Farewell…again

 

29.3.06, Pune

“The world is full of uncertainties, and all anxieties stem from our search for the certain”.

This was one of the lines quoted often in our Psychotherapy class by my favourite professor Dr Sathe, and something that made better sense.

Today I know why it appealed to me the way it did. I am standing on the crossroad of life, faced with many uncertainties. My life as a student, the walk to the university everyday, those endless chat sessions with friends in the canteen, is all getting over today. And like all good things in life, I don’t want it to end. It sure is scary to step out into the world of the unknown.

The last few days have been a dream. My friends from my MA class, other friends from Pune and I have had so much fun. Through journal submissions, job applications and hours in class and at the nearby photocopy-wallah’s shop, I’ve lived every moment and loved it, propelled perhaps by the urgency of fleeting time. Never before have I been so agonisingly aware of time. 10 days, a week, 5 days, 4, 3, yesterday and today: the countdown to my life of carefree abandon, where the most I’d have to worry about was giving my exams well. I feel frightened as I see ahead of me this huge mountain of responsibilities and struggle – as a professional, a wife, a mother and so many more. Shit!

Now it’s going to be barter all the way. You love and I’ll love you back, you work and I’ll pay you back, you become ideal and I’ll respect you back. I mean, no more of the free stuff! I wonder how many more times in life will I be allowed to toss over the foulest of my moods onto others as I did on my parents and friends and still be loved for who I am.

It’s six in the morning and my roommate, Avani, is still sound asleep. Outside my hostel room’s window, Pune looks as beautiful as ever. And here I am writing this piece with involuntary tears streaming down my cheeks. Damn! I hate goodbyes. I hate them so much! It’s going to be so hard to pack up half of my stuff later today and head home to Nagpur. Pune’s more home to me than anyplace in the world. I’m head-over-heels in love with this city. Shall I thank God for giving me an opportunity to spend two years of my life here or shall I beg Him to let me live here for some more time?
 

You say, therefore I am

Another day, another validation, another satisfaction. Zutshi uncle finally showed up at my place today. After months of requests from him and excuses from me, that dear old man, shaking hands and all, came to meet me. Yes, I feel guilty for having postponed my promised visit for months now; but the happiness I feel is greater than anything else. There is a tremendous feeling of smug-joy in the fact that someone cares enough to have made that effort for me. I am important. I am a somebody.

So, I’m addicted to validations. Putting this bit of self-realisation into words isn’t exactly empowering. And not half as cool as saying you’re addicted to say, caffeine or nicotine.

I need people to tell me I’m good to believe I’m good. And admitting this, sucks. It probably makes me a loser of the highest order in a world of the self-confident, self assured (if there really are any). The past few days have been just about that -- validations. Jeer as I may at the thought, I know that what others think of me is what I am.

Saturday, the 1^st of August, 2009, had this realisation all lined-up.

I’d like to blame it on the hormones, but I know it had to do with my check-up that day. Of all emotional travails of my pregnancy through the last eight months, I probably had the worst one that morning. All through the weeks before, I kept thinking about how the doctor had said my weight had increased too much and how I needed to exercise. I was afraid the same would be said again and so I didn’t want to go. Even with all the online forums assuring me that weight gain is the highest in the last few weeks, the doctor’s verdict had hurt. I tell myself enough times in day that I’m ‘gross’ and needed no reiteration. I didn’t need to hear it again that morning.

Through a stream of seemingly unstoppable tears, I said that I didn’t want to be a fat monster anymore. Wailing, I said I didn’t want to be pregnant anymore, and that I was tired of being so ugly. Viren did what any helpless husband would do. He began with cooing, and when that didn’t work, he turned to cawing. I settled down after a bit and then we went to the doc’s. Mercifully enough, she said that my weight and baby’s was fine, and spared me from some more self-flagellation. Ah, validation! If the doc says I’m OK, it must mean I’m OK.

