Chapter 15: Gauri

The baby came on: January seventeenth. Two days after SEBI. Three days before the: due date. In the: green nursery that had been: yellow, in the house that was: Vasant Vihar, in the city that was: Delhi, in the country that was: ours.

Abeer made it. The: four PM flight from Mumbai. Landing at: six-thirty. The traffic from the airport to Vasant Vihar taking: the specific eternity that Delhi traffic took when the: universe was testing your patience. He arrived at: seven-forty-five. I had been in labour since: two PM. The contractions were: regular, five minutes apart, the: specific rhythm of a body that had decided the: timeline and was: not interested in the Calculator's: schedule.

Dr. Verma — the obstetrician at Max Hospital, Saket, a woman whose calm was: legendary and whose hands were: the hands that had delivered two thousand babies and who treated each delivery with the: specific attention of a first — Dr. Verma had said: "Hospital. Now."

But I wanted: the house. Not the hospital. Not the: sterile, fluorescent, institutional space where babies were delivered in: Delhi. The house. The room. The green walls. The: sheesham crib with the peacock headboard. The: window that faced the garden where Ramu kaka's jasmine was: sleeping because January was: winter and jasmine slept in: winter.

"Home birth," Dr. Verma said. "With: your medical history?"

"My medical history is: perfect."

"Your medical history is: first pregnancy at thirty-one with a: family history of gestational complications."

"My mother had: two uncomplicated deliveries."

"Your mother—" Dr. Verma stopped. The: stop of a doctor remembering that the mother was: dead, that medical history had: a hole where the person should be, that the: data was incomplete because the: source was gone.

"She told Bimla aunty," I said. "Before she: died. She told Bimla aunty everything. The pregnancies. The deliveries. The: details that mothers tell: the women who cook for them because cooking is: intimacy and intimacy is: trust."

"Bimla aunty is not: a medical source."

"Bimla aunty is: the most reliable source I: have."

Dr. Verma: agreed. With: conditions. The conditions were: a portable fetal monitor, an IV line on standby, and an: ambulance parked outside the Vasant Vihar bungalow "just in: case," which was Dr. Verma's way of saying: I disagree but I respect your: choice.

*

Abeer arrived: sweating. The: specific sweat of a man who had been in a: SEBI hearing, on a: plane, in: Delhi traffic, and who was now: present for the birth of his child while still processing the: legal vindication of his marriage. The: multitasking of a man whose life had become: uncalculable.

"You're: here," I said. From the: bed. In the green room. The contractions: four minutes apart now.

"I'm: here."

"SEBI?"

"Dismissed."

"Baby?"

"Coming."

"Good: priorities."

He held my: hand. The hand-holding was: different from the terrace, from the: kitchen, from the: boardroom. This hand-holding was: survival. The grip of a person who was: anchoring another person through: pain, through the specific violence of: birth, the violence that was: not destruction but creation, the violence that the body performed because the body knew: things that the mind did not.

The labour lasted: six hours. From seven-forty-five PM to: one-thirty AM. Dr. Verma: calm. The nurse — Sister Agnes, a woman from Kerala who had been: assisting Dr. Verma for fifteen years and who spoke to: labouring women in a mixture of: Malayalam and Hindi that was somehow: universally comforting — Sister Agnes: present. Bua ji — Chandigarh Amma — in the: hallway, praying. Papa ji in: the drawing room, not praying but: pacing, the pacing of a man who had been through: this once before and who remembered: everything.

At one-thirty AM, on: January eighteenth, in the green room with the: sheesham crib and the peacock headboard and the: window facing the sleeping garden, our daughter: arrived.

She arrived: screaming. The: specific, furious, immediate scream of a person who had been: evicted from warmth into cold and who had: opinions about it. The scream was: the most beautiful sound I had: ever heard, more beautiful than the: applause at the gala, more beautiful than: "dismissed," more beautiful than: "I'm staying."

"A girl," Dr. Verma said.

"A: girl," I said.

"A: girl," Abeer said. The Calculator. Looking at his: daughter. The daughter who was: red, screaming, uncalculable. The: expression on his face was: the expression I had seen on the: terrace, in the: boardroom, at the: gala — the expression that was: not calculation but: awe. Except larger. Larger than: awe. The expression for which Kamini Malhotra had: invented a word.

"Uncalculable," Abeer whispered.

*

We named her: Kamini. After: his mother. After the woman who had: painted the room yellow and who had invented: a word for the thing that didn't: fit.

"Kamini," Papa ji said. Holding his: granddaughter. In: the drawing room. In the house in Vasant Vihar. The tears: again. The tears that Papa ji produced with the: specific abundance of a man whose heart was: larger than his moustache, which was: saying something.

"Kamini," Mohini said, from: Mumbai, on FaceTime. "Tell her: her masi is the cool: one."

"Kamini," HK said, arriving from Jor Bagh with: a gold bracelet and: a spreadsheet of investment options for the: child's education fund. Because HK was: HK, and HK expressed love through: financial planning.

"Kamini," Bimla aunty said, entering the: room with: kheer. The kheer that was: made for births, the rice and milk and: sugar and cardamom and the: saffron that turned the kheer: golden, the colour of: celebration. "She has: her mother's eyes."

"Which: mother?" I asked.

"Both," Bimla aunty said. "Both: mothers."

The baby slept. In the: sheesham crib. Under the: peacock. In the: green room that had been: yellow. The baby who was: named for a woman she would never: meet and who was: born into a family that had been: arranged and that had become: chosen and that was now: three.

The buffer zone on the: kitchen counter was: gone. The kettle and the Breville: touching. One inch. Zero: inches. The: geography of a marriage that had learned its: shape.