Lakshmamma’s water had broken nine days ago. Nine. The midwife, the mantrasani, had come to her aid to assist with the birth, but the baby inside of her refused to turn his little frame around. Feet first was his preferred path out, and the mantrasani was left helpless.
There were prayers and incantations. The local village women invoked the name of Durga, the Hindu goddess of protection, strength and motherhood. They pleaded with her to bring the baby out quickly, less painfully, and most importantly, alive. Perhaps the stars, the nakshatra, were misaligned, causing this traumatic turn of events. There were many moments when the midwife considered cutting the baby out and sacrificing his life to save the mother.
On the 4th night the midwife said that the baby was doomed. But Lakshmamma refused to give up. So, the prayers continued. Tiny clay lamps were lit, and little fires were ignited around the hut. Smoke seeped through the square windows. Bunches of agarbathi were burned, the flickering flames slowly eating through the bamboo incense sticks. The ash formed heaps on the fading earthen floor, as though attempting to mark time with the increasing pile of grey residue. The woody fragrance that filled the room provided small comfort and calm.
Lakshmamma's red cotton sari was drenched in sweat. The midwife poured water into her mouth from a clay pot, trying to cool her body from the relentless heat. She licked her cracked lips, tasting the sweet drops of water, her mind fogged with the pain that was overtaking her. A wet white cotton handkerchief was placed on her forehead, an attempt at absorbing the heat from her burning skin. She had been tilted and turned and inverted into so many strange positions over the past few days, with the hope that gravity would rotate the baby to come out headfirst. She was exhausted. She felt like she was in a fever dream.
It was 6.30am on January 1st, 1932, in Ramabadhrapuram, Andhra Pradesh, when Koti Reddy Idamakanti defied the odds and finally embraced the world outside. The sun was peeping through the thatched roof of the hut, gentle rays glimmering on his brown and bloody wrinkled baby skin. The chaos of the past nine days had settled into a silent calm. It was the first day of a new year, 15 years pre-independence, and so much was yet to happen.
Lakshmamma stared into her baby's eyes, relieved and amazed. Moments before the birth, she had really believed that she was at her very last breath, her aakiri oopiri. She was soon shaken out of her serene moment. "Ayipondhi!" the midwife exclaimed loudly in Telugu, the word rolling out with relief as she knelt on the mud floor, trembling more than the mother who had just experienced nine days of labor. It's done.
