“How long have you had this swelling?” I asked, pointing to the bulge over her abdomen.

“What swelling? I don’t have any swelling. My tummy is always like that.”

“All right, when was your last period?”

“I don’t know, doctor,” Monica answered lowering her eyes.

“Does she have a boyfriend?” I faced Mrs. Alvarado.

“Nobody, doctor, nobody. My daughter is too young to have a boyfriend and she’s not pregnant, this I know.” She shook her head vigorously.

I briefly explained to Mrs. Alvarado the various possibilities for her daughter’s condition, gave her papers for a pregnancy test and an ultrasound, assured her that I did not suspect any serious illness and asked her to see me the next day to talk about the laboratory results.

Mrs. Alvarado and Monica came to my office the following day. After ushering them to my private room, I broke the news that Monica was, in fact, pregnant.

“Doctor, tell me you are kidding,” said the mother.

I shook my head.

Monica began to sob. “No, mom, No.”

“I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it. Monica, tell me what happened?” Mrs. Alvarado demanded.

“I don’t know, mom, I don’t know.” Monica cried and hugged her mother.

I pushed the Kleenex box towards her.

Mrs. Alvarado patted Monica’s back and whispered, “I trust you baby.”  She fixed her gaze on me as though to assess my qualification and experience. “You are wrong, doctor. I know my daughter. She’s not pregnant,” she pronounced, “I will take her to another doctor.”

With that, Mrs. Alvarado and Monica walked out of my office with my Kleenex box.

Becky, my secretary at the front office, has a very amicable personality. Communication is an art and she had mastered it. Becky can squeeze out information even from a mute. When she is around, there is no need to buy a newspaper.

Weeks later, I noticed Becky whispering to her colleagues. Soon I got bits and pieces of information. Monica lived with her uncle’s stepson from Brazil, Pedro, who was three years older than her. I had seen Pedro a few times at my office for a sore throat or a skin lesion. Mrs. Alvarado was worried of his future as he was not interested in studies. She toiled in the fields plucking oranges or pruning grape vines from dawn to dusk.

After school hours, Monica and Pedro were alone at home watching television. Once when she was taking a shower, Pedro opened the bathroom door and joined her in the shower.

Monica was petrified. Pedro threatened her. Monica was scared to death and allowed Pedro to caress her.

Becky told me, “Doctor, Monica confided all this to her mother. She cried relentlessly uttering, “No, mom, I did not know this will make a baby. I did not know.”

Many months passed. I never saw Monica or Pedro again. I noticed Pedro’s name a couple of times in the local newspaper, the Cornerville News. Once he was arrested for possessing marijuana and another time for snatching a purse from an old woman in the Minimart parking lot. I showed this to my wife, Uma and briefly told her what had happened to Monica.

“What a despicable character. Don’t mention his name again,” Uma commented.

I nodded.

Uma and I had all the material comforts as I was earning well. The only worry that gnawed on us was that we were childless.

The Doctors investigated Uma as well; they did blood tests, sonograms and X-Rays. They adjusted the uterus that was leaning a little to one side like the tower of Pisa. They showed my wife how to measure her body temperature, check her urine, and tell me the best time to make love. Science has taken over what is cupid’s domain!

Uma and I are Brahmins and belong to Ayyar caste. Uma is from an orthodox family and punctually performed daily puja to various gods and goddesses to beget a child.

Every morning she made me do certain rituals as well. Even after settling in this country for more than ten years, I still had my janivar, the sacred thread across my chest. After a shower, I wore a dhoti, smeared a little vibhuti, the sacred ash over my forehead, and stood in front of the idols of Shiva, his consort Parvati and other gods and goddesses arranged neatly inside a shelf in the kitchen. I lit a Mazola oil lamp or an Ambica incense stick and chanted three Sanskrit verses in a monotonous tone, as they were the only ones I knew. I hoped that the gods will not get tired of the three stanzas.

Occasionally I skipped taking a shower when I had to leave early to attend to a newborn from an emergency C-section or take care of an admission. At such times my wife chided me, “What kind of a Brahmin are you? You have time to use the bathroom and brush your teeth, but no time for a shower. Let alone doing sandhyavandanam, puja to Sun God at dawn and dusk. You have dropped even taking a shower,” and so on.

At such times, I would be silent; otherwise, she would drag my parents into this. “If only they had raised you properly,” she would add, “What will my relatives think of you when we go back to India?” Occasionally, she would spot me after a shower with a bare chest. “Where is your janivar?” she would demand. I knew I was in trouble. “You don’t respect our customs and culture. You are a nastik, (an atheist).” She would scold thus and handover the sacred thread that she had spotted inside my inner shirt in the laundry basket.

“You’ll certainly go to Narak, (hell),” my wife would predict. She knew more than I about these ethereal matters. Despite this bickering, Uma and I were getting along well as I had developed the knack of listening only to what I wanted to hear, an art I learned from my private practice.

Many months plodded by and Uma did not conceive. Then Uma consulted Rama Sastri, the computer-savvy temple priest, a short man with a bun and a liberal amount of ash smeared horizontally over his forehead. He could converse in five languages. Rama Sastri calculated the location of planets based on my wife’s date of birth and figured out that Saturn was casting an evil eye from a corner in the Zodiac. Saturn had to be appeased by performing pujas to the planets. It would help if we went on a pilgrimage to various temples in India.

