Just one day

I just want one day in my life when I am not chased by imperatives. One day in the life when I don’t have to go on saying now I have to do this or now that remains to be done; when I don’t have to be on time or watch the clock. One day in my life that could be a day of lying around, reading a book or listening to John Lennon, Simon and Garfunkle, or Anne Murray or the Carpenters. Is that too difficult a wish? I think and marvel at how all my dreams and wishes have lessened every day, bit by bit, to the very basic desire to rest my tired limbs and weary mind.
In school I dreamt of success and popularity. In college I dreamt of romance, of soft voices confirming love and desire, of a remarkable life. At university, I nursed some broken dreams and grew different ones to supplant them. Romance remained like a stubborn streak through all these dreams, hopes of a remarkable relationship, hopes of being just rich enough to fulfill my desires and those of others around me. Dreams there were of a largish home, tastefully furnished; perhaps, a car. Then came professional life and I did not give up hope of fulfillment of at least some of these myriad dreams. I did make a ‘largish’ home for myself, but a twist of fate snatched that away or should I say I just gave it up quietly without resistance because I hoped there would be other things to compensate.
Did compensations follow? I am yet to recognize or realize the answer to that one. Life at present allows only one realization. I need some undisturbed sleep.

Where lies the problem?

Meetings, meetings, talk, talk, talk… discussions which have more to conceal than reveal, explanations which are meant to perplex the mind rather than clear the air… Do all these people know their own minds? Do they have any ideology other than their own selfish interests? Or is it simply a case of fighting shy of what they probably realize is the truth about themselves? Is it possible that among a whole bunch of people there are very few honest and genuine in their approach? No, I am sure the problem lies elsewhere. It lies in our inherent dislike of unpleasantness. We do not resist what is wrong because we are scared of the unpleasantness that is likely to follow. We all want to be comfortable, we all want to be ‘nice’. But at the cost of what?

The truth, nothing but...

Lennon, thou shoulds’t have been living at this hour. Then you would see for yourself how well you had envisioned this world of ours in your songs. I remember my younger days at college and university and remember my obsessive admiration for your songs. I remember some of the words now…
You can shine your shoes and wear a suit
You can comb your hair and look quite cute
You can hide your face behind a smile
One thing you can’t hide is when you’re crippled inside…
I felt the truth of these words ever so deeply the other day following certain incidents at my place of employment. I witnessed how a whole generation of youth has gone wrong in the aspirations it is chasing. There was what I may quite easily describe as a pitched battle between two sections, between members of one political ideology and those of another political ideology. I saw an academic institution turn into a political battleground, and I sensed the insidious support of certain section of teachers in this whole unfortunate incident. And I really felt that some people are ‘crippled inside’ and you cannot understand their motives ever. As for the students who seem to be lead by these supposed ideologies are Matthew Arnold’s “ignorant armies clash(ing) by night”.
I thought the academic field was a creative arena, where learning, discipline and a responsible attitude to life were to be nurtured. I have been rather rudely awakened. In this state it seems to be a rather slimy, shady area where your own features may be strange to you. It has become a playground for what Lennon would describe as “uptight, shortsighted narrow-minded hypocrites” and “neurotic, psychotic, pigheaded politicians.” Each is trying to say the worst thing about the other in hushed tones. I try to keep my head on my shoulders, quite straight, neither bending this way nor that till I feel my head reeling, till I could scream like Lennon : All I want is the truth now, gimme some truth now…
But where’s the truth?
Where is that world where life does not appear like an adversary, where there is just me, my truth and my sensations, my liberty to feel and speak as I will, to go which way I like to tread, to hold my beliefs as dearly as I like and not be suspected on account of them?

Forgetfulness over forgiveness

Mere domesticity never attracted me. So married life was never for me. But I did crave the closeness of someone who would love and cherish me. The person who showed me this love was unfailingly conventional. So I had little choice but to step into the traditional contract of marriage. With that came its baggage of relations-in-law. And that is all they have remained - relations “in-law”. No emotion goes into the fulfilling of these commitments. I do my duty towards them unfailingly. My sense of duty and responsibility has no doubt raised my status in my husband’s eyes, but have I really got what I wanted from marriage?
Relations by blood have been equally bad. Rather I have no relationship with those who are supposed to be related to me by blood. They are peeved with me because since my father’s death I stood by my mother, without thinking whether she was right or wrong. I just felt that she was my mother and if she was uncomfortable with something I just had to see things her way. In any case my brothers had their life partners and did not have to feel as lonely as my widowed mother did. They had someone’s shoulder to cry on. So I thought I would extend my shoulder for ma to cry on. When I needed a shoulder to cry on, I was quite simply misunderstood. So I thought why bother to turn to people who were anyway too busy setting up things in their lives.
Then my husband came along into my life. I thought I had found someone on whose shoulders I could cry. Years down the line I realized he too needed a shoulder to cry on because his parents thought the worst of him for choosing me. So once again I lent my shoulder. Now I had two different people crying on either shoulder. Then my daughter came along and started to grow up and she also needed a shoulder. God gives us all only two shoulders but never tells us how many people we should accommodate at one time. God never tells us who are the most deserving candidates for a weeping berth on our shoulders. So I just opened my whole being out to my child. Anything for you, my little baby I said. Hence I am her favourite punching bag, milch cow or whatever. Now what?
The other day my mother’s elder son turned up at our place after a longish gap to see how she was being provided for. I realized through his various comments and reactions that he too needed a shoulder to cry on. And I thought I had left him safe and sound with the partner of his choice!!! Of course he didn’t mince words when he told me that I was the villain of the family who had gone and screwed up all the relationships. I do not know how I had stopped him from setting it all right again. I must be villainous in my basic approach to my family by birth. They all hate me. And frankly, I too have no particular liking for them any more. I do not feel even the sympathy I would feel for a dog. I no longer feel a part of the family that my father and mother created.
But I feel less lonely now. I am alone, brought on to this earth through the will of God, no matter which human agency was involved. I stand alone in all that I think and do. Neither past nor future should matter. A fixed destiny has been granted to me. I came to take up some responsibilities and perform some duties. The rest should not matter.
I believe God is with me in any place that He leads me to. He will stand by me. I meant no one to any harm. I meant just to be less trouble to the people around me. If someone thinks of me in a poor light it is his problem. I would like to forgive and forget. God, give me strength.

