Memorable firsts

FIRST DEVOTION
(My trip to the world HQ of ISKCON in Mayapur in class 8 marked me for life, and before I knew it, God became a part of my system.)

You are not alone (1998)

He dwells in your heart,
He stays in your mind.
You are not alone,
Believe him, he is kind.

He is in giving,
He resides in sharing,
You are not alone,
Trust him, he’s caring.

In times when you’re distressed,
With no one around,
You are not alone,
With God you are bound.

In this unkind world,
Do not hide your face,
For you are not alone,
On you is God’s grace.


A gift from the Almighty (1998)

The dawn is full of blossoms,
The morning full of sunshine,’
A smiling day welcomes,
Magic in it, is indeed thine.

A shiny, pearly dewdrop,
Beset upon a shaky leaf,
With wonder does my breath stop,
And heart with joy does leap.

A pretty, little butterfly,
Goes fluttering flower to flower,
The chirping bird goes flying high,
On me delight does shower.

The stars from sky begin to peep,
The sun goes drowning low,
The moon awakens from its sleep,
The earth is bathed in moonlight glow.

For the marvels of Mother Nature,
And for his abundant love,
On earth does every creature,
Thank our creator in heaven above.

FIRST PRIDE
(I shared these with my friends and teachers and before I knew it, there were requests coming my way to write poems to put up on the notice boards and recite in assemblies. On several occasions, when the boards and the classrooms had to be decorated, the class poet was summoned.)

India today (1998)

The situation in India is tense today,
The dishonest leaders are here to stay.
They make all promises and to us they say-
“The future of India will be bright some day.”
Here corruption is present, and honesty rare,
The rates go higher and up goes the fare.
Elections occur every two days,
People have become selfish in their ways.
The cost of all things is sky high,
The one to survive is the mafia guy.
Prices of the market keep on soaring,
The goons by day are becoming daring.
Yet, we are Indians, and proudly say,
“Hail! Hail! Our independent India today!”

(This one was inspired by the sea in Kanyakumari. We had gone to Kerala after by SSC exams for a vacation. It was hot as hell…but my head was in the clouds as well.)

The Waves (1999)

When my ears hear thy sound,
So sweet, so clear and so loud.
My head with respect down does bow,
I admire thee greatly so.
It looks as thou art washing the palm,
Of Mother Nature – so gentle and calm.
Thou rush on with the breeze,
Looking at thee, my pains do ease.
Thou dance with the winds to and fro,
And rise and fall, with tides high and low.
Even with the ups and down thou face,
Thou seem to be tireless in the long race.
I am greatly indebted to thee,
Who hath taught the lessons of life to me.

(I wrote this one when a very dear friend lost his father. Never before had I seen loss so closely, never understood it.)

Death…will come (1999)

The Lord who gave you life,
Only He shall take it away.
But in due course of this strife,
He shall guide your way.
In death indeed is sorrow,
And dying full of pain,
Yet it opens the book of morrow,
And your efforts won’t go in vain.
Control yourself, do not cry,
For the one who is born, will have to die.
This is the law of Nature,
That holds true for every creature.
Today you lose, tomorrow shall I,
When time comes to bid a goodbye.
This is woeful, I agree,
But for once, the sufferer is free.
Remain calm and be upright,
All the situations, learn to fight.
Remember, God is always with you,
And He’ll watch over your life anew.


FIRST LOSS
(Needless to say, these poems were written in the last year of school. Leaving ‘my’ institution after twelve-long years meant a whole lot of insecurity, but the prospect of a new life, that famously magical ‘college-life’ excited me, as it does most teens.)

My school (1999)

Here I stand near the gate,
And with a wondering gaze,
I look upon my fate;
Which was once a maze.
But after these long years in school,
I was moulded for better
With love as a tool.
And no more does my fate
Look as much as a haze.
Those lovely days,
Again, I long to face.
The days of laughter, the days of cry,
Those wonderful days have now flown by.
I long again for my teachers’ care,
Not forgetting their warning stare.
The large playground
And the tamarind tree,
Going down the memory lane,
I’ll long to see.
I hate to see other students occupy,
My classroom as I say goodbye.
Now, no one on my tears can rule,
As I leave my dearest school.

