Page 96 of The Rules of Playing with Fire

“What friend?”

“A social worker of sorts.”

“This is not working out,” I cried with an exasperated sigh. “I need you to tell me the whole story.”

Dad looked at Mom and exhaled.

“Alright.” Mom’s face relaxed in resignation. “Get coffee. You’ll need it.”

I nodded and went to brew myself a cup. Sona called again. Busy. Will call later, I texted her and poured the coffee into a mug. The dark taste felt good on my tongue, familiar and soothing.

“Arvind was a new doctor,” Mom began, “when he learned that his friend offered medical services to vulnerable people. People who were destitute, kids who begged on the streets, sex workers. You know Arvind, he joined his friend immediately. Some of it required underground work. The criminals who ran the begging rings did not want unwell children to be treated. The sicker they looked, the more sympathy they could gain. Plus, talking to people meant exposing the abominable conditions the kids lived in because kids talk. Sex workers were controlled by brothel owners, although it was easier to convince them to help the women because healthier women meant they could service more clients. These young doctors did it for free and were discounted as idealist youth yearning for some soul-feeding work. Jayant, a young, passionate social worker, was their conduit. He took stock of who needed help and directed doctors toward them.”

“What does this have to do with me?” I interrupted with impatience.

She looked at Dad before continuing. “That’s one thread of the story. On the other side, Arvind and I were newly married and trying for a child. I was pregnant in the first year of our marriage but miscarried in the first trimester. Being married to a doctor, I was hopeful we would find the right treatment and try again, and we did. In another year and a half, I was pregnant again. We took all the precautions and consulted specialists. Nothing was evidently wrong, but my body expelled the pregnancy again. I was devastated. I wanted to try again immediately, but Arvind convinced me that my body and heart needed healing. Our families nudged us, but Arvind was adamant, and I trusted him.”

She held her palm out for him, and he put his hand in hers as she continued. “We waited and continued with hormonal treatments. When we tried again, the pregnancy held. The first trimester was very stressful for me, as you can imagine. You know we aren’t religious, but that year, I prayed for a miracle, and I got one. Sadly, it was short-lived. I delivered a stillborn baby at the beginning of the ninth month.”

Dad pulled his chair closer to hers and put his arm around her. I was tempted to rush over, but resentment got the better of me. Even after I saw a tear slip out of Mom’s eye, I crossed my arms and sat still. She wiped it with stunning agility and pulled herself upright.

“That was when Arvind got accepted to medical school in the U.S. Initially, he wanted to reject the offer, but we thought it could be the change we needed. Meanwhile, whispers ran amuck on how he should leave me and marry someone who would give him a son. This is what changed his mind. He didn’t want us to continue living in a toxic environment. Money was never an issue for our families, as you know. Your dadaji wholeheartedly supported our decision to move and offered to pay for his education. Around that time, as we prepared for our departure from India, Jayant approached us with an unusual proposition. He worked closely with Arvind and knew everything about us. He said that a young sex worker was expecting a child, and she wanted to give it a good, stable home.”

My heart raced. “My birth mother was a sex worker?”

“Yes,” Dad said. “A smart, savvy, intelligent girl.”

“Do you know her name?”

He nodded. “Sharda. She knew her child had no future if it grew up in the brothel. It would either be sold into sexual slavery or recruited into begging,” Dad continued. “She took Jayant aside the next time he went over to check on her and asked him to find a good option. She didn’t want her child to grow up in an orphanage either, like she had after she ran away from home to escape abuse.”

“But it was a different time,” Mom said. “Who would knowingly agree to take in a sex worker’s child? The stigma of the work, the stamp of illegitimacy…Jayant came to our home late one night and proposed a plan.”

“Adopting me?”

“Tell him,” Mom said, leaning back in her chair.

“Jayant said the girl wanted the brothel owner to be told the child died at birth. That way, they wouldn’t go looking for it. Like I said, she was a savvy child. She’d been on her own long enough to know the ways of the world.”

“What did you do?”

My parents exchanged an uncomfortable glance. “I didn’t ask how they did it, but that night, Jayant came home with a newborn and paperwork from the mother relinquishing her rights to us.”

My heart squeezed. “What happened to her?”

Another silent headshake from Dad. “Trying to reach out to her would have put her life and yours in jeopardy. That’s what we were led to believe. When she was pregnant, we sent her money and food through Jayant. We were outsiders, but they trusted him. So we did what we thought was best for everyone involved. It was what Sharda wanted too.”

“And it didn’t take much to convince me,” Mom said. “I was desperate for a child. We were leaving for the U.S. in a few months, and the girl was willingly giving us her baby. It was as if the stars had aligned. Everything coalesced to allow for your easy entry into our lives.”

I felt the world around me tilting. My gaze flitted around the familiar surroundings, my vision blurring over the espresso machine.

“When Jayant brought you home,” Mom continued, and I returned my eyes to her, “I was besotted. I fell in love with you the moment I held you in my arms. I was so overwhelmed, I couldn’t stop crying.”

My dad patted her hand. “I had to force you out of her arms to get her to sleep that night. I think I had to sedate her. Then I sat with you in my arms all night. We hired a wet nurse to feed you, someone we trusted.”

“Then you moved here?” I asked.

Mom nodded. “Three months later, we boarded the flight to our new life with you. It was a flight to freedom in every sense—away from the prying eyes of the society we knew, toward a new beginning with the child life had gifted us.” She broke down into tears, and Dad put an arm around her. This time, I got up and knelt beside her. “Mom.”

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