An Inconvenient Birth
June 1, 1956
The cries of a baby boy echoed through the maternity ward. It was the first time my grandmother delivered a baby in a hospital. It made no difference to her; the hospital bed or the fields, pain was pain.
“The bills” she thought, “the fields would have been cheaper and much more convenient.” She yelled out in a condescending tone. The hospital made it mandatory for her to stay. She wouldn’t have it. She was notorious for enduring what others couldn’t. “Who was going to take care of business in my absence” she thought. She had no time for rest.
My grandfather named his third child ‘The Smiling One’. That was my father.
My father, as a boy rarely cried. Unaware of the life that lay ahead of him, he was a happy child. He spent most of his days doing what was told, only revolting silently when he didn’t have his way. A quiet discontent that showed in his eyes but never his tongue.
This was not an easy place to grow up, it was a dreadful one in fact. Solapur in the 1950s and 60s. Lies and disease were common. People worked hard to make ends meet. Brute force was used commonly to get what one wanted; the only language most commonly spoken, was that of the streets. If you wanted something, you took it, or you were strong enough to keep what was yours.
The family had to be careful not to get caught up in the violence, in the delinquencies of their neighbourhood, the petty feuds that could turn deadly over a stolen chicken or an uninvited stare. Grandmother was one of the few who cared about giving her children an education, though she preferred the boys over the girls. The girls would marry and leave. The boys would carry the family name forward, would earn, would matter, she thought.
Years had passed.
1966
Now ten years old, a dainty little boy, my father would stay close to his mother. Helping her where he could. He was her most trusted child. Every day after school, he would come back to her as quickly as he could, like a shadow catching up to its owner.
And everyday, grandmother would send him away to work at the railway station, sometimes selling tea that burned his fingers, sometimes ice cream that melted faster than he could sell it. He didn’t mind. He was happy to bring back what he could earn and support his family in whatever way he could. Sometimes a rupee if the day was good. Tiring as it was he would always come back with a smile on his face. A happy little momma’s boy.
One evening he returned late in the evening to find his sister sprawled like a log across the spot where he slept. The room was small. Barely large enough for all of them. They slept shoulder to shoulder, a tangle of limbs and breath, privacy a concept that didn’t exist in a house like this.
My father stood in the doorway, his body dragging with the weight of the day. His feet numbed from standing at the station. His throat dry from yelling prices at passengers who barely looked at him. He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, staring at his spot.
“What happened?” his sister asked him while lazily laying in the corner, not bothering to move. She knew. She just wanted to see if he’d ask her himself.
“Nothing.” my father murmured under his breath, his voice barely audible.
His mother caught the distress in his silence immediately. She had a radar for her children’s moods, especially this one. Her eyes snapped like lightning.
“Get off his spot!” she yelled out. Her voice cut through the room like a whip. Shuddering to her mother’s roar, she jolted straight up, losing track of what was going on.
“Okay Amma, I’m going, I’m going” she finally caught up.
She scrambled to her feet, half annoyed, half amused. His sister had finally caught up to his thoughts. She was in his spot, and he was going to stand there all night rather than ask her to move, not bothering his little sister.
My father said nothing. Just nodded at his sister and collapsed onto the thin mat, his body folding into itself. And he was asleep within seconds.
Grandmother watched my father for a moment, her expression softening in a way it rarely did. This one was different. This one never complained. Never demanded. Never raised his voice. He just endured.
She never wondered ever if that was strength or something else. Something she didn’t have a second’s moment for, yet.
Maybe, grandfather thought, this one would understand something the rest of them didn’t. Perhaps this one was built for something different.
He didn’t say any of this out loud. He never did.
He simply returned to his chair, to his silence, into the night.