I Have a Cool Mom in Law

I don't mean to offend people with mother-in-law problems. But my mom-in-law (MIL) is cool. Damn cool. Well for once she is not the permanently offended elder. The kind who perennially abhor the present.

She does not have a resume, a Linkedin profile or a Facebook account, an email ID or even Whatsapp on phone, to show for her coolness. She is just a hard-wired cool young woman in an aging skin. And of course she has many stories of success to back my claim of her coolness... But today we will not talk about her stories. Today we explore how she is / became #mytribe!

So is she not the mother-in-law material at all? Don't jump to conclusions dear readers, why would she waste her time being a MIL in that case? She is that too. And she is full to her brim with the nuances of every relationship, which she has handled over the lifetime, with a lot of effort and dedication.

Did you just say I am bloviating? I wouldn't disagree just yet. This is how I interface with people. And this is how I interface with her too. I see her as just a person. Her strengths, weaknesses in short her SWOT (strengths, weaknesses, opportunities and threat) all taken together. She is, in the end, just another person, among the many I know. Besides the fact that she means a world to the one person I love, my husband. So she is indeed a massive backdrop to my life. And therefore quite important. But we have a couple of moms and dads on both sides, mine and his, all equally important.

Let's get straight into the topic #mom-in-Law, #mytribe! Well she became #mytribe when... ah ha… caught, you are dying to know the answer. The fun is in meandering and not in reaching the destination. I cannot pinpoint that exact time, here is a piece you will love. 

Place is Amritsar, we had just completed our circuit of original touristy things. Not exactly touristy, it is the place of the pious Golden Temple and the gruesome Jalian Wallah Bagh, in the midst of narrow, crowded, broken roads with no sidewalks. The rickshaw drivers, besides honking continuously, also curse the pedestrians walking helplessly in front of them, so they can reach their destination at an average speed of 10 kilometres an hour. Going awkwardly, like an air filled balloon, left astray, to lose air, making the burping sound through the small vent and going unsure and awry. You get the picture? 

Crowd oozing from everywhere, tourists and locals alike, walk on the streets like toothpaste oozing out of its tube. They fill every inch of the place, even the streets, escaping one fatal accident after another, by a whisker, every few steps. Non-descript, traditional style shops, with their doors opening on to the narrow busy streets, each have a person sitting right there at the doors, soliciting people to walk into their shops, all of them at once. 

Locals have no patience at all, fights erupt between strangers, at the slightest provocation. People here are loud and expressive. I get reminded of my favourite comic, Asterix and Obelix and their village of Gaul!  It is only Lord Guru Nanak who keeps this place together. Like the Druid Getafix does it for the Gauls. How else can you explain the commotion, the endless street fights, all resulting in a peaceful holy city? This place is a pilgrimage for the Sikhs. Gateway to the Wagah Border, this is also the place where Indians go, to get a fleeting glimpse of our estranged neighbours. 

In this city where independence came with heavy cost to lives of the innocent, first in the insane massacre at Jalianwallah Bagh and then during partition, at the massacre of the Gadar. Time has turned backwards here. The city remains purely traditional, with modern transportation, gadgets and technology. It is a gruesome combination. We tried navigating the place on two rented Toyota Innova, and we found ourselves mostly walking long distances on foot through the narrow streets, bumping into other tourists at every step. 

We were a group of 7, My daughter, then eight, counted in. MIL, her Sis and I had been pining to go shopping, in this land of countless shops. We had planned to pick phulkaries and patialas, (punjabi embroidery and punjabi style salwar suit). But the three of us wondered how we would get past the non-shopping faction of our group. FIL (Father in law), hubby, his uncle and my Daughter. We were 3 against four. The hot afternoon sun, the constant street fights, the pollution and the travails of being on foot in this suffocating atmosphere, was taking a toll on me. I was beginning to change my mind about shopping. 

