By Amulya Malladi
A gorgeous new novel—full of wit and warmth—from the bestselling writer of The Mango Season.
In stylish Silicon Valley, Priya has every thing she needs—a loving husband, a profession, and a home—but the single factor she desires so much is the kid she’s not able to have. In a Southern Indian village, Asha doesn’t have much—raising kids in a tiny hut, she and her husband can slightly maintain a tin roof over their heads—but she wishes a greater schooling for her talented son. confused via her relations, Asha reluctantly tests into the chuffed moms residence: a child farm the place she will be able to lease her merely asset—her womb—to a childless couple in a foreign country. To the dismay of family and friends, Priya locations her religion in a girl she’s by no means met to make her goals of motherhood come true.
Together, the 2 ladies detect the easiest and the worst that India’s emerging surrogacy has to supply, bridging continents and cultures to deliver a brand new lifestyles into the world—and renewed wish to one another.
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Extra resources for A House for Happy Mothers: A Novel
Every breath of air tasted like another swallow of sickness. I wanted to hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut so nothing of that place entered me. But you couldn’t block it out. It was too strong, and I was weak and I couldn’t quit looking. At night, I sneaked out of bed and spied on the other kids. The refrigerated air cooled my backside through the slit hospital gown. But I shivered less from that than from what I saw. Kids with heads lolling on pipe-stem necks. Babies as twisted and bent as one of Mom’s discarded bobby pins.
And as for Lawrence’s idea that we have her declared incompetent and commit her against her will, that would cause the kind of vicious, soul-scarring fight that’s my family’s signature, the brand burned into our flesh. With my shoulder I wing open the door of the Honda, lift out my bad leg, and balance on my good one. After reaching back for my purse with the precious pyx inside it, I teeter there, collecting myself. Christ is tucked next to my heart. I need to focus on that. I’m here to bring Mom Communion, not wallow in self-pity.
You shouldn’t dwell on the past,” I tell her. Yet it surprises me that she’s examining her conscience. Is that another tip-off, like the pictures? Sign of a mood swing? Last week she shocked me by asking whether she had ever hit me. I feared a trap and didn’t answer at first. The fact is, she’s belted me so often, it’s just the big occasions that stick in my mind—the black eye on my thirteenth birthday, the bloody lip for high school graduation, the boxed ears the day Quinn flew off to Europe.