westland ltd
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First published by westland ltd 2014
First ebook edition: 2014
Copyright Preeti Shenoy 2014
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-93-84030-74-2
Typeset by Ram Das Lal
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or
otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, circulated, and no reproduction in any
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or reviews) may be made without written permission of the publishers.
Prologue
There are many ways in which your life changes. Sometimes, these changes happen slowly. Like a sapling growing. You notice that a seed has sprouted but you dont pay much attention to it. Suddenly, before you realise it, it is a little plant, firmly rooted, with leaves, stems, buds, and it grows, slowly but steadily, changing every single day, with small, seemingly imperceptible changes, which later all measure up, add and contribute to it.
Sometimes it happens overnight. Like a phone call, after which you can never go back to what was before.
But it is rare that both these changes happen together. In my case, they havent exactly occurred at the same time, but they have happened one after the other. I usually do not think much about it, and I am not one to philosophise, but for the past day and a half, lying in this hospital bed, I have had plenty of time to think.
The hospital is as unfriendly a place as can be, with its stark rooms, antiseptic smell and the Spartan pieces of functional furniturejust what is essential and nothing moredo not help. Dr Shylaja, a spinster at sixty-four, attired in starched cotton sarees as stiff as her unsympathetic heart, runs the hospital with the precision of a military sergeant. She is extremely good at her job, and one of the best in the country. Which is why my parents thought it would be a good idea to get me admitted under her care. Whatever it is, I am here now. And it feels like a nightmare.
Except, it is no dream. The IV drip is real. So is the little rubber tube that goes into my right nostril.
It is for the oxygen, so that the oxygen levels do not fall. It might be a little uncomfortable but you will be okay soon, a smiling nurse says in her heavily-accented English that screams she is from Kerala, as she adjusts the tube in my nose.
The intravenous drip attached to my left arm hurts a bit, but when the nurse asks if its too painful, I shake my head. I have been admitted here since last morning. Dr Shylaja has visited twice. There are nurses walking in and out, writing down all sorts of things and every now and then checking if I have dilated enough. They also keep checking my temperature, my blood pressure and assure me that I am doing fine.
How can my life have changed so drastically in less than a year? Yet it has, and it is a choice that I made. Ten months ago, I was on the cover of Glamour , which is no mean achievement. And even though my parents never approved of my modelling career, I know my mother boasts about it to the ladies in her circle. Privately they have ticked me off, castigated me, tried to knock some sense into me (in their words) and tried to make me use my intelligence, instead of my body. But I dont see anything wrong in what I did. My mother has never been around for me. Nor has my dad.
Agreed, they have given me every single thing that money can buy. There is nothing I have lacked, including an expensive boarding school education. But I dont think my parents care for me. The only time I got a chance to see them was during the two months of summer vacation, which I hated. Dad was always travelling, and for my mother, I was just a minor inconvenience that got in the way of her very hectic social life. Once, when I was seven, I had walked into my parents bedroom and climbed into the bed between them. My mother had woken up and screamed at me and told me to go back to my own room. I had pretended to, but I was just outside the door when I heard hushed whispers, and the male voice was not my dads.
Damndo you think she realised? he had asked.
I dont think so, but I think you better leave, said my mom.
A few months after that, I was sent to a boarding school which was where I celebrated my eighth birthday.
Being popular in school, I was always invited by one friend or the other to spend the summer holidays with them. It was always Suchis house I chose. Somehow I never wanted to spend time at home and it suited my mother just fine.
Suchi, with her loving, large family of three older brothers, a mother who was affectionate, and most importantly, parents who loved each other, and had time for their childrenit was everything that I craved for but didnt have.
I wish she were here with me now, instead of in the US, where she is doing her Bachelors. While in school, the grand plan was that we would both study together. But life has a way of foiling promises made when you are twelve, no matter how sincerely and earnestly they were made.
Had Suchi been here, she would have understood. Unlike my parents who never could figure out why I needed to have a career in modelling when they could give me all the money in the world. There is something that is unexplainable, which no amount of money can buy. It is a feeling, a bond, a deep connection with something larger than oneselfheck, I cant even begin to explain all this to my parents. Besides, I dont think they will have the time, even if I want to try.
Now, lying in the hospital bed, I think that never in my life have I felt this helpless, this out of control, this dependent, this scared . I wonder what the hell I have let myself in for. But I cant turn back the clock now. This is my decision and I am sticking to it, no matter what.
Dr Shylaja walks in again and asks the nurse to get the CTG machine. She does not bother to explain to me what it is, or why she is using it. She never says a single word more than is necessary to a patient. Any question is met with a frown or a nod of the head. The nurse applies a gel to my tummy and then places an elastic belt around it. It has two round plates, about the size of a tennis ball, and it feels cold as it makes contact with my skin. I wince. To distract myself I turn to the machine and try not to look at Dr Shylajas face. The machine starts printing out what I presume to be heartbeats on something that looks like graph paper, the kind we used in math class, but this one is way longer and smoother.
