husband had another woman in Delhi. “She is ten years younger than I am,” she said. “More suitable, more traditional. He'd fallen for her even before Sanje was born. I cried for many days when I heard, but now I've dried my tears and stopped trying to please everyone. I'm ready to work again. I am at your disposal.” Her smile wobbled. “It's a good decision. We were never really friends.”

I could hear Raffie laughing in the next room, his scampering footsteps. Anto had brought him a new wooden train, and he was obsessed with it, talked to it, put it to bed with him at night. When she saw my anxious look, she shook her head as if to say, Don't worry.

“I have my own flat now,” she continued. “I'm earning my own money again.” (A sore point for me, this. My last Bank of India statement showed the sum of £21.50 in my account. Soon I'd be completely dependent on Anto.)

“ ‘God Bless the Child That's Got Its Own,'” Saraswati began, putting on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that made her look about ten years older, “was written by a Negro slave. You may have heard it?”

She didn't wait for my reply but delved inside the large and impressive-looking briefcase she'd brought with her. She put pens and a large notebook on the table, talking all the while. She said that after the shock of her husband's defection had died down, she'd been surprised by a sense of soaring liberation. With no husband and no mother-in-law to placate, no family to impress with her modesty or her cooking, no “rumpy thump,” as she quaintly termed it, in the bedroom, she was free to play a proper role in India's Independence now, and why hadn't she thought of this before? The
Matha Maria Moonstone Home for Mothers would be a perfect first project.

“With the tribunal breathing down your neck, I know you are unable to help properly,” she said, “but I can make inquiries on that score, and from now on I will call it the MMM to save time, if you don't mind.”

“I can help behind the scenes.” I felt happier than I had in ages.

“Spot on, then.” She handed me an empty notebook and a pencil. “Begin, please, with a full list of everyone who ever worked at the Home: their addresses, and if possible their castes. Include all the trainee midwives. If we are going to get the Home out of the ashes, we must rescue its reputation first.”

Addresses for some of the village midwives would be difficult, I told her: some lived in shacks, others were secretive about where they lived, in case their customers had complaints.

“As many as you can, then,” she said. “We must rule out nothing and nobody.” Raffie wandered in then, his train on a string. He was tired from his play and making the train sounds that went with it. He climbed onto my lap, put his head on my chest, wound my hair round his finger, and murmured sleepily.

“You're a beautiful boy.” Saraswati pulled one of his toes gently and watched him fall asleep.

“D'you mind him here?”

“
No
,
”
she said indignantly. “I like it.” She kept her hand on his foot. “You know, I've been thinking about it a lot, and it may sound funny, but being in labor with Sanje reminded me of what it felt like to use every ounce of physical and emotional energy in my body. Now I know this energy is there,”—she gazed at me intently through her formidable glasses—“I will dedicate it to the job at hand.” It felt like a little speech she had rehearsed for herself and for me, but no less brave for it.

* * *

Saraswati would come over almost every morning and was nothing short of magnificent. I thought it might take months for us to get the information we needed. I hadn't reckoned on a whirlwind.

Our first task, she said, was to hire a rickshaw and call on local women so they could write or dictate testimonials about their experience of the Moonstone. The rains had stopped, the air was warmer, drier. I set up a desk at the end of the veranda, the coolest place in the house with its soft sea breezes, and when the testimonials came in, typed them up in triplicate: one for officialdom, one for our files, one for Daisy. It did my battered heart good to read them.

“Husband never let me go to a hospital before, so was very frightened,” wrote Bachi from a local slum. “But the ladies at the Home were kind to me and very gentle, I would go again if I could.”

“I liked this place: nice food, and very clean” was another typical response, from Parvati.

Not everyone was so rapturous. “They are all government spies there, so good it burned. From a Frend (sic).”

Next, Saraswati had a breakthrough with the Cyclops, the battered old truck Mr. Namboothiri occasionally loaned us. On its first outing since the fire, it belched blue smoke, spluttered, and died, so Saraswati persuaded a cousin, “a mechanical” to look at it. The cousin returned it oiled, tires pumped, surfaces polished, and with a wreath of marigolds and Hanuman, the monkey god, hanging from its rearview mirror. A few days later, he drove us to the village of Nilamperur to see Subadra, one of our first trainees.