The home for unwed mothers was far from Aarti’s village. Her father and mother travelled the long journey with her over the mountains into a beautiful valley. Her home for the next six months was a serene abode on the banks of a flowing river. Women and girls of various ages and at different stages of their pregnancies walked in the gardens, took in the fresh breeze from the mountains, or dipped their toes in the icy water of the flowing river.
Aarti waved tearfully to her parents and retreated into the darkest corner of her new room as her heart felt heavier than the load she carried in her stomach. On the second day still tucked in her nook alone, Aarti looked up to see a scrawny little girl run into her room. A long dress seemed to be hanging on the girl’s shoulders as if on a hanger. With red eyes and sniffling nose, the girl came to the corner and cowered down beside Aarti. Turning her head sideways she whispered, “Chhaaya is hiding.” Aarti stared at her, nodded and went back into her shell. “Don’t tell Amma .” Before Aarti could say anything the young girl went on, “She’s very upset with me.”
Aarti looked at her and said, “I always go to my father.” The young girl glared at her as if the older girl had said a bad word. Finally, running a hand over her wet nose she spoke, “Chhaaya doesn’t have a father.” She then proceeded to enlighten Aarti about life at the nursing home since she knew everything and everybody. She had been living here from the day of her birth and her mother worked here as the nurse’s helper.
Over the several days, Chhaaya told her new friend stories about all the women or girls that came to the nursing home. The two girls became friends and Aarti was able to forget about her condition for a while. They walked around the garden stopping at roses to drink in their aromas and sometimes returning home with a bleeding finger from the tumultuous thorns. They put their feet in the cool glacial water that flowed down the river. The pebbles they tossed into the water stayed behind and became shinier over time as the river made its journey forward. Aarti’s stomach grew and she waddled uncomfortably bearing her load. The grass in the garden began to turn yellow and a chill blew down from the mountain.
On the night her moon faced daughter was born, the sky was as dark as coal. Drained from the ordeal, Aarti wanted to have nothing to do with the baby. She refused to look in its direction but when the nurse put the helpless little thing on her chest, all clean and soft she could not take her eyes off the tiny creature. She nursed her, stared at her for hours, touched her soft cheeks and thick dark hair and talked to her about her inner most feelings. She named her Prishaa for the gift she was. She was Aarti’s birthday present as mother and daughter shared the day of their birth.
Within two weeks of Prishaa’s birth, Aarti’s parents arrived to take her home. Aarti was horrified when she learned that she could not take her daughter home with her. Infact, the adoption arrangements had all been made and Prishaa was going home to a new set of parents. Her mother consoled her and explained how it was best for everyone, including the baby. Heartbroken, Aarti kissed her baby, hugged Chhaaya and started on the long journey home.
To be continued….
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