Happy Hours

Happy Hours was my brain child. Well, the idea was mine, but the name was Yasmin’s genius. What kind of a twisted mind names a childcare facility Happy Hours?

This should have been warning enough.

Yasmin and I arrived in San Berman, California about 11 months ago. It’s a beautiful little county- a poor man’s Switzerland if you will. Rolling green hills, picture perfect clouds, cool crisp winds. The population is predominantly young Asian families spawned by the Silicon Valley nearby.

Perfect!

We rented a 2200 square foot ranch style house in an old neighborhood, near a first class elementary school. The realtor shook her head in sympathy as I exclaimed over the steep rent. But the house was so perfect! It had a beautiful stucco façade, graceful palms in the front and delicate pink roses in a sprawling backyard. The house was L-shaped with three bedrooms at the back, a double-car garage and two full bathrooms. The living and dining areas formed the front of the house, the shorter arm of the L.


We loved it that the bedrooms were set away from the street.

After six months of frenzied cleaning and unpacking, at last things looked ready for launch. I went online and put out an ad. It highlighted my status as a former pediatric RN. It also candidly acknowledged that Happy Hours did not have a license-as yet. However we begged parents to give us a chance. In return we offered personal one-on-one care, fresh home- cooked meals and snacks-at prices significantly lower than other daycares. We even waived the diaper-stocking fee and security deposits for the first few parents that signed up with Happy Hours. We advertised for babies between 6 months to about a year-and-a half old.

We did not have to wait too long. Within three days we got our first call from Mrs. Valgapalli. She turned out to be a pleasant young thing of twenty-five – who asked me to call her Sumeeta. Sumeeta’s daughter-Nisha- was 8 months old. She had wide black eyes, curly black hair and dimpled black skin. I almost drooled at the sight of her. So perfect! Perfect! Perfect!

Sumeeta had a thick Indian accent. Apparently she had arrived in California only a year ago. In fact, she was married only about 18 months ago! And now she had this baby in a strange land, with an almost equally strange husband. She was overwhelmed. Tired. She hadn’t slept well in days. Sumeeta’s husband worked in the Silicon Valley and could not fathom what his wife was supposed to do if the baby was in a daycare. He also failed to understand why he had to shell out enormous amounts of money for this luxury. To top it all, Sumeeta could not drive. How was she supposed to get to and from a daycare? So things looked quite bleak until Sumeeta chanced upon my ad. The location was close enough for her to walk over. But more importantly, the rates were perfect.

I hid my smile.

Sumeeta was a diligent mother. Why is the price so low, she wondered? I assured her it was a promotional stint. The fees would soon be raised to match other centers – but I promised to keep them lower for her as the first parent to sign-up. I could see Sumeeta’s eyes sparkle at the thought of bringing home a good deal to her husband.


Bulls eye !!! exclaimed Yasmin.

Sumeeta then spent an hour checking around the house. She checked the backyard. She requested the weekly menu and inspected the kitchen closely. She went into the bedrooms lined with clean little playpens and checked the linen and the ventilation. She was about to pronounce herself satisfied when she spotted the door at the end of the narrow hallway. She turned to me, clearly expecting to be shown that room too.

I was caught off guard. But Yasmin stepped in seamlessly.

It’s the door to our bedroom, gushed Yasmin. Would Sumeeta like to see it? I walked purposefully towards it, but Sumeeta backed away with a laugh. No need she waved. How could she broach my privacy? She pronounced herself satisfied and signed the papers. Nisha would be dropped off the coming Monday- three days from now. She was scheduled to come for three full days every week, 9-5PM.

Just as she was leaving I remembered. Sumeeta, I called, here take these. I thrust the slim green folder into her hand. This has a couple of letters of recommendations and my RN license number, I explained. Sumeeta smiled as she flipped through it while holding the baby awkwardly in one hand. Excellent, she said and thanked me.

I was uneasy about this. One attempted call and it would be all over. But Yasmin was elated. She's like that, my Yasmin. Such a thrill freak.

The next call was from Mrs. Cairns. She was calling to confirm if the price was really as low as advertised online. Did we have any openings? I took the call and informed her we had already reached our capacity. Yes, yes, we were already full! Mrs. Cairns hung up sounding disappointed.

Well done,said Yasmin.

That afternoon we got another visitor. Sudhir walked in unannounced with a whimpering six-month old boy. The boy had startlingly light eyes and silky brown hair. He was referred to us by Sumeeta. He came alone, clutching a messy diaper bag. Sudhir did not offer details about his wife but said he needed help for a couple of months till his parents arrived from India. The baby whimpered again. Sudhir shifted the baby uncomfortably from arm to arm and asked to see our license. It should be here soon, I assured him. He looked unconvinced. Clearly he was not used to picking daycares and the lack of a formal license was not a good start at all. I think he would have left, when by some stroke of luck, the boy started bawling and screaming in full earnest. Sudhir was completely flustered. I jumped into action. Within minutes I had Sudhir seated and the boy cuddling against me sipping warm milk from a freshly sterilized bottle. Slowly Sudhir relaxed and his face lit up with grateful relief. We chatted idly as the child quietened down. Sudhir was amazed how the child took to me and remarked perhaps he thought I was his mother. I looked so much like her with my long brown hair and wheat colored complexion. I smiled back at Sudhir with easy familiarity. Once the child was sleeping, Sudhir took the perfunctory tour, grabbed the slim green folder and quickly signed all necessary papers. Stuffing his copy of the agreement into the diaper bag he told me this had been the first of 5 centers he had planned to visit that day. But now he had the entire afternoon free to catch up on important office work. It was an omen of good things to come, he smiled.

