How could Mrs Rajora involve the couple when they had not sought her advice? All she was looking for was hope, and words such as ‘infertility’ and ‘loss of normal anatomy’ did not do the job. With a heavy heart she thought of the pre-marriage emphasis on the girl’s homeliness, on the little Suryakantas she would bring into the world. Mrs Rajora decided her husband was right, she was getting tense for nothing. Ishita and SK were young, everything would be fine.
Ishita’s father was pleased to note that his wife had stopped her incessant worrying. He did not know that Mrs Rajora’s helplessness was so extreme that she had decided to follow the scriptures and live in the present. She redoubled her prayers, went to the society temple morning and evening, with offerings of sweets, coconuts and flowers.
Eighteen months into the marriage the boy’s family began to make noises. ‘They are beginning to ask, why haven’t you conceived? SK says he doesn’t want to be a father yet, but they say he doesn’t know what he is talking about. They behave as though he were a child,’ reported Ishita to her mother.
‘What else do they say to you?’
‘Isn’t this enough?’
Was it her mother’s imagination or had the girl lost the bloom that had been so evident a year ago?
‘Are they treating you well?’ she asked.
The girl’s listless nod was further reason to panic.
‘They say it is equally the boy’s fault if there is no conception,’ said the mother, swimming vigorously in waters she had hesitated to dive into earlier. ‘Why are they not getting him examined?’
‘He is willing, but it is probably something to do with me.’
‘Nonsense. Keep faith in God. He will not let you suffer.’
‘My in-laws have asked that I do this special jap 108 times a day. And fast on Tuesdays.’
‘You must do whatever they tell you.’
‘They want to take me to a doctor also.’
‘That is not necessary.’
‘I don’t have a choice,’ said Ishita, as she dragged herself out of the door and into her car.
Shortly after, the miracle occurred.
Such a crowd so early in the morning was odd, thought Mrs Rajora as she turned the corner of the building towards the temple.
Mrs Kaushik saw her and gestured violently.
‘He
was the first to discover it.’
‘What has happened?’
‘A miracle, that’s what. A miracle.’
‘Hai Ram. In this day and age?’
‘Bhagwanji is drinking milk.’
‘Are you absolutely sure?’
‘See for yourself. Do you have any?’
‘Only fruit and flowers.’
‘That won’t do. Has to be milk.’
‘Should I go and get some?’
‘Run, run. And get a spoon as well.’
Her husband was waiting for his tea.
‘Hurry, hurry. Bhagwan is drinking milk.’
‘Where?’
‘Society temple. Leela said her husband was the first to discover it.’
From the corner of the balcony Mr Rajora could see people hurrying to the front of the building. At the elevator entrance their neighbour was holding a glass of milk, smiling, sharing his joy.
By the time they reached the temple, they could see that some of the society officers had organised the crowds into a queue. The building was home to a thousand people, and at least half of them were here. The small puja room was crammed. People were holding milk in all kinds of containers.
Everybody was excited. Could it be really true? Were the gods physically accepting their offerings? When Mrs Rajora’s turn came she held out a trembling hand and watched as the milk slowly vanished from the spoon. People around stared. She reached out a finger and gently touched the dark stone cheek. It was dry.
‘Arre, the god himself is drinking,’ said the man behind her. ‘Otherwise, wouldn’t the whole floor be wet? So much has been offered since the morning.’
Ashamed, she pulled back her hand, allowing her husband his turn with the spoon. Then others anxious to have a go edged them away.
Once home, Mrs Rajora hurried to the phone. Ishu, come here, the gods are drinking milk, you must offer some, from your own hands. It is a miracle, beta, a miracle.
It seemed Ishita had no need to come there. The gods were drinking milk throughout Delhi. Later when they put on the TV, it was to find deities consuming milk all over India, and by the evening there were reports of similar phenomena in Britain, Canada and the USA.
Clips followed of scientists talking about capillary action, saying that the milk was just spread over the surface of the stone images, but people believed what they saw.
The next morning again Mrs Rajora hurried to the temple, but the people outside told her that the god was no longer accepting milk. ‘That is how we know what happened yesterday was truly a miracle, no matter what the scientists say.’
