It is that time again when one needs to regurgitate consumed reality for those that cannot digest the rawness of Life.
Last night I met her again walking down the narrow street crammed with little shops and seedy bars filled with tattooed gentry and women in leather. These leathers and feathers want to be seen in their leather boots, leather skirts with holes in them and hems that defy gravity (stitched by a tailor with an epileptic fit). Colourful and contorted creatures that harm no one for their world exists in the plums of a spliff or the little round tabs that fit neatly beneath the pierced tongue.
Her name is Madonna (name changed to save her from immigration and a homicidal maniac of a boyfriend). She has an angelic face and carries her baby in a black cloth slung around her neck.
“Marco, have you seen my baby?”
I peered into the black cloth sling and watched in amazement as the small biscuit coloured face smiled innocently back at me and then went back to sucking on her teat swollen with milk while one small hand clutched the chain with a cross that hung from her neck.
“Beautiful little chap, so are you going to baptize him?”
“NO! He born in India so he Hindu.”
“It doesn’t work like that, ….he has to be born into a Hindu family. You cannot become a Hindu….”
“No, no, you are wrong…”
“So what is his Hindu name”
“Daniel”
And as I watched her perspiring face glisten in the flickers of light that passed every so often whenever someone near us lit a ciggy, a momentary wave of sadness descended upon me.
“What, why are you looking at me that way?”
“How old is Daniel?”
“Three months. I will breast feed him till he is five years old. He will eat other food but I will give him a top up. My mother brought me up like that. See how strong I am. I carry my baby wherever I go even while driving a scooter to Arambol (20 km away).”
“Have you got his birth certificate done and his passport? Will he be Russian of Indian?”
“Indian, not Russian. I have no family in Moscow. No one. Everyone is dead. Everyone. My son will grow up as Indian, in India. And then I can stay here, here and live shanti (peacefully)”.
“So have you done the paperwork for his passport?”
“No because my visa expired over one year ago. And then I was busy being pregnant and then baby. So no time to do paperwork. I have one lawyer, he says no problem I can get visa and stay here because of my baby”.
“Madonna, you will go to jail and your baby will go to the government. I can put you in touch with a women rights lawyer who will help you free of cost and get all paperwork done. However, as per the law you will have to leave India. Maybe baby will have to stay behind. Then you have to apply in Moscow to the Indian Embassy and when your resident visa is granted you can return to your baby”.
“No. I am mother. This, this is my son. I will never leave India. This is my home,” she said, her voice breaking. Tears trickled down her cheeks and onto the face of the now sleeping baby.
“Where is the father?”
“He is a bastard. I telephoned him to tell him I was pregnant and he say it was another man. He is in Italy. Then he say he wants blood test. I say no. Because that means he doesn’t trust me. My mother brought me up alone by herself. Now I do this for my baby.”
“Madonna, you will have to give the father’s name, that’s the law here. And he has to appear in person with his passport. If you don’t then you will have to officially adopt the child which may take upto a year.”
Just then a motorcycle passed, thundering down the narrow street.
She touched my hand and smiled wanly. “Marco, I am a good person. I couldn’t have an abortion, you know. I thought about it but I felt I was killing. Now look at Daniel’s face. See how he sleeps in my arms, he never wake even when motorcycle pass because he knows he is with his mother, he safe”.
“If you need help, call me”, I said in a haltering voice.
“Mother India will save me and my baby. Because I was here before, another time”, she replied and gave me a kiss on the cheek, turned her back and gracefully walked down the hazy street filled with petrol fumes and cigarette smoke, while embracing the little bundle of joy.
Madonna and her son were soon lost to the night.
