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Three Stories of Motherhood

By Aarti Sriram

Aisha and Kittu

“You’re lucky, Aisha! A deputation abroad it’s a dream!”
Gurvinder’s voice came through the line with a burst of excitement. But Aisha only smiled faintly. She had been feeling adrift  from the moment the transfer letter had arrived. ”Eversince college you have been wanting to travel the world and write stories of people” her college and closest friend Gurvi exclaimed.


A year into her marriage to Kittu, she had filed papers for adoption. The decision had come easily to her, almost like instinct. Kittu had stood by her from the very beginning, right from the time she had mentioned it during their courtship days as colleagues. They had known since their college while applying for masters at Mysuru University but were not friends. Kittu and Aisha became close during their volunteering days at the old age center.  Their families had also grown closer after that and soon getting related via their marriage.  When he had gone for ‘ladki dekhne’, Aisha had again spoken about her desire to adopt, even when they had a child of their own, and that was not welcomed so graciously when her family, especially his elder sister, Pushpa, had raised eyebrows.

“Adoption? So soon after marriage? You people don’t even want to try?” Pushpa had said, eyes narrowing over her coffee cup.

Aisha had only smiled politely. She knew what she wanted: a family. A child. It didn’t matter how.

When the posting to Singapore came, she and Kittu had decided to take it. “New beginnings,” Kittu had said, as he packed his guitar and old cricket bat. They lived there for two good years, in a small but airy apartment near East Coast Park. Aditi, their daughter, was born there, and life had unfolded gently mornings of sunlit verandahs, walks along the sea, laughter over dosas made from pre-mixed batter packets.

Even Aisha’s father-in-law, a widower, had visited them once and returned home quietly impressed by their life abroad. For the first time, Aisha felt things were falling into place with her inlaws .

Until that one afternoon.

“Amma, lift me higher!” Aditi squealed, dangling from the monkey bars, her cheeks flushed in the sticky Singapore sun.

“Wait, kutty, wait!” Aisha laughed, just as her phone began to vibrate in her tote. The long string of digits on the screen looked foreign an international call, maybe from India. She flipped open her old Blackberry.

“Hello?”

Static, then a woman’s soft Kannada accented voice. “Is this Mrs. Aishwaryalaksmi Ram? I’m calling from Kutumbam Circle. We...

The voice faded and crackled and Her heart began to race.

“I’ll call you back from my landline,” she said quickly, already gathering Aditi. “Come on, kutty, time to go home”. She wanted to immediately return this call from her landline. “Aditi  we need to rush home, please come down and wear your other shoes”, and she started gathering her sipper, a couple of sand play toys and aditi’s raincoat as they swiftly walked away from the park. There was a mist spray to humidify the hot air on the pavements and Aditi would insist to wear raincoat n pretend its snow crystals falling on her princess raincoat!

Aisha smiled, her mind elsewhere. Could it be? After all these years of waiting?

Back in the apartment, she dialed the number again, this time steadying her trembling fingers.

“Hello, I’m returning a call from Kutumbam Circle,” she said.

The same voice answered, calm and warm. “Mrs. Aisha, I’m Sumathi here. Yes, I wanted to personally tell you the adoption committee has accepted your application. You’ve been matched with a baby boy, three months old. His name is Tia.”

“Tia?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Sumathi chuckled. “We named him after one of our sponsors’ children. You’re welcome to rename him later.  “How soon can you come down to see TIA. I am sure you have read through the guidelines and are aware we cannot select your profile if you do not consider living in India with our child. So you’ll need to travel to India soon to complete bonding and post-adoption follow-up. You and your husband must both stay for at least six months.”

As Kittu opened their apartment using his set of keys Aditi ran hearing the door open and shouted appa appa,  he stopped his whistle and signaled Aditi to quieten down hearing a serious conversation and noticing  Aisha noting down on her notepad. 

Aisha turned, eyes gleaming. “We finally got the call. Our papers are through. A baby boy, Kittu. We need to go home.” And she went over the details.

Kittu set down his bag slowly. “A boy? Tia’s a boy?”

Aisha laughed. “Apparently! The name came with him.”

He dropped onto the sofa, silent for a moment, then grinned. “You know what? Tia’s already lucky for us. I got my promotion today. Project Manager, CRM Division!”

Aditi was running around the sofa with her toy dog. “Tia, Tia, Tia!” she sang, turning the dog into an imaginary brother.

For the first time that day, Aisha’s eyes stung with happy tears.

That night, they sat on the balcony as rain streaked across the city skyline.

“We’ll have to move back,” Aisha said softly. “Kutumbam insists we live in India during bonding.”

“I’ll come too,” Kittu said. “I’ll turn down the promotion.”