A tearful adieu (1999)

Today we are here with you,
But these merry moments are very few.
Soon we’ll be on separate ways,
And it’ll be time to bid all,
A tearful adieu.
But memories with us,
Will stay forever.
Will we forget each other?
No. Never.
The remembrances of happier times,
Will come back,
No matter how many miles.
Of how we fought and played
And stayed together.
Thoughts of how we envied and shared,
Loved and laughed and how we cared.
Will haunt our minds and hearts
Till in us our life lasts.
The clock is ticking, fast time runs by,
Tears fill my eyes and heavy is my heart,
Cause, though there’s joy for a new start,
There’s a greater sorrow to part.
My saddened soul renders a cry,
And says,
Do not forget me friends, till I die.
This is our last meet,
When I have to bid you all,
A very unhappy goodbye.

(This is my first attempt at an epic poem, [a miniature one of course], with copious metaphors, modeled after the many I’d read in textbooks. The inspiration was a sense of purpose in the beginning of college.)

The Voyage (1999)

The course ahead is rough and hard,
Looking at hurdles,
It’s difficult to make a start.
And soon on you will rest burdens,
As the journey even more hardens.
The storm is soon coming your way,
Here it’ll be impossible to stay.
Slowly the day turns into night,
Stay alert, it’s time to fight.
The typhoon arrives,
Beware! It’s a gale,
The lightening and thunder strikes,
With a fiery trail.
It’s causing destruction,
Devastation’s everywhere,
The cyclone has hit,
Putting every heart to scare.
Looking around, I feel like crying,
“Save them someone…they are dying!”
There’s little I can do,
But stand beside.
Shedding my tears.
With no compassion beside.
Suddenly I look up,
And am amazed to see,
A holy, divine light
Shining just upon me.
Deep down in my heart,
I hear the sound of hope.
Is it still there?
Or simply a show.
I pinch myself,
No, I’m not dreaming.
Which means
Whatever I see, is real and living!
The sun is rising, the birds are chirping.
The sorrowful night is over,
A joyful day is dawning.
I look around and am delighted,
But till now, I was frightened.
I open my eyes and see the world
as beautiful as never before.
Those who have left,
Have left for the better.
The voyage is over
I see ahead a future – brighter.

Some more of my awkward first poems

Cloud (1997)

Sometimes I am good,
And sometimes I am bad.
I am often found,
On the mountains snow clad.
I touch the trees
And in the sky I flee.
I am white in colour,
But sometimes grey,
And in a grayish mood,
I’m in a fray.
Children like me,
But adults do not.
Because whenever I am near,
Their writing papers blot.
Sometimes I am here,
The next moment, I am there,
So, my life is such,
That I don’t care.
To keep people happy,
I always make a try.
Just keep on guessing,
Who am I?
Of myself I am proud,
Yes, I am the cloud.


Pollution (1997)

Pollution here, pollution there,
To overcome this,
Please take care.

Pollution up, pollution down,
No smiles here,
Only frowns.

Pollution left, pollution right,
To remove all this,
Do come and fight.

Pollution at night, pollution at day,
Let the fresh air to breathe,
On this earth stay.

Pollution every second, pollution every minute,
For all this cause,
Is there no limit?

To stop pollution, let us all take a vow,
And act on it,
Just now, now, now.

I’d like to fly (1997)

O dear, I’d like to fly,
Fly all over the world,
And have a pair of wings,
Just like a little bird.

Fly, fly and fly,
To fly day and night.
And capture the whole nature,
With just a little sight.

Flying through the valley,
Flying even in rain,
Flying across the river,
With flying not in vain.

Feeling so free,
If the gift to me is given,
I wonder how I’d feel,
In a flight right to heaven.

