‘I will send for them, son. Whatever was destined has happened.’
Just then, the midwife called out from the maternity room, ‘Bahuji says this is not the time to celebrate.’
Damodar’s mother retorted, ‘Will you tell her to be quiet? She can do as she pleases once she is out of the maternity room—it will be only twelve days of post-natal lying-in—not too many, are they? She’d been strutting about so conceitedly. “I won’t do this, I won’t do that . . . what are gods? What are goddesses?” After listening to all that the menfolk had to say, she had begun to talk like them too. Why doesn’t she keep quiet now? The white women do not believe that a girl born after three boys is ill-omened and malevolent. Since she endeavours to be at par with them in everything, she should also think like them.’
She then ordered the naain to fetch the singers and inform the neighbourhood on the way.
Early in the morning, when Damodar’s elder son awoke, he rubbed his eyes and asked his dadi, ‘Badi Amma, what happened to Amma yesterday?’
‘She delivered a baby girl.’
The boy jumped up and down with joy and said, ‘Oh ho ho! She will wear little anklets with bells on them and walk about making music. Show her to me please, Dadiji!’
‘Arré, will you go into the delivery room? Have you gone mad?’
The boy was too excited to listen. He walked up to the doorway of the delivery room and called out to his mother, ‘Amma, please show me the baby girl.’
‘The baby is asleep,’ replied the midwife.
‘Hold her in your arms and show her to me.’
After the midwife had shown him the baby, he ran across to his younger brothers and woke them up, excitedly breaking the good news.
One of them said, ‘She must be very small!’
‘Quite small indeed! Just like a big doll! She is fairer than the daughter of a white man. This girl belongs to me.’
The youngest boy trilled, ‘Show her to me.’
All three of them went to see the baby girl and returned, jumping with joy and prancing about.
The eldest boy asked, ‘Did you see her?’
The second said, ‘How she lay with her eyes closed!’
The youngest cheeped, ‘Give her to me.’
The eldest mused, ‘A groom will come to our house with a train of elephants, horses, a band of musicians and firecrackers, and take her away.’
The two younger boys became very excited about the prospect of that glorious spectacle; their innocent eyes shone with unadulterated joy.
The second boy added, ‘There will be lots of flowers too.’
The youngest joined in, ‘I too will take some flowers.’2
The sixth day of the infant’s birth was celebrated and so was the twelfth; there was singing and festivity; elaborate dinners were arranged and gifts were distributed. But all this was simply obligatory—the celebrations were not wholehearted; no one was happy. The child was not well; she grew weaker by the day. The mother would administer opium twice a day to the baby girl, who remained in a listless stupor through the day and night. At the slightest easing of the narcotic intoxication, she would cry with hunger. The mother would bottlefeed her and administer yet another dose of opium. It was rather surprising that she was quite dry this time. Even earlier, she had been rather slow to lactate, but after the birth of each son she consumed various types of drugs that induced lactation; besides, each baby was forced to breastfeed, consequently stimulating lactation. This time, however, none of these pains were taken. The flowerlike baby girl began to shrivel up. The mother did not so much as cast a look upon her. Sometimes, when the naain snapped her fingers, and made kissing sounds or spoke lovingly to the child, her tender face showed such heart-rending signs of anguish and distress that she would wipe her tears and move away. She could not gather up the courage to say anything to the mother. The eldest son, Siddhu, would suggest repeatedly, ‘Amma, should I take the baby out to play?’ But his mother merely scolded him.
Three or four months passed. One night, when Damodar woke up to drink water, he noticed that the baby girl was awake. The little girl had fixed her gaze on an oil lamp on the shelf while she sucked her thumb, making soft gurgling sounds. Her countenance had withered and she neither cried nor threw her limbs about; she merely sucked on her thumb as though it were the storehouse of sweet nectar. She did not so much as turn towards her mother’s breasts—perhaps she did not have any right over them, no hope lay in them for her. Babu Sahib felt sorry for her. How can this miserable child be blamed for being born in my house? How can she be held responsible for whatever adversity befalls me or her mother? How heartless are we that merely on the conjecture of some imagined adversity we are causing her such severe injury? Should we make her pay with her life for fear that something inauspicious may befall us? Only my destiny can be accountable for whatever misfortune befalls us. Would God be pleased with our ruthlessness towards this little child? He lifted the baby in his arms and began to kiss her face. This was perhaps the first time ever that the little girl felt truly loved. She began to throw her arms and legs about and gurgle, reaching out for the light of the lamp with her hands. It seemed that she now had found reason to live.
Early in the morning, Damodar lifted the girl in his arms and took her out. All the while his wife kept saying, ‘Let her be, she is not all that beautiful, is she? Day and night the ill-fated one feeds on my very existence; she does not even die so that I may be relieved.’ But Damodar did
