PART 4 #10
Over the course of the past eight months, Aanchal frequently complained about my affection towards our unborn child.
The baby will become your top priority, I will be a distant second, she used to say.
She kept telling me she would be jealous if I ended up doing that.
You’re mine first, she would keep repeating.
I would keep telling her that no one could even come close to the love I felt for her.
‘Weird to think of myself as Baba.’
‘You know what you can teach the baby?’ she asks. ‘Baba is the best, Baba is amazing!’
‘I like the sound of that.’
The nurse walks in and clears her throat. ‘Are you sure you want to be in the OT? Need your consent for the document.’
‘. . . wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
‘There will be blood,’ the nurse warns me.
‘I need to keep an eye on you guys, don’t I?’ I say to her.
The thought of Aanchal going through pain feels like someone’s twisting a knife into me.
The nurse turns to Aanchal. ‘Five minutes and we will take you in.’ She looks at me. ‘You wait here. We will call you when it’s okay for you to enter.’
She leaves.
‘I’ll see you inside,’ I tell Aanchal.
12.
Daksh Dey
I keep looking at my watch.
I’ve been waiting in the sterile hallways of the hospital for forty-five minutes, heart thumping like a wild drum in my chest. It seems like an eternity.
Finally, I see the nurse wave at me from the end of the corridor.
She checks my hairnet, the overshoes. The double doors to the OT swing open before me.
Bright overhead lights illuminate a bed where masked figures move quickly.
Nurses in blue scrubs walk around with brisk efficiency.
The air carries a sharp scent of antiseptic, intermingled with the dull undertones of latex and blood.
That’s when I see Aanchal. She’s lying there, partially awake, an oxygen mask over her face, a sheet draped over her swollen abdomen forming a small curtain between her upper and lower body, doctors moving busily.
The anaesthetist is asking her questions.
When she looks up and spots me, she beckons me over.
I draw in a shaky breath, clutching the cool metal of the chair next to her.
My eyes flit to the sight that lurks just past the curtain’s edge: the glistening redness, the surgical tools clinking softly on the tray and the suction whooshing as it carries away the blood into a small container by Aanchal’s side.
‘Isn’t that too much blood?’ I ask.
The doctor shakes her head. ‘It’s normal. Please let us concentrate. This is critical.’
Aanchal opens her eyes slightly. She groans softly, ‘It will be fine.’
‘Is the doctor rude?’ I joke.
Aanchal smiles at me. ‘She doesn’t know you.’
‘Because you didn’t let me know her.’
‘I had to do this,’ she whispers.
Dr Jayaci speaks from the other side of the curtain. ‘You will feel some pinching but no pain.’
The reality of a bunch of doctors cutting into her body, a body I have loved so much is overwhelming, but the sight of Aanchal’s strained smile anchors me.
‘Don’t worry, Daksh,’ she whispers, her hand reaching out for mine. Her touch is cool, reassuring.
‘You’re doing great,’ I say these empty words to her.
‘I’m just lying here.’
I kiss her hand.
Dr Jayaci speaks up, ‘We’re making progress, Daksh.’
I watch as he orchestrates a ballet of scalpels, forceps and gloved hands, every movement precise. The air hangs heavy with anticipation.
Words move around in the air, but I can’t make out the sequence in which they are being said.
‘Retractor.’ ‘Good visibility.’ ‘Careful around the lower uterine segment.’ ‘Forceps.’ ‘Sponge.’ ‘Clamp.’ We are in a moment that’s undefined by time.
I tell Aanchal repeatedly that I love her and she asks me if there are tears in my eyes.
My vision begins to blur, dissolving the world around me into a haze.
I sense her slipping away, her presence receding, even though her hand is still ensconced in mine.
‘I love you more than life,’ I tell Aanchal. ‘There’s nothing more important—’
Just then, the air is punctured by a baby’s cry—high-pitched and beautifully alive. I look behind the curtain. My heart soars as the doctor lifts our baby into the world, her tiny body slick and crimson. So fragile, so innocent and so angry to be here in the world before time.
‘Girl,’ they say.
‘Girl,’ mumbles Aanchal.
