Five Past Midnight in Bhopal - Dominique Lapierre [98]
“Push!” urged the nun. “Push as hard as you can.”
Boda made such an effort that the tears poured down her cheeks.
“No, not like that, little sister! Push downwards. First try and breathe deeply, then push as you force the air out of your lungs. Quickly!”
Padmini lit a second candle to shed more light on Boda’s lower belly.
“For the love of God, push harder!” begged the nun.
The dairyman’s wife bore down with all her strength. Sister Felicity, who had assisted with dozens of births among the destitute, knew that this was their last chance of bringing a living child into the world.
“Stand opposite me!” she ordered the old midwife, who seemed overwhelmed by the situation. “While I try and straighten the baby, you massage her stomach from top to bottom.”
As soon as the old woman started rubbing, the nun gently slid her hand behind the nape of the infant’s neck. Boda let out a wail.
“Breathe deeply,” ordered the nun, “and push regularly, without jerking.”
All the young woman’s muscles grew taut. With her head thrust back and her teeth clenched, she made a desperate effort.
The nun would never be able to explain what happened next. Her hand had just reached the baby’s shoulders when two rats fell off the roof and passed in front of her eyes before landing on the stomach of the laboring woman. Taken by surprise, she withdrew her hand. Was it the suddenness of her movement or the shock occasioned by the creatures’ fall? One thing was sure: all at once the child emerged.
Prema Bai cut the cord with her knife and tied it off with a strand of jute. The newborn baby was a fine boy. Sister Felicity guessed he must have weighed nearly six pounds. Padmini watched as he filled his lungs, opened his mouth and let out a cry that was greeted with a tremendous echo of joy inside the hut and out into the alleyway.
“Big sister, you’ve given me a son!” The dairyman Bablubhai was overjoyed. He brought a bowl full of rice, which he held out to Sister Felicity. “Put this rice next to my boy, so that the goddess may grant him a long and prosperous life.”
Then he called for an oil lamp. According to tradition, it had to burn without interruption until the next day. If it went out, it would be a sign that the child born on this Sunday blessed by the stars would not live.
The magic moment in Padmini’s life had at last arrived. A brass band burst into play, accompanied by singing. Preceded by a troupe of dancers outrageously made up with kohl, the groom’s procession made its entry onto the parade ground outside the teahouse. When she saw the boy astride his white horse, Sister Felicity thought she was witnessing “the appearance of a prince from some Eastern legend.” Indeed, with his cardboard crown sparkling with spangles, a brocade tunic over white silk jodhpurs and mules encrusted with glass beads, the former little ragpicker and train scavenger looked like one of those Indian rulers popularized in engravings. Before climbing onto the mandap, where his bride awaited him beside the sacrificial fire, Dilip had to submit to the ritual of purdah: the imposition of a veil so that his betrothed’s eyes might not see him before the appointed moment in the liturgy. He was then invited by the master of the ceremonies to sit down beside Padmini. Belram Mukkadam had put on an elegant brand-new white punjabi for the occasion. Before the ceremony he had secretly conducted his own private celebration. He had tied his bull Nandi, bought with Carbide’s compensation money, to the trunk of an acacia tree, and again painted his horns red and decorated his forehead with a trident, the emblem of the god Shiva. With this tribute, Mukkadam sought to invoke the sacred animal’s blessing on the union of Dilip and Padmini.
“In the kingdom of heaven, theirs will be the most beautiful faces,” thought Sister Felicity as she looked at the men, women and children, in their festival clothes, encircling the bride and groom. With her bowed head partially concealed