Next stop was the jeweller, where Viren was to buy me my birthday gift, like that long-promised toy. He dare not have refused after my breakdown. We picked two rings – goodies to make me look and hence feel good. Petty, but pretty. Material validation @ Rs. 9000…approximately. We added Rs. 465 to that for lunch at a nice place and some peace was finally bought as he dropped me to work.

Cut to 10.30 pm that night. After work, a friend gave me this adorable little baby basket he’d used for his child -- my first real baby possession. I and Viren thanked him before he took me home. My eyes nearly popped out when I stepped into the house to find that some friends were waiting there for me with a “Surprise” party for me! It was a moment of real honour and gratitude. I was more than overwhelmed at the sight of these friends who, in conspiracy with Viren, had arranged for this lovely occasion – a baby shower, complete with streamers, and pink and blue balloons. Wow! Nobody had ever done this for me and the surprise was even sweeter because I really and honestly hadn’t expected it. Food, drinks, chatter and loads of grinning on my part made for the rest of the evening. Thanks, guys. Thank you for making me feel that I am important. That I am a somebody.

Later that night I lay in bed, still smiling, thinking just how powerful validation is. I daresay we all need it. By the time my baby is old enough to understand what this story is all about, these friends may have gone far away on different life paths, but it will always be one of the ‘it’ moments of my life. Is the fact that someone else had the power to decide one of the best days of my life, bad? I think not.