‘Girl,’ I whisper.
‘Congratulations, Daksh,’ she says to me and, with a tired smile, adds, ‘Congratulations, baby.’
‘You’re what you always wanted to be. A father. A Baba.’
Our baby is quickly taken to the side of the room where the paediatric team awaits. Her cries are muted by the soft whirring of the machines around us.
‘Go to her,’ she says. ‘Bring her to me.’
Reluctantly, I let go of Aanchal’s hand. I walk tentatively to the incubator where they are cleaning her. They put an ointment on her eyes, take measurements, check her vitals and wrap her in a little blanket.
Even with half-closed eyes, mouth opened mid-scream, I know who she looks like: Aanchal.
Aanchal’s voice breaks through my thoughts, ‘I want to see her, Daksh.’
She reaches out, her hands shaking slightly. Her eyes are tired, but they shine with an intense desire to hold her. The nurses exchange glances, their faces slightly pinched.
‘Her oxygen levels are low,’ the paediatrician says. ‘Only two minutes.’
I pick my daughter up.
‘Second baby?’ the nurse accompanies me and asks as I walk towards Aanchal.
‘You can say that.’
I sit next to Aanchal and gently lower our baby towards Aanchal’s face. She takes off her oxygen mask and kisses her.
‘Gauravi,’ I mumble.
Her eyes flit towards me. They grow soft. ‘Good choice,’ she says softly.
The nurses remind me to take videos or I will regret it later. I take a few.
‘We’ll have to take her now,’ says the paediatrician. ‘We need to monitor her oxygen. She needs to maintain at least 95+.’
As he takes my daughter away from me, from us, I feel an unjustified anger rise within me.
I want my daughter back. I don’t trust any of them.
A ripple of panic begins inside of me, but Aanchal’s hand squeezes mine reassuringly.
I don’t want to leave Aanchal, but she reassures me with a weary smile, ‘Go with her, Daksh. You know you want to.’
‘I will see you soon, baby.’
She smiles again. ‘I’ve never seen you happier.’
‘I’m happy for us.’
‘I’m grateful I could do this for you, Daksh.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And don’t worry, her oxygen will be fine.’
‘Hmm . . .’
‘Not 95, but 100,’ says Aanchal.
‘I would expect nothing less. She’s your daughter after all.’
‘And she’s the daughter of the luckiest guy in the world. How can it be any different?’ she says. ‘I love you, Daksh. Go now.’
‘Thank you.’
With a heavy heart, I follow Gauravi’s tiny form encased in an incubator to the NICU. I crane my neck to steal glances at her. Every cliché they say about being a father is correct. It’s like an open-heart surgery and a tiny part of you now lives outside of you.
At the NICU, the doctor tells me they would observe her for a couple of hours and if she maintains the oxygen levels, she would be shifted to the ward.
‘She will be okay, right?’
The doctor nods, and that’s enough for me.
I take more videos of her—even though it’s painful to see all the wires strapped on to her. The nurse takes little footprints and handprints.
‘Is the mother out yet?’ I ask the nurse at the station.
She dials the number. It’s strange to call Aanchal .
. . a mother. A mother of my child? I haven’t even got used to calling her my wife.
It still feels like we are dating. Every morning when I see her, my first thought is that she has stayed back after a date.
I have waited for her for so long it feels like I’m still waiting for her.
‘She’s going to be shifted to the ward soon,’ she tells me. ‘They are just waiting for her to get sensation back in her legs. You can wait there or here, wherever you want to.’
‘I will go see her.’
13.
Daksh Dey
I wait the next fifteen minutes for Aanchal in the ward. The head nurse finally says, ‘They need you in the NICU. The doctor is examining your daughter.’
I jog back to the NICU. The paediatrician and a couple of nurses are congregated over the little incubator.
My heart seizes for a brief moment, an unsettling mix of anxiety and hope creeping in.
Are they having any trouble? Is she okay?
When I approach, I see them separate. The doctor turns towards me, his expression serious but calm.
‘Things appear to be under control,’ he says. ‘She’s holding up her oxygen levels.’
