Not without my daughter

I hated children’s birthday parties.

The cakes, the celebrations, the gifts, children giggling and running all around - everything reminded me of only one thing, that I was 40 and I had no baby. Worse, I may never have one.

I was losing time. No baby was on the way. What if no baby would come? What was the matter with me? Women around me easily got pregnant. My younger sister did five years ago. I stayed with her during her pregnancy, held her hand when she delivered a handsome baby boy. And I saw her world change overnight. My parents pampered my nephew, relatives swarmed around, as did I, to spoil the new member. I could see my sister felt like a whole new person. She was a mother and the world saw her differently. I, too, longed for that transition.

After I turned 30 in 2000, I switched 10 gynaecologists over the next 8 years. I lost count of the number and the types of treatments I underwent. Most promised definite results, but I got none.

In November 2008, I decided to give IVF a shot. I was aware of the severe side effects and its low success rate, but I had made up my mind. Doctors told me I needed a lot of rest throughout the treatment. I quit my job of 15 years — a job that had shaped my identity — pooled in all our savings and fixed an appointment.

The dream of having a child takes a toll on you alright. IVF is an expensive procedure, takes up all your time, and most of all, it’s emotionally wrenching. It gives you some hope, but the inevitable desperation and fear drains you, too. It starts with a surgery, followed by daily doses of injections for 15 days, regular visits to the hospital and heavy drugs with side effects that may last you a life time. My back still hurts a year after the treatment.

Then comes the wait for the results. On March 15, 2009, my report was out — it was negative. It made me dizzy. I couldn’t resume my job. For six months, I sat around, as if I was waiting for something to come along miraculously and fix everything. I would sit by the window for hours, numb, and cry myself to sleep every night. My husband had made peace with our childlessness. He said he could live with it. But I couldn’t.

After a few months, I decided I was ready to adopt. I called up a counsellor, completed the formalities and waited yet again. But this was different, I was more patient. I read up everything about adoption and called up the organisation every few weeks. They always said the same thing: “There is a long waiting list. No baby is available yet.” I found that difficult to believe. How could there be no baby “available”? Unfortunately, children are abandoned everyday. Week after week, I read stories about new-born babies thrown in gutters or left naked in garbage bins. My head throbbed at the reality. I once read about a baby who died in a dustbin on the day of the elections because the police were too busy guarding polling booths. The place was only a few kilometres from my home. I couldn’t take it.

I remember sitting alone by the window on the last day of Ganapati Visarjan. It was pouring heavily when I got the call. There was a baby girl in a remote village five hours from Bhubaneshwar.
“She is a few months old. Do you want her?” asked the counsellor.
I called up my husband and we booked tickets to Bhubaneshwar.

Two days later, along with a representative from the adoption agency, we were off to a village called Kendrapada in Orissa. It was a remote place and the roads were rocky. Electricity was a luxury. When we reached there, a woman from the ashram met us with a coarse, soiled bundle in her hands. The baby girl wrapped inside was weak and hadn’t been bathed for days. I took her in my arms and she smiled. That moment, I knew that I couldn’t leave that place without her.

My husband took care of the formalities, but it wasn’t easy. We couldn’t speak their language and they didn’t speak ours. We had all our official documents in place, but they demanded a hefty “donation”, too. Fights broke out and they simply refused to let us leave without the money. I was terrified and held on to the baby. After seven hours of haggling, we paid them and left with our daughter.

I wanted to leave that place as soon we could. What if they called us back and said that we couldn’t have her? We drove back to Bhubaneshwar and brought her home two days later. Only when I reached Mumbai did I feel that I could take on anything. Our daughter seemed to realise that, too. She looked all around as we reached the city.

We named her Riddhi (a combination of our names, Reeta and Dinesh) and she has been with us for six months now. She is healthier and her grandparents can’t get enough of her. A few official formalities lay pending and Riddhi is not legally ours yet.

We are waiting for a date from the court. I cannot stop thinking that the Orissa organisation can still take her away if they want to.
I tell people my daughter is going to be a linguist. I am a Sindhi and talk to her in Sindhi, my husband in Gujarati and my maid in Telegu. She is very sharp and understands all of us.

She turns one on April 29. I have grand plans — a small birthday party with family members, a big cake, probably, with chocolate frosting and cherries on top, like all those children’s parties I used to attend...
Reeta Prajapati spoke to Radhika Raj