Yes, I said ‘your’ book. It’s not a typo. This book, in fact, belongs to all of you. You are the ones who witnessed the journey of this blog, walked along with me, listened to me spell out my deepest fears and stayed with me in my moments of despair. You heard me out patiently, and encouraged me and came back for more. You showered this blog with attention and care.
In particular, fellow blogger Kathi Ostrom sparked the idea for this book, by telling me right at the beginning- many years ago- that this story needed to take the form of a book. It is truly heartening, is it not, to witness a small act of kindness turning into a huge gift? Thank you, Kathi, for your little kindness that became a huge gift for me. And thank you, all of you, who kept coming back to this blog, cheering me on. This book has totally been possible because of you all.
Here is what the book’s back cover says:
The Reluctant Mother is a book of rage.
Rage at being alone in your pain, having your conflict belittled, and your struggles trivialised. It is the story of a young woman who seeks to find herself in a world that constantly tries to define her and who she should be.
It is the memoir of an anti-mother. The woman who doesn’t fall in love with her baby at first sight but discovers love along the way.
This book is for anyone who feels overwhelmed by the idea of ‘ideal’ motherhood. Be it a woman or a man, one way of confronting trauma is to know that you are not alone in it. To know that someone shares your story and understands your emotions and guilt that accompanies feeling anything other than ‘perfectly blissful’ about motherhood.
It is at once heartbreaking and poignant as it is hopeful and comforting. This is the story of one woman and yet the life of many. It reveals how tradition and modernity, faith and reason, pleasure and pain are all so intimately interwoven for women that their true sense of self is inevitably one of contradictions.
The book’s biggest strength lies in its rawness and honesty. Nothing but the truth stands here.
The book is available for pre-order on Amazon India at this link https://amzn.to/3CnWUwn . The paperback will be available in bookstores in November, and the Kindle version will also be available soon after.
To my readers and fellow bloggers outside India, I must apologise for now, but the e-book will be available very soon, and the paperback may also be available in other countries in a short while.
Watch this space for further updates, and do subscribe to the mailing list to have posts delivered right into your mailbox. Remain up to date with the latest events!
Once again, heartfelt gratitude to you all, and I hope you enjoy the book as much as you enjoyed reading the blog.
Untouched books are also unloved. See a child how he scribbles colours and rubs? That’s what love is like – rough around the edges and every so often wears you out.
An unblemished book is lonely, wan displays no signs of ever being held, no lines in the margins – exclamations, notations- no marks of love, of having had someone crawl into it long past midnight.
These wrinkles, my love, and folds of skin, these blemishes and signs of wearing out are but dog ears on the pages of life- marking the lines that reverberate; marking the most loved parts of us.
Most people disapprove of writing inside books. I’m not one of them.
All the books I’ve ever loved are painted over with notations on various pages, thoughts that they triggered in me, my responses to the beauty or tragedy in them. The more loved a book is, the more scribbled over it will be. Many people consider this sacrilegious, they consider it a defilement of the sacred. For me, though, these are marks of love. Passionate love, if I may say so.
Many years ago, when I was around 18, I had English Literature as a subsidiary subject in my undergraduate class. We studied several short stories, one of which was Bernard Malamud’s The First Seven Years. I still remember that story, because at its core lay two people who fell in love with each other through their love for books. Miriam and Sobel hardly ever met, hardly ever spoke. They mostly exchanged books.
Before I speak further about this story, I must add a disclaimer. I could go online and search for the story and be accurate about the details, but I will write from memory instead- the things that I remember and the feelings they evoked in me then.
Miriam is the daughter of a Jewish shoemaker, and Sobel is a Polish refugee, who finds work and sanctuary as an assistant in her father’s shop. Unknown to her father, they exchange books, and they converse only—mostly—through the notes and the lines that both of them scribble in the margins. They are not love notes or secret lines to each other- they are notations about the book, reflections on what was written. It is an intellectual, spiritual bond- a love borne out of a meeting of thoughts and ideas. A meeting of minds and not just hearts.
Every time I write a line in the margins of a book that I love, I remember Miriam and Sobel. I revel in the vicarious pleasure of a love that speaks through books. I wonder what it would be like, to be surrounded by a love like that.
But when I write in books, it is not for a lover to read. Who is it for, I wonder?
Perhaps a part of me hopes that my son would read my books someday, find his mother’s words and be delighted in that discovery, as I am now delighted when I find something that belonged to my parents in their youth. Or perhaps my son’s children will – assuming he decides to have children.
Being a person who for a very long time has struggled against motherhood, and asked myself whether I would really have chosen motherhood if this were a choice available to me, I find myself fearful of the fact that my son may not choose to have children. I hope it does not happen so. I hope he chooses to have them.