She turned sharply. “No, Kittu! You’ve worked so hard. Let me go with Aditi first. You can join later. You have, infact we have needed this promotion for so long now.  You can take a decision once things settle.”

He didn’t reply. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled like an old drum.

The next morning, Gurvi’s message on yahoo messenger on Aisha’s laptop screen, pixelated and sleepy.

“So finally, it’s happening!” Gurvi said, clapping. “And what will Pushpa say now?”

Aisha sighed. “She’ll probably call it madness. But Appa might come around. He’s softened these days.”

“You’re stronger than you think,” Gurvi said. Then her tone shifted. “By the way… there’s something I haven’t told you. A distant relative of mine in Mysuru Reena she’s helping me. Egg donation. It’s working this time. Five weeks in.”

Aisha’s eyes widened. “You mean you’re pregnant?”

“Touch wood,” Gurvi said, smiling through tears.

For a long moment, both women were silent, connected by the glow of the screen and their separate journeys into motherhood.

Two weeks later, Aisha was back in India. The smell of rain-soaked mud and jasmine garlands filled the air as she walked through the gates of Kutumbam Circle.

A young nurse cradled a bundle wrapped in yellow cloth. When she saw Aisha, she came forward.

“This is Tia,” she said simply.

Aisha bent down. The baby blinked up at her wide black eyes, tiny fists. Something inside her shifted, wordlessly.

When she finally held him, he stopped crying, as if recognizing her warmth.

“Hello, my little one,” she whispered. 

The next few weeks blurred into a rhythm of paperwork, interviews, and medical checkups. Kittu joined them later, cheerful but visibly tired. Bureaucracy in India was nothing like Singapore. Every form needed three copies, every visit required signatures from five different desks.

Still, they persisted.

Pushpa visited once, bringing sweets but also a thin smile. “So this is the boy, ah?” she said, peering into the cradle. “He does  looks like your father “ she whispered just to Aditi !

Kittu’s eyes flashed.

Pushpa looked away. But later that evening, Aisha saw her sister-in-law gently adjusting Tia’s blanket while he slept.

One night, Aditi came running to their room, clutching her stuffed dinosaur.

“Amma, my dino will sleep next to baby Tia every night so he won’t be scared.”

Aisha laughed, though her throat tightened with emotion. “That’s a wonderful idea, kutty.”

She thought of Singapore the sterile comfort, the clean order and felt a strange peace settle over her. Here, amid the noise and imperfection, her family was finally complete.

When Tia’s final adoption papers came through six months later, Aisha and Kittu took both children to Mysuru for a short break. It was the same weekend Gurvi and Aman had invited them over.

In the living room, Gurvi sat glowing beside a pile of baby clothes. Reena was there too, smiling quietly, her hands folded in her lap.

Aisha placed Tia in Gurvi’s arms. “Meet our son.”

Gurvi looked down at the child, tears pooling in her eyes. “And you meet our miracle in the making,” she said, resting a palm over her belly.

In that small Mysuru apartment, surrounded by the hum of ceiling fans and the smell of filter coffee, three women sat together each carrying a different story of love, courage, and sacrifice.


Amandeep and Gurvinder Kaur

Some nights, when the city goes quiet and even the ceiling fan sounds like a distant wave, I lie awake counting the small bruises on my thighs. The nurse calls them “love marks of science.” I call them what they are reminders. Every little blue patch means another chance I gave myself to become a mother.

Amandeep mumbles beside me, half asleep. “Whom are you talking to, Gurvi? Let me sleep, yaar…”

I smile into the darkness. “Just talking to Waheguru,” I whisper. But really, I was talking to myself. Trying to stay brave.

The daily blood check, needle pokes, and long hours at the clinic and anxious wait for the test results every week. The pregnancy itself was not enough as I would have miscarriage very soon and sustaining this tedious routine all over again for multiple cycles and then a pause only to  restart was arduous, and killing  every cell and spirit of me of being a female, a mother to be , in waiting!

It’s been six years since Aman and I got married. Six years of polite smiles, doctor appointments, herbal concoctions, and the silent judgement of relatives. I remember our early days of marriage, the big house, his parents, the pressure.

“When will you give us good news, puttar?” his mother would say, half-joking, half-accusing.

After the third failed IVF, the jokes stopped. The silence at the dining table grew thick, like ghee left too long on the stove.

When the doctor said stress could be affecting my chances, Aman and I decided to move away. They bought a smaller house but nearer to his workplace and  closer to a new IVF center, this time a better one.

This morning the injection stung more than usual. “Bas, almost done,” the nurse said, pushing in the hormone shot. My stomach was already tender from so many pokes.

