Miracle

My body twisted and turned with the pain, with the sheer physical anguish, back arching involuntarily. Sweat poured down my back, down my face, into my eyes, blurring my vision. The contractions came faster and faster; there was no time to breathe between them. The stark bare light hanging over my narrow, iron bed came close and receded again. I imagined a giant hand playing a game of yo-yo with it. A voice was talking to me, saying something… I desperately tried to focus. What did she want me to remember? “Time your contractions and ring this bell if you need anything.” Need anything! I needed water, needed this pain to go, needed someone to tell me that it will be over soon…needed to see a familiar face…

Someone spoke in a gentle but firm voice. “Here, hold this if you feel the pain coming.” A matter of fact, reassuring tone. They were used to this—seeing it happen zillion times a day till there was no unusualness left, no surprises, almost no feeling. As habitual and passionless for them as brushing one’s teeth. Someone took my hands—twisting and kneading the bedclothes—and made me hold the railings of the bed near my head. “It won’t be long now. Another two or three hours.” She had to be joking. “You are very young and fit. The first time is always bad. Next time, you won’t feel a thing.” Next time… ! Was she crazy? She had to be. “You should let yourself scream if you want to.” No, I would not. I would not let out a whimper. I know I did not.

Suddenly, I was being shoved onto a trolley. Where are you taking me? “To the delivery room.” The trolley trundled endlessly along a long corridor lit by white fluorescent lights smelling of Lysol, antiseptic, pain, sickness, hopes, fears… Why did no one come? “Your husband, I am sure, will be here soon.” Another voice, pacifying, holding my hand. I have memories of these voices—different accents, different pitch, different words—but always with the same underlying note of reassuring firmness and a subtle, faint note of boredom. Of saying the same words again and again, everyday, till the words had no meaning for them. Saying words that were not for me but were a part of their job role, part of their training.

The lights were suddenly brighter. There was a hum of activity. I was shoved onto another table—this one was not moving. The pain was now blinding. I tried to cling to the sounds, smells, the hum going on around me. Focus, focus! Don't faint. Revel in the pain. Don’t forget a single detail. You are bringing your baby into this world—this is the pain she will go through one day. This is the metaphor of all the pain she will go through in trying to live life, in trying to wrest from life what she wants… From a life that is stingy, mean, hard, unbending, cruel… She will be broken by pain again and again and will have to recreate herself, over and over again.

“Pass the forceps.” A male voice this time. Crisp, clipped, clinical. Suddenly, there was a violent burst of pain. My insides were being ripped out. My gut was spilling out. Then a chorus of voices, one mingling with the other, indistinguishable—a daughter! “Look, you have a daughter!” Of course I do, you fool. I always knew I would have a daughter. I had so desperately wanted a daughter, my very own. For once, God had to listen to me. Suddenly, above all the din, I heard a baby’s wail. Piercing, protesting, angry. My daughter’s wail—indignant at being torn apart from her comfortable cocoon. I must go and comfort her. She must not feel cheated, abandoned. I got up to climb down. Someone pushed me back. Roughly, angrily. “Are you mad? The stitches have to be done. Nurse, swab the blood….” Yes I am mad. The pain is over. Let me feel the bliss.

I must have passed out for some time. Next, I was in a familiar bed. It was the cabin. I was in the same narrow, iron bed with its sterile white sheets. A nurse was standing over me, smiling and holding out a bundle. My baby. “Don’t move. I will put her next to you, and you can feed her. A very healthy daughter you have. All of seven pounds…. You were very brave…” Why can’t you shut up and go away. I want to be alone with my daughter. I want to look at her, absorb her presence, absorb this miracle and my hand in the creation. I am a mother. No longer without an identity—someone’s daughter, wife, daughter-in-law, the eternal fate of women… I am a mother! An identity that belonged only to me.

I lay on my side looking at the face under my arm. A passionate, painful tenderness washed over me, bringing unbidden tears to my eyes. I was profoundly grateful no one was there. No one was there to see and dilute my joy—this ethereal, mystical experience was mine alone. I was selfish. I did not want to share an iota of this feeling with anyone. This night was ours—my daughter’s and mine. I looked at the watch—it was 12: 30 am. She was two hours thirty minutes old.

Her crunched up face with its delicate, microscopic lashes looked so peaceful in sleep. She was bundled up in a white cloth from where a tiny, tiny arm had slipped out. I slipped my hand under the palm—suddenly feeling clumsy. My hand was too large, too ungainly... The minuscule fingers curled inward still trying to get into the foetal position they had been used to for so long, the nails perfect, the skin unbelievably soft. Through the night, I went over each feature, each part, each miniature replica of the human form. I pushed back the bundling cloth and looked at the head covered with thick, curly hair. I lifted the strands with my fingertips. Gently gently. So soft, so very soft. My eyes were drifting shut under the influence of the drugs and injections… Wake up, you idiot! This night will never come back again. Don’t let me sleep tonight.

I saw the first rays of the sun fall on my daughter’s face. She was sleeping peacefully. Her eyes scrunched a little as the watery rays hit them—sensitive to the slightest light after her dark cocoon. The nurse had come in only once during the night. She had shown me how to feed my daughter. I had held her tiny body to my breast, watching with wonder as her little pursed lips worked with a force that belied the tiny body, her fist thumping my breast rhythmically, some age old primordial rhythm beating through her body and uniting us with the universe in a ritual that had been followed from a time memory could not reach and would be followed till time ceased. Now, my daughter lay on her back, her little belly full and distended. Replete, sated. A little smile on her perfect lips which still had traces of milk on them.
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