Chapter 03 – The First Piece

The ground beneath me is rising and my hand is getting lighter than air. It seems something inside me wants to pluck one of those pieces from the stillness that is hovering over my now dead body. (He raised his hand lightly in air as if it had started floating on its own)

My body has started to rise slowly and is moving towards those pieces. The closer I get, the bigger they become. One of the pieces is coming towards me now. It is getting bigger and bigger. It has become a huge bubble with unending darkness inside it. It is all over me now and it has started gobbling me up from my feet upwards. I want to move away but I can neither move nor stop it from enveloping me. I am inside that bubble now and cannot see beyond the unintelligible haze inside that dark envelope. But, wait! There are some shapes that are emerging out of that darkness.

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I have grown quite small. The mysterious shroud has squeezed me down. I feel quite small. I can't open my eyes and I do not feel any strength in my limbs. I don't feel any weight and can't open my palm to clutch at anything. I wish to get up but I cannot. I can hear a lot of voices around me but I cannot speak. It is as if I am an infant.

Oh yes! That is right. I am an infant now. I can feel someone has been rocking my cradle for the last couple of minutes. I can hear two women talking.

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“Is that Mr. Patel’s son?” asked the first female voice.

“No, No. Mr. Patel’s son is in the special ward. He is Mr. _______’s son. They are from out–of–town. Somewhere near Ahmedabad I believe. They came to Surat to attend a relative’s marriage and the mother developed some complications. Didn’t I tell you about the beautiful Muslim woman who gave birth to a beautiful boy?” asked the second female voice.

“Oh .. Yes, yes. I remember. You said something of the sort last night.”

“Yes. She had been in the hospital for almost a month due to the complications and she died today, in the morning, just a few hours after the delivery.”

“Ahh! That’s sad. Losing his mother less than a day after his birth. Tragic, I must say.”

“Yes. Tragic. The poor soul couldn’t even see her son. And, look at this angel. Couldn’t see his mother even once. I just wish I could be Yashoda to this Krishna.”

“But, you can’t. Isn’t it? He being a Muslim and you being a Hindu.”

“Yes. That is why I am feeling so sad. I believe I will just satisfy myself by sitting here, with this angel, till the time he is here. I believe they are leaving tomorrow morning with the body. So, I will stay with him till then. And, since the mother has died, there isn’t anyone to feed him. The family is looking for someone in their circle who would be the lactating mother to this child. But, I doubt they will be able to find anyone so quickly. And, you know I just had a baby about six months back and am still lactating. So, I will feed him today. By doing that I will be his mother for a day at least.”

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I can now feel her carrying me up from the cradle and bringing me closer to her bosom. I can make out that she has picked me up quite carefully and gently.

It has been almost ten minutes that I have been feeding and she has caressed me softly on my head and my back several times. I cannot remember ever feeling so loved in my life. To me, she is not a Hindu. She is a mother. To her, I am sure, I am not a Muslim but a child hungry for motherly affection. I am feeling sleepy now. Her love, her warmth and my satiated hunger have probably combined to have this effect on me. Going.... Going.... Gone.

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I do not know for how long did I sleep, but, I am just waking up due to some loud noises I can hear. It seems to be some sort of an argument over something.

“Why are you shouting lady? This is a hospital and you are supposed to stay quiet,” said the first voice. (It was a male voice).

“And your hospital is supposed to look after the children that are born here, OUR children,” replied the first female voice.

“And we do that. All the infants in this ward are in good hands,” said the male voice.

“Oh yes! I just saw this nurse of yours kissing my new–born nephew. And, my niece here, his elder sister, has just told me that she saw this nurse feeding my nephew. Can you just ask her what she is trying to do?” asked the first female voice.

“I am just taking care of the child. It has lost its mother and I didn't want him to go hungry through the night while waiting for you and other family members to come and feed him. He is just like my own child for me and I was just nursing him,” replied the second female voice.

To this, the first female voice almost shouted, “But he is not your son. He is OUR son. We do not want your Hindu milk going into our son's body and we do not want your care......”

“Then I would suggest you leave this hospital at the earliest as I do not think our nurse here did anything wrong,” interrupted the male voice, and continued, “and, for your information, the doctor who handled your sister–in–law's delivery and helped bring this child into this world, is also a Hindu. Just think over it.”

I can hear my aunt's grunts and the nurse's soft sobs and the doctor's heavy breathing during the silence that has taken over after the last statement by the doctor.

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In all that exchange of words, there is one thing I could not understand. “Hindu Milk”. What did my aunt mean by it? Is it any different from any other milk? Can milk be different on the basis of religion?

I am not completely out of my slumber yet. My aunt has picked me up and is carrying me away and is rocking me in her arms continuously. And, the sleep is coming back again. Going..... Going..... Gone.