Aman came in carrying chai. “You’re becoming a pin-cushion, Gurvi,” he said with that awkward half-smile he uses when he’s trying to make me laugh.

I wanted to laugh. But laughing ,sneezing  anything made my tummy and below area pain ! Instead, I said, “You think this will work?”

“It has to,” he said quietly. “And if not this time, then next. Or the time after that. But you’re not alone, samjhi?”

Sometimes I forget that it’s hard for him too. He doesn’t show it, but every month that I do pregnancy test , he is near the bathroom door and when the indicator shows a single line, he walks a little slower the next day.

Thats  when Reena my co-sister  visited us  the first time. It was Dasara holidays. 

“Your Mysuru looks like a dream all lit , Gurvi,” she said handing a box of sweets.

Later, she saw the vials and syringes on my kitchen counter. I tried to hide them behind the bread box, but she’d already noticed. She had known it through relatives that we were trying.

“So this is what you do every day?” she asked.

“Twice a day, actually.”

Her eyes softened. “I can help you, if you want. I went and discussed my options with a gynaecologist before coming here”

I thought she meant moral support. I didn’t realise she meant truly help.

When she first offered, I refused outright. “No, Reena! You’ve already suffered enough. Why should you go through this for me?”

She shrugged. “Because I may be able to. Because I want to see you smile.”

I cried that night, quietly, after she’d gone to bed in the guest room. There was something sacred in her offer something I didn’t feel worthy of accepting. And what if she changed her mind later!!

The next week, Aman and I went with her to the fertility clinic near the Ring Road. The waiting room smelled faintly of Dettol and coffee. Posters on the wall showed smiling couples with chubby babies.

Reena filled out her forms calmly, her handwriting neat and careful. I kept watching her, still  not sure, half hearted she’d change her mind.

The next day past eleven p.m. she called.

“Sorry, Gurvi,” she says, her voice soft. “I just wanted to tell you the reports came normal. Doctor said I’m fit for donation.”

I couldn’t speak, I felt grateful and guilty at the same time.

“Thank you, Reena,” I manage to say. “You don’t know what this means to me.”

She laughs lightly. “I know. You don’t have to thank me. My Kartal would’ve wanted me to help family.”

After the call, I lie there, staring at the ceiling, thinking of  Reena, my husband’s cousin’s widow. She has her own scars, hidden and deep, and yet she wanted to heal mine.

Dr. Meera came out, a small woman with a kind face. “You’re doing something very noble,” she told Reena.

Reena smiled. “No, Doctor. She’s the brave one.”

I wanted to tell them both that bravery wasn’t something I felt. Mostly I felt tired, scared, and guilty for dragging others into my battle.

At home, I told Aman, “Your mother will never forgive us for this , first an IVF kid and secondly, genes of half Christian”.

He nodded slowly. “Maybe. But she’ll love the baby when she sees it. Love always comes late in our families.”

He tried to joke, but I saw the truth in his eyes. His parents had never accepted me completely. They thought I was too outspoken, too modern, too restless. They had even told him once, “Gurvinder is not the silent type who adjusts.”

Maybe but silence had never brought any woman I knew closer to happiness.

The hormone cycles began. Reena came every morning for her injections, smiling despite the headaches and nausea. We became closer than sisters. Sometimes she’d bring tea and gossip from her school stories about students and staff politics that made me laugh again.

“You know,” she said once, “when Kartal died, I thought I’d never feel useful again. Now I wake up with purpose.”

I touched her hand. “You’re giving me a life, Reena.”  “No, Gurvi. We’re giving each other one.”

The retrieval day arrived. Reena was calm; I was a nervous wreck. As they wheeled her in, she gave me a thumbs up. I clasped my hands and whispered a prayer.

Afterwards, the doctor told us they’d retrieved twelve good eggs. “Now we wait,” she said. “Patience and positivity.”

Two days later, I watched the embryo transfer on the screen a tiny dot of light, no bigger than a mustard seed, placed inside me. My breath caught. So fragile, yet so full of hope.

Aman squeezed my hand. “That’s our baby, Gurvi,” he whispered.

For once, I didn’t correct him.

The two-week wait was torture. I avoided mirrors, avoided calls from relatives, avoided hope. But when the day came, I woke up before dawn, unable to stay still. Aman made tea while I sat on the edge of the bed, holding the pregnancy test like it was sacred.

Two pink lines. Faint, but there.

“Aman,” I said, my voice trembling, “look.”

He stared at it, then at me, then broke into laughter that was half sob. “We did it!”

I nodded, though tears blurred everything. “We did it. And Reena did it. And maybe, finally, Waheguru did it too.”

That evening, I called Reena. She was still at school.

