‘It will be okay.’
All through the pregnancy, Aanchal had taken every small bump quite badly, racked with guilt. She would be reminded of her decision not to be a mother all those years ago and wonder if God would punish her for it by taking this one away. I can see the fear in her eyes.
‘It will be okay,’ I reassure her.
The wipers work furiously against the rain outside as we make our way to the hospital. I had pictured this journey differently—sunny skies, calm excitement, a diaper bag in the boot, a change of clothes and us calling our family.
When we reach the hospital, the neon ‘Emergency’ sign is blinking like a distress signal. We had chosen this hospital because it was new, uncrowded. But that comes to bite us when we find the receptionist dozing off. There are no nurses in sight. The receptionist is trying to call someone but no one’s picking up.
‘Go to the admissions,’ the receptionist says.
‘Why?’ screams Aanchal.
‘Or call your doctor,’ says the receptionist dispassionately. ‘This is not an emergency.’
‘Are you trying to turn this into an obstacle course?’ I snap.
‘I’m trying my best,’ says the receptionist. She makes another call. There’s no answer. ‘I’m telling you. Going to the admissions is the procedure.’
‘Wait here,’ I tell Aanchal.
‘Don’t go.’
‘Let me find someone,’ I tell her, my heart breaking at the way she clutches my hand. I feel all of her fear.
‘Just shout!’ And before I can call out, she yells, ‘DOCTOR!’
Her scream’s potent because fifteen minutes later, Aanchal’s strapped on to a machine to confirm whether her contractions are real. And another one to measure the foetal heartbeat. The nurses tell us it’s going to take fifteen minutes.
‘You can stop googling, Aanchal,’ I tell her.
She gives me her phone.
‘Whatever happens, we are going to be together. As your mother would say, with Daksh, what’s the worst that can happen?’
She nods. I take her hand into mine.
‘We are going to have a beautiful baby,’ I whisper. ‘And we are going to love it so much, so, so much, that when it goes to school, it will wonder why other parents hate their kids so much. The other kids will be so jealous. We will be amazing.’
‘You will be amazing,’ she says. ‘Me . . .’
‘You will make the best mom ever,’ I assure her.
‘I will try and I’m pretty sure I’m going to fail.’
‘And that itself is being the best.’
We hold each other’s hands and stare at the graph. It makes no sense to us. A little later, Dr Jayaci, a middle-aged doctor,walks in with an alarmingly calm demeanour, checks Aanchal and then breaks the news like it’s no big deal.
‘We’ll need to do a C-section, Aanchal. It seems the baby is eager to meet you.’
We exchange wide-eyed looks. A month early?
She seems to notice our reservation. ‘It’s thirty-six weeks, four weeks early, but it’s okay. I saw the scans, things seem to be in order. Don’t worry.’
Things move swiftly.
I’m given scrubs to wear. Aanchal is prepped for surgery. She looks at me as the nurses gather around her.
