Happy Birthday!: And Other Stories by Meghna Pant

never enquired after their health or children.
    It was sinful for a woman in her situation to behave so unrepentantly.
    So the neighbours gossiped about the men who came to Carla’s house. Someone saw Carla kissing a bald man in a taxi; someone else saw her holding hands with a hairy man in a movie hall, while she was also spotted outside an infamous ‘clinic’ with a fat man.
    Carla, on her part, appeared unaffected by her infamy, which only worsened it.
    Bhanu had never found the courage to ask Genevive about her father. But one evening, after school, Shardabai did. Genevive stuttered in her broken Hindi, ‘My Papa is a big banker in London. He really loves me. And he is coming very soon to take me away with him. Very soon.’ Then she burst into tears. It was the only time Bhanu remembered scolding Shardabai.
    ~
    Three months after Carla’s death, Bhanu shifted Genevive into her house, moving her bed next to her own. Bhanu’s family was pleased to have Genevive around, especially once Bhanu’s marriage was fixed with a young Marwari man, Mohan. A helping hand in a wedding household was always welcome. Bhanu’s marriage didn’t stop the two friends from meeting; since Mohan lived just four buildings away, Bhanu would often visit Genevive—who had moved back to her own house—bringing her food, praying with her for her mother’s soul.
    Soon after, Genevive met an Iranian man, Afshin, a model in one of the shampoo ads that she was helping direct. He moved in with her and within a few months they got married.
    But it was not to be. Afshin was a gold smuggler, Genevive learnt, when the police came to her house to arrest him. She was not spared either; they hounded her and harassed her until they were convinced that she was not an accomplice to her husband. Genevive didn’t see Afshin again, despite her repeated visits to Arthur Road Jail, where he was imprisoned. It was the police who informed her that Afshin had been deported back to his country and that she’d probably never hear from him again.
    Genevive was broken.
    Once again Bhanu came to her best friend’s rescue, helping her weather a meltdown, alcohol binges, visiting her at all times, throwing out her liquor. Eventually, Genevive healed, and with a new job as an ad-film director, she was back to her old self.
    ~
    Genevive is still watching her. She says, ‘Your tea is getting cold.’
    â€˜I don’t want tea,’ Bhanu snaps. ‘Why don’t you have it?’
    â€˜I’m not allowed to drink tea, remember,’ Genevive replies. Of course Bhanu remembers, for despite herself she had taped a list of dos and don’ts on Genevive’s fridge so she wouldn’t brush aside her pregnancy, like she did all serious things. Yet, apart from her bulging stomach, it’s difficult to tell that Genevive is eight months pregnant. She’s lost weight, though her neck seems bloated and her hair has thinned from frizzy to straight.
    Bhanu looks at her own stomach, ghastly in its flatness. After having to abort her first baby due to a positive CVS test, she had gone to three specialists and they’d all told her that her uterus wasn’t strong enough to carry a fullterm pregnancy. She couldn’t try again and if she did, as she’d insisted she would, then the chances of her bleeding to death were high. Why, even her Mohan sided with the doctors and refused to give it another go.
    Bhanu can never be a mother.
    And then there is Genevive.
    Bhanu had asked her a few years ago: how do you feel about having children? And Genevive had said that since her apartment was located directly below the lift shaft, she heard the lift make all sorts of unearthly sounds, day and night. She lived in fear that at any moment its creaky chains would snap and the lift would come crashing down, crushing her house, and the life out of her. This, she had said, was how she felt about children.
    In