Time is precious (1997)

Time will fly,
Like wind in the sky.
Time will flow,
Like water in the river.
Use every second,
Use every minute,
If you’re really clever.
Time is precious,
It’ll wait for none,
Neither man, nor beast,
Time wastage shun.
Save every moment,
To save time thrive,
And you’ll be successful,
All through your life.

Mother (1998)

Mother, oh mother,
What is your comparison?
You cannot be compared,
With God neither.

Nature your nature,
How is your nature?
Your nature can’t be defined,
You are such a creature.

Your love is so selfless,
Even wider than the sky,
And deeper than the ocean
How bound to you am I.

So many stars in the sky,
So many a fish in the rivers,
I have but only one mother,
So loving, world wide over.

My goal (1998)

My goal in life,
If I have to achieve,
I’ll have to thrive
And pains to receive.
But I will overcome,
All the obstacles,
And free myself
From bonds and shackles.
I will convert the difficulties,
Into victories sweet.
And my fruits of labour,
One day I’ll eat.
This does not impossible seem,
One day I’ll fulfill my dream.

Romancing words

This is my first ever poem. Think I wrote it in class 7. My romance with the English language started then. I realised how much fun it could be brandishing vocabulary and putting rhyming words together. It was my first form of self-expression. My first realisation of ideas. My first steps to being an individual. Here's the completely unedited version. LOL.

TRIAL
Never give up a try,
But try not to cry.
If you keep on exceeding,
You'll see yourself succeeding.
Try always a new experiment,
Don't be silly and ignorant.
You have yourself the quality,
If you try, you'll have,
a big name in society.
Grow your mind large in size,
Who knows?
In the future, you may win,
A big, big prize!

Diary of a teen

Since time is at a premium now and reading books or going for movies a near impossibility, fresh new thoughts are hard to come by. Tired of this vacuum, I decided to rummage my old closet, hoping some amusing memories would tumble out.

My wish was granted. I found 3 of my diaries, stuffed carelessly in there. These were the diaries which I would not have parted with even if I had to go to the loo at one point in time. So precious were the thoughts and experiences of that teen that they had to be guarded from all prying eyes, especially those of my parents.And here they were, lying in some unvisited space in my parents' house, uncared for, unloved.

So I decided to revisit those pages from my past and give those first feelings of love, hatred, pain, fear, joy, rebellion and devotion the place they deserve.

Starting today, I shall blog the poetry (or whatever else they may be) I wrote as a teenager under the flag of diary of a teen. Those with who I share these words may want to find the earnestness in them once they get past the naivete.

A few moments of solitude

Jishnu is now a reasonably grown baby at 3 months and his last of the vicious vaccines is done with.

Phew.

The time I have may not be one hundred years, but I finally have some moments to think and write about something non-baby. So, I’ve decided to do the honours with Mr Gabriel García Márquez’ One Hundred years of Solitude. It is probably the last book I will have read earnestly enough to remember, for a very long time.

I remember picking up this book especially after seeing the famous Mr Rushdie’s testimony on its cover though I’m not a great fan of the author of Midnight’s Children. Being swayed by his little recommendation could mean landing up another tale with its heads and tails in all the wrong places, another book belonging to the genre of magic realism. But the ‘jhaadoo’ and the ‘khali kursi’ on the book’s cover added to the beckoning and I took my chance.

And surely enough, flying carpets and almost immortal “Macondans?” with similar names came rushing out of the pages in some weirdly fantastic language. In page after page came Aureliano after Aureliano, Arcadio after Arcadio, Amaranta after Amaranta and Ursula after Ursula and sent me scurrying back to the family tree Mr Márquez had very helpfully and knowingly put there for a not-so-clever reader’s reference. In the backdrop of a civil war, the essential Buendia traits of solitude on the one hand and impulsiveness on the other manifest themselves through the many protagonists of the story. While the men fight and party and invent and womanize, the women cook and clean and scheme and birth.