Just then, I realised how much MIL wanted to shop, when she came up to me and in a childlike tone said, 'Reema (my pet name), only you can convince them to let us go shopping, please do something.' And I, slightly embarrassed and quite amused, used my women liberation dialogues to get our way. Basically I announced, 'I want to shop, so I am shopping.' And then we shopped, fortunately our drivers agreed to drop us at the shop door and park the vehicles somewhere nearby. And MIL shopped the most, not just for herself, but for her daughter and her daughters in law too. And as always she picked only the super fancy pieces. Now readers, do you get it? She is certainly #Mytribe. And if this is not proof enough then #Idon'tcare, #Smle!Smile!

Some of her qualities, I truly appreciate are, bringing up a functional family. It is not a joke in today's fragmented families, living in a world, fast becoming a global village. What an irony. She has kept her family functional, even after all three of her children got married and had children of their own. Who wants to bet that this is a feat, which deserves a standing ovation several times over. She adapted to the changes in her family and just kept it together, regardless of the set backs. That sounds like the skill of a leader. Yes, she has had the help of FIL through this journey. Tell me though, how many people can boast of accepting their fault, when pointed by their spouses? That is a high order skill too. Even today my soon to turn 80 MIL and past his 80 FIL, live on their own terms, not feeling deserted, but empowered. They are certainly #ourtribe.

And now I see you asking, how can I forget the hurts? In-laws and hurts are like a package, isn't it? And all our other relationship are so well sorted out and absolutely without any dischord! NO? Did I get that wrong? Yes, you are right, all our relationships are quite messed up. Including that friend who we don't talk to anymore, the parents who we never agree with, the spouse who causes hurt only because we expect the world from them, those colleagues who are bent upon beating us to the next position or job at work, those neighbours who make your dog look inferior to theirs, just to get the kick out of it. Well we are beings of twisted associations. 

But MIL, she is different from those others, isn't it? My complaints about her are socially endorsed and globally empathised. So here is my rant. My MIL, she has an influence over my husband. Sometimes it can be totally to my disadvantage. We disagree and we openly disagree with each other at times. She has a totally different way of handling things around home, than me. But here is the problem, I am a liberated modern woman not without reason. I also remember the times when I have been quite a quirk, if not a jerk and then times when I have been a jerk too. Oh don't even remind me of her shortcomings. It is a package of collective shortcomings of every member of my family. Lets leave that package packed away and forgotten.

Here is why she keeps infiltrating #mytribe more and more. You should see us chatting on phone. We talk for hours about things of no real significance. And we appreciate each other's qualities and give advice to each other and complement each other, like one would expect two women in a family to do.

A date with the Grocery Store

I don't know why they stopped having small provision stores and replaced them with large supermarkets. I couldn't wait to race out of those claustrophobic shops, smelling of rice, oil and cardboard boxes, littered with rat shit and cockroaches. Buying necessities was so damn irksome. I remember, at around age 13, I saw sanitary napkins in the glass desk of a local grocer, displayed within lock and key! I announced aloud, "we should buy that," because I thought sanitary napkins meant paper napkins, I simply ignored the word sanitary. It would take me another 2 years to find out what they really were. Yes, I am a lucky one in this respect. But that day I was far from lucky, my Mother, of the traditional breed, looked embarrassed and severely upset, She would disown me that day, if that was even remotely possible. All hell broke loose on me. Those were the days when such faux-pas was even possible. These days the supermarkets are air conditioned and arranged like an art gallery or a museum. I walk into these super stores quite frequently and mostly never feel the need to leave the place unless under duress. 

As I walk in, the first thing that greets me are items I can do without.  for example rice, dal and salt will be hidden at the back of the store but candies, chocolates, sweets, cigarettes are kept in the front. I have never known anyone dying for want of these later items. I have heard of many dying of over consumption of some of these. Truth is I don't need them, but the packaging is awesome. They could become an artist’s muse!! Hair colours come next. I would certainly not need that product, I prefer visiting the parlour if I need any hair colouring. But the glowing smiles of models on the packages are really tempting. No harm looking at the packaging, reading the contents etc. even if I don't need the product, purely academic interest. 