My way

Life has too many conflicts. How does one make things simpler? By letting bygones be bygones. But when bygones refuse to leave you, you can't do much but slap them in the face. Avoid shameless, unscrupulous, selfish people. Think of God. Think God gives responsibilities and troubles only to those who have the strength to fight. My strength seems to have ebbed. Hoping its a temporary phase. Haven't gone to work the whole of last week. Have to get back on my feet. Get back to work. Develop a philosophy of existence and fight it out. All my past beliefs are somehow erroneous. Got to stop believing in basic goodness of mankind. Then I might get on to the right track. I have to start believing that all that I have done till now in my life was predestined. I could not have done otherwise. To hell with all the people who think I am wrong. So who stopped them from doing what was right. I would have been quite happy if I didn't have to take on the many situations that I had to deal with. When faced with a circumstance that needed some doing, I did it my way. Here rests my case.

Present confusing, Future uncertain

Yesterday a colleague of mine at the college retired. She said she was happy to go. She seemed to accept the end of working life with some amount of relief. But I wonder what she plans to do with the endless hours that are now to follow.

I have been in this job now over eleven years and the way things are going, I can only see the resources of my brain being reduced to nothingness. Surprising, considering I am supposed to be in the academic profession. Here we are supposed to keep our minds alert, our imagination and intellect working full throttle. But such are the circumstances of the academic system that we are trapped in that being a teacher seems no more than the labourer's struggle for existence. And to think I came to this profession because I wanted to be a college teacher!

The academic session starts with a flurry of activity. We get to do some adminstrative work related to admissions. We get to do the paperwork of course. We have no say whatsoever regarding the quality of students we may admit or the number. That is decided by the powers that be in the governing of the institution. Education for all, the cry goes round the battlements and the field is set for the battle of the unions. Literacy for all is fair enough, but higher education for all is a bit of a misguided petition, particularly when I see around me students admitted who do not have the foggiest about what they wish to do with their lives. A degree, somehow, anyhow, with perhaps just the pass marks which does not equip them with any expertise. Moreover these young minds come in with the idea that teachers are their enemies, interested only in the pay packets they receive, not bothered about how much they should teach. There are of course the equivocating influences, some very much from among the teaching clan who are forwarding the interests of the poltitical parties they owe allegience to. In today's academics, politics is the thing. One-up manship is the order, with non-coperation and distrust going side by side. I came into this profession with the ideals that are no doubt old-fashioned now. So upset am I that I have begun to mistrust my own stance. I do my job just as a job. I learn nothing, I do nothing new. The travel to and from the college is sometimes inhumanly uncomfortable, the staff room politics is stifling. But I need the money, so I do my job. I also look forward to my retirement. But I wonder if I will have any ideas about how to pass the hours that I will finally have to myself. Will my imagination revive? Will my creativity revive? Will I remember how I loved to paint, or listen to music, or hang out with friends? Will I able to read books as I could once? The prospects are uncertain and a bit frightening.

Is this what God-gifted life is supposed to be reduced to?

This is it

This is it. The end of the line. I want to start afresh, break all links with the past. Just be myself. Dolly Ghosh, mother to Jigeesha, wife of Jaydip Ghosh, and lecturer in English in an institution located in the back of beyond. No past. No family I was born into. I would like to think I just appeared on earth one fine day and started to function and grow. Like some wild seed, accidentally in fertile soil, nurtured by sun and rain and flowered into what I am today.

Cutting links with the past seems to be the most important thing in my life now. Today is supposed to be my birthday and I like to think of it as just another day in my life. The wishes of friends and others seem unwarranted. Do we ever wish a flower happy birthday or an ant, or a tree or a tiger? They too live as I do.

No disregard here to the little teddy bear birthday cake my husband and daughter bought and presented me with because I was upset and disturbed about certain recent incidents. It was the nicest gesture and touched me deep. Made me feel needed and loved. But gestures of love can be made as "un-birthday" (Lewis Carrol, of course) gestures too. Its the caring that matters. Family is a matter of caring. I always believed that. It was somewhare along the line that the family I was born into stopped caring for me. They wanted caring too but what I did was obviously insufficient. But no one ever asked me if what I got was sufficient. Accusations and counter accusations have followed. Confrontations have led to conflicts. Did I do anything wrong? I must have. But I can't wipe the past out. To my immature sensibilities then what I did seemed just the thing to do. No one stopped or explained to me. Now they expect me to understand and take all the blame. I do not feel in a frame of mind to take all the blame. So I would like to break away from it all. And just save and nuture my identity as wife and mother. God are you on my side? Wish me luck.

Backseat blues

Recently, I learnt that a little girl whom I have watched growing up had become a soon-to-be published novel writer. Trisha is the daughter of a very close friend of mine. In fact when she was born, I appointed myself her godmother. We share a lovely relationship. Sometimes I find I can speak to her like a friend. I wish her all the best with her latest endeavour.
But this incident reminded me of a secret wish of mine. I too wanted to be a writer at one time. I guess I just did not have the necessary spark. I wrote a lot of diaries about my daily and other experiences in my teenage and young adulthood. Most of those diaries I once destroyed in a sudden fit of disgust. Some remain, of not much worth. What hurts is that the present state of my life has so crippled me that I do not even write diaries.
Thoughts that come and go in my mind simply fizzle out without taking shape or character. One needs exposure to be able to think fresh thoughts. The brains resources have to be periodically replenished for it to become fertile and creative. Any interesting episodes took place in my life maybe ten years ago. Anything new I read or came across or experienced was maybe an age ago. My thought processes seem to be caught in a whirlpool of domestic mediocrity. Every morning I wake up to a crippling worry of how I will get through this day. Will the domestic helps turn up? Will I be able to go to work today? Will I be able to get Mistu ready on time for her school bus. I perspire and feel ill and nervous. I get things done on time all right. But I wish all the time that this were not the daily round for me.
Not so many months ago, I started this blog, with the optimism that from time to time I would be able to record my thoughts in it, and allow those who so wish to take a look. Blogs are a wonderful invention. They can be private and public at the same time. The subject matter that you are writing on may not be stuff that novels are made of, yet they can be a truly literary exercise if one chooses the subject to write on with discretion and then express it in a pleasant manner. It would somewhat fulfill the wish to be a writer.
But even my blog writing seems to have taken a backseat to domestic hassles. I cannot understand why I am allowing this state of affairs. Why have I become this piece of sod?
Both home and place of employment do not seem to match up to my expectations. At home I am the multi-tasking woman, in college I am the good-for-nothing academic. I neither take trouble over the lectures I am to deliver any more, nor do I bother with any other creative activities with the students. I am the typically burnt-out case. No more new thoughts, no enthusiasm, no looking forward to anything. There are at least 13 working years in my life and I can’t imagine how I will get through them. There are that many and more years to my life and I don’t have the foggiest as to how I will get through them.
Time for some inward searching. After all we cannot control our circumstances, but we can control our response to them.

