Gargi Sen
Nothing prepared me for motherhood. Nothing at all. Not my 20 years of professional experience, nor my 17-18 years of experience of running the household for my mother who hated the job, nor taking care of my father through his one-year long illness and eventual death, nor indeed my very long experience of helping to dilute endless conflicts in the family. Ma would volunteer my time, and like an obedient donkey I would trot off to face the bullets. Till I learnt to say no. And soon thereafter I became a mother.
I was in my thirties and my daughter was born premature. For 8 weeks, she was in an incubator and, initially, without any assurance that she would survive. She was hooked to tubes and couldn’t be touched. To keep my sanity, I began to read about child care and rearing. I definitely should have read these books before jumping into the motherhood bandwagon.
I found that what I was learning went against the grain of inherited knowledge of child-rearing. Also, to be fair, my mother and aunts had moved away from their larger families, and into lonely cities with different cultural codes, especially around child-rearing. They had absolutely no knowledge of traditional systems or modern ones. Ma for instance, fought tooth and nail with me over every decision around the baby. Massage was a no, no. A pillow made of mustard seeds was not to be used. Luckily, she complained loudly to all who would listen and eventually her friends calmed her down, telling her that all this was good for the baby. But she didn’t stop fighting, though I moved out to my flat very far away from her home. And very soon Ma joined me there with her maid and our dog. She was falling ill.
I spent the next year trying to settle in with an infant who was like nothing I knew or expected, and a mother slowly sliding into insanity. The drudgery would drive me insane. The continuous cleaning, washing, sterilising, feeding routine was endless and finding five minutes for myself became impossible. I remember telling a friend that the baby is like one inlet pipe and two outlet pipes. All three are continuously working.
When she began crawling it was worse. Babies come genetically programmed to self-destruct. The entire house had to be childproofed. And as I went around covering up one socket after another, Ma followed me, uncovering them.
I remember one morning when I was ready to shoot myself, I bundled the sleeping infant and Ma into my car and found my way to the nearest movie hall – this was an unfamiliar part of town. I still remember the sense of peace and gratitude with which I settled into my seat in the auditorium. I put the child strapped into her carrier in the seat between Ma and me and got lost in the movie. Then came the interval, people talked loudly, and ate crisps. The sound of crisps crackling is loud indeed. And madam sat up. That was the end of the movie for us. We returned with a yowling infant, Ma trying to take her out of the car seat to console her, and me furiously scolding Ma to not do so. In retrospect I am surprised I drove back safely.
I changed the set up. Took Ma back to her house and I rented a tiny flat nearby. And finally, we flowered. Away from the constant pressure of all and sundry, all the wisdom I had gleaned from my reading came useful. Meghna Firdaus was 15 months old, she was walking, feeding herself and the dog, and had started to speak in sentences strung with only nouns. The choice was not if she wanted dinner or not. The choice was if she wanted to eat from the pink or the yellow plate. Such simple, wholesome advice turned my experience of being a mother joyous.
The books held my hand as Meghna Firdaus grew up. Ma needed more and more support. In the next decade Ma needed ten surgeries, one every year. Meghna scraped her knees, we dealt with her first nose bleed, but everything was surprisingly easy.
I have been inundated with useless advice since she was well enough to meet people. I decided to ignore all except paid advice and the books. And it saved my life and gave us, mother daughter, endless happiness.
I am chary of handing out advice. Even when I encounter extremely badly behaved children in a flight or restaurants. Such behavioural issues can be tackled so easily. But they are ignored by parents who look indulgent or exasperated. So, I stay quiet and wish away the monstrous behaviour by children.
Similarly, even when I am dying to tell someone that your lover is going to let you down. S/he is in for something else. I stay quiet. If I am right, I’ll lose a friend. If I am wrong, I’ll still lose the friend. So why?
My one-line philosophy is, don’t dish out advice. No one outside knows the situation fully. And well-meaning but misplaced advice harms more than heals.
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