Shampoos and Conditioners takes a whole isle. And still more often than not the product I was looking for is absent. Shower gel and soap take up another aisle and I don't have any idea which one is worth its claim. The price tags can be deceptive. Pricing is mostly for the packaging, not necessarily for the quality of product packed / hidden in the packaging. 

By this time I have come near batteries, cigarettes and condoms. Why they appear together, no one knows. Why are there no iPills? I wonder, like any self-respecting feminist would do. And also some pepper mint for the smokers appear right next to the cigarette packs. I repeat to myself for no particular reason, 'cigarette smoking is injurious to health', and even question why do some people smoke? I am so distracted by now, I have forgotten why I came to the store in the first place. Feminism and shunning substance abuse was not on my list till that moment. 

I still have to drag myself to the unglamourous rice and dal aisle, but first I turn towards the snacks isle. And there they are, fried, salted, tasteful, silent killers. Finally I heave a sigh of relief, I can pick at-least a few of these! And I do. Sweets come next, mouth-watering, delicious, loaded with sugar and completely unnecessary. I pick some again. 

I remember the sanitary napkins, I always pick them up with the first few items, because that way it will get hidden under the other things I stack on the cart. Well they are also stacked on half of an aisle. I pick the one I always buy and leave hastily. Being caught when buying this item is a cardinal sin. In fact sanitary napkins are like Christmas presents, we make everyone believe that they are delivered by Santa (the female version maybe) through the non-existent chimney, right into the back side of our personal wardrobes.

At this point I realise that I must have forgotten something. But before I can think what, the buy one get one on the toilet papers catch my attention and I pick two packs, though I must admit, that the house is already stacked up with them, as if we are preparing for a toilet paper famine. Right next to the toilet papers are the fanciest utensils in china and steel and glass, which I don't need. But no harm looking at them, and they are all on sale. I marvel these fine exhibits with awe and despair for some time, only to remember that I forgot to pick the popcorns at the snacks aisle. I return, to notice on my way that the tapioca chips are back, they were not there last week, I pick two packs of that too.

Before I can reach the rice, I cross another aisle of juices and squashes. The green ones look awesome and then there are those purple, amber and red ones. Yes, you guessed it right, besides the flavour, I pick my squash for their colour too! I pick one and then add a bottle of soda too, to give the squash a punch. The freezer is right there, I take in… the cheese and curd and butter and bread spreads and tofu and paneer and khowa and flavoured yogurt and batters, before I pick one pack of idli-dosa batter and a pack of cheese spread and move to the rice and dal.

It takes me just five minutes to pick these essential items. 5Kg rice, 1 kg each of four varieties of dal, 5 kg aata, a kg each of besan, chura and suji. A kg of sugar and a kg of salt, two litres of oil and a dozen of eg

I walk to the house cleaning products aisle and pick some regular stuff, I seem to be done. But there is a vanity section in the store, I rush to it to fill myself in with all the novelties occupying more floor space than the essentials. I don’t need any of those items, lipstick, nail polish, eyeliner, concealer, compact powder, eye shadow, rouge, mousse, serum, gels, face masks etc etc etc

The sausages and ice-creams are kept in the freezer just on my way out, with sliding glass lids. I marvel them, though ever since I became diet conscious I have not been having any of those. But oh the awe of looking at them.

After another half an hour, I am rescued from the store by a phone call from home. Alpha calling Charlie type call. Mamma come back I am alone, scared and I cannot find the TV remote type emergency. I bill and climb into my car like a Viking returning from a successful raid with her spoils. As I am about to drive, I pull out the grocery list. Uh oh I forgot the onions and the drain declogger! But I spent 2 hours and paid a lofty sum at the store!