Emancipation reviewed

I am a woman and I am scared of emancipation. I have seen women’s emancipation up close and in its very limiting forms too. As a child when my father encouraged me to study and develop into an educated and independent person, I thought it was a good idea. I thought I would never have to beg or borrow. I would always be able to do things on my own steam. I thought being independent, and therefore being one who could be depended upon, was a major achievement. Now I realize it has a flip side. If you are independent you are not allowed your moments of weakness. You are rather made to feel inadequate because of them. Again you have to face the jealousies of less independent humans who try to make things difficult for you. They want you to prove time and gain how strong you are. Sometimes your own self stops you from asking for help, even if it would be the most sensible thing to do under the circumstances. Emancipation is one long struggle. It’s a journey without an end.

A little before my 25^th birthday I lost my father. My post graduation exam results were not yet announced. I was not sure of what I would do with my life. I was confident that with two elder brothers I would not be left floundering. All I had to do was to start thinking for myself and put my life on a definite track. Ma and her grief at her being left a widow struck me deep. I appointed myself her protector, stepping in where my father had vacated. In my innocence I didn’t realize that this was not possible. I could never fill up that vacancy. I should have gone on tying the loose ends in my own life as my brothers did. They moved on. I got stuck with my self-proclaimed responsibilities. I came off with flying colours in my post-grad. I got a chance to pursue research, being awarded a fellowship at JU. Then things began to sour in our lives. One by one my brothers got married and domestic peace was shattered more than once. I stood by my mother till I finally gave up my research and hopes of a PhD in literature, found a job, bought a flat and separated myself from the family, ma in tow. Then began the alienation which has been a part of my existence since. My brothers no longer care whether I am ok or not. To be quite fair, my elder sister who was married before my father’s death still feels something for me. We keep in touch and affection is very much a part of our relationship. But my brothers never forgave me because ma came away with me when I moved out on my own.

But my question is: is this kind of alienation a part of emancipation? Emancipation didn’t do much for me when I married either. After almost two years of living on my own terms the marriage bug bit me. I felt I had met the man who was the answer to all the questions asked and yet unasked. My parents-in-law were never very happy about my being a working mother. They therefore did not cooperate with the bringing up of my only daughter. But I bent myself backwards to prove to my husband and his parents that my economic independence would never be to their detriment. I just wanted to help and at the same time ensure a better life for my daughter and myself. My husband understood, but rather late in the day. Many things have gone awry in the interim. Some things can never be set right. The stress of these years has eroded my sense of humour and I am not the person I used to be. My daughter, now 11 years old, sees before her only a half hearted person, who is often gloomy or irritated. She avoids me when she sees me in one of my bad moods. Often I snap at her when a gentle chiding would have been enough. Maybe I expect her to be more sensitive to circumstances than her young mind can be.

The circumstances are not conducive to an easy carefree childhood. In our rather small apartment, we are now five. My mother-in-law (my father-in-law passed away seven years ago), my mother (who could not find a home with either of her two sons) and the three of us. The child practically screams for youthful companionship and sometimes for a bit of privacy to deal with her new sense of self. My husband and I must go out to earn and can provide her very little companionship. And what little time we do have, does not always pass in activities the child would prefer. She is mostly faced with a scene comprising two very old women watching television in a very statue-like manner. They hardly talk to her or spend time with her. She expects less and less from them and she is angry with me for doing this to her. A rather complex situation and this because I was emancipated, and took on responsibilities on the strength of my emancipated self.

I don’t know if our less emancipated mothers and grandmothers were less happy than us because their lives began and ended within fixed boundaries. They didn’t aspire so much, or think in terms of economic independence. All I can see is that we emancipated women need sleeping pills, anti-stress medication and hair dye much sooner than they did.

There’s more to this. Emancipation of women has led them along all kinds of paths. Today’s woman can opt out of constricting relationships, can refuse to take care of an aged mother-in-law and say she has the right to live her own life. Today’s woman can use her charms and wiles in the professional field and appear to do more than she is actually doing. Today’s woman can think she is doing a very daring thing by being photographed in next to nothing. Why should a woman feel that she has to show off her body just because she is lucky enough to have a better one than most other women? These are things that often come to mind and then I wonder if all this is part of emancipation. Those who authored the concept of the liberated woman must have had other things on mind.

On a very preliminary level they must have thought in terms of equal enjoyment by men and women of the fundamental rights of existence. What then are these fundamental rights of existence? To my mind, these are the right to live a dignified life, understanding and being understood, having the scope for using inherent talents, using one’s intellect and imagination freely but not to the detriment of other humans, loving and being loved. I guess it’s hard to put the thing in a nutshell. One of the basic natural principles is freedom, and emancipation is obtaining that freedom while remembering all the while that freedom is not an avoidance of duties and responsibilities. I tried to live by these principles. Did I do wrong? If I am right then why is my circle of well-wishers so depleted?

Motherhood

Women play many roles in life. Motherhood is one of them. This is true of my life as well. I am daughter, sister, wife, mother. So why should I not have felt the urge to write about daughterhood or wifehood or sisterhood (if I may put it that way)? Maybe it is because you can’t help being a daughter or a sister. You are born into these two relationships. But the roles of wife or mother you may choose. You may also opt out of these relationships. Something in the way my daughter touched my existence, in the way she reinforced my sense of being, must have made me pen these words.

Now she is eleven years old and a major source of sustenance. I feel very keenly the pleasure of the relationship. There are moments of despair when she seems obstinate or careless or even uncaring. But I know the despair is more from the uncertainties presented by life than her activities. The sense of unhappiness comes more from my knowledge that life does not always go the way you plan it than from anything else. I dream many dreams and think many things. Most of all I think of seeing my child independent and strong, a good human being who can take care of herself and of others. So sometimes when she doesn’t listen to reason, I despair. Then I think of her past days of infancy and feel the warmth of those days suffuse my being and I, after the poet Wordsworth, again am strong…

My daughter has been the window to my understanding of the states of mind of a child. A bell of recognition tinkles in the mind when I read this particular poem by A.A.Milne:

When I was one

I had just begun

When I was two

I was nearly new

When I was three

I was hardly me

When I was four

I was not much more.

When I was five

I was just alive.

But now I am six I’m as clever as clever

So I think I’ll be six now forever and ever.

I feel the creator of Winnie the Pooh wrote this with kids such as my Poo in mind. Poo may be all of eleven now, but she would like to be six. She wants her dolls and chocolates, she wants her hugs and to snuggle up to me in bed at night, she sheds large tears when something doesn’t go her way. She wants all the ice cream from the family pack, she wants all the sausages fried at breakfast. She watches cartoons and likes to scribble in her exercise books and all over her hands and feet. She thinks nothing of breaking my lipstick or spraying all the perfume into the air. Phew! The list could get longer. But she has her lucid moments, when her observation of a situation could match any sensitive adult’s.