I know, now, that if life hadn’t gone hurtling at a dizzying pace for me, if I had had the choice of taking things slow and step by step, I would have chosen to have a child. Or children.
I see women around me who choose to have children well into their thirties, and I imagine that if I had role models around me, if I had these ideas around me, if I had the chance to wait till my thirties to become a mother, I would have perhaps been a calmer, saner, more prepared, more willing parent. I hope that my son and the woman he marries choose to be parents too- in their own time, at their own pace, with their own choice- for choices made consciously and wisely can be carried with a lot more joy.
And as I read one book after another, writing away into the margins, I wonder if these words will be read by generations after me. I wonder if they will even want to read the kind of books I like. Wonder if they will ever want to flip through these books. It is rather vain to assume that future generations will want to know you.
It is enough, I think, to write in a book, knowing that you have loved it, knowing that it has become a part of you, knowing that if no one else, at least you will come back to it. You will read the words of a past version of yourself, a person who no longer exists because she has grown and evolved into someone else, and perhaps you will read those words and smile, and say: Ah!
And then again, perhaps no one ever needs to read these words. Perhaps it is enough to have reflected and contemplated and written them down. Perhaps it is better that they remain like this, locked away in the book’s close embrace, fading away into a yellowed page, as the human existence fades into the yellowed pages of life.
I never thought I’d say this, but motherhood grows on you.
I have begun to realise, slowly, that I am so much more comfortable in the role of a young boy’s mother, than I ever was in the role of a toddler’s mother.
I think it is because my primary mode of communication, and expression of love, is verbal. Words are my preferred channel. My primary method of bonding is intellectual exchange, which is obviously done through words. Physical touch comes a close second- I am a very physically expressive mother: kisses, cuddles, smothering hugs. But that is still second, and no substitute for the joy of words.
Thus I find myself taking far more delight in the role of a mother now – now that my son can clearly express and converse with me, now that I can hear the thoughts that go through his remarkable brain and marvel at the fascinating intellect he possesses. I find myself relishing the role of the mother far more with the growing up of my child, as he develops more fully into a distinct human being with a mind of his own, contradicting me and adding to my thoughts with the freshness and depth of his own. It is a great delight to find my son thinking independently enough to contradict his mother – though it’s exhausting as hell, too! But I find myself bursting with pride when he adds a different dimension to my understanding of the world. Pride at the magnificent, compassionate and empathetic person he is turning out to be. It isn’t as though I didn’t enjoy being a mother to Little H when he was tiny. I distinctly remember what a bundle of joy he was, how he listened carefully and began speaking at the early age of 10 months, so that one could chuckle at the nearly grown-up sentences uttered by those tiny lips. How delightful and adorable he was when he tried to copy his father in every tiny thing: right down to how he lay on the bed while talking: lying on his side, propping an elbow under his head, and crossing one leg over another. We roared with laughter on watching 10 month old Little H lying on the bed in exactly this manner: complete with crossed legs and elbow propping up the head ! How marvelous it was to see his wonder and joy at the world, to see commonplace everyday objects with a child’s fascination- a child discovering the new world, a world that holds infinite delights for him. “And children’s faces looking up, holding wonder like a cup!” If you’ve ever seen a child with his mouth wide open in a joyous grin and his eyes sparkling with wonder, you’ll know exactly what this means. And yet, I think I was so exhausted and worn out all the time, because he was such a bundle of energy and mischief, that I couldn’t really appreciate or enjoy it as much as I would have liked.
Not being able to understand his needs, not being able to communicate my concerns with him was the most frustrating thing I ever experienced. Like constantly groping in the dark to find the light switch, and falling in the darkness and hurting yourself countless times in the process. And slowly, you learn where the light switch is- so you can find it even when it’s dark. Little H growing up enough to communicate properly- and understand his mother’s words properly – is the light that’s suddenly been switched on for me. We have finally reached a place where we can, to a largely comforting extent, understand each other.
What an extraordinary amount of hard work it has been! But it’s a beautiful feeling for me, the Reluctant One, to find that I can finally enjoy motherhood, that I, too, can find it fulfilling, instead of constantly and exhaustingly struggling against it.
I feel like ending this with a quote from the Quran. It is my favorite verse, and it is the verse I used to repeat most often when Little H was tumbling around in my belly. It is also the verse I chanted over and over to myself when I was experiencing the most excruciating pain of my life: as Little H was being born.
Fa Inna Ma’al Usrey Yusra. Inna Ma’al Usrey Yusra
Verily, with hardship comes ease. With hardship comes ease. It does, indeed.
