Through gritted teeth, Elsie says, “Ammay! But it’s much too soon!” She reaches for Big Ammachi as a wave of pain folds her over. Big Ammachi feels something wet underfoot and sees a clear, reflective puddle: Elsie’s water has broken.
In a preternaturally calm voice, Big Ammachi says, “Saaram illa, molay. Veshamikanda.” It’s all right. Don’t worry. But it isn’t all right. A glance passes between Big Ammachi and Odat Kochamma, and without a word the old lady waddles back to find thread and needle, and thank goodness, water is always boiling in some pot in the kitchen. Big Ammachi walks Elsie to the bed, as though escorting a sleepy little girl and not the grown woman who towers over her.
As Big Ammachi washes her hands, she hears Elsie call out from the bed, “Ammay!” Not “Ammachi” but “Ammay” for a second time. Big Ammachi’s heart melts. Yes, I am her mother now. Who else is there? She rushes over in time to see a tiny head crown. Odat Kochamma returns, lugging the pot of water.
Just then, with hardly any effort, the smallest baby either woman has ever seen lands in Big Ammachi’s palm, a wet, blue, limp mound.
The two older women stare in disbelief at this tiny form, this beautiful miniature boy, his life story still unwritten . . . Except, he’s too soon for the world. The baby is like a wax doll, chest unmoving. Once more, Big Ammachi and Odat Kochamma exchange glances, and the latter leans forward stiffly at the waist, her hands straight back behind her for ballast, her bowlegs planted wider than usual, and directs a hoarse whisper to the tiny curl that stands in for an ear: “Maron Yesu Mishiha.” Jesus is Lord.
With a start, arms flinging out, the baby cries. Oh, that sweet, sweet, precious, shrill mewl of the newborn, the sound that says there is a God, and yes, He still performs miracles. But it is the faintest of cries, barely audible. His color hardly improves.
Odat Kochamma ties and cuts the cord. The placenta slips out. Seeing Elsie propped on her elbows, peering down anxiously at the baby, Odat Kochamma says crossly, “Boys! Always in such a hurry!” Big Ammachi gently wipes off the baby—no time for the ritual bath. He weighs less than a small coconut. Husked. She eases Elsie’s blouse aside and places the naked child on her bare chest, up high, where he’s no bigger than a large pendant; she covers mother and child with a sheet. Elsie gingerly clutches her son and looks down with wonder, with fear, tears trailing down her face. “Oh, Ammay! How can he survive? His body is so cold!”
“He’ll warm up against you, molay, don’t worry,” Big Ammachi says, though she’s besieged with worry. She spots Baby Mol on her bench, unconcerned, chattering away by herself—or to the unseen spirits who let her peek into what is to come. Baby Mol’s calmness is either a good sign or a terrible one.
Baby Ninan—that was the name Elsie planned for a boy—looks like a newborn rabbit, his nails barely formed and blue, his eyes squeezed shut, his skin pale against his mother’s bare skin. It’s all wrong, Big Ammachi thinks. Too early, too small, too blue, too cold, and the father isn’t here. The words “Maron Yesu Mishiha” are meant to be spoken in the infant’s ear by a male relative or priest. She marvels at Odat Kochamma’s quick thinking: time was of the essence, and they had both been sure this one would be on his way back to his heavenly father before his earthly one came back from the post office.
Elsie’s lip trembles and she looks anxiously to the older women for some sign of what comes next. Big Ammachi says, “He’ll hear your heartbeat, molay. He’ll warm up.” Odat Kochamma wordlessly removes Elsie’s wedding ring, scrapes a fleck of gold from the inside, puts it in a drop of honey, and with her fingertip dabs it onto the child’s lip, for every child in the Saint Thomas Christian fold must have his taste of good fortune, if only briefly.
Odat Kochamma intercepts Philipose before he enters the house. He listens carefully then says, “Does Elsie know that the child might die?” Odat Kochamma pretends not to hear.
Elsie knows. He sees it in the way her face collapses when he enters. He presses his cheek to hers. He peeks at their son. The strength in his legs vanishes.
Three hours later, Baby Ninan is still of this world, his fingertips less blue and his breathing regular but rapid against Elsie’s body. She tries him at her breast, but her areola dwarfs the tiny face, and her nipple is too much for the slit of the mouth. Big Ammachi helps Elsie express first milk, thick and golden, into a cup. “It’s the concentrated essence of you. So good for him.” Elsie dips the pulp of her finger in, then rests it on Ninan’s mouth; a drop dribbles in.
Big Ammachi offers to relieve Elsie. “No!” Elsie says sharply. “No. He knows my heartbeat all these months. He’ll stay here hearing it.” Carrying him is effortless, like holding a mango to her breast. Still, a sling of soft muslin around Elsie and under the child helps. Big Ammachi caps the baby’s head with the same muslin.
That night, three of them hold vigil, Elsie propped up on the bed, Big Ammachi next to her, and Philipose on a mat on the ground. Elsie stares down at her son endlessly. “My body keeps him warm just as when he was inside me. His temperature is my temperature. He hears my voice, my heartbeat, my breathing, just as he did all this time. If he’s going to make it, this will be his best chance.” The oil lamp illuminates the nascent life in its womb-outside-a-womb.
Elsie sequesters herself from visitors for the next two months. She takes walks on the verandah, Philipose shadowing her. She does not care to read or be read to, or draw, instead bringing every bit of her concentration to bear on their fragile masterpiece. If a newborn normally pushes the father to the edge of the household orbit, this one draws Philipose into the heart of the family.
One night when mother and grandmother are feeding him by the laborious fingertip method, Ninan opens his eyes, the lids separating enough for him to look out and for them to see him for the first time. Big Ammachi thinks her grandson’s eyes are so clear, so luminous.
In ten weeks Baby Ninan signals that he has outgrown his nest by stirring his limbs, kicking his feet; when he’s awake, his eyes are now more open than closed. He can even suck on the nipple, albeit only for short periods. One day, Baby Ninan snuggles for the first time on a body that isn’t his mother’s but instead his father’s, with its comfortingly furry chest. They quickly oil and massage Elsie and scrub her down with coconut husk before she submerges herself in the stream, luxuriating in the flowing water. She hurries back, restored and renewed after weeks of washing her body in parts.
Big Ammachi gives Baby Ninan his first bath, then they dry him off, swaddle him, and put him down for the first time on the bed. He sleeps. Father and mother lie on either side of their son, getting used to the sight of him separate from his mother’s body. The baby suddenly extends his arms, as though he’s dreaming that he’s falling. Then, the index fingers stay extended, a benediction to his parents. They grin happily at each other.
Falling unabashedly in love with Baby Ninan allows the parents to renew their love. It thrills Philipose that Elsie has a special look for her child’s father every time he walks in. Their hands seek each other’s, and if no one’s around, he kisses her. The brushing of lips used to drive them both mad, but now it signals a new bond, and the patience to defer the other kind.