Then there is this Gawd-alone-knows-how-old-he-is gypsy man and a never ending spell of rain and hell yes, this chick called Remedios the Beauty, who walks around naked and then one day suddenly decides to ascend to heaven. Poof! Sudden appearances and disappearances also happen with the Banana Company who Americanize the innocent, little, sleepy town, the Arabs, termites and other characters. The story (as it was supposedly intended) goes round and round in circles with the same things happening to the characters, as it essentially does with all human beings. But the USP of the book is the surreal way in which the mundane is presented.

A good read for those not looking for logic.

No shit

“Can I ask you a personal question?” he asked.
“Shoot”, I said.
“No, let it be”, he said, trying to retract.
“Oh, come on. If I don’t want to answer it, I won’t”, I offered.
“How does it feel like to breastfeed?” he dared.
“Oh…boring and unglamorous”, I said, deadpan.

***************

Jishnu is definitely not going to appreciate this blog post if he ever lays his eyes on this when he grows up. After all, constipation is not something you document; even if it’s your baby’s first.

It has been some days since our collective anxieties have passed along with baby’s motions (November 22, 2009, to be precise). Like all things first, his first two potty-less days had me worried. Although every article that Google spat out assured me that it was perfectly normal for babies to go without making poo-poo for 3-4 days, I worried. The internet offered solutions like prune juice and apple juice and I even called the doctor. He said the same things as that God named Google did, but I still worried. Then I waited. Next morning he graced us all with some substantial quantities of stinky poo. Yay!

Since then I’ve been planning this post. Actually, what stuck in my head was the title of the post and I was mighty pleased with the pun. So here it is.

***************

Baby is 10 weeks old now and the worst of the vaccine episode is behind us. The last two days were quite the nightmare I expected them to be with fever, pain, sleep, burping and feeding issues. Baby cried and cried and then some. I cried too. Bringing up a baby, one day at a time, is no mean task. All those who tell couple to have babies must be lined up in front of a firing squad and bang! Another villain of that triple vaccine to go next month and we’re good for the next three months.

***************

Breastfeeding is no fun. No statue of Angelina Jolie feeding both her twins simultaneously, Hollywood stars bragging about their ‘boobworthy’ stints and hundreds of internet forums proclaiming that ‘breast is the best of your baby’ is going to convince me of its merits. No sir. The truth is that it makes you feel like a cow, makes your boobs sag and doesn’t allow you to leave the house for more than 3 hours at a time. It also leads you to believe that whoever thought of the brand name Mother Dairy was a breastfeeding woman. And let us not even discuss leaking and peeking when it needs to be done in public. Ugh.
(I say a little prayer here… “Baby, take to the bottle soon”.)

***************

And just when I thought my life going to get back in track, a few bombs fell out of the sky. Viren announced that he has been asked to move base to Mumbai. That essentially meant we shift, I quit, we live with my in-laws, I look for new work and travel in buses and local trains for an eternity to get to a job that I hope to find there. Meanwhile, feeling obliged to my in-laws for taking care of the baby becomes an essential part of the package.

No shit.

Serving the infantry…

Week 7

When I was pregnant, experienced mothers told me that a baby is better in than out. I rubbished them. But I take my disbelief back. I’m a seven-week-old mother now and I’m not ashamed of officially admitting that babies are better in than out!

Yes, not being pregnant has its merits. I’m most certainly celebrating my little successes like getting back into a pair of jeans, not feeling like a freak show and being able to sit with my legs together among others. But, there’s a whole new list of things to whine about. Motherhood is a tough game, and as they say, a 24X7 job.

The first couple of weeks seem like a blur now. Recuperating from the cesarean section, most of my focus seemed to be on trying to bathe with a plastic sheet wrapped around my stitches, my obscenely huge tummy and that cruelly tight abdominal belt. Jishnu slept most of the time as most newborns do and was a welcome break between feeds. Feeding him has been one of the most time-consuming tasks. This child of mine has displayed an exceptional talent in dodging ‘the burp’ since birth, which ensures that I or someone else has to hold him up for long stretches of time. In the meantime, I’m making most of that breast pump to relive engorged and painfully full and leaking boobs. It’s week seven now and the burp continues to evade us.

