‘She must be sick,’ said Boudi on the way back home.
‘Of course, Boudi. It’s when you’re sick you take staggered holidays. Not when you probably have a new boyfriend.’
‘You can’t assume that—’
‘Brilliant plan though.’
We didn’t talk for the rest of the drive home.
As I’m writing this I feel guilty for snapping at Boudi. But there was no need of doing what she did.
Up till an hour ago, there was no call on Dada’s landline.
17 January 2000
Three days ago, Boudi was rushed to the hospital. It was a close shave.
I was kept away from most of the discussions but I heard the words ‘bleeding’ and ‘placenta’ and ‘danger’ and ‘risk’ and ‘miscarriage’.
That’s the reason Boudi was brought home today. Dada was sent to get her clothes and other belongings while Maa–Baba set about dutifully shifting things around in the house to make it more pregnancy-conducive. Dada seemed uncharacteristically happy about the whole thing, despite the sleepless nights he had spent in the hospital. Maa–Baba had stayed with him, running after doctors, pleading and praying. Despite my protestations that I wouldn’t leave Boudi alone in the hospital I was made to go to school on both days.
‘You’re a child. You shouldn’t be around here, shona,’ said Maa.
While Boudi rested in Dada’s room, Baba got freshly cut chicken for Maa to cook biryani.
‘That’s a little presumptuous. Just because she’s Musal—’
I was made to shut up and go clean my room before Boudi woke up.
‘What will she think about you? That we brought you up like this? And take a shower!’ said Maa.
‘Baba finished all the hot water,’ I complained.
‘He hadn’t bathed in two days, shona. Wait then, I will warm up some water on the stove,’ she said.
A couple of hours later, the house smelt like the inside of Nizam’s, the legendary biryani outlet. Boudi had woken up. Dada was helping her to the living room when Maa saw them.
‘What are you doing out of bed? Stay there! I will serve there only!’ said Maa.
We spread newspapers on the bed, dragged the TV trolley to Dada’s room and ate. Boudi couldn’t eat much but she lavished praise on Maa’s cooking. Maa blushed suitably. Dada and I joked quite uncomfortably about Maa’s decision to cook biryani. We laughed and jibed like everything was normal. For a few brief moments I even stopped obsessing over Brahmi’s absence, over her possible boyfriend.
‘Both of you have gone through a lot,’ said Maa. ‘Take rest now.’ Maa caressed Boudi’s face and told her, ‘Now that you are here I will take care of everything. If you need anything tell me.’
Smiles were exchanged and we left Dada and Boudi alone.
I helped Maa–Baba clear the plates. Dada had cheekily given me his Walkman and a list of sad songs to get over my Brahmi problem. I had been listening to them the entire day on loop, and doubting whether it was a good choice to do so. I couldn’t hear Maa–Baba over the music at first. But then, I ran through side A and heard a bit of their conversation.
‘Did Anirban tell you what had happened? How did the bleeding start?’ asked Maa.
‘Just that she was sleeping.’
‘She told me she was in the kitchen. But I know what she was doing. She was praying, I’m telling you, that’s what she was doing. She was reading the Quran, that’s what she was doing. Can you imagine? Risking the baby for that!’ Maa griped.
‘Why would you expect anything different? Didn’t you know what we were getting into?’
‘My son now lies to me every day.’
‘Is this why we brought him up?’