I look on and marvel at this child and secretly feel proud at having more than a hand in creating her. My flesh and blood she is and yet she is quite unknown to me, revealing new possibilities every day. I feel awe at this relationship of a mother with her child, forever caring, forgiving, giving, never asking and watching with fondness all the growing moments.

I remember how keenly I felt every moment of her existence within me even before she was born. I remember some of my scattered thoughts in those thirty seven weeks of waiting…

My little baby,

As you move inside me and

Assert your individual self,

I wonder what you will be like.

Will you and I have

Anything in common?

I hope you will be a girl.

Sometimes I am pleased,

Happy almost.

At other times

I am afraid. Inexplicably.

With you, I hope to be fulfilled.

Just your being there is enough.

No matter who you will be,

No matter what you will do.

And, my thoughts after she was born...

No male can have

the sense of achievement

that a woman can have.

Giving birth is an experience

and an achievement that is common,

but to each mother it is an achievement

exclusive and special,

an experience that is

overwhelming and unparalleled

by any other experience in this world.

Despite the intervening years,

I feel intensely

that moment of your birth still.

It is no mean thing –

this biological process

of nurturing within oneself

another human being and then

bringing him or her to earth safe.

The moment has a worth

for always and ever after.

At that moment you feel God is watching

and heaven is all around you.

It is God and you

and a divine moment of creation.

I am saying all this

as an afterthought, I know.

Actually it is a moment

one can’t just describe.

It is a moment to be felt

and to be experienced

and the moment that irrevocably

creates the bond

between the child born and

the woman who gives birth.

What wonderful emotions fill the woman’s heart when she realizes she is in the family way! When I knew I started glowing from that moment onwards, mostly because you are supposed to glow. What’s a mother-to-be without that special glow that speaks of happier things?

The glow however does not last. At the beginning of the third month or so I began to develop the symptoms of a seasick person. Retching seemed to become a pretty regular thing, throwing an entirely new light on the connotations of the word “wretched”… (any pun is intended).

If you are a mother then you will remember that come the fifth month things begin to improve. So it was with me. The glow stole back. Secret smiles played on my lips. I felt like forgiving the world, and particularly my husband, anything. I began to think with the bouts of nausea coming to an end, my days of discomfort were over. I found myself singing “Everything’s gonna be easy now…” – at least till ‘labour’ day.

Midway through the seventh month, when I distinctly began to resemble a weaver bird’s nest, I developed this terrific craving to lie on my stomach. I longingly looked back on the days when I had the absolute freedom to lie on my stomach, and didn’t take the opportunity to do so to my heart’s content. My husband’s face began to appear villainous. Days of discomfort were back again.

Just when you think you have finally finished, you have to start all over again! That’s motherhood for you. And I am not talking only of feeds and nappy changes. The whole emotional gearing up is towards one thing after another… a bit roller coaster in nature.

Some experiences feel like it’s a whole world traveled right round. Like motherhood. My daughter is on the threshold of life and I am at breaking point.

I look back on the days past and wonder if I should start all over again. Maybe I would get it all right the next time round. Maybe then my daughter would approve! But no – this is a once in a lifetime experience. That is motherhood. You start out with pencil and paper, and no erasers are supplied. Right from the word ‘go’, you can’t help but be sensitive to the particular joys and pains of being mother.

The first nickname also comes out of a feeling of joy and belonging. I called my baby Poo, after Winnie of the Winnie the Pooh fame. She just seemed like… well, like Poo.

When I heard the first wail emanating from my bundle of joy, the lightness I felt is something else. The awe at the mysteries of creation and my participation in it filled my being with a peace which is age-old, yet forever new. My soul said “You are Mother, hallowed be thy name”. I felt satisfied, pleased, tired. I felt like the poet Wordsworth, “Something attempted something done/Has earned the night’s repose.”

Something attempted – yes, something done – true… I had certainly earned the night’s repose – but did I get it? The answer to this question is historical knowledge.

With the arrival of the precious newcomer, repose and I became necessarily estranged. Infants have a remarkable way of treating night as the most appropriate time to indulge in various activities more suited to daytime. By the end of the first week from the day I got out of the nursing home, motherhood seemed anything but sublime. I seemed to be feeding, cleaning, changing, feeding, cleaning, changing… between bouts of keeping awake and comforting the little one. I wondered what made me do this. Why didn’t I learn to know better? By the time Poo was four months old I began to wonder why I was not born infertile.

My routine was something like this: working by day, staying awake by night, dozing at dawn. Poo liked to stay awake through the night. It was not that she made a nuisance of herself, ‘mewling and puking’ through the night. She just felt friendly. She waved her hands and feet in air, she made gurgling noises, generally shooting benevolent looks at her sleepy parents. I would sit up and stare at her unable to doze off when my daughter was still awake. I would try and sing her a few lullabies sending up quiet prayers to God to work a miracle. Lullabies seemed to please her leaving her hankering for more. When my throat would run dry so would my stock of lullabies. Sometimes I would try to pat her to sleep. She thought it was some form of game to deepen the bond between us.

Come dawn and the first chirping of birds and the cawing of crows and she would give a deep sigh and slip into slumber. On many occasions I resisted the temptation to give her a wild shaking. In the first 365 days of her life Poo slept through the night only on two occasions. How’s that for a record?

Of course, it was not all as bad as it sounds. There were the moments of pleasant surprise and intense happiness. The first smile, the first undecipherable word, the warm feel of the tiny soft body cuddling against me will never cease to be sources of wonder and the moments of proud realization that I did all this by myself – these were there too.

Feeding the baby has a joy all its own. This remark came from a friend who kept trying to tell herself that she was fulfilling some predestined role. The bond that grows between the mother and the child through the act of breast feeding, since it necessitates such closeness, is a bond unbreakable – she said. They all say it, in spite of the fact that we keep seeing bonds breaking here, there and everywhere. Each mother is foolish enough to believe that she is building a relation with her offspring which few could have achieved. I am no different.

In you I see myself reborn.

That one monosyllabic word

Which is common to all faiths,

All communities, to all humanity…

‘Ma’… when uttered by you,

Unwittingly, in a sort of half knowledge,

Reincarnates my whole being.

I participated in God’s creation

In giving being to you.

You recreate me, daily.

This special bond,

Forged in pain, fostered in pain,

Must not lose its meaning,

In the commonness of everyday activities…

I have to rise above

The mediocrity of daily existence,

I have to shake free of the pressure

Exerted by limited minds.