Another thing that has been evading me is sleep. But that’s true of every new parent and caregiver, I guess. My mom-in-law refused to believe that I was once capable of sleeping through a marriage party passing our home. During our 3-week stay in Mumbai, every whimper by the baby would wake me up. It’s so bad now that I’m beginning to hallucinate in the bath. Even with the baby sleeping peacefully outside, I seem to be hearing sounds of him crying. Sheesh!

Hallucinations are still ‘dealable’, but there have been days that were so bad, I’ve almost felt suicidal. At the risk of being labeled a bad parent, I’ve even voiced my wish that I never had him. Some of the greater stressors were our trip to Mumbai by car when the baby was just twelve days old, the thought of having to feed in public during our flight to Nagpur when he was just over a month. The most painful day yet was when we took him for his first vaccine schedule. The injection was supposed to cause pain and fever for the next 2 days. But nothing could have prepared me for the rough, sleepless and helpless night of incessant crying. Not even the doctor, who had wished me luck for the next 48 hours as we left the clinic. I was heartbroken.
But there have been moments of reward too. Seeing a ‘first’ everyday can be a lot of fun. His first response to sound, his first moving of the head, his first cry that sounded like ‘maa’, his first smile and in a funny sort of way, even his first pee and poop on me are memorable. There was a lot of pride in seeing him gain weight, gain cheek and girth. I was brimming with joy when his first tiny shirt felt a little too tight for him. There is a huge sense of satisfaction in knowing that my baby is growing up fine. I can’t help but feel smug when people tell me that he is a good baby who really gives no trouble. And oh, I check my Facebook account ten times in a day to see what people have had to say when I post pictures of him!

As he grows each day, so does the mom in me. I understand more the essence of parenting, which incidentally comprises of the smell of milk, pee, poop, wet nappies, fresh diapers and a hell lot of Johnson’s baby powder.

Meeting Jishnu

Being a mommy – day 3

Sept 24, 2009

Painkillers and nature have given me enough respite by today to be able to sit up and type away at my laptop.
Our son (what an unbelievable expression!) Jishnu, was born two days ago on the 22nd of September, 2009 via a caesarean section. Before my days and nights are consumed by this adorable little creature sleeping on the cot right now, I want to capture what are perhaps the most poignant memories of my life, in words.

The day before (Sept 21, 2009)
Mum and Babu had reached earlier that morning loaded with boxes full of yummy fish. Despite all my fears of a major surgery the next day, I ate a hearty lunch after my check-up at Gupte Hospital. Apart from the greed of it, a morbid fear of that being my last good meal egged me on. I laughed, joked, talked through the day and generally managed to hide my fears. Each time my baby kicked or moved, I touched my tummy trying to file away the memory of that sensation knowing that it was one of my last ones. Each time I felt afraid of what was in store for the next day, I took comfort in the thought that it would be the beginning of the return to my ‘earlier self’. As much as I wanted time to stop and save me from having to face my biggest fears, waiting to go to the hospital seemed like forever.
Finally, the time arrived and we headed to the hospital to get me admitted. Loaded with the ‘hospital bag’ that had been packed and kept ready for weeks, we proceeded. My Radha-Krishna picture also, obviously, went with us.
Chaos greeted us at the hospital. After asking a million questions to the dumbest admin woman in the world at the reception desk, we gathered that there were no rooms at the hospital! That day, there had apparently been an unprecedented number of emergency cases and therefore all rooms had been occupied. After they conducted the NST (Non-Stress Test – an ECG of sorts for the baby), we were offered two choices. I could either go home and come back at 6 the following morning, or put up in one of the rooms at their old hospital which was a few blocks away. Viren and I didn’t want so many weeks’ worth of mental preparation to go waste and decided to put up at the old hospital. Sleep came easy to our weary minds, breathless with the anticipation of a brand new life at the other side of the night.