Precipice

Arun looked up at the hill just across him, and wondered, what it takes to climb it. Raju had done it just last week, all the way up to the top and had come down, with only a few scratches on his knees. It couldn't be very tough. But Arun, he would never go up to the top of the highest peak in the village, therefore he would never be a man. The village tradition dictated it. He would always be a lesser man, never enough.

Presently Raju was coming towards him. He had been bragging about his climb to Lamba Pahar ever since he came back from his trek. Arun prepared himself to be party to some munificent brag session. "Listen to him and ignore him," He could hear his mother telling him.

"Hey Arun, how are you?" Queried Raju flippantly, not appearing much interested in learning how he fared. Arun just smiled back condescendingly. He had learned this trick, as more and more of his friends conquered Lamba Pahar and he kept falling further and further behind, culturally.

Raju did not wait for the response anyway, he went on, "You know it is not very difficult till you get to the last 100 meters, even you could do it. The last 100 meter though tests your manhood. It is certainly not meant for women, I can vouch for that, I have been there. There are these two rocky pillars, one about a feet taller than the other, there is a wide gap there, between the two towers. And the only way you go across is by jumping. And everyone chickens out just there. That is why Raghav went there three times, before he completed the whole trail. But I had gone there with one and only one aim, do or die. I did it at the very first instance. Didn't give much thought to it, before I knew it, I had gone across."

Arun listened to him intently, he was not ignoring Raju, he was hanging on to every word Raju spoke. He loved to listen to this part. He knew somehow that this was the spot of transformation and he hoped one day he could also transform. But he was not climbing the Lamba Pahar, he reminded himself for the n'th time. He looked up at the sky and smiled. Just a smile with no particular objective.

Latika, the free spirited girl of the village, was presently coming towards them. Raju whistled aloud, Arun cowered with embarrassment, Latika couldn't care less, she shouted at Raju from 100 meters away, "look what the new man of the village is up to. You just wait, I am going to Lamba Pahar very soon and then I will whistle at you."

Raju laughed an audacious, deprecating laugh. "Women are not allowed anywhere near the Lamba Pahar, let alone climb it. You will be burnt alive if you as much as try to touch one stone of that hill. And who do you think will fire you up first?" He was demeaning and suggestive. Dripping arrogance. 

"We'll see," Shouted back Latika, ignoring Raju's leering smile, Arun shyly looked on at her, disappearing in the dusk.

"Look at you, you are all pink and blushing," interjected Raju. "Women are not to be treated with that much importance. You want her to notice you, you whistle at her. She should know who is in charge. I know all about it, I am a man after all." Boasted Raju. Arun now knew it was time to give him a deaf ear. He did so.

Raju continued bloviating another twenty minutes, when they saw Latika coming back, she must have gone to the forest for her evening duty, she was the only girl who refused to go in a group and also the only one to go to the forest instead of the edge of the village, where all the other village women went. Raju whistled again at her, "look who is back so quick, couldn't stay away from me I believe. I have climbed Lamba Pahar, but I would not as much as look at a girl like you, who goes about her business in the jungle. But if you want, I can come with you to the forest, you know what I mean?"

Latika did not speak, she just walked right up to Raju, smiled and crash landed a slap right across Raju's face. Livid, Raju slapped Latika back with such force, she stumbled and fell on the ground, her shoulder hitting a rock. squirming with pain, Latika got back on her feet, a little dazed.

"You coward, you dare to eve tease me! I will teach you a lesson." She pounced at Raju with blood shot eyes.

"I am the man you bitch, I will show you how to behave with a man," Raju screamed and held Latika by her wrist and twisted it back. Latika kicked him between his legs, Raju screeched in pain, "Don't keep reminding everyone that you are a man, or you will get it very often." Latika scorned Raju.

When Raju turned towards Latika again, Arun knew that look. He walked towards her menacingly, held her left leg and dragged her to the ground, once she fell, Raju began tearing off Latika's clothes, holding her mouth shut. 

Arun kept a sickle on the side of the wheel-chair, to protect himself from the wild animals. He was the cowherd on wheels as the village called him. He only wanted to stop Raju. He cared for Latika. He stuck with the sickle on the head, Raju was bleeding.

"You bastard," he turned and shouted at Arun, but those were his last words. Raju was dead.

"I can't let him do that to you," Arun kept repeating. He could still see his mother being held back, her mouth shut with one hand of the assailant, the other digging into her clothes, he could see himself tossed to the corner of the room, bleeding and scared. That was the last he saw his mother alive. He had limped and run to her rescue, but he was too small for the assailant.

Latika was back on her feet and she was holding Arun's hands and assuring him that it was over.

Raju looked up at Latika, her eyes a mix of anger, fear, frustration and just a trace of gratitude, as she looked on at him. For the very first time in his life, Arun was not inhibited by his polio "Does that make me a man?" He asked Latika in a husky voice he couldn't believe was his. 

Men Are Going To Mars To Let Us Sleep

Everyone was rolling in laughter as Sarita shared jokes on everyday life. Her friends believed she could be a great stand-up comedian. In her presence, they naturally got caught in a flurry of satire, comedy and slapsticks, that brought out squeals of laughter. Today the girls were talking about sleepless nights. Thanks to their children's final exams, the stress was taking a toll on them. And Sarita was prodding them with her comic responses.

This was the ladies get together that the neighbourhood women indulged in every month. 15 girls in all, got together, to just laugh their way out of their worries, after their children had gone to school. It was largely enhanced by Sarita's jocularity. Everyone looked forward to it. 

Sarita had been silent for some time. People had distributed into small groups and were sharing stories and jokes, the room was filled with murmur of overlapping conversations. Sarita called everyone's attention by chinking her sherbet glass with a spoon in a very toastmaster attitude. She said, “Girls I am proud to share with you this piece of fantastic news. And this time I am serious.” Her friends became serious too. They did not get to see Sarita serious very often, so they fell silent, some in surprise and some in anticipation. She announced, “Girls, I slept 8 hours non-stop last night, as I have done every day of my life since I was a baby." 

Everyone waited for more, but there was nothing more coming. Sarita sat down and started sipping her sherbet. The hostess embarrassed and confused, cheered for Sarita. More like dousing fire than lighting the flame. And then to everyone's surprise, Sarita stood up again and said, "How many of you believed me? No kidding! Did you really!" 

Now the joke was on them, and they began to laugh! First mildly and then louder and louder. 

“But this is no joke,” someone said. And now people began squealing with laughter, eyes watering. “We don't sleep we are actually the zombie association,” someone quipped.

Sarita had more coming. She waited for the laughter to die down, and then she continued, “You know what I saw when I entered my house the other day? My spirit was sleeping on my bed and that is when I realised for the first time, how I manage to do so much every day.” She could hear murmurs of spirit on bed? What spirit?

“And if you want to know what my spirit was doing away from me,” Sarita answered, “do you really need one to go around doing grocery, washing clothes, picking up laundry, driving children to and fro in crazy traffic? I thought I could do with a little less baggage and I let it go home.” Now people caught the joke…

“I was okay with my spirit sleeping without me,” Sarita caught them in the midst of bursting into a laugh, “till it kicked me off from my bed and said don't you have work to do?” Now some women were already laughing aloud, “So I decided to kill my spirit.” Said Sarita solemnly, “But that fellow is a real survivor.” It asked, “You too? Aren’t there enough number of people killing your spirit already?” Sarita said wistfully, “It saw me confused and it fell back to sleep.” The laughter now was a din.  