Help me, my child,

To be dependable and strong…

Mothering is a full time job – no earned or casual leave, please. Some sick leave perhaps, depending on circumstances. You have to be around all the time, to start all over again whenever the need arises.

For one, you have to be around when your infant is trying to decide which finger to suck. Poo started by trying to put both her hands into her mouth. A difficult and frustrating task indeed - I had to be around to sooth the frayed tempers. I watched patiently and unobtrusively, as my daughter took the first decision in life. The thumb it was.

The first time Poo rolled over on to her stomach after many tries was akin to her passing out of school. Or so I thought. Every time I placed pillows around her for safety fearing she might fall of the bed, she thought I had placed them there for fun and for her to crawl over. To give her credit, she never once fell off the bed. Neither did she smash her little chin when she first took to crawling. When she could crawl, she always aimed for the mysterious darkness under the dining table.

And the first tooth… oh boy! One fine morning when Poo was 11 months old I found her inconsolable. All motherly instinct failed, and I watched helplessly, as my little one cried and howled and soiled her clothes because of what appeared to be a small gastro-intestinal upheaval and went red in the face. Then suddenly one evening a week later, she calmed down with a cherubic peace on her lovely face. And her smile was no longer toothless! A little spot of white on the lower gum and it was a reason to celebrate.

She began to chew up things thereafter. Her own fingers, my fingers, books, newspapers… one day before I could retrieve the tiny piece of newspaper which was in her mouth, she swallowed it. My whole life flashed before my eyes. I saw myself running down hospital corridors, my little one trussed up in an operating theatre… I called up her doctor with trembling voice…

“Doctor, my daughter has swallowed a piece of The Telegraph.”

“She may become a journalist in the future,” he answered in a tired voice and thereafter proceeded to give professional advice. From his voice I understood she could have done much worse. But having recently attained the job of mother and being still in training I guess I could be forgiven these heebie-jeebies.

Since five months of age she intermittently suffered from a bronchial condition which has stayed on with her. As a result I tended to worry each time she coughed even a little. In fact I worried about just about everything. One fine morning, I found a notable number of grey hairs on my head which by now had begun to resemble a neglected bird’s nest. I felt a deep gratitude for the mother who had brought my siblings and me on to this earth and brought us up. We were four. She must have had a job of it. Ask her now and she will speak only of the joys of having us. We never do speak of the pain and the trials. What would be the point of it, in any case?

I watch you as you reach out

For a piece of sunlight on the floor

You try to grab it –

It slips out of your grasp…

So much in life is like

That piece of sunlight…

Now you look with

Innocent puzzlement…

The pieces of sunlight

That eluded my grasp

Fill me with anger

And my eyes with

Tears of despair.

Don’t let that ever

Happen to you, my child…

Pieces of sunlight are just

Transparent ephemeral things…

Laugh when they elude you,

Clap your hands with glee…

Play around with shadows

And sunlight.

The way we should play

With dreams of happiness.

Poo took her first independent steps when she was a little over one year of age. A little red plastic chair served as the prop. She started pushing it about the house. Round and round she went, her plump little feet padding behind. She seemed untiring. I was thrilled but worried at the same time that she might be overworking herself in her excitement at this new ability. All mothers gush and drool about the first step the child takes and feel increasing joy at the way the unsteady steps become surer and surer… They wouldn’t gush so much if they knew where these steps would gradually lead!

The steps lead to the parts of the house where one was not used to carrying her to. The kitchen, for one, is the location for the most enduring curiosities. The pots and pans beckon as do the ladles and spoons. No matter how many cuddly and interesting toys I bought for Poo, she was fascinated by utensils and cutlery. I kept buying toys in something of a frenzy thinking something would absorb her interest, divert her from the culinary tools. Dolls and teddy bears, musical toys, mechanical toys, winding and unwinding toys filled the shelves and floors. Most of them she took apart as far as they could be taken apart and went back to the kitchen for the more interesting stuff.

Then an idea struck me. Now why hadn’t I thought of that before? I began buying little tea sets, kitchen sets, picnic sets, coffee sets, tiny gas stoves, rolling pins, pots and pans for Poo. She loved to play with kitchen stuff, so I thought it a clever notion to get her a miniature kitchen. Well, let me tell all misguided souls like me, kids love the real thing! Kitchen, here we come on little wobbly steps…

Of course, to be quite fair to Poo, the kitchen was not the only restricted area she made a beeline for. The bathroom was equally enticing, particularly if there was a bucketful of water just waiting around to splash about in. Soon she was walking all over the house, exploring as many corners as she could get into. Luckily, none of them were tight corners!

All mothers are naïve enough to believe that the way her infant is taking on the progressive steps in life are indicative of the conquering spirit. All human beings have the conquering spirit. We all like to conquer the odds, as it were. The odder the circumstances, the better it is for the kid. Like being on TV is to try and climb in through its back. As Poo grew up she began to realize the various uses her hands and feet could be put to and she went about it with great gusto. By two years of age she had realized hands could be particularly useful in smashing and pasting my favourite lipstick all over my writing bureau. Feet could, she learnt, be suitably used to speed through the house, and at a later stage to climb up shelves and window bars.

She knew atmospheric truths pretty early, like the higher you go the “cooler” it gets. Most of the stuff one wanted to keep out of her reach would be placed on the higher shelves of cabinets and cupboards. But the old conquering spirit made her aspire to these heights and achieve – get her hands on my precious photo albums or interesting trinkets.

The dexterity, with which she got her hands on my collection of trinkets, baubles, and other interesting bric-a-brac, aided me much in developing a philosophical attitude toward material things. I realized that possession of material things was only a temporary pleasure. She took a particular liking to my collection of pens of various colours. She took to scribbling on any surface that was worth scribbling on. I sought a way out by providing her with paper and crayons. She loved her crayons and she scribbled day and night. I thought I had hit upon a really smart idea. This I thought would really keep her busy.

To be fair, it did, for many months. She still loves to scribble, draw and colour. But she has gone on to higher things.

Poo - the things you say and

The things you do

Are all so endearing

And a constant wonder to me.

From the first word you spoke

To the full sentences that you speak now,

Each thing means so much.

You will not remember

The things you do and say.

Possibly, I will forget much

And remember perhaps

Just a few things.

But just because memory fails,

Moments do not lose their value.

At age three plus I sent her to school. Very early in her academic career Poo concluded that institutionalized learning is an entirely worthless process. Why should we have to learn to write spellings correctly? Learning to add was fine, but why should we have to learn to subtract as well? Why should we have to go to school every day? Why? Why? These agonized questions I felt absolutely unequal to. I had no answers that would satisfy her queries.