D-day (Sept 22, 2009)
‘Mavshi’ (one of the ayahs at the hospital) had told me she’d come to get me ready at 5 in the morning and there she was precisely by the clock armed with razors and an enema kit. ‘Great!’ I thought, ‘here begins that infamous string of humiliations’. Gritting my teeth, trying to be as objective as I could be, I let Mavshi take over as she went over the rituals with the most convincing poker face I’d ever seen. Feeling like the lamb being readied for the sacrifice, I sat there ready for the call from the hospital. They summoned me at around 7.30 am. I called my parents, who were at home, and went into the pre-op room. After I got into the hospital gown, I sat on the examination table clutching a small bronze Krishna statue in one hand, and Viren’s hand in another. It was only a matter of some minutes now. Soon, Vir was sent out and I was taken into the operation theatre. Lying there on that cold steel table, looking up at the arc lights, I awaited my turn for what seemed like forever even as docs and nurses flitted across the room to the two other OTs on either side of my OT.
At about 8.20 am, the nurses started cleaning me up with their lotions and potions and seemed to sweep me clean of whatever little modesty I was left with. I lay there, mostly bare, trying to smile back at docs offering polite introductions from behind masks. How I wished the masks would cover their eyes too. Months of going specifically to a female gynecologist seemed like a joke, when the roomed was swarmed by an all-male bastion of specialists for my surgery. The anaesthesiologist, the surgeon, the paediatrician, all of them – men!
I was given the spinal anaesthesia at about 8.30 am and within minutes the lower half of my body was as good as gone. The docs put a sheet to block my view of their ‘work area’ and after about 10-15 minutes of what seemed like gentle poking and prodding, they pulled out my baby and announced that it was a boy. It was 8.46 am on a Tuesday, the 22nd of September, 2009, when I became a mom.

Out and about
I was stitched up and wheeled out after being left alone in the OT for a long time. The availability of rooms at the hospital was still a problem. So, I waited there on the table thanking god that everything had gone well, pining for Viren, trying to move my toes and being pleased about my ‘empty’ tummy.
Once out of the OT, I was greeted by relieved smiles from my husband, my parents and my parents-in-law. Baby had been shown around and the healthy, 3-kg baby boy seemed to generally have met everyone’s expectations. We all proceeded to room no 207, a super deluxe type.
The last set of ‘humiliations’ came to pass through the rest of the day in the guise of bedpans, gigantic sanitary pads, adult diapers, nipple pinches, tummy presses and inspections down under. But I braved it all (not that I had a choice) and having some visitors after a spate of SMSes did help my cause. After eight bottles of IV, that memorable day drew to an end. Exhausted, Viren and I retired to our first night of sleep or sleeplessness, as parents.

Day 2
Though sleep was punctuated by a couple of night-time feeds and clean ups, I woke up rejoicing in the fact that IT was all over - I was pregnant no more, the operation was successfully over, the baby was fine and I was on my way back to being ‘normal’ again. I took my first painful steps to the loo, but it was definitely better than having that disgusting pan to pee in. I was then sponged by one of the mavshis (sigh, modesty is kind of tough to maintain in a hospital), but I sought happiness in getting out of the ‘bare-in-the-back’ hospital gown.
Parents, doctors, nurses, visitors did their rounds through the day, while baby had his first bath and his first injection. Among his other firsts was me trying to feed him. I also happened to cry quite an eyeful when faced with the apparently common problem of a slightly delayed lactation. I was tired of not being ‘perfect’ for the last nine months. Some more imperfection was definitely not appetising.
Day 3
I took a short walk in the hospital corridor today with my son in my arms and felt rather proud of it! Tired and kicked at the same time with my feat, I sat down to document these days - days that will probably become a blur by the time we celebrate Jishnu’s first birthday. Tomorrow I’ll be discharged from the hospital and we’ll take our son home to begin a brand new episode of our lives.

The last mile

This is probably the last time I'm setting pen on paper as a non-mom. In just a couple of days from now, I'll have a whole new world of responsibility and hence perspective.

The last nine months have been one of the most 'interesting' months of my life yet. There...I'm already shying from using the word 'difficult', afraid I may be branded a 'bad' mother.

