Miscellanea / Sylvia Khan
...Then the Great Finger in the Sky callously flicked me into the chaotic and hysteria-ridden state of imminent motherhood
When I look around me, I see children. Several of them. I am defined
by them. Life without them is like life on Mars, a possibility,
but hard to imagine. Almost as hard to imagine is the time in
my life when I had the uncertain distinction of being possibly
the only Indian woman on the planet with absolutely no experience
with children.
At the start of it all, my life was even keeled and coasting along
nicely till the Great Finger in the Sky callously flicked me into
the chaotic and hysteria-ridden state of imminent motherhood.
Here then was the 'good news', the absence of which had
been a constant assault on me since I entered into the blessed
state of holy matrimony. I've never understood the need for euphemism
for a state considered natural, in a country obsessed with fertility.
Even the ostensibly educated had coyly asked me whether I had
some 'good news' to give the world. 'The World' obviously
having nothing better to do than to hold its collective breath
till the auspicious moment.
Well meant, but useless hints apart, I'd never really been hysterical
(more apt a word than one would imagine at first glance), about
motherhood. In keeping with the dominant thesis of the paperback
romance, I'd expected that Nature would take its course, and I
would shyly whisper my news (that word again), to the proud father-to-be.
He would then fold me in his manly arms and tell me how wonderful
I was. And more importantly, what a heroine I was for embarking
on the well documented horrors of pregnancy and childbirth.
So when I realised one day that I had been spared the Peril, only
to be let in for the Mother of All Perils, I was calm (Nature
was taking its course), but unprepared (I had no experience of
anything further up the food chain than puppies).
My husband tried to put things into perspective by saying ''Relax!
Millions of people have done this before us. How much can we screw
up?'' Fortunately that was rhetoric. I could have advanced an
opinion, or several on the extent to which we could have done
just that. And what was this word ''us'' that he used, clearly
incorrectly, since it looked like I was the one doing all the
doing.
In the movies, Hindi, Hollywood or even serious Italian black
and white, the prospective mum always has an experienced female
second lead, to confide her girlish worries to. Life did not imitate
Art in this case. I was surrounded by inept and inefficient
people much like myself. There was my husband, who had plebianised
my condition to a completely unacceptable extent. Then there was
my best friend, who took his cue from Hindi cinema ("Do you want
some kairi? The women in Hindi movies always seem to!'') I also
had two women friends, single and no kids, and my bai Anita
- married with a kid.
Naturally, with that ocean of experience,
her credentials wiped out the competition and Anita zoomed into
top slot as Advisor to the Inept.
I still remember the nonchalance with which she said ''Arre kuch
nahi hoga. Zara ulti-pulti hoga, zara chakkar ayega, kuch farak
nahi padega!'' (Roughly - Nothing's going to happen. You'll puke
a bit, faint a bit - no problem.) Her bravado did nothing for
me. I did the only thing I could think of. I took to my bed and
comforted myself with Agatha Christie, Five Star bars and jeera
golis. I couldn't sustain the big sulk. For one thing, I could
already recite all my Christies, for another I felt sick as a
dog.
Then suddenly, one magical day, it was over and I could inhale
the warm kitchen smells of tea, coffee and frying masala without
a quick trip to the loo.
I remember deciding to take matters into my capable-once-more
hands. I had to find out more about this child care thing. So,
I went to who I thought were the experts - the nurses at the Maternity
Centre. I requested them to show me babies and baby stuff, with
the correctly humble I-am-an-idiot expression on my face. Peals
of girlish laughter ensued, and the nurses station was abandoned
for the hilarity of giving me the grand tour. ''Oh Sylvia, you
are such a funny!'' one of them gasped between giggles. Funny
what? Funny inept? Funny Peculiar? Funny strange and abnormal?
Anyway, there I was, nose to the window, gaping zenophobically
at ruminant newborns. They were amazingly tiny and wizened, and
so, well, boring. I remember thinking that maybe the whole motherhood
thing wasn't all the movies gushed that it would be.
I'd always seen myself much like the 'eighties woman' - educated,
empowered, in control. Not much of that was in evidence as I bumbled
about at that time. I retreated, and dived into my copy of Everywoman
coming up only for a consultation with Dr Spock. In fact, I didn't
really emerge till my first child was well into her sixth month
on Planet Pollution.
That was many moons and many children ago. Looking at the hordes
about me today, the whole process has assumed a certain dream-like,
film-like quality reminiscent of Rosemary's Baby or the Elm
Street series. A case of life imitating, well, not Art, but a
cheap imitation of it.
Illustrations: Dominic Xavier
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