Seeing movement in Bibhavati Devi's body, the nurse attending to her turned her attention toward her. She got up and came closer. Years of performing this same duty had given the nurse experienced eyes—neither the two tears rolling from Bibhavati's eyes nor the pain in her heart could escape her notice. As she gently straightened and rubbed Bibhavati's bent arms, she spoke in a soft, sweet voice.
"Ma'am... don't be sad. When an organ of your own body starts spreading poison throughout you, it's better to cut it out and remove it. Your life has been saved. That's what matters most."
From seeing the people coming and going and checking all the reports, the nurse had realized that these were not Bibhavati's biological sons. She was childless. She understood the question rising in Bibhavati's heart—she wanted to know how she had ended up with this illness. Explaining it to her, the nurse said,
"Ma'am... if you want to know how you came down with an illness like cancer, the truth is that no one can say what may happen to whom or when. But according to the estimates made so far, women who become mothers and breastfeed their children have a somewhat lower risk of breast cancer than women who are unable to become mothers. And even if a woman does become a mother, if she doesn't breastfeed her children, a lump can form in her breast. As time passes, that lump can turn into cancer and raise its hood to bite like a poisonous snake. It's common these days, Ma'am. Don't worry. Just relax completely and go to sleep."
After saying this, the nurse did everything she could to reassure Bibhavati, told her to rest comfortably, then sat down in a chair kept in the corner and began putting her paperwork in order.
Bibhavati tried to close her eyes and sleep, but she couldn't stop herself from getting lost in her past. She returned to the time of her childhood, as far back as she could remember.
Semri was a small village on the border of Jaunpur and Pratapgarh. Most of its homes belonged to Brahmins, though a few families from other communities lived there too. Since the village lay along the bank of the Sai River, there was hardly any farmland. Most of the land was barren and cut through with ravines. On the few fields that did exist, people could grow only gravelly millet, coarse grains, and similar crops. Wheat bread and rice were nothing more than dreams. If a patron happened to give them such things as a ritual offering, they were fortunate. In this village stood the home of Pandit Ram Anjor Tiwari. Home was hardly the word for it... There was a single mud room, with a thatched lean-to at the back serving as the kitchen and a veranda in front roofed with reeds.
For a few days after Ram Anjor's marriage, his father covered his expenses. But after some time passed, his other earning brothers began objecting to him sitting around and eating without working. They resented the money being spent on Ram Anjor and his wife. Arguments and fights over it broke out almost every day. Tired of his idleness and wanting to put an end to the daily quarrels, his father separated him from the family and gave him this very little hut to live in.
Pandit Ram Anjor Tiwari had a thin, frail body and a wheatish complexion that poverty's scorching heat had darkened considerably. His sunken cheeks were not naturally hollow; they had shriveled from surviving on a single meal a day. His ancestral profession—the family trade for earning a living—was priesthood. His forefathers had supported themselves through it for generations.
But Pandit Ram Anjor couldn't remember more than a few mantras. He couldn't perform prayers and rituals without making mistakes. Sometimes the patron himself would interrupt him and say, "Panditji, you're doing it wrong."
Because of his limited knowledge, the number of households where his ancestors had served as priests gradually dwindled. Now people called him only when it was absolutely necessary and no other priest was available. When the patrons slowly stopped calling him altogether, his source of income disappeared as well. There was only one option left: going from door to door and begging. But that did not sit right with him. His wife, Piyari, suggested, "Sit outside a temple according to the day of the week. Put a tilak on people's foreheads and tie sacred threads around their wrists. People will give you something or other. It's better than begging."
Her idea appealed to him more than begging.
So on Mondays he began sitting outside the temple of the goddess, on Tuesdays outside Hanuman's temple, on Wednesdays outside Ganesh's temple, and on Thursdays outside Lord Vishnu's temple. In the same way, he sat in front of a temple every day according to the day of the week. Sometimes someone gave him one or two pieces of fruit or a few flowers; sometimes a few coins or a handful or two of grain.
His wife's plan worked. They still had very little, but they no longer had to go without food. Their household began to inch along.
Only a few months had passed since they had separated from the family when Piyari began vomiting. They assumed she must have eaten or drunk some stale food to keep it from going to waste. They hurried to the Vaidya. He gave them some herbal powders and such, but even after two days she had no relief. Nothing she ate would stay down; she vomited immediately.
Ram Anjor went back to the Vaidya and told him about his wife's condition. The Vaidya began wrapping another packet of medicine. The Vaidya's wife had been watching and listening to everything too. Throwing all modesty aside, she pulled a face and said angrily to her husband,
"You've become the father of six children, and you still have no sense! You've been giving her medicine for vomiting caused by indigestion for two days. Good grief! She's young, and they were married two years ago. Can't she become a mother? Vaidya... learn to tell the difference between vomiting from indigestion and vomiting from pregnancy. Otherwise, you'll end up sitting in front of a temple doing tilaks and tying sacred threads, just like this Ram Anjor."
Ram Anjor and the Vaidya both listened to the Vaidya's wife's words with their mouths hanging open.
The Vaidya cursed his own foolishness, wondering why the thought had never crossed his mind. Hiding his irritation, he said, "Don't act so clever. That's exactly what medicine I'm giving her. Did you have to sing it out loud? Not everyone can be shameless like you. Now she's pregnant—what am I supposed to ask her? What am I supposed to say?"
After hearing him, Ram Anjor lowered his head in shame.
Getting to her feet, the Vaidya's wife said, "Come on, Ram Anjor... I'm coming with you. Forget these useless packets of his. I'll see what's wrong with your wife."
After that, Ram Anjor returned home with the Vaidya's wife.