Mrs Rajora agreed. And if the miraculous could occur all over the world, then why not in her daughter’s life?
A few days later, Ishita phoned, jubilant. Her mother-in-law had taken her to the gynaecologist, who had said that not enough time had passed – they should wait another six months before going in for tests, which were neither easy nor cheap. A stress-free life was essential. Now they were being very nice to her.
Those six months were hard for Mrs Rajora. She prayed for good news, made all kinds of promises to the small goddess in her bedroom.
Five and a half months passed without any sign of a pregnancy.
‘I have found the name of a fertility expert,’ Ishita said to her mother. ‘Will you come with me? Just to see what my options are. And keep this to yourself.’
The fertility expert was Dr Suhashini Guha, American-trained. Joginder Chhabra, the famous golfer, had gone to her, after which his wife had had twins. Quantities of money must have been spent.
Suhashini Guha listened to Ishita’s story, then in a businesslike fashion drew a number of diagrams: maybe the fallopian tubes were blocked, maybe the sperm count was low as was increasingly common nowadays, maybe she had an infantile uterus, or quite simply, maybe there was nothing wrong with any of these.
Had she ever had an abortion? A miscarriage? Ever taken birth control pills? Or used internal devices? Ever experienced a major illness? Ever had TB?
Ishita said no to everything.
An HSG test was suggested, a hysterosalpingogram in which dye was injected into the uterus. This would give an accurate picture of the state of her fallopian tubes.
The doctor would do it herself, next month on the seventh day of her cycle. There would be a certain amount of discomfort involved so she would need to take painkillers, she might also experience heavy cramping for the next few hours. To prevent infection, she would be put on a course of antibiotics.
‘And if all is not clear?’ cried Mrs Rajora, appalled by this information.
‘Then a laparoscopy will follow.’
‘And then?’
‘Then we will see.’
In the car the mother said slowly, ‘I wonder what TB has to do with anything.’
‘Why?’ demanded Ishita. ‘I never had it, did I?’
‘Don’t think so,’ said Mrs Rajora cautiously.
‘TB is hardly a disease that goes unnoticed.’
‘Beta, as a child you were ill for a long time. But then you grew out of it.’
‘Maybe I am damaged goods after all.’
‘Don’t be silly, and if you had TB, so what? It affects lots of people.’
‘So,’ said Ishita slowly, ‘that’s the story.’
The mother was silent.
‘How am I supposed to keep this information from my in-laws? My husband? I don’t keep secrets from him.’ The strain of keeping her voice down so that nothing reached the driver’s alert listening ears drove tears into Ishita’s eyes. ‘And the test? It’s invasive after all.’
‘Am I saying you should not tell? But let’s find out first. What is the point of worrying other people for nothing?’
When his anxious wife related the details of the visit, Mr Rajora declared the doctor had to be told about Ishita’s TB. Otherwise there was no point consulting an expert.
But what would this mean for their daughter? Would she be taunted, would her position become vulnerable, would there be pressure on the husband to divorce her? It needed no great experience of the world to inform them that the answer to all these questions was yes. As for Suryakanta’s love, could they set store by that?
The father thought they could, the mother knew they couldn’t. If the couple were living separately, perhaps, if it had been a love marriage, perhaps, if they had been married a long time, perhaps, but with the husband an only son, living at home with an infertile wife – no.
Suryakanta had been brought up to understand his role so far as the greater good of the family was concerned. Mrs Rajora knew he would not put his own feelings in front of those considerations.
Let us see what Ishita has to say, said the father. She knows them better than we do.
‘I told him about the visit to Dr Guha,’ said Ishita to her mother soon afterwards.
‘You foolish girl,’ snapped Mrs Rajora, ‘what was the need?’
‘I am not like you,’ snapped Ishita back. ‘What kind of lies do you want me to go on living? If I can’t trust my husband, it is no marriage.’
‘He is still a child,’ returned the mother.
