Chapter 2: Morning Sickness and Cravings

My dislike for Meera started as early as her first month of pregnancy.

Even her smallest complaints felt like a personal attack on my peace. The house, once quiet and orderly, now echoed with her retching and groans. Sometimes I wished my mother was around to manage her, the way she did with my bhabhi during her pregnancy.

She behaved as if she was suffering from some deadly illness.

She’d clutch her stomach and make dramatic faces, rushing to the bathroom at the faintest whiff of masala in the air. Even a simple whiff of onion tadka would send her running, the maid fanning kitchen smoke away while the pressure cooker whistled. I’d find myself tapping my foot in irritation, fiddling with my phone, trying to ignore the commotion.

Everyone else would eat just fine, but suddenly she’d clamp her hand over her mouth and bolt to the bathroom, vomiting so loudly the neighbours could probably hear. Tell me, isn’t that just revolting?

Her mother would pat her back and offer nimbu pani, soothing, 'Beta, sab theek ho jayega.' I’d roll my eyes, thinking, 'Arrey, drama queen!' My cousin Seema used to eat mango pickle and golgappa during her pregnancy—never made such a fuss.

At first, I tried to be understanding. She’s pregnant, so a little morning sickness is normal. I thought if I just put up with it, it would pass.

I even tried to help—once, I made her adrak chai, but she couldn’t even sip it without gagging. My attempts at being caring felt wasted. I told myself, 'Bas, ek-do hafte ki baat hai, sab theek ho jayega.'

But it didn’t pass. Instead, she kept vomiting for over a month, and it only got worse.

The bathroom became her second bedroom. Every time she came out, hair plastered to her forehead, I felt something inside me shrink. I’d switch TV channels abruptly, pretending I had urgent work on my laptop to avoid sitting beside her.

From throwing up after eating, to even after drinking water, eventually she’d vomit even if she hadn’t eaten at all.

Even the sight of plain khichdi made her retch. The kitchen filled with the smell of ajwain and hing, the maid bustling about as the pressure cooker hissed, but nothing helped. My mother-in-law brought home homeopathic medicines, but nothing seemed to work.

I really don’t get it. Arrey, sabko hota hai, pregnancy hai. Who is she trying to impress by vomiting all day?

In my mind, I compared her to the women I saw in the local park—pregnant, glowing, chatting with friends, eating bhel puri. Meera, on the other hand, looked like she was auditioning for a tragic TV serial. I wondered if she was just angling for sympathy from everyone.