It has been a constant game of open secrets. A constant tug-of-war between what was and what ought to have been. Nature vs. nurture. Each time I found a new thing to complain about my pregnancy, I was countered by this holier-than-thou image of a mother who is supposed to take everything in her stride smilingly. From wanting to curse my unborn for causing me all the pain and discomfort to going right into the self-flagellation mode, my emotions have been continually see-sawing.

There were days when I wanted to start an anti-pregnancy online forum where I could pour out my wrath that comes from being so 'helpless' and 'bound'. I wanted to tell all the women of the world that unless they're desperate for children, like REALLY desperate, they shouldn't get pregnant. I wanted to tell all how miserable it can make you and it probably isn't worth the abuse ones body has to go through. I felt like throttling every damn voice that spoke about the glories of motherhood, and by implication, pregnancy. I wanted to tell them that the idea of a glowing pregnancy was a horrible lie and that pregnancy was nothing but getting fat, swollen feet, pigmentation marks, a repugnant self image and probably, a zero sex life. And I wanted to offer my very contemptuous respects to those women who have achieved the stupendous feat of bearing more than one child and want to breed some more.

Then again there were days (admittedly, very few in comparison) when I would be overawed by the sheer miracle of the fact that there was this brand new human being inside of me. I'd wonder at the strength of the kicks and nudges of the little bugger, fondly wondering whether it's a boy or a girl, how it would look like, what talents it will have inherited and so on. I would lie awake some nights looking at Viren sleeping soundly and it would suddenly strike me how amazing it is that this little person in me is partly this man I love so much and partly me. Like any other parent in the world, I'd imagine our baby getting the best of what we both have a becoming a beautiful, intelligent, kind, strong, healthy, "normal" and a talented child.

Yet another inescapable part of this pregnancy package are the worries. When, on days, I could feel little or no movements of the baby, I would drive me crazy with anxiety. From drinking cold juice to eating pungent foods to trying to twist my body into rather uncomfortable positions, I would do everything to get the baby moving again. The amount of responsibility I had without really being able to do anything about it would drive me to tears. Just as I thought I'd better go to the doctor, the baby would start pounding away merrily again on the walls of my tummy distorting it into all kinds of funny shapes. The jabs felt more than welcome.

I would flit from logic to faith to fear and back in admitting my deepest feelings even to myself. Stuff I've read about the power of thoughts and how it affects your life would warn me against thinking nasty things. One has to be careful of what one wishes for, they say. But, having dabbled in psychology, I found solace in the knowledge that it was only hormones acting up and thus perfectly 'normal' to feel what I felt. The next instant, if any fear of disabilities crept into my mind, I'd immediately exorcise them with prayers. I tried to seek comfort in my belief in God and his benevolence.

Today, when I'm days away from delivering my baby, I new set of thoughts has found its way into my head and is bothering me. The foremost of them being...baby don't be born today. Why? Because it's a Saturday today and that's supposed to mean a very hard life, according to my mom. I've instructed my body to not do anything today, but suppose biology gets stronger than beliefs, and baby decides to come today, I have my defenses ready. Well, it is a Saturday, but it is the 19th -- numerologically, number 1 and it's Mahalaya today...so it can't be that bad, eh?

Through the last few weeks of visiting the doc and squatting away to high glory (that is supposed to help lazy babies like mine descend), I've come to be almost certain that a natural birth is not meant for me. So we picked a date for a c-section. Tuesday, the 22nd of September 2009 is what I'd like. 22 is the day of my birth and that'll also make the baby a Virgo-Libra cusp. Cusps are interesting. But, mom's not too happy with the 22nd being a Tuesday (Mangal is not supposed to be a very nice chap), but well, you can't have everything.

There are also fears about the surgery, about rejection, about capabilities among the many hundred things that are doing the rounds at the moment. But all the thoughts, all the words and all the advice in the world cannot prepare you enough for this life-changing experience...and I am no exception.

Lull in a bumpy ride

August 16, 2009

Week 34 – day 1

It’s not yet ‘any day now’, but boredom and certain new perspectives have pushed me to this diary entry of sorts – my fourth in the nine months of pregnancy -- a time for assessment when my life seems to have come to a lull.

