The Unwanted Child (1)

My 'real' birth took place in a small village in Mymensingh. My modest family consisted of my parents, two sisters, and one brother! I was my parents' third child. Father worked in government service and earned a decent salary at month's end. Our family was financially comfortable—though not solely on Father's income; Mother's role was considerable in this regard. Before I elaborate on this matter, let me tell you the story of how my parents came to be married.

In those days, my mother was from a distinguished family; the only daughter of the Chaudhury household, and blessed with remarkable beauty! I did have three uncles, of course. You're wondering, then, how was my mother the only one, right? Oh sir, I said only daughter—why are you thinking only child!

So as I was saying, my father was then a paying guest in the Chaudhury household. Don't understand what paying guest means? Just a lodger, that's all! It wasn't that Father was struggling financially at the time; he was the sole heir to whatever property Grandfather had, being an only child; but his reason for staying in lodgings was Mother! My grandmother was an educated, refined, and extremely intelligent woman. Though she didn't know Father's real reason for lodging there, she had secretly planned to make him her daughter's husband.

At that time, no one in the entire neighborhood was as educated as Father. From the outside, Father looked somewhat naive and simple, but whether anyone else could recognize the clever fellow within, my grandmother certainly could! Father was quite tall with a well-built frame, though his complexion was rather dull. But dressed in a suit and tie, he would immediately acquire the bearing of a proper Chaudhury family son-in-law. Mother, however, was petite with a round face like a beautiful idol.

After passing several tests set by Grandmother, Father finally succeeded in bringing that little idol home to brighten his small room.

One by one, the signs of their love began to bloom like living flowers, descending from paradise to earth! After my two elder sisters were born, Father brought Mother to Gazipur, Dhaka, for his job. There Father built a house, and about a year later, Grandfather died, leaving Grandmother somewhat broken. She wanted to keep either my elder sister or younger sister with her at our village home. Both sisters had grown up by then and neither wanted to stay with Grandmother anymore; both were quite busy with their studies. What could be done—Grandmother would come and visit from time to time.

In mid-Kartik, Mother suddenly fell ill. After going to the hospital, everyone learned that Mother was two months pregnant. Seeing the report, Father felt as if lightning had struck him. No one in the family, including Father, wanted another child at that time. Before I even came into the world, the word 'unwanted' was attached to my name!

My elder sister was then in college and my younger sister was preparing for entrance exams.

At such a time, Mother was expecting again—they simply couldn't accept it. My elder sister's friends would often tease her about it. They'd say, "Hey Savera, aren't you going to buy a feeding bottle? In a few days you'll have to feed your little brother or sister!"

Sister would come home and often quarrel with Mother.

This went on every day; Mother spent her days in a kind of mental turmoil. Mother became very irregular with her eating too! Father never took care either—I mean, what did I matter; he did take proper care of Mother. When my two elder sisters were expected, Father would place his hand on Mother's belly to feel their heartbeats, sense their movements, stroke and caress lovingly, put his ear close to listen...to see if there was any response. But with me, Father never did any of these things. Why would he! I was unwanted, having shamelessly come without permission to embarrass everyone!

No one told me then that I was unwanted, that no one wanted me, that I was causing everyone embarrassment every moment! Why didn't anyone tell me? If they had, I truly wouldn't have come; I would have told the Creator, "Don't send me as a source of shame, O God! I'm probably quite unsuited for this world You've made. Don't throw a bundle of punishment into a happy household!"

If anyone was happy to hear of my coming, it was my grandmother, Begum Nahar Chaudhury! Packing her bags from Mymensingh and bringing my youngest uncle along, she came straight to our Gazipur home.

From then on, Grandmother took care of Mother, force-feeding her; perhaps Mother didn't want to eat properly because I was unwanted! Toward the end of Kartik, at the dawn of some new morning, shameless me arrived to give everyone ultimate embarrassment!

According to Grandmother's description, I was only a cubit in length and slightly dark in color! Moving my tiny hands and feet and making thin sounds, I somehow managed to announce that I was alive! In Muslim families, after a child is born, it's the father's duty to recite the first call to prayer in a son's ear. In the father's absence, grandfather/uncle/maternal uncle—whatever male family members are present. But in my case, even though Father was present, it was Uncle who performed the duty of the first call to prayer!

After I came into the world, Mother fell ill—the cause was weakness! Father took Mother to the hospital, only forgetting to take me along. Grandmother mixed a spoonful of powdered milk with water and gave it to me—I tasted my first meal through artificiality! Since Mother was terribly weak, poor me at one hour old, whose marble-sized enormous stomach couldn't get even a drop of mother's milk! I would have tasted proper food in a few hours anyway!

Twenty-five days later, I had the good fortune of drinking mother's milk for the first time...When I was two months old, Grandmother noticed that my legs weren't well-developed for my body size—they had become quite thin below the knees. Ah, my fate! Doesn't the saying go, wherever the unlucky one turns, the ocean dries up! That was my condition too! When I was six months old, Father said that if she wanted, Grandmother could take me to Mymensingh with her.

Grandmother did just that; Mother, of course, cried a great deal and fell sick a second time.

My new journey began at the Chaudhury house in Mymensingh with Grandmother! My age was one hundred eighty days; already the path had split in two! The word 'unwanted' certainly carries weight, doesn't it?

In mid-Baishakh, Grandmother brought me to Mymensingh. My three uncles were also there.

No sooner had we set foot in the village than the villagers began analyzing and dissecting this incident! Stories, tales, and events were constantly being spread in all directions! Everyone was seizing every opportunity to say something nasty. Many said this boy would never be able to stand and walk on his own feet—he was born crippled! They were even going around to other villages spreading slander, but Grandmother wasn't particularly bothered by all this. The family had influence, so we were safe; otherwise, the crime of taking a six-month-old baby from his mother might have earned Grandmother a life sentence! Whatever anyone may say, a maternal grandmother's affection is always a bit more than a mother's! This truth cannot be denied, sir!

At the Chaudhury house, Grandmother's new battle for me began. Daily oil massages on my legs with mustard oil, tying pillows on both sides of my feet to keep them in place, doctors—quacks or degree holders, therapists, folk healers, homeopathy or allopathy—there was nothing Grandmother didn't try for me! This was Grandmother's daily battle to make me stand on two feet! This battle to keep me alive, to make me walk on two legs, to preserve the existence of an unwanted child! A battle to prove that the Creator's creation is never unwanted, that there's a proper purpose behind every creation—a battle to transform shame into honor—whose battle is this exactly? Mine, or Grandmother's? In this battle to find answers about creation, I am there, Grandmother is there; fate is there and God is there too—this is my life's progression drawn on a chessboard!

Normal, healthy children start walking between ten and eleven months, but it took me eighteen months! Like a tender vine shoot that droops under the sun's harsh heat but learns to lift its head with just a touch of water, after eighteen months of battle, I too learned to lift my head and stand in just that way! A tide of joy rose that day in the broken jaw of the tired, aged Begum Nahar Chaudhury.