Being an only child, surrounded by grown-ups (average mental age 50) she would obviously get restless and want to spend her energy on a lot of activity that was not particularly result-oriented. A notable part of her activity was dismantling a toy within fifteen minutes of receiving it. I decided she needed her energies diverted into the correct channels. She needed more company and defined activity, or so I thought.

Since I could not imagine the possibility of providing her with a brother or sister, I decided to get her a pet. A little whimpering dog who would I presumed rouse all the protective instincts and affection in her. I imagined warm cozy scenes of dog and child playing, and generally passing the time delightfully. Advertisements on TV show children hugging and cavorting with dogs. I was quite wrong, of course.

Poo called it Tomato, rather indicative of what she planned to do with it. “Squash it” is a term that comes readily to mind. She saw the pet as a competitor right from the beginning. Accordingly, she proceeded on her attempts to annihilate the poor chap in a serial manner. She pulled the tail to see if a dog can move backwards. She placed the quivering 8 inch-in-length creature on the dining table and encouraged it to jump off. I like to believe that she was not trying to incite the poor creature to commit suicide.

After some time, I found the little dog shuddering at the very sound of my daughter’s voice. I had to send it back to its original birthplace after which Poo told me with a very hurt expression how upset she was with my decision. And then went about her work cheerfully. I consoled myself that these things can happen; after all, not all little boys and girls are fond of pets. (But almost one and half years after Tomato was sent back, one day she told me she was awfully sorry for what she had done to Tomato and would like to apologize to the dog personally and that she had realized the error of her ways.)

Post-Tomato it was Barbie dolls. A friend of mine presented my daughter with her first Barbie doll. I personally had never thought of buying her one because it was my innocent belief that children as small as her would prefer either little kitchenware or stuffed bears or large cuddly dolls. My theory on large cuddly dolls went the toy kitchenware theory way. Poo had no particular liking for cuddly toys either. The first toy to really take her fancy was the slim, chic Barbie presented to her. She wanted a name for her Barbie. Almost without thinking I answered “Jamaica.” And Jamaica she was and still is.

Almost overnight Poo turned into a Barbie collector. I would have to buy her Barbie dolls of all description and appearance and back home from the shops we would go through an elaborate christening ceremony. Each of the sixteen Barbie dolls soon had a different name. Of course the dolls needed their dresses and accessories as well. For hours she would sit and play with her Barbies and her world of imagination grew as my bank balance dwindled.

Barbie continues to be a passion for her. Leo-Mattel knew their business well. Now we have a Barbie house with furniture, clothes and shoes and crockery; in short, the works. She still plays with it all, perhaps living out some little fantasy, in a world far removed from fathers, mothers, grandmothers, schoolteachers…

At age five the child develops the rational mind, theorists say. I wonder if any theorist has ever brought up a full blooded child. At age 5, I tried to appeal to the rational mind in my daughter. God had obviously made a slip in the making of my Poo. The rational mind is peculiarly absent. And as if to make up for the gap, a generous amount of the imaginative faculty has been put in.

She always had new stories about why she would not like to go to school. She developed a permanent ache in her stomach. At least 40 per cent of school days were not attended by her. Her school expects parents to write letters asking to be excused for absence and send in medical certificates when necessary. On one such occasion she nonchalantly told me that she had failed to hand over the letter as on the way to school she had dropped it and it was promptly swallowed by the neighborhood dragon.

The neighbourhood dragon was initially my creation as it effectively quieted her in her unreasonable moments. When she was being particularly difficult, I would call to the dragon to come and pull her up. This ruse worked. I knew when it worked. I however did not know when it stopped working. I knew it had stopped working when she used it back on me that day.

My powers to convince were put to test each morning, at around 7.30 am, as is my physical strength. I had thought I had got over playing dolls a long, long time ago. But I seemed to have revived something akin to that in my life again by admitting Poo to school. Each morning I would have to lift her bodily out of bed, carry her to the wash basin, brush her teeth for her, spoon in her morning meal, give her a bath, clothe her, comb her hair, all the time speaking on the good aspects of school and how wonderful it can be. Through the whole exercise my daughter remained more or less inert and finally left to catch the school bus with a “lifes’s not fair” expression.

Poo treated her going to school as entirely my responsibility. I thought going to school was a good idea, she did not. I thought an academic training was a necessity, she thought differently. The generation gap was obvious.

I am the proverbial “working mother”. I teach in a college and get back from work in the evening. When Poo was five or even six, she would be home at least four hours before I came back. Those four hours of being unavailable to meet my daughter’s demands was like the end of the world for her and more so for others who had to keep an eye on her in my absence.

So back home, looking for a cup of tea and a bit of rest, I had to play games with Poo. She scripted the games, wrote the dialogue and directed my actions. I just had to be a willing participant. I am as willing as you can find them. Only a little slow on the uptake. Sometimes not acting on the cue led to disturbing situations.

The leg of a doll once came off as we were trying to marry her off to Prince Charming. At the same time I remembered a small chore in the kitchen. I told her I would fix the leg after I had dealt with what needed to be done in the kitchen. Poo of course considered the surgery on the doll a priority and kept hollering for me to get back to it. By the time I finished in the kitchen and came back, all was over. Out of sheer frustration she had chewed out of shape the errant leg. Thereafter she proceeded to throw the doll into the dustbin, announcing it was a most unsuitable candidate for a bride.

Quick to decide, I must say. Admirable quality, if one judges dispassionately. She took other major decisions in life with equal dexterity. Five, not yet six; she announced that till the end of class two she would try and take academic life with equanimity. No studies after that, thank you.

Academics are something Poo always got hold of from the other end. Spellings were the greatest victims. She could spell the same word in three different ways. She preferred phonetic transcription to spellings in the standard lexicon. From time to time with commendable perseverance I would break down her resistance to spelling practice. On one such occasion she had got wrong nine out of the ten spellings I had dictated. I tried to give her a hurt look at her dismal performance. Unfazed she pointed out the one correct spelling and said, “If I had managed to get that one wrong that would have just about completed it.”

She had some kind of mental resistance to ‘b’ and ‘d’. She would always write ‘b’ as ‘d’ and ‘d’ as ‘b’. On one such occasion, when she had again written ‘bate’ instead of ‘date’, I asked in as tolerant a voice as possible “Why do you always end up writing d as b?” She gave me a worldly wise look and answered, “I have a problem.” I wondered who it was that had a problem on her hands! There was no denying that this child knew how to call a spade a spade.

What would you like to do when you are grown up? – I had asked Poo once at the age of, perhaps, six. I suppose this question from me was guided by years of social adherence. Her answer: stay at home, read Cinderella and paint, what else?