August 13 and 14 came and went; and so did Janmashtami celebrations for this year. Also has gone is my half-wish that the baby would be born on either of the days. Yes, that would have been asking for a rather fragile preemie, but for anyone who knows me even by half a measure, would understand my wish. And now that it has gone, I’m perhaps half-glad it didn’t happen. I was reading the papers on the morning of the 15^th and came across an article about how the demand for elective births had risen by almost 50 per cent the two previous days. It made me feel rather silly knowing that I too was one of the thousands of wannabe Hindu ‘god-parents’– in the way of wanting my child to be born on the same day as the dark lord and imagining there was something divinely special about the kid. In any case, the number of gods and goddesses and their respective festivals is hardly a problem in this country, especially this time of the year, and I still have Ganeshotsav and Dussehra to look forward to in terms of divine birthing times. And the good thing about these two festivals is that their goodness lasts 10 whole days each. Baby, you got 20 ‘shubh’ days to choose from!

Now, it’s just countdown time with some other minor hopes and yet some more half wishes. I emphasise on the minor and the half here, because the fact that there’s little one can do to alter destiny, has been rubbed into my face very recently.

Swine flu – the fanciest new pandemic to hit the world – came to Pune sometime early last month and decided to make my beloved city its beloved city. As the number of H1N1 cases detected rose, so did the paranoia. But all hell broke loose with the first swine flu death. It began with calls from my parents – the carefully-concealed-concern-in-their-voices calls. In a week’s time, it began to sound like distress calls. ‘Have you bought a mask?’, ‘Are you wearing the mask?’, ‘Is Viren wearing a mask?’, ‘Dad’s really worried’, etc. By the time the news of the tenth swine flu death went around, my parents had hit the panic button. I was ordered to leave Pune at once; my unborn’s safety being the reason of course. So here I am, at my in-laws’ in Mumbai (where the threat is apparently lesser), in a virtual house arrest for the last 10 days, ‘quarantined’ with a lot of love. All my carefully laid-out plans to go on a maternity leave in the middle of September have gone out of the window. And from the looks of it, I’ll be forced to live here another week. Sigh.

Meanwhile, my pot (as Viren likes to call it) has been growing larger, the movements within squirmier, and my clumsiness greater. As the time for delivery comes closer, bouts of anxiety, abandon, impatience, wonder, fear and many such emotions become more frequent. There are good days and bad ones. The good ones are the one of acceptance and the bad ones of denial. Days when I can accept that my body cannot be altered before a certain time, that the pain of childbirth is something millions of women experience and survive, that Mumbai will be hot and sweaty no matter how much I wish otherwise, that it’s ok in my ‘condition’ to not be able to help my folks-in-law as much as I should be, I’m good. Days when I’m unable to accept the fatness of my face, the unfortunate reality of swine flu, the vulnerability of being a pregnant woman, the necessity of having to stay in a place that’s not home and the heat rash and swelling in my feet are bad.

Often, I try to repeat to myself mothers’ advice. ‘Enjoy your free time now, when you can. Once the baby comes, you won’t know night from day.’ So, I’ve been reading, sketching, chatting, watching TV, strolling, eating and sleeping. Basically, trying to make the most of this forced vacation. I spend a lot of time wondering also. Wondering how I’ll cope with this enormous responsibility of a new life being thrust upon me in a few weeks from now. Yes, I chose to be parent, but that choice means nothing now. Nothing, I imagine, can prepare one for assuming the mantle of parenthood. I also wonder about childbirth -- the big daddy of all pains. It’s no big deal, I say. If A, B, C, D, E, F, G and H can do it, I can do it too. I’ll be calm. I’ll not let humiliation take over all the other feelings that will be a part of this once-in-a-lifetime experience for me. This is just my body. I can be objective about it. My brain is under my control. What starts, comes to an end too. And from there stems a beginning -- a brand new chapter, with a brand new person that will be our child. I wonder what destiny has planned for me. God, zara dekh lena.