A smile lights up my face as my eyes flit to the numbers on the little monitor she’s hooked up too. The oxygen saturation is at 100. Typical Aanchal-type behaviour.
‘Thank you, doctor.’
The doctor reciprocates with a warm, ‘Congratulations.’
He goes on to assure me that the nurses will soon have my little girl dressed up, ready to be taken back to the ward.
‘Has the mother reached the ward yet?’ he queries.
‘Soon, they are saying.’
‘First-time parents?’ he asks.
‘My wife is,’ I say, ‘Not me.’
The doctor throws me a puzzled look and then leaves. A nurse introduces me to the standard infant clothing provided by the hospital.
‘I’ve brought clothes,’ I tell her.
I hand her a bag filled with Rabbani’s old clothes, a sentimental stash Rabbani had made me put in the car.
Back then, I had told her it was too early, but she had shouted and screamed and warned me that if I allowed my baby to be dressed in anything else other than her baby clothes, she would never talk to me again.
As the nurse gently dresses my newborn daughter, she lets out a high-pitched wail, surprisingly endearing given her petite size.
‘Should I do it instead?’ I tell the nurse.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I can do it in my sleep, sister,’ I tell her.
I slip the little onesie over her little fingers, I trace my finger over her tiny face, and watch her chest rise and fall with every breath she takes. I let her cute, soft feet rest on my palm.
‘I love you,’ I whisper as I wrap her in the blanket that was once Rabbani’s. ‘And you know something?’
She lets out a little whine.
‘Baba is the best, he truly is,’ I whisper. ‘You will find out soon enough. And also, Baba is amazing. We have plenty of time to make you believe it.’
Once I finish dressing her up, my daughter is carefully moved to a small crib and officially discharged from the NICU. Warm congratulations echo around me from the nursing staff as I navigate my way out of the NICU, steering my daughter’s crib towards the ward.
In the hospital room, I’m instructed by the nurses on how to feed my newborn using the tiny feeding bottle and the proper technique for burping her after.
They cradle my baby with a possessiveness that suggests a reluctance to hand her over to me.
Despite my reassurances that this isn’t my first experience with a baby, they look at me with suspicion.
It’s not until I gently lift my daughter into my embrace that their sceptical expressions soften and their shoulders relax.
‘You have done this before,’ one of them says.
‘I was born for this.’
As my little girl nestles comfortably into the crook of my arm, an overwhelming wave of love washes over me, expanding my heart as if to accommodate this newfound affection. Maybe Aanchal was right: she did come early so I could get an extra month of loving my daughter.
‘She’s premature and they require gentleness,’ one nurse says. ‘So, we were unsure . . .’
‘She’s safest in my arms,’ I say. ‘And, of course, her mother’s. I’m Daksh, by the way.’
The nurses introduce themselves: Kamala and Rajdeep.
‘If I need anything, I will call you.’
The two of them start to leave reluctantly, when Kamala says, ‘We don’t really leave the babies with just their fathers.’
‘I assure you she’s the safest with me.’
They ease up a little more.
I find it cute to see the warmth in their behaviour in this cold, sterile hospital.
‘Sister? Can you check where Aanchal is? Also, my father is in the waiting room. Can you send him up?’
Kamala and Rajdeep nod.
‘Why don’t you sit with her on the bed?’ Kamala says when she sees me sitting with Gauravi on the sofa.
‘That’s for the mother,’ I tell Kamala.
She leaves the room.
After about ten minutes or an hour, I have no idea because I have spent it all staring at Gauravi, Kamala returns. This time, she comes with Baba in tow.
‘Daksh,’ he says.
And he needs to say nothing more. His eyes tell me all he needs to say. The recognition that I’m not just his boy any more, I am, in my own right, a Baba. He comes forward and rubs my arm. He looks at Gauravi, who is sleeping in my arms. I haven’t had the heart to put her back in the crib.
‘Give her to me,’ says Baba, his eyes glinting with joy.
‘Sanitizer first,’ I tell Baba.
As Baba walks towards the cleaning station, Kamala comes closer to me.
In a soft tone, she says, ‘There’s nothing to worry about, but your wife has been taken to the ICU. She needs some blood thinners. There might be a clot.’