Three years ago, when Neelam arrived in our neighbourhood, coy and glittering in her newly wed finery, all eyes were upon her. Drivers watched when she flounced to Mother Dairy to get milk every evening. Car cleaners unwittingly washed the wrong cars when she sashayed down to the temple in the morning. The general consensus was that Raju, her husband, was one lucky guy. “Give her a year and she’s going to lose that figure of hers,” said my maid cattily, “that’s the fate of all women — pretty or not!” But a year later, Neelam continued to bloom with nary a baby in sight, much to the consternation of her neighbours and co-workers.
“There must be something wrong,” mused my maid one morning as she watched Neelam from our balcony, “this Neelam has been married a full year and there’s no sign of a child!” I said that maybe the happy couple was waiting for a while before starting a family. “That’s not the way it happens in the village,” she retorted, “this is very irregular!” Murmurs soon gave way to louder voices and finally open curiosity. “There’s probably something wrong with her,” said the MCD sweeper, “when I had been married a year, I had a baby in hand and one on the way!” I stared at her dubiously, wondering whether her maths was a little off, or her morals. “I should ask the poor thing if she’d like me to take her to the doctor,” said my maid with questionable thoughtfulness. She spent hours discussing various fertility plans with her friends while basking in the sun in the colony park. After Neelam had been married three years, and still showed no signs of producing offspring, the women speculated whether all was well between the once-happy couple. They all spoke virtuously of having had a baby every year until the flush and vigour of youth had been replaced by a motherly languor. “That is the way it should be,” said they, “what is life without a couple of babies? Good looks are all very well, but a woman without children is incomplete!”
Meanwhile, Neelam continued to sashay around, oblivious to her faithful swains. If the innuendos and curiosity bothered her, it certainly didn’t show on her plump face. Her nonchalance, I noticed with amusement, bothered the other women tremendously. I saw them gossiping when Neelam went past, her bangles jangling suggestively. “All this is worth nothing to a barren woman,” said they jealously. Then one day, a wandering mendicant set up a tent on the main road, offering “proven” cures for infertility, amongst other disorders. The women marched up to Neelam and told her that they were going to take her there.
“But why?” asked a puzzled Neelam. “We know, we know…” they sighed, “it must be so hard for you to keep trying and failing to conceive. God willing, this Baba will help you!” Neelam threw her head back and laughed. “I’m fine,” said she, “we’ve just chosen to not have any children for the time being…” But why, chorused the crestfallen women. Neelam said, “Raju has to send a lot of money home as his father has recently bought some land. So we decided to postpone the extra expense of a larger family at this time … there will be plenty of time for having children a few years later!” As she got up to leave, she said, “Anyway, it’s fun to be young and unencumbered — I pity those poor village women start producing children nine months after they’re married!” Leaving all the dumbstruck mothers and a couple of local romeos swooning in her wake, she walked off — childless yet blooming.