We travelled from Kashi to Kanyakumari, dipped in holy rivers and oceans hoping to wash away our sins, and collected the holy waters from the river Ganges to sprinkle over the Siva Lingam in the holy town of Rameshwaram.

Uma offered innumerable prayers to many deities and circumambulated the sacred pipal and margosa trees that grew together in the temples with the belief that would beget a child.

Satisfied, we returned home, with a deficit of $6,000 in my checkbook.

“We should consider adopting a child,” I said one day.

“A Brahmin child,” she replied.

I was surprised. I thought she would never consent so easily to adoption.

“A Brahmin? Here? Are you crazy? Next, you will say you want an Ayyar child, right?” I asked mockingly.

“Why not? You can adopt one from India, preferably a girl.”

“Not an Ayyar girl, Ayyar girls are very argumentative,” I commented.

“I see, not that long ago, someone begged an Ayyar girl kneeling on his knees to marry him. Remember?” She looked at me coyly with a mischievous smile. I kissed her.

We adopted a girl on an auspicious day, named her Amulya - the precious one - after consulting the priest, wall-papered her room with pink flowers, bought a crib, got cases of Enfamil and procured Bisphenol-free bottles. We took Amulya to a temple for Lord Shiva’s blessings. Our joy knew no bounds as Amulaya grew fast and adapted to our customs and culture, favoring our foods, such as idli, sambar and dosa and calling us Amma and Appa. Years fast forwarded in a happy mode.

“All this is happening because of my pujas and prayers to god,” said Uma.

By the grace of the same god I was doing well at my practice. Influenza was in full swing that season and I admitted Jasmine, a sick asthmatic child suffering from pneumonia to the Cornerville Hospital. I ordered blood tests, X-Rays and started her on intravenous fluids, breathing treatments and antibiotics. She seemed to get better.

“Go home and spend the rest of the Christmas Eve with your family, Doc, but drive carefully,” advised Cathy, the ward nurse.

Outside it was gloomy, as a dense fog had set in like an unwanted guest. The sentinel lights in the parking lot stood disappointingly dull failing to chase away the darkness and the encircling fog. I could hardly see five feet in front of me creating for me an illusion of premature cataracts.

The wet fog and an eerie silence soaked the area except for my footsteps and the rustling of my white coat. As I stooped to open the door of my car, I felt the sharp edge of a cold knife pressed against my neck.

Someone from behind commanded in a harsh whisper, “Doc, gimme your wallet quick and don’t make any sound.” The knife-edge pressed harder.

I felt my end was near and for a brief second I thought of my wife and Amulya. I gingerly took my wallet out of my pocket and without turning back, handed it to the man behind. The pressure on my neck eased a little. “I may end up with a stab wound to my chest or a severed jugular,” I thought and silently chanted Lord Hanuman’s name to give me courage. Maybe a tree branch would fall on this man or Lord Hanuman would show up in the form of a cop, I thought.

“Please don’t hurt me. I have my daughter waiting for me at home. Take whatever you want,” I whispered.

“Doc, is that you?” asked the man from behind recognizing my voice. I too placed him. I was scared to say so lest he would stab me.

“Come on Doc, you know me. I’m Pedro.” He withdrew the pocketknife. I turned around and faced him. Pedro had grown tall and burly, perhaps weighing 200 pounds. I was puny and with a chop of his hand, he could fell me down or wring my neck easily.

I was shaking.

“Don’t be scared, Doc. I will not hurt you. Doc, does Monica still come to see you?”

How could I forget Monica? She was one of the youngest pregnant girls I had ever seen. “No, I haven’t seen her for years, honestly,” I replied. Pedro was silent. He seemed to recollect something.

“Doc, my daughter must be five years old by now. Have you seen her? Maybe she comes in with a foster parent?” he inquired.

“I see many five year olds. How could I know who your child is?” I spoke slowly. I had recovered my composure.

“Don’t kid me Doc; my daughter was born on Cinco de Mayo. How many five-year-olds do you have in your practice who were born on that day?” His voice was irksome.

“Pedro, I am sorry, really, I do not remember any child born on that day. I am from India and I do not pay attention to Cinco de Mayo days. Honestly, I don’t think your daughter comes to my office.”

Pedro was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Doc, remember this, I love my daughter and I want to see her. I want her. The bastards, CPS people and social workers separated us.” He paused and came closer. I could smell his alcoholic breath.

“Hey, Doc,” he continued, “my daughter has two tiny cute moles over the right side of her neck. They are hard to see. You have to look for them. If you see her, take note and tell me. Don’t forget, I know where you work.” He chuckled.

“Sure, Pedro. I will keep an eye out for her.” I agreed. I wanted to get out as soon as possible without getting hurt.

Pedro slowly opened my wallet and took a ten-dollar bill. “This will do for a pack of beer,” he said and handed the wallet back to me. “Merry Christmas, Doc.” He laughed, turned around and silently melted into the wet fog.

I breathed a sigh of relief and headed home.

“Today is an auspicious day. Honey, have a shower and light the oil lamps to god,” Uma announced from the kitchen as I enter my home.

Amulya, wearing a green Zari Lehanga came running, hugged me tight, and asked, “Dad, what gift did you bring me today?”

I hugged Amulya, lifted her up and kissed her on her soft cheeks. Instinctively I glanced at her neck.

There were two tiny moles.