The Dilemma

As she lay on the hard mattress wearing a green robe and nothing below it, Nikita didn’t feel anything, except a sort of numbness. The doctor came in, a woman in her mid-fifties, with short hair dyed orange with mehendi, wearing a cheap pink lipstick. Without any pleasantries, she folded up Nikita’s robe, smeared gel on her belly, and began to move the device all over it. A tiny little peanut appeared on the monitor. Shravan and Nikita looked at the monitor briefly, but soon turned to the doctor.
“Bad news,” said the doctor. “It’s a girl.” And then, in the same breath, “When do you want to have the procedure?” Not whether she wanted to have the procedure, thought Nikita, but unquestioningly when.

“We’ll let you know,” Shravan replied.

As they drove back from the seedy clinic in the interior lanes of Malviya Nagar to their plush home in GK2, Nikita thought about the doctor’s words—Bad news. It’s a girl. Nikita’s thoughts drifted to her own childhood.

She was four years old, playing her with her big sister Neha in the drawing room with a doll, their mother cooking in the kitchen. Soon, they were fighting over the doll, Nikita pulling her by her golden hair, Neha by the legs, till the head detached from the body. Each sister clutched her part of the doll. Neha, whose doll it rightfully was had cried, hot tears streaming down her face. “See what you did! I hate you, I hate you!” And then, she had spat out, “Mamma and I prayed for a little brother, but we got you instead. And now look at what you’ve done. I hate you!” That night, Nikita had run a high fever.

Lost in her thoughts, Nikita hadn’t realized when they had reached home. They walked up the stairs in silence. Kavita, their first-born, was still at school. Nikita went into the kitchen and made dal, aalu gobhi, and rotis. She forgot to salt the sabzi, but neither of them noticed, neither of them said a word. After lunch, Shravan retreated to the balcony, a pack of Marlboro Lights in his hand, and started pacing. Nikita knew he’d be pacing a long time.

She went into her bedroom and lay down. Instinctively, her hand went to her stomach. She could feel nothing yet. She was too far along now for pills to do the trick, but it could still easily be fixed. They would pull it out using suction. All in all, it might take half an hour. What do they do to it afterwards? The thought popped in, unwelcome. Maybe they’d throw it in the trash in a garbage bag? She shuddered.

But she was doing the right thing, wasn’t she? Her in-laws had made it very clear that they wanted a grandson to carry on the family name. And to be fair, was it just her in-laws? Didn’t she want a boy herself, the part of her that begrudged her friends who were lucky to have their nursery walls painted blue? Was it so wrong, she thought, to want to be taken care of in her old age? Was it so wrong to want the upper hand in life, for once?

No, it wasn’t.

And of course, she wanted her child to feel wanted. Not how she had felt.

Ten-year-old, she was skipping rope in the verandah of their ancestral home in Punjab. Her dadi was advising her father to start making gold he would need to marry off his daughters. “Don’t worry, papa,” she had said. “I don’t want to get married.” He had smiled sadly, but her dadi had lashed out: did she plan on being a burden for their family her whole life, then?

I’m doing her a favor, Nikita thought. What’s the use of living unwanted anyway?

Someday, she would have a boy. He would be her little angel; the apple of his grandparents’ eyes. A little prince, whose every wish they would fulfill, and more.

She was feeling better about the procedure already. She got out of bed and walked to the kitchen to make herself some tea. She mixed the tea in water, put some cardamom and cloves, a little sugar, and stirred the water. When it had turned a deep bronze and she could smell the aroma of tea, she added milk. Her mother had taught her to make tea, a long time ago. What would her mother say today if she were here? What would she advise? Would she agree with her decision?

Nikita went to her bedroom and unlocked the bottom drawer in the almirah. She didn’t stop to admire her jewelery or withdraw cash from the bundle of notes she kept there. Her hand went to the back of the drawer, and she pulled out a small brown notebook. The pages were yellowed and filled with her mother’s handwriting, neat, perfectly formed letters. Her mother’s diary.

As she was wont to do when she wanted her mothers advice, she closed her eyes, pictured her mother in a cotton saree, her thick black hair clasped neatly in a bun, prayed for her guidance, and opened her diary to a random page. She had never been disappointed. Today, she flipped open the diary to read:

Today, Niki turns 14. How time has passed. She has gone from being a playful child to being a graceful young girl. I felt so angry and so helpless when I thought that I wouldn’t be there to see her married, to have kids. Is it God punishing me? For looking away when she was born. For not seeing her for what she was–a child with infinite love and talent. I was young then. I wish I had the strength to face their taunts, but I would tremble. I let their hatred seep into me. Now, I think, so what if she is a girl? She’s bright. She’s beautiful. She’s as good as a son. I know that after I am gone, my daughters will take care of each other, will take care of their father, always. I don’t have to worry that I don’t have a son.

Nikita went to the balcony. She had finally made up her mind.

Before she could say anything, Shravan held her hands and said, “I’ve been thinking a lot about this. I think we need to go back to the doctor. I know we are both feeling terrible about the situation, but it’s actually not such a big deal. People have abortions all the time. We will try again.”

She nodded. “Absolutely, I agree.”

Things weren’t as simple as her mother believed. If they were, she wouldn’t have had to leave her beloved dad in an old age home. But what could she have done? Shravan’s parents had moved in to their only spare room a few years back. There was nothing to be discussed. It was obvious. Shravan was their son.