Of big bodies, short tempers and a lot in between

I’m finally putting pen to paper about my pregnancy -- before the first trimester becomes too distant and the third becomes too overwhelming.
I’ve always disliked numbers, but couldn’t have imagined counting could get so cumbersome -- 2 weeks, 15 weeks, 24 weeks (that’s now)...going right up to 40 (hopefully). I’m bored already, and the larger third is still to go. Sighing audibly, complaining loudly and cursing softly pretty much sums up what I’ve been doing in the last six months. First, it was about how sick I felt all the time, followed by how tired and hungry I perpetually was and now it is how fat, ugly, hideous, gross and clumsy I’ve become. This last bit, I reckon, is unlikely to change for a long time to come.
I’ve said this to everybody who’ll care to listen, but I’ll say this again for the record. Coming to terms with my changing (read, fattening) body has been, by far, the hardest part of my pregnancy. For someone who’s had weight issues all her life, sitting back and watching to pounds pile is just short of torturous. Everyday, I stand in front of the open almirah and groan and groan about how nothing fits me anymore, how I’ve nothing to wear and how I look so disgustingly fat. And to add insult to injury, Viren’s suddenly back to his diet and gymming regime, so I feel like I’m looking like his aunt with each passing day. My g-talk status messages bear enough testimony to my agonised body image every day. Some of them in the last few months have been:
· Ask and you shall receive
· Hog-wards Express
· Shifting centre of gravity
· In the thick of the kick
· Is seeing kickboxing in a new light
· Too posh to push?
· The belle and the belly
There have been many more like this, which my gtalk friends might remember. These messages have made for some interesting conversations with some of my long-lost friends. Most of them went on congratulatory trips which ended with them asking me to send some preggo snaps and me vehemently refusing to do so. I ask them what kind of morbid pleasure will they get by looking at me when I’m at my ugliest.
Through these conversations, I’ve realised how men and women are fundamentally different in their perception of pregnancy. My non-mom friends insisted for a while on the pictures, then laughed at my vehemence and then retracted with some secret ‘tsk-tsking’ about my fatness. The mommy friends went right into the advise mode, enlightened me with some dos and donts, shared some of their experiences making each one of mine seem oh-so-matter-of-factly, and finally signed off with saying I’d treasure the pictures two years hence. Yeah, right!
Men, on the other hand, both -- daddies and non-daddies -- switched to a completely unknown side: the kind and romantic one. Considering that most of my male friends have entered my life on a warpath, in a battle of wits, kind words were rare in our interactions. But once they found out that I was preggers, they seemed to pull out their kid gloves (yes, pun intended) and started pussyfooting around me, as if harsh words would harm the baby. In a way, it was nice to be treated courteously, protectively even, but it got boring after a while. Political correctness does that to conversations and relationships -- it cools them off. And what one is left with is two no-imagination lines as excuses for a conversation : “Hey! How u doin?” and “Ok, take care!”
Aarrgh!
Pregnancy also is, perhaps, the biggest stamp of ownership on a woman by her man and therefore acts as an excellent repellent. All my ‘flirt-friends’ seem to have disappeared off the face of this planet. Speaking of which, I’m brought back to the man of my life. Viren has changed and remained unchanged in a radical number of ways since January. from the ‘selfish’ man I married has emerged a very caring husband, who’d get up early for me each morning in the first part of my pregnancy to get me that prescribed glass of milk and biscuits so that I wouldn’t throw up. But when the milk and biscuits jumped out of my queasy stomach and I came staggering out of the loo, he’d stand there lovingly with a glass a cold water in his hands. He scolded me for my wrong posture when I complained about my backache even as he massaged it and bought me a pipe to facilitate bum-washing in the Indian loo that’s becoming increasingly difficult to use. Yes, that was the first ever gift he’s bought me after we got married! LOL!
But just as I began to lap up the attention and probably ‘take it for granted’ (a very frequent accusation I am faced with), he stiffens up and reminds me that I should be grateful. It hurts me, but also makes me realise that I should indeed be thankful for the things he does for me, even as I hear stories of unfeeling husbands.
I enjoy the love Vir lavishes on me, but it scares me to see that all he does is strictly for me, and not for our baby. His involvement with the baby goes only as far as the sonography clinic where he sees the little one wiggling around and feeling the baby kick in my tummy once in a while.
Here is perhaps another basic difference between a man and a woman. my ‘small’ boss aptly puts it -- a woman becomes a mother from the time she conceives, whereas fatherhood comes to a man only after the baby is born and spent time with. I just hope the feeling of fatherhood comes upon Viren sooner than later.
For me, of course, motherhood makes its presence felt all the time. Whether it is in sitting awkwardly with my legs apart, or in finding a comfortable position to sleep , or in seeming my tummy vibrate, motherhood is now a 24X7 thingy. parenthood, they say, tries the patience of even the most patient. So it’s hardly a surprise that I’m caught in these desperate mood swings every other day. One day I’m happy and full of gratitude to God that everything has been going good so far. The next day, I’m this grouchy creature who half wished the baby didn’t exist, cursing it for all the misery it’s causing my self-esteem. God, though, keeps up his vigilance. Just as I am getting too vocal with my viciousness, He reminds me of the great gift of health I’ve being given. I end up reading about or hearing stories of the hundreds of women who are either unable to conceive or carry the baby to term or worse things. It takes me back to the time I thought I could not conceive and I remember how terrible that feeling was in comparison to these little tests of pregnancy.
Two people who are super excited about these goings on are Chinu and Sheetal -- the two friends of mine who really love and care for me. Their happiness are for real. It feels good to share my little expectations and frustrations with them. It is fun to speculate around them about the big question -- will it be a boy or a girl. my folks are pretty much convinced it’ll be a boy --- thanks to the bucktoothed family friend cum astrologer’s prediction on my wedding day. Other experienced eyes have also been murmuring something about it being a boy because my tummy is ‘high’ and I’m ‘dark(er)’. Somewhere in the past few months, I’ve also managed to convince myself that it’ll be a boy so that I’m not disappointed if it really is one. But I cling on to the hope for that little daughter I’ve always wanted. In the same breath, I tell myself that whatever it is, I’m never going to do this again. I’m no mother material (at least not yet) and a once-in-a-lifetime experience is good enough for me and bad enough for my vanity. When, oh, when, will I get to go back to the gym? But while I can’t, I’ll religiously pop my pills, grumble about the size and whisper quiet apologies to my baby for being mean once in a while.