What else? True. That sounded a little familiar. Did I not feel this way too at age six and seven or even eight? I have ended up doing other things. Maybe she too will succumb to social and economic routines. Give in to monotony. Develop the ‘rational’ in her and I shall be at ease to think that she is accustoming herself to traditional expectations.

One fine day she said she would like to be a teacher. I gently reminded her that an academic career that ended at age six would hardly equip her for the profession. Her bewildered query was, “You have to study a lot to be a teacher?”

“Well, at least, till college”, I said without going into too many details. One had to be cautious.

She asked me with something of disbelief, “You studied in college?”

“And university”, I said.

She became silent and I knew I had just shot down one burgeoning ambition. Of course, I consoled myself that it was too early to lose hope.

Subsequently things began looking up for which I must be eternally grateful to her teacher in class II. It must have been some chord the good lady touched in Poo’s heart. Half way through that academic year, Poo announced grandly that she was willing to give academic life another try. She would finish school, going through all the classes that the academic institution had on offer. That was a pretty happy day in my life. Rich reward for my apprehensive soul. No matter what we think or feel, we all know we have to see our child gear up for the challenges of day to day existence.

Then she announced that she would be a doctor. Again too early to hope too much, but I was curious to know what had brought the fit on. Apparently it was television soap that had induced this process of thought. She loved the white coats the actors in the soap wore. In any case this was a good thing and, I believed and believe, one worth encouraging. The future in any case is always unknown but present hope is a wonderful thing.

At one point of time I realized that Poo was developing a skill in spellings entirely her own and far removed from reality. Like many a hapless mother I had employed a tutor, a young college girl, whom I gently instructed to be firm but friendly and to adopt a mode of teaching which would serve at the same time as a couple of hours of companionship for my daughter.

I have always felt that providing my daughter with company when I am out earning the butter for the family bread, is somehow one of my responsibilities. Anita proved to be a happy companion. Soon my daughter could actually spell words and add and subtract with ease. The amount of work Anita set her for the week was all done just a couple of hours before she was supposed to turn up. This was obviously not a happy practice.

Poo was being told as much by her father in one of those rare moments when he thought he had a duty to discipline her.

“When we were kids tutors would set us so much work we would not be able to lift our heads. Anita is making it too easy for you. You should have a tutor like the one I had and mountains of homework!” he said.

Poo’s reply, I think, should go down in history…

“If you get me such a tutor, the days she is supposed to come, I will simply not be at home!”

These tasks set by Anita always were a bone of contention between Poo and me. Each evening I put in my reminder. Some evenings she would reluctantly sit down to do the work before eleventh hour. On one such occasion, she was doing her homework with more than usual reluctance. Hence the mistakes in arithmetic were quite a few. I glanced in and remarked that she should check and see whether she had done all the sums correctly. Her reply was, “It’s the teacher’s job to check and see whether my sums are correct. I have done the homework. That’s all!”

That was all, really. A sheer example of clear thinking on the theory of division of labour; it would make Adam Smith smile with satisfaction.

Most children dislike studies. Their dislike is historical. The routine and the compelling monotony that often get associated with school and studies is perhaps the reason. Shakespeare spoke of young boys walking like snails toward school. The reality of children’s dislike of academics is that old. We all know the truth and yet we worry when we see our little children not wanting to sit down with their books as a routine.

We all cannot think beyond institutionalized education and we feel scared that our children may not make the mark. These fears cannot be avoided no matter how one tries. I do deep breathing exercise each time the worry of Poo’s academic reticence hits me. I tell myself, que serra, serra and then I feel like breaking down.

The best excuse she has given till date for not looking forward to going to school: Noise pollution!

Poo, your brightness and lucidity,

Creativity and abilities

Remain unharnessed,

As I flounder in an

unresolved search for identity.

Have I been wife?

Can I be mother?

Life’s varying aspects become

disproportionate and fearsome.

Past dissatisfactions hound

present imaginings.

Where do I fit in with my longings?

Which nook am I to guide you to?

Incredulously, I stare around me

Wondering at which point

Things began to queer for me.

How do I pick up courage?

How do I scrub out bitterness?

How, where do I restart?

I know only acceptance

Can do the magic,

And help me to redefine happiness.

But acceptance reeks

Of compromise,

Of a half-hearted existence.

Confusion reigns over my being

Which finds itself inept,

Helpless to provide shelter

to another’s dreams and longings.

At six, a child is a curious mixture of pure innocence and instinctive awareness of immediate surroundings. Poo noticed many things as her sudden statements about situations or people would make clear.

Somewhere along the line I realized that Poo had not quite developed as far as eating habits went. Anything that meant some trouble to eat was not worth eating. One should be able to eat without looking at the food on the plate or so she thought. Eyes could be better employed at meal times looking at cartoons on the television. As a result most meal times would become a trial in patience for hapless me. She could take half an hour over a piece of bread; almost two hours at dinner and so on…

Like all mothers, I believe that a certain amount of food should go into a growing child daily. As a result I bend myself in all directions to ensure that the food put on the plate in the first place at least should be consumed, never mind a second helping. On one such occasion, when I had been repeatedly telling her to finish her breakfast for almost an hour, out of sheer frustration I remarked that I would pray to God that she has a daughter just like herself and then I will see how she will feel!

Pat came the reply, from one who was a little over six: “If I have a daughter like myself, I would send her to a crèche everyday.”

Wisdom I had not achieved in all these years served to me on a platter! Now why hadn’t I thought of that? There were of course many reasons why I had not thought of that. I believed in families and had definite ideas about the kind of home atmosphere a child should grow up in. Loving grandparents, loving but strict parents and a person to help out with the hundred odd jobs that crop up when there is a little child in the house – that was how I had pictured things.

But we cannot always translate dreams into reality. Situations may not live up to expectations. You yourself may not be able to deliver the goods. Many things can put a spanner in your plans. The unfortunate thing is that children often end up at the receiving end when dreams go awry. I like to think I tried my best, but who can decide? Poo is Poo, dreams or no dreams. Poo has come on to this earth with her own destiny and she will fulfill it.

The best thing I can do is be a mother. I realize that now. When a student does well, I feel good being his teacher. But when I can make my daughter laugh, that is the biggest reward. When I say “I love my little baby” to her at least once in the day, I feel a sense of achievement. I realize that at the end of my life if my daughter will even so much as say that she had a good mother, my life will be fulfilled.

As I said, you may have dreams and they may not work. You may have theories about bringing up children and they may fall right through the floor. I am speaking of the great separation when a child is to be moved out of her parents’ bed into a bed of her own. Some say a child should be made to shift out of her parents’ room when she is five or so. Others say this should happen when the child is mentally prepared.