I wrote this letter atop the upper berth of a carriage in the Prayagraj Express, en route to Delhi from Allahabad. I was about to fall asleep on my train berth. I felt cold and drew my blanket over my head, and then idly wondered if I might suffocate and be found dead by morning. Passed away peacefully in my sleep.
That sounds like a nice way to die, peacefully in one’s sleep. Inside a blanket. On a nice little train berth, pleasantly air conditioned, rocking gently to and fro like a cradle, snuggled inside a soft sky blue blanket.
And as I thought this I wondered what I’d like to do if it were indeed my last night in this human form?
I’d had a lovely conversation- sans argument- with my better half after a long time! Check. I’d had a tears-of-happiness conversation with my sister in the evening. Check.
But Little H.
Since he and his cousin little S were asleep together on the berth opposite mine, I hadn’t kissed him or hugged him before sleep as I always did.
And I suddenly knew what I wanted to do if it was the last thing I did.
I wanted to write a letter to you, my son.
I think I’m just projecting myself over here, because I have always yearned to have something written by my father for me to read. I knew he was a man of letters. Of poetry. Of books and deep thoughts. I wish I could have had something with me that would help me know him better. Who he truly deeply was. His fears, his dreams, his worries, his passions. Every day of my life I keep wishing I knew him more.
But in spite of all my morbid death fantasies, I hope you never have to read this letter as my last to you.
I hope and pray that I stay alive to write you more letters. Because I know what it’s like to have only half of me alive at all times—the other half conjured up only through memory and imagination.
I don’t know who exactly I’m writing this letter to. Grown up H? Teenage H? Little H?
We can never really know who reads our letters once they’re out there, can we?
Nevertheless, here’s my letter to you, my son, whenever you get to read it.
Little H, I don’t worry about you, because I see you’re a fine little man already. You’re thoughtful, sensitive, independent. You have the sprouts of universal love in you. You’re truthful and understand the meaning of justice and compassion.
You’ll grow up to be a fine man.
I don’t want to tell you who you should be. All I want is for you to be a good human being. What you do with your gifts is up to you.
And you have many gifts: you love animals and birds and insects and trees and flowers. The natural world excites you endlessly. You love automobiles and machinery – cars, trucks, planes, bikes and their functioning. You love listening to me recite my poetry to my mother although you don’t understand a word of it. You like flipping through my thick books and sometimes make me read from them to you, just because you want to share what Mumma was reading. You have many gifts, dear heart. Life will show you the way and help you discover them as you grow and evolve.
What I do worry about is that there are too many patriarchal systems around you, woven in inextricable ways that undo all the tapestries of equity and gender justice that I try and weave around you.
I do know that I would be very unhappy if a son of mine grew up to be a man who does not think of women as his equals, as people who have the same rights as him, and who deserve the same opportunities as him, whatever differences there may be in physiology. Be the man who considers women and men as equals, my son, but also the man who understands the differences between sexes and the struggles emanating from them.
For it is important to stress that equality does not mean similarity.
Two people may be very different in skin colour, hair colour, eye colour, nose shape, mouth shape, body structure and so on, but they’re still entitled to being treated as equals- in opportunity, in law and in life. In humanity. People confuse equality with sameness. But being equal doesn’t mean being the same.
Equality is the right to being treated as equals despite all the diversity and differences that exists among human beings.
I would be very sad if you did not grow up to respect women. If you saw the privilege that you had as a man and felt smug and entitled about it- instead of feeling that this privilege came to you at a cost to someone else, and knowing that the onus was on you to correct this skewed reality. Knowing that the onus was on you to take enabling action, which allows someone else to flourish and thrive along with you.
Know this, my son: being born into privilege means it is a test you inherited, to see how much of that privilege you are willing to relinquish for the sake of equality and justice in society, in the world. This applies not just across genders, but across groups that are traditionally underprivileged- financially, religiously, socially.
What will matter most is how willing are you to speak out for and support those who are marginalised, whose voices are constantly being stifled and whose presence is constantly being crushed. Nothing would make me happier than seeing you stand up and speak for the oppressed.
When in doubt, always use this mantra—look at the power structure. Where is the centre of power? Who holds the most power? Only then will you begin to understand the lay of the land, only then will you be able to understand who is being oppressed. And if you find yourself in a position of power, remember, power is only given to you to help the maximum number of people you can. That, and that alone, is the correct use of power.
Always remember this: human beings are all fallible. Do not make demi-gods out of them, do not turn your heroes into people you worship. Always be ready to ask questions and be prepared for uncomfortable answers. Humans are always looking for saviