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Twins
Commandment #1 – thou shalt not avoid thy curses

“Sweetie, I know a doctor. She’s excellent. One of my friend’s cousins had issues conceiving. She made a few visits to this gynaecologist, and guess what? Nowadays, she spends her time in changing diapers, breastfeeding, and cherishing sleepless nights!” “Why don’t you guys try Ayurveda? Those things work, honey. I mean sometimes.”

“I’m not blaming you, dear. It could be your husband. Did you check his sperm count? He might’ve been a drunkard or a chain-smoker before marriage affecting his flow of nectar. I hope you understand.”

“Why don’t you guys try Homeopathy? Those things work, honey. I mean sometimes.”

“If it is an ovarian cyst, you need to treat it first before you can plan. I’ve been through that excruciating process called laparoscopic surgery, and I hope you don’t have to undergo that torture. But that’s ok, right? Rather than being sterile.”

“Why don’t you guys just adopt a child?” “Do you check your weight regularly? Looks like you’re diabetic as well.”

“I told him a thousand times not to marry that witch! If only he got married to the girl I suggested, he’d have enrolled a kid in school, placed one on the crib, and would’ve been anticipating another!”

“She’s cursed to be infertile all her life. I could say a few things just by looking at some people. She’s a victim of Jadoo Tona, black magic!”

“A barren. This childless woman brings misfortune to our gatherings.”

“He’s cursed to be infertile all his life. I could say a few things just by looking at some people. His wife’s an expert in Jadoo Tona, black magic!”

The couple held a knife together. They slashed it. As the skin pierced, the outer layer ripped up, the blade diced a perforated, yet soft sponge, and a red liquid exuded from the mass.

They hauled out a slice and stuffed themselves like predators. The flesh-coloured cake with raspberry jam fi lling had a fondant cream that read ‘Happy 8th Anniversary’. The couple spliced their sweaty bodies often, yet they cogged their life’s wheel without a child. His semen was adamant to hustle through her ovaries to create that magical feeling of ‘life inside womb’. As she rode on his manhood, she saw the hanging calendar screaming at her—MaY 2004. She suspended those charts of sheets on a rainy December when they had just moved to Port Blair. It’s the beautiful capital city of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands with splendid beaches and sumptuous food.

Paying a visit to my hometown Kolkata was a physical nightmare. Their friends and family smiled onto their faces yet managed to deliver distasteful, intolerable judgments behind their backs. The intensity of criticisms extended its wings to become denunciation by humiliating the couple, especially ‘The Wife’.

Commodore Abhirup Banerjee was stationed two years each in Bombay, Kochi, and Vizag, and eighteen months once again in Bombay, sporting the Indian Navy’s white uniform. He then got promoted as a one-star high-ranked official to serve at Port Blair. He would be in charge of the naval base in the integrated tri-command, a trio of Indian armed forces, the Indian Coast Guard, and the Andaman and Nicobar Police.

Ayanna loved Port Blair—it had a taste of mild saltiness in the breeze that gusted all across the Island. Tweeting birds, crashing waves, flurrying winds, and chattering people made the Island alive.

She remembered the last day of her college—a hundred months ago. She returned from her girls’ college in east Kolkata donning a yellow robe and trencher. Her father, a renowned pundit, and astrologer from Narendrapur, brought home a marriage proposal rather than attending his daughter’s graduation ceremony.

“The prospective boy is a high-ranking official in the Indian Navy. A Commodore. At present, he’s in Vizag.

The Navy will assign him to Bombay for a couple of years, raising the ranks. They own a house in Alipore with a private lawn and a pool. The boy’s father is a retired Navy Admiral. They’ve five to six maids in their house. Wherever the boy shifts location, the government will provide high-class quarters with an array of servants. We must be born under a lucky star—they’re looking for a humble, middle-class Brahmin girl. I don’t find any reason why she shouldn’t marry him. Bhalo chele, bhalo sambondho, good family!” And thus, Abhirup and Ayanna got married to continue their Bandyopadhyay legacy.

Ayanna Banerjee felt empty inside. She tried the means and methods that people suggested to put a bun in the oven.

The little she read was only about how to get pregnant.

She kept her legs raised into the air for fifteen minutes post intercourse. The flow of sperms into the ovaries is efficient, she argued. She did Pilates and Yoga, hoping she’ll develop a baby faster than usual. She maintained ovulation alarms, Vaastu rearrangements, and felt a pang of jealousy when she spotted women with round bellies.

The couple resolved to no self-pleasure or masturbation. Sixty-four positions from the Kamasutra taught them how to stay tangled but did not aid them in creating life. They indulged in a fertility-boosting diet—eating foods rich in antioxidants, avoiding carbs and trans-fat, swapping proteins, and indulging in more fibre. Ayanna even refrained her husband from taking warm baths, although he cherished the cosiness of hot water in his groins everyday.

Abhirup made sure his flower blossomed, and his honey drizzled all over the hive on the ovulating days. He was cooperative, but deep within, Ayanna knew the problem was with her. The guilt of incapacity to bear a child for such a lovely, respected person like Abhirup disturbed her every day. She frequented most of the temples on the Island, praying for a miracle.

Isolation from their near and dear ones made the couple forlorn. As time passed by, they fought on petty matters. Genuine love went adrift from marriage sanctity, and their sex life became mechanical.

14th May 2004
4:00 AM

“Abhi! Abhi, shuncho! Look at this stick! Do you see two lines like I do?” said Ayanna, emerging from the washroom. “Huh, eta ki? What is it?” Abhirup roused, rubbing his rheumy eyes.

With blurred vision and muzzled thoughts, he gaped at the thermometer-like plastic stick his wife gave him, still recovering from his dream of saving the coastal team from a sinking vessel. His unfocused observation stabilized like how a fog dispersed to give way for an unimpeded path. He saw eight lines on the plastic twig—octets fused and became four. In a moment the quartets became two. He then noticed a couple of small red vertical lines.

His lips twitched as he let out a gleeful smile. Abhirup and Ayanna grinned ear to ear, looking at each other. Ayanna’s happy tears blotted his shirt.

“I’m going to be a mother, Abhi. You are going to be a daddy!” she said.

He nodded his head, approving her, deprived of words.

He pulled her gently into the circle of his arms. The couple apprised the splendid news through phone calls and SMS to their family and friends. Some of them were happy, most of them didn’t care, and a few others condemned even then. But this time, the couple responded to these criticisms with downbeat negligence. They’re about to be deluged with a tiny bundle of delight. An offspring was in the process of development for the past forty days.

Ayanna slept peacefully.

Labour wardroom: Alone, drenched in perspiration, she wailed in pain. Her bumpy womb ached too much to respond. Cramps sent acute pain as if her hip bones broke and her ribs snapped. The only sound she heard was the screams emanating from her larynx as the darkness around her was as silent as hell.

She clutched the dirty blanket and cried as the needle-like threads bruised her palms. Her vagina tore apart, shredding her clitoris and labia into pieces of flesh. Dark blood spewed like a gushing stream as it drenched the mattress. She was about to die. Her drowsy eyes capsized into darkness willing to be shut forever. She became still. Numb.

Her baby wailed hauntingly. She saw the dark space above her. It had something lurking from above. It hung upside down. The scary silhouette was darker than the dark. She woke up from the nightmare. The sweat drops on her forehead assured her it was not just another bad dream.

Ayanna’s mother called her from Kolkata.

“Hyan, Maa. We came back an hour ago from the clinic after a check-up. The doctors have confirmed it too. I have a baby growing inside me. They told us to come back aft er six weeks for the third-month scan.”

“That’s good news, Ayan shona. When you informed me about the pregnancy test yesterday, I went to Dakshineswar Kali Mandir and prayed for you both.”

“Thanks, Maa. So sweet of you.”

“I want to tell you something important, Ayan shona.”

Her usual cheerful tone sounded dreary.

“What is it, Maa? Anything serious?”

“It’s about Shubra.”

Shubra has been Ayanna’s best mate for life. They did their schooling and college together, and were inseparable until marriage tore them apart. Shubra got married fi ve years ago after which she moved to San Francisco with her husband. The best friends still kept in touch through phone calls. Shubra, a happy homemaker, ran behind her two-year-old daughter and worried about her husband’s daily meals, ailing in the suburbs of the Bay City.

“Yes, Maa. I spoke to her on her birthday. In November, to be precise. She’s doing good,” said Ayanna. Her face lit up with a sportive glee, thinking about Shubra. And it lasted only for five seconds.

“She is no more, Ayan.”