Sumita Vaid Dixit
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An extract from Born a Manglik/A Girl for Soumil
Curse of the Eunuchs
In Soumil’s case, it was the heart before the head. When the young doctor saw little pink toes peeping out of uterine darkness, his inexperienced eyes expanded; he stuttered ‘breech!’ Instantly, slouchy backs of the staff straightened; they all fell in line.
With each deep breath and a push, a part of Soumil appeared. His tender heels, motionless toes; his wrinkly knees, pudgy thighs; a round, big chest. With one final push, came Soumil’s reluctant head, into this world. Soumil was quiet, as though in deep contemplation. He looked about with his large innocent eyes; it was hazy, and noisy. The sudden craving for his mother’s womb released a cry so loud that ears tickled and then itched.
‘Congratulations, Mrs Sharma,’ the doctor finally said, wiping the sweat with the sleeve of his coat.
Soumil weighed nine pounds. Mrs Sharma, his mother, held him in her arms, and touched his soft, light brown hair. There was such gentleness in his face. He seemed to look back at Mrs Sharma, with his grey eyes – the same as his mother’s. Tears fell from her cheeks; he was her little miracle. She was about to give Soumil back to the nurse when the sound of a slap echoed in the room. A dark-skinned palm had crash-landed on the face of a young girl, who, a few beds away, was screaming, ‘I will die, I will die….’
‘Take control of yourself. Stop crying like a stupid girl,’ a matronly nurse shouted in thick south Indian accent. Her fresh imprints were a throbbing red on the girl’s wet face. The girl was stunned into silence while Mrs Sharma held onto Soumil a few more moments. Government hospitals had their own special remedy for pain.
‘It’s a boy,’ the doctor said to Mr Sharma in a gentle tone. Mr Sharma, who had been pacing up and down outside the ward, smiled and asked, ‘How’s my wife?’
The doctor put his hand on Mr Sharma’s shoulder and said, ‘She’s fine and happy.’
The bevy of relatives, some perching on rickety wooden benches others squatting on the chipped tiles of the black and white hospital floor, rushed to congratulate Mr Sharma.
‘Surinder, moti chur ke laddoo!’ Prakash, Mr Sharma’s elder brother, said, thumping his back.
But Soumil’s grandmother sat quietly. She had doubts, legitimate and serious doubts. The absence of enthusiasm in the doctor’s boyish voice, an enthusiasm that naturally accompanies the news of the birth of a boy, was troubling her.
‘Yes, yes, mataji, it’s a boy, a healthy boy,’ the young doctor confirmed, again. Offended by the tone of exhaustion in his assurances, the grandmother said, ‘I’ll find out for myself!’ and walked into the delivery room. The grandmother’s little pack followed suit, shuffling in their synthetic saris and rubber chappals; their anklets chimed out-of-tune with their clumsy gait.
It was a boy.
At least this time, the five daughters-in-law didn’t have to worry about the grandmother’s loose motions. Three years ago, in the same hospital, when Gitanjali was born and Mr Sharma was dancing about like a little boy, the grandmother had cursed so hard that her food turned to water.
‘A girl, as the first born!’