“And did you know what my maid told me today?” Now Sarita brought the emotional and highly charged subject of maids into her comedy. People silenced. Sarita Continued, she said, “I want a raise!” I asked, “Why?” She said, “You hardly sleep and you make the house dirty when you are up. Compensate me for that extra work.” I asked, “How?” “She showed me my ice-cream bowl, snack wrappers and liberal smattering of crumbs on the floor, my midnight snacks. She also pointed to the broken vase, which fell in my effort to walk around in the dark, so as not to wake someone up. I reasoned, that if I can do without spirit, I can do without light too!” Squeals were drowning Sarita’s voice, so she took a break to have some snack, while others urged her to go on.

“The other day I heard Narendra Modi, our honourable Prime Minister, in a speech,” she continued, “he said, he doesn’t sleep too long.” I looked at my snoring husband and said Lier! Anyway he is the prime minister. He better get less sleep, else who is going to permit surgical strikes if he sleeps. But who am I! No Prime Minister, no celebrity or no tycoon. Why am I up?” Sarita ended with a wide eyed, innocent, questioning gesture. The laughter now getting even more boisterous.

“You know what my husband said the other day?” Sarita was at her next quip. One on her husband was unavoidable. He said, “Buy yourself a lullaby track maybe that will make you sleep. I don't understand why you keep getting up in the night?” I said to him, “No wonder you can’t hear the alarm at 7 in the morning. Have you ever heard the kids? They cry in the night sometimes.” He asked, “really?” so nonchalantly as if it was an epiphany. I took the chance to ask him, does he have a volume shut button in his ear? And he looked at me incredulously, as if I am from Venus and He is from Mars. People were now gasping for breath with laughter, their jaws aching, but there was no stopping Sarita.

“And that is the whole problem, Venus and Mars.” Sarita said alluding to a book which claims that ‘Women are from Venus and Men are from Mars’. “The bloody sun is so hot at Venus, why did they have to get us from Venus?” She paused, “Someone, I think that crack, Elon Musk, is taking all men back to Mars! At this point her audience howled in laughter. “What should we women do?” Sarita kept a straight face as she continued. “We have no one taking us to Venus. The last one who tried was, well nobody! Nobody ever tried going to Venus and that is how it will be.”

“I think there is an international conspiracy by men, we women are not aware of.” Sarita spoke in a whispering tone. “Did you notice how hot the Earth is becoming? Those men kept saying it’s a man’s world and made it hot like Venus! Men can't take it anymore, so they will just leave the planet, so we can save it from further destruction.” The haw-Haw was uncontrollable.

“Have you seen how many men are storing their semen in the freezer?” Sarita said conspiratorially. She had to stop, for laughter to die down.  “We will have no problem when they are gone! I don't know what those guys will do! Maybe take the robot Sophia with them.” Another uproarious laughter took over.

“Anyway. Who cares what they will do. Think of what we will do with the time.” Sarita said in a meaningful tone. “We will finally get to know what this 8 hour sleep is, which they keep talking about.” The women were now, not just squealing with laughter, they were crying with laughter! It was lunch time and the group had had a great time. But they all wondered will they ever get that sleep?

I Want a Baby

Angela sat in the passenger's seat as I navigated homeward from work, 5 kilometres of straight road, made in hell. Angela was pregnant and in her eighth month and so was I. It was a series of co-incidences which brought us together. I saw Angela first in my apartment and then at my office and then at the Lamaze class I was attending in a nearby hospital. I caught up with her at work one day and illuminated her about the coincidences. She may not have noticed me for the same reason that I did. She is European and therefore stands out in the crowd, while I am a local and therefore quite hidden in the crowd.

Angela turned out to be fun to be with. Her boyfriend lived in Delhi and she worked in Bangalore. Being a person of foreign origin, she had a work permit in India and it lasted only till she had a job in India. And now that she was pregnant, with a man of Indian origin, she wanted to marry him and stay back. She saw a better prospect for herself here than back in her own country.

As we talked about this and that while we drove back home, Bangalore traffic, colleagues etc., Angela mentioned another European friend at office who was single-ready-to-mingle. What she said next was humbling. I would not have understood it if I was not myself a soon to be mom. She said that her friend Joan, wants to have a child now and therefore is looking to be in a relationship. 