‘He is my best friend,’ said the daughter, immune to her mother’s fears. The night she had told her husband was particularly sweet. She had cried, he had held her, he had said she was the queen of his heart, he would die without her, of course he would come with her to the doctor, of course they would explore all possibilities. They were married and every problem had a solution.
Mrs Rajora was left speechless. Had Ishita no sense? Didn’t she understand the family she had married into? Young love was fine in the bedroom, but outside that door its imperatives ceased.
‘And what is more,’ continued Ishita triumphantly, ‘he is coming with me to do that test. Mummy, this is our problem, we will manage.’
The test that would reveal TB in infancy, that would result in accusations about the girl’s health, about having hidden things in order to get the daughter married – that test.
A few days before the test Suryakanta suggested they tell his parents.
‘Didn’t you say it was our problem?’ demanded his wife.
It turned out that ‘our’ meant the collective us of the joint family, for his parents must neither feel excluded nor ignored. Besides, how could the responsibility be his alone? He could no more think of only the two of them getting such a major test done than he could contemplate flying. And what about the side effects, the pain, the nausea, the cramping? A woman was needed in these situations.
For the first time Ishita felt annoyed with her husband. He was twenty-seven, had he never done anything without his parents’ permission? Finally he agreed to say nothing for the moment, which meant that when the day of the HSG test came, the emphasis was more on the favour SK was doing her than on the trauma of the procedure.
Ishita lay down on a narrow hospital bed and stared gloomily at the glaring white lights overhead. As the dye was injected, a sudden hot feeling overtook her, followed by the most severe cramp she had ever known. Despite the air conditioning, sweat filmed her face. After a few minutes the doctor showed her the screen, and pointed out her faulty tubes, sealed irrevocably against both egg and sperm.
Helpless tears ran down Ishita’s cheeks, soaking the neckline of her white gown, as the words ‘severe blockage’ drummed in her mind. What would happen to her now?
On the way back the husband was silent, and Ishita in her corner of the car was too depressed to say much. By the time they reached GK, hatred towards her body filled her. It had let her down in this most basic function and she had to live with the knowledge for the rest of her life.
‘Papa and Mummy will know what to do,’ said SK at last as the car neared home.
‘You are going to tell them?’
‘Of course. Don’t you think that is best?’
‘They will hate me.’
‘Naah. They are not like that.’
She dared not contradict him. Already clouds were entering her soul, and shedding heavy drops of unworthiness, and such was the weight she couldn’t even hold his hand and tell him that she loved him more than life itself. They never exchanged affection in public.
SK told his mother that evening. He was closeted in her room for a long time, leaving Ishita tense and nervous. ‘Bhabhi, what’s the matter with you today, why aren’t you paying attention?’ asked Chandrakanta, as Ishita fought to keep the sick feelings at bay. ‘Do you have some good news?’
Oh, how far from the truth. At that moment Ishita thought it easier to commit suicide than to live. From the day of her wedding she had thought of this family as hers, revelling in the togetherness, sharing and companionship. Now instead of love all around her, there would be rejection.
That evening Ishita scanned her mother-in-law’s face for signs of disgust as she said, ‘I will come with you, beti, to this fertility expert. Men don’t really understand these things.’ There was no reproach in her voice, but Ishita felt it all the same. The knot in her stomach, squeezing her insides, tightened its grip.
‘I want to understand exactly what is wrong, and what to do,’ she went on. ‘I believe there are options. But Sukku did not give me a very clear idea of what they were. But then I always say, he is just a boy, what does he know?’
On the morning of the second appointment with Suhashini Guha, Ishita discovered that SK was not coming. ‘Mummy said there is no need.’
‘You said we were in this together.’
‘Why are you getting so emotional, yaar? My mother wants to understand the problem, and I have already been.’
Fearfully she looked at SK, who smiled back reassuringly.
In the car, her mother-in-law reached over and plucked the HSG report that was lying on her lap, and scanned the papers. Ishita waited for her to say something, but she didn’t.
In the reception, when she gave her name to the nurse her voice sounded hoarse. She couldn’t even pick up a magazine, for her mother-in-law’s hands were empty. In the twenty minutes of waiting, Ishita got up three times to ask how long it would be.