“It worked,” I said simply.

There was silence, then her soft voice. “See? I told you. You just needed a little faith.”

“I’ll never forget this, Reena.”

“Just promise me one thing,” she said. “When your child asks about me someday, tell that I was the one who wanted their Amma to laugh again.”

I couldn’t speak. The tears came like a release after years of holding breath.

Now, as I sit by the window watching the Mysuru sky glow with Dasara lights, I feel something I haven’t felt in years peace. The journey has been long and bruised, but tonight, I whisper thanks.

For science, for friendship, for love that chooses to give instead of possess.

Aman walks in with tea. “Thinking again?” he teases.

I smile. “Remember how you used to say I talk too much?”

He grins. “And now?”

“Now I think I’ll talk to our baby instead.”

He sits beside me, and together we watch the fireworks burst above the palace. Each spark, for me, feels like a small prayer answered.

Reena 

Reena lived in Punjab. Her father served in the Military and that's where she met Kartal Singh and they got married after a courtship of more than two years.  Reena’s father was Col.John and her mother was Ameena Kaur. The col and Kartal enjoyed each other's company and Reena found a soulmate in Kartal  and lived her dream life of a home maker, her home and Kartal was her life and world. Reena was a multi linguist  and spoke both chaste Punjabi and pure Kannada at home. In fact, after her Masters, she was interning at the historical society inside their township and would go and teach Kannada at their Kannada samaj centre to the kids.  She and Kartal  moved in the army quarters after marriage. Her in laws after retirement had moved out of Punjab. But as fate would have it very early on in their marriage Kartal died during one of his military postings in J&K border squirmishes. Alas, Reena was in shock…

She wrote her sobbing; her tears became words in her diary.....

 ‘Some people say time heals everything. I don’t agree. She wrote in her diary.
Time only blunts the edges. The ache remains, tucked away somewhere between the heartbeats.

I was allowed to live for a year in the government quarters. I moved out to Mysuru  to my father’s ancestral house near Nazarbad. “Fresh air, new people,” he said. I knew he was trying to save me from my own grief. When Kartal died, I was twenty-eight and angry at the world. Angry at God, at fate, at the sound of rain that reminded me of that night in the cantonment when they came to our door with the news. For months, I lived like a shadow eating because my mother insisted, breathing because my father prayed.

Father says, “You need something to wake up for, Reena. Life must move forward.”

I hear Amma whisper, “Let her try. Just once. Maybe teaching will help her forget.”

It’s been two years, you know since anyone has seen me live a normal day. Sometimes I wonder if I ever will.

So after he had applied  for me. I got in and started teaching history in Mt.Carmel high school. It helped me feel lighter.

I met Gurvinder properly the following year.  In the old days, the cousins had  met during family weddings  i remember  Kartal me.

My father insisted we visit them “Family should be near,” he said.

Their house was small but filled with light. Gurvinder greeted us with tea and the smell of freshly fried pakoras. She was beautiful  tall, fair, with eyes that looked permanently tired.

“So, how are you liking Mysuru?” I asked.

She smiled weakly. “Better than Chandigarh. Quieter. People don’t ask so many questions here.”

Later, I understood what she meant.

That night, after dinner, I saw her arranging a row of syringes on the counter. She noticed me watching and quickly tried to cover them with a towel.

“IVF,” she said finally, her voice almost a whisper.

I nodded. “It must be hard.”

She didn’t reply, but I saw the way her hands shook as she capped each needle.

In that moment, I remembered my own hospital corridors, my own cold metal tables not for hope, but for farewell. Maybe that’s why I understood her silence better than her words.

A few weeks later, this thought came to me suddenly  perhaps divinely. I had gone home after visiting Gurvi one evening, and my mother had said, “You looked more alive today.”

Alive. That word had felt foreign for so long.

When I told my parents about my decision to help Gurvinder, they went still. My mother’s eyes widened. “But beta, what about your own future? Your health? Your chance to have children one day?”

I took her hands. “Ma, what future? Kartal is gone. I’m not planning on marriage again.”

My father looked at me steadily. “If you’re sure, we will stand by you. But promise us you’ll think this through.”

I did think it through  long and hard. And every time, the answer was the same. If my body could bring joy to someone who had lost hers, wasn’t that reason enough?

The clinic was clean and cold, with posters of smiling babies lining the walls. The nurse gave me an injection schedule  a neat chart with circles and ticks, as if it were homework.

Each morning, I would have to inject myself and head to school. My students noticed my energy returning. I smiled more, scolded lesser.

When the doctor told me I’d respond well to stimulation, I felt oddly proud. “You’re very healthy,” she said. “We will retrieve the eggs next week.”

The story continues here...