I was speechless to say the very least. East was meeting west and getting to know each other! Isn't it true for every woman? At one point in our lives, we want a child, more than a happy relationship, more than a soulmate, more than true love, more than a companion for life, we want the child. It is probably our body clock ticking. We have a short shelf life when it comes to bearing babies. This biological need makes us prone to making commitment, as long as we get the baby any man will do. It makes us vulnerable in the hands of men. A woman in such compromise, is identifiable. And the hell it wrecks to her relationship is no secret.

1100 kilometres away in Bombay, another friend, in an abusive marriage, echoed the same sentiment. “I wish he would agree to have a baby,” she confided ruefully in me one day, “I don't care about how he treats me.” I did care how he treated her but I remained silent. Since nothing much changed in her marriage for six years, she finally separated: divorced, happy and empowered yet feeling incomplete, not for the absence of the relationship but for being child-less. Today she regrets giving the best years of her life to the abusive relationship and finds it hard, as she nears her forties, to admit that she may not bear a child. Her regret is palpable, radioactive. It drills through my bone whenever it comes up. I wish I would never have to discuss this with her, ever.

2500 kilometres away in Jharkhand, another friend is coming to terms with the same pain. Al-be-it in a different package. She married only when she was into her forties. The pressure to bear a child came to her from her own family. Being in a position to be able to share my opinion, one day I tried to argue the dangers of bearing a baby at forty. None-the-less she did give it a try. She admitted to accepting the idea of adoption only after four years of trying. Time is ticking for her. She will be in her fifties before she really gives in to adoption. I hate to judge her for her angst. She is not to blame. She deserves compassion. Is there a way to console her for the hormones she never experienced, even though she was capable? It’s like tearing away the vagina from a woman.

My European friend, Angela, after she had her baby, was brimming with joy. In a desperate move, searching for the security, European women are no more wont to, she moved to Delhi with her boyfriend. Hoping he would marry her. Risking her job and career in India. But her relationship had turned sore and abusive. She soon returned to her home country, with her child, to a difficult life of a single parent. But she had what she wanted. Today she is happy for the choices she made. The hormones, the baby and the love all settled with that one little individual.

My other friends let go of their real need. Did they have a choice? It is not feminine in our culture to seek happiness. It is not even feminine to admit to the need to be a mother. Because the implication itself is enough to tarnish an unmarried girl. Therefore they waited. Too much was put at stake over an unpredictable occurrence. And then they learnt, the hard way, that babies don’t just occur out of marriage. But they were so unprepared to see this in the first place.

I remember the woman I met at a training I attended once, years ago. She was a single mother to an adopted child. An Indian, she obviously did not dare to have a baby of her own when she chose not to marry. She seemed so fulfilled, she was simply ecstatic. But did she never regret losing out on the joy of bearing a baby?

Modern women vehemently oppose the idea of having a baby and letting go of career, yet wanting a baby is so natural. It is absolutely unavoidable! Women want babies, and often they submit to commitment, to get just that. Most often than not, such commitments are compromise, not marriage. Fertility clinics flourish for the metrosexual. Because in their fertile years, women work and make money. But they can’t do without baby, so they go for the next best option.

I know how I tugged on to every moment of my baby's first few years of life, as I do now too. She is 10 now. I can't imagine life without her. 

Not that we don’t want a lover, a companion, a partner in life. We want them all. We want a husband, who can be our friend for life. But we can do very well in their absence too! Let me tell you what we cannot do without. We cannot do without a baby of our own. It is like having a fairyland on earth. The need for a baby is so intense, sometimes women even steal babies. 

It is time we all empathise with, understand and encourage a woman who says, ‘I want a Baby!’

Author's Note: Dear Readers, this blog is written based on true incidents. However all names have been changed to maintain privacy.