Postpartum… (Too short a story)

The cradle rocked ever so gently. Every time the door to the ward opened and a draught rushed in, the curtains swayed apart affording glimpses into other lives.
She lay on her side. Her left hand stretched out under her, as if ready to receive the bundle. Her manicured fingertips graze the metal hinges of the crib.
A baby cries out. Another joins in. And another…
A cacophony of hungry, indignant cries fill the ward.
In a snap her arms curl back into herself, palms resting on the flattened yet flabby stomach.
As other mothers shush and cajole, wincing she turns away from her cradle; her thighs move as if leaden.
It wasn’t an easy labour. The sutures pull and burn, as she clenches… A Kegel frozen in half motion. But she feels no pain; not even discomfort, as she bleeds into her bedding. Nothing was easy.
For a moment there is an eerie quiet. The little ones have been tended to. Ten toes and 10 little fingers, downy hair and pursed lips, wrinkled skin and unfocused eyes… all kissed, swaddled, cuddled and put to sleep.
Then there is one lonely little defiant cry. A sharp pain shoots across her engorged breasts. She chokes back a sob even as her pillow grows damp. She squeezes her eyes shut blocking out the smells and cries that were not hers to reach out to…
I gently open the door letting in another draught, hoping the cradle wouldn’t creak for the emptiness needs no reminding. I slip away from my dark corner wanting no part in her grief.

To all the mums who fake it...

Reblogged from The Life of Umm:

... about motherhood being the greatest joy! Happy mother's day.

This is a toast to all the dysfunctional mothers out there... who hardly ever get it right;

Who know that what they do could be done a hundred times better;

Who would rather sleep in late than cook up a wholesome breakfast;

Who'd rather take their scrabble turns than read to their child;

Read more… 63 more words

I have nothing more to say... love being Amma, but on my terms. Happy Mother's Day ya'll. 8 May 2013...

I don’t wish you joy and happiness…

I wish you joy happiness success. No. On second thoughts, I just wish you pleasure and sense of achievement.

Joy and happiness are unstable emotions. Success is subjective. They lull you into a false sense of well-being. They make you gasp in the face of expectations of long-lasting joy and MORE happiness. Those emotions are more often than not dependent on other people. The spouse, the child, that friend who is fatter than you, a strong bottle of Russian, an organic joint…

Till this morning, my advice to my daughters was to do what makes them happy.

Then I had a conversation with a colleague (who, ironically, introduced me to her friend as the person who makes her happy at work). We discussed whether maintaining someone’s appearance of being always happy was more important than giving them a sense of purpose and a chance at achieving something.

Well, that’s when my own hypocrisy hit me.

I don’t want my children’s main pursuit in life to be happiness. It isn’t mine, and I’ve been the saddest in the moments that it has been. Happiness will come and go, and wreck you along the way.

I want them to pursue pleasure and achievement.

I hate this advertisement…

Yes, this ICICI advt. It encompasses everything that’s wrong with India. EVERYTHING.

Stop ‘PROTECTING’ us. Stop treating us as delicate objects.

And that bit with the teary bride driving away with her new husband holding her hand… bullocks! She wouldn’t be so teary if marriage were not treated as a break-up with her parents (life before marriage).

I feel nauseous every time I see it being shared on Facebook.

Do we really believe this is treating women right?

How about equality?

Bandit Queen of Hearts Turns 4

… and it’s a whole new chapter of parenting that she teaches me.

But she is also teaching all of us at home a lesson we often forget. That EVERYTHING in the world, and I mean, EVERYTHING, can be made better with a hug.

One minute she goes around threatening to ‘toosh’ us and give us a ‘diction’ (shoot and injection for the linguistically-unimaginative folks out there), and they next minute would smother you with her hugs and kisses.

She is not an easy child and challenges everything we say and do… a major shift from what I was used to. In an inexplicable manner this has made me a far more patient parent than I’ve been before.

I am at a loss to explain this relationship I have with her… there is a strange aggressive need to protect her, to hold her close, and to just hold that essence of her wild, uninhibited personality. And hope desperately that she would never stop doing her Michael Jackson moves and Alicia Keys renditions… never feel that she doesn’t have it in her to want to be as huge as the people she pretends to be.

Happy birthday my little Phoolan Devi.