The scales fell from her eyes and Babajan realised what a fool she had been. She cursed herself a million times. She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up through wild eyes. Mango girl was beside her. Babajan felt suffused with shame.
Neither of them spoke for some time. What does anyone say in such a situation. ‘Are you in trouble?’ she whispered, barely daring to say such scandalous words.
Babajan bit back a moan and gave a small nod. ‘I’m ruined,’ she murmured. ‘That man ruined me.’ She stared ahead, lost in her shattered new world.
Mango girl’s arm went around Babajan’s waist and she led her to a seat in one of the lecture theatre’s many rows. ‘He is very flirtatious,’ she confessed. ‘He asks me to stay behind in every class. He told me he wants to take me to see the ballet but my parents would never allow it.’
Babajan’s eyes flashed up at her. ‘You stay away from that man!’ she cried. Partly because he was a duplicitous manipulator, but mostly because despite everything she gave her heart to him and truly loved him.
‘I see that now,’ said Mango girl, whose name was Noor. She paused then plucked up the courage to ask, ‘What will you do now?’
Babajan let out a dramatic scoff and threw her hands in the air. A thousand answers seemed to be on her lips. She sat back in her seat and put her arms across her belly. ‘Raise my child,’ she said.
Babajan managed to finish medical school without being discovered. Her clothes were looser by the time she graduated but not too much as to arouse suspicion. She lived in fear of being exposed and was terrified of Arjun. He was making it just as much a mission to avoid her and they rarely crossed paths now, both burying their heads in books as they passed each other. She didn’t know what hurt most, his complete disinterest in his own child (he knew it was his, he took great pride in being her first and only), or the utter arrogance that he knew he could get away with impregnating a student and she would keep quiet so as not to bring shame upon herself. Babajan didn’t know whether to cry or rage. In private, as quietly as possible she did both.
Babajan has always been very cagey about the next few months of her life. Maybe she thought it was too much for my young ears, or it was too traumatic for her to remember. I hate the thought of her enduring such hardship and I want to fucking punch that bastard Arjun and Babajan’s own family when they turned her out of the house when they finally found out she was carrying a child.
She skimmed over the details of the next section of what must have been the scariest, loneliest, hardest part of her life. I desperately wanted to know how she got by but I couldn’t bring myself to ask.
Next thing I know, she has given birth to my Baba. A beautiful healthy boy she named Aziz. She still had the ring Arjun gave her and was able to publicly pass herself off as a married woman. For more official documents she had managed to acquire a fake marriage certificate. She skirted over where that came from. She also got her hands on a fake death certificate. Babajan rocked up in Delhi with her baby boy in tow, telling the story that she was recently widowed and needed to work to support herself and her son. If anyone questioned the story they kept it to themselves. She was an educated, well heeled lady with a small child. Who wouldn’t believe her?
Babajan began work in a hospital in one of Delhi’s better areas. She found a middle aged widow who was happy to look after Aziz whilst she worked and she settled in to their new life. It was exhausting and thankless but she enjoyed her job and motherhood. Aziz was a good baby who she adored.
She had fallen on her feet like a cat. She had come so close to complete ruin, potential destitution, but her determination, drive and instinct drove her forward. A mere man would not stop her.
She was scared to get too comfortable though. She had used the small amount of money she had to get her this far and now she relied entirely on her salary. A doctor’s wage was not insignificant but if anything befell her they would be in serious trouble. She was alone in the world. She had no friends. No family. She could never go back to Chennai. She had to stay strong and stay well and make a good life here in Delhi to keep Aziz safe. She was lonely. After work she came home to the baby and as much as she loved him, he wasn’t very stimulating company. She longed for companionship. She missed her family but hated them too. From the first time she held her son in her arms she knew nothing could ever come between them, certainly not being born out of wedlock. She could never cast him aside, it would break her. Theirs was the truest, realest love she had ever experienced.