Indeed chuckled Yasmin.

Don't forget to get the immunization records on Monday I called after him.

We did not get any more calls or visits over the weekend. We were wondering whether to move forward with the two children in hand ......

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It is 7AM Monday morning. Our doorbell is ringing.

Confused, I open the door to find a big brown man blocking the doorway. Behind him there is a petite woman wrapped in a flowery saree. The woman is cradling a baby boy about six months old. The man-Mr. Karanidhara- is walking into the middle of our living room. Are the rates as advertised? He is fairly yelling his question at me. I find myself nodding. The woman looks embarrassed. She wants to tour the facility. She looks so dumb and harmless. I tell her to go ahead.

Do we really offer fresh meals and snacks at no extra cost, the man hollers again. I am beginning to get angry. Yasmin steps in. She nods. Can the child start right away? Again Yasmin nods. Am I really a pediatric nurse who can handle a medical emergency? Yasmin is nodding again politely. The man relaxes and smiles. Good! Good! He booms. Good fresh food is necessary for young brain to develop, he pronounces. And the rates! The rates of course! He laughs loudly.

The man owns a jewelery shop in the strip mall two streets down. He has fired his assistant just the night before. Going online to place an ad for a replacement, he chanced upon my ad. That gave him an idea. If we have an opening, his plan is to get his wife to help out for some time. Our location is perfect and the rates are an added advantage. Of course if he had been looking for something more permanent, he would have done a lot more searching and thinking, but hopefully the boy would be here for only a week or two. Would that be all right with us? Yasmin is getting impatient as well, but she nods.

Good! Good! he booms again. Then as as an afterthought he asks if we have any other Indian kids in the daycare. Yes, we have two other children, both Indian, I chime in. He looks delighted.

And so we remain talking in the hallway waiting for his wife.

Suddenly there is a slight disturbance behind us. The woman has crossed the hallway into my bedroom. Flushing with anger I rush after her, but she is already inside. I find her looking over the room with idle curiosity, her eyes only briefly resting on the framed photo and the newspaper clipping. I send her out and take deep breaths.

I come out of the bedroom to find the couple in whispered conference. The father turns around with an apologetic smile. I am sorry says he in his oily voice. Vibha,my wife here, wants to know who that baby is in that photo frame. He pauses delicately, but I stare back in silence. I am so sorry, so sorry he continues hastily. Not our business he says. He yells at Vibha in some foreign dialect. She looks suitably chastened and apologizes to me in turn. Now we are all shaking hands and I hand over the papers necessary to finalize daycare arrangements. Vibha promises to bring over the required medical records the next day.

And then, at last, it is time for them to leave.

Now I am ushering them outside. Their boy, Shankar, is in my arms.

We reach the front gate just in time to greet Sudhir and Sumeeta on their way in. I motion them to go in while I wave farewell to Mr. Karanidhara. There is a brief delay as he hunts for his keys and another 10 minutes pass before he is able to extract his car sandwiched behind Sudhir’s truck. But finally they are gone.

I turn around and am surprised to see Sumeeta and Sudhir are already coming back out. They have left the packed diaper bags on the dining table along with the immunizaton records and tucked the sleeping babies into their tiny sleeping cots. Both are running late for personal appointments and promise to call me in the afternoon.

As Sudhir’s car purrs out of sight, the street descends into utter silence.

I have locked the gates and am strolling back in now.

But before I go.... I am going to tell you.

The clipping’s headline proclaims “Shoot out at happy hour kills local barman and baby.” The article goes onto describe how a drunken Indian man opened fire during happy hour at a local bar in Indiana. He was apparently suffering from depression. Apparently a victim of the crashing automobile industry. As most patrons rushed out in panic, the man leaned over the counter and shot the barman trapped behind it. He also ignored the barman’s plea and first shot his baby.

The article does not describe the terror in the barman’s voice - but I know it. I heard it. I was there, hiding behind the old jukebox. It had been my idea to visit Sam on the way to Turan’s daycare. My hand clamped tight over my mouth as the first bullet entered my baby’s head. I think I fainted as the second one pierced my husband’s heart. Actually I am not very clear on what really happened. I know I made it out of that bar only because Yasmin took charge. At least that's what the psychiatrist says. Logical, he says, since she was the only one to stand by me when my parents got divorced.

Yasmin died 7 years ago in a car crash.

The article, of course, does not mention any of this. It does mention though, that the Indian pleaded temporary insanity and filed bankruptcy.

And the forty-three year old widower moved out of town.

Now go! I need to lock the front door. No you can't follow me in. Husshhhhhhh!! QUIET!!! ...Yasmin is singing...

"Three little babies lying on their bed, one fell down and now he's...."

THE END