A little over seven years of age, Poo started speaking in terms of her own room. So I thought this was as good a time as any to encourage her to shift out of our bed. With much fanfare, her bed and study table and toy box were all suitably placed in her grandmother’s room (making the best possible arrangement in view of the constraint of space in our small apartment). Two days and nights went off rather well and then the excitement about her little corner in the home subsided. On the third morning she walked into our room, sat on our bed and looked around rather wistfully. What she said was even more heart rending.

“My pillow is no longer here. That is Papa’s pillow and this is Mama’s. I have now gone out of your lives”.

Weaning… A word we normally associate with moving the child from a liquid to a solid diet. It’s a word that applies to many other “movings away”, if I may be allowed to put it that way. Just when you thought you had finished weaning, you had to start all over again!

Moving the kid out of your bed into one of her own, in the next room is yet another weaning which needs your patience and hard work. After Poo was moved out of our room into her grandmother’s room, on many days, in the wee hours of the morning, she would crawl back into our bed. I would suddenly realize that we had a very cuddly and warm being amidst us.

One night, with something of determination, she walked in with her pillow, plonked down on the bed as her father and I readied for sleep and announced, “That room is full of ghosts. I am just not going back there”.

Just when you thought you had finished weaning…..

My effort continued in various ways. And six months down the line she seemed to settle into the idea that she had to sleep in her own bed and not in her parents’. I was of course far from easy in the mind. With Poo you could never be sure. Of course I love her for her unpredictability.

It was Poo’s habit to watch TV and munch chips or some such snack. She is not the very outdoor types. She prefers to invite friends over and play at home. Physical activity with her as a result is perhaps not as much as children of her age. One day I noticed she was developing something of a paunch. I warned, “Baby you will have to cut down on the front-of-TV snacks. You are developing a tummy!” It seemed she hadn’t heard or did not care to hear. But she had heard. A few minutes later she gave a nervous little smile and said,

“Hope I won’t get a baby!”

About the birth of babies she had been collecting information for some time now. Babies came out of mummies’ tummies.

Babies were to be obtained by applying to God.

These applications may be filed mostly after marriage.

Sometimes you could put in a requisition before marriage.

In case of requisitions after marriage, the supply was faster.

Before marriage, God took His time about honouring your request.

Impressive data, I must say. How much of it was heard and how much thought out, I will never know. Like the one about sanitary napkins: they are to keep your butt from getting hurt if you fall while playing or running about!

I could not help noticing that she was developing a quick wit, charming and funny. The wit was particularly applied in academic discussions between hapless mother and bright-spark daughter. Every excuse was tried by Poo to avoid studying. She always felt that sitting down with school books was time misspent. Almost every other day I would have to speak to her at length about the need to take school work seriously. Sometimes I would scold, sometimes coax, sometimes reason with her.

When she had struggled through sixth standard and enjoying a short recess before report card day, I told her to keep on with math and language practice. I had got hold of a comprehension workbook in English and asked her to work out the exercises one by one when I was away at work. She was doing them alright. One evening back from work as I corrected the work I wondered if she was copying from the answers given at the back of the book. She protested, shed a tear, asked me to stop trying to be Sherlock Holmes and finally threatened to give up studies if I suspected her of not being honest with the work. I kept quiet through this process wondering what I should say. It was actually she who spoke up next with sheer honesty, “Oh! How can I give up studies when I have already given them up!” I couldn’t make up my mind whether to laugh or despair at this holding up of the mirror to oneself.

Like the unbridled winds, Poo carries on… I watch and feel proud, a little weepy, a little confused and sometimes plain exhausted.

It is never enough to just say I love my child, or my parents, or any other person for that matter. Loving someone means a huge responsibility towards that person. When you love a person, you love the totality, strengths and weaknesses included. Being loved also entails a responsibility. You have to try and not disappoint the person who loves you.

God knows I have my disqualifications. I hope as a mother I am not yet a disappointing figure. I have not been all that I could have been as a mother. Sometimes I am too full of a sense of deprivation. I feel I deserved much more in life and go off at a tangent.

My feelings of loneliness, of wretchedness, go only when I focus myself back on Poo’s needs. Existence becomes my need when I think of her present vulnerability. I have to live for Poo. I have to provide for my child till she is self sufficient.

I must also remind her that self sufficiency is not selfishness. It is being able to take good care of yourself, and at the same time being strong, caring, and being there when someone needs you.

Those were the wonder years. Now Poo is much grown up. She has her own collection of lipsticks, trinkets. She has decided that she would like to be a fashion designer. She does have a way with clothes, I have noticed. Though I buy the clothes for her mostly, she decides what she will wear on which occasion. She often combines one piece of attire with another in rather interesting ways. She adds on the accessories and I find myself liking the ensemble. Rarely do I ask her to change anything or make any suggestions.

She even tells me what I should wear and what I should not. She tells me when my make up looks a little over done. I developed grey hair quite early in my life. Partial progeria, maybe. Once, my agonized 6 year-old told me that a graying mother of a little child was just not acceptable. What would her friends think? I immediately started colouring my hair. Five years down things changed. On a certain day I looked at myself in the mirror and remarked that it was time for touching up my hair as the greys were peeping out – but I was just not able to find that one empty hour or the energy to do it. My now sensible 11 year-old daughter told me, “Mamma, you can stop dyeing your hair.” Apparently now she was old enough to have an ‘old mother’!

In fact, I often find myself seeking approval on my appearance from her. This may be guided by a deep-seated anxiety that I may not be proving to be a good mother. ‘Good’, of course, here has no moral connotations. These are the anxieties of a typical working mother who feels she is not doing enough. I can list a few non-working mothers who never did enough but still are held in enviably high regard by their children – and this is not sarcasm. I realize the presence of the mother matters. Theorists talk of quality time – it’s an empty concept, let me tell you. Kids have remarkably short memories, and will remember very little of the good times. They will normally compare notes with their peers and for absolutely inexplicable reasons feel cheated in comparison to some friend or the other. The idea is not to try to hard if one thinks rationally. But when a mother thinks about her child rarely does rationality play a role. And this truth applies to all generations of mothers.

Things get worse, when the child grows up and begins to shift away mentally. At times, Poo complains about my not making time for her. At other times she does not want mother’s company. She likes to be by herself, doing things and gets a little upset if I come up to speak to her. She has conversations with friends which she no longer tells me about. Sometimes she scribbles things in a diary which I am not allowed to look at. She still needs me, of course, to clean up after her. She will continue to need me for that for a few more years now, after which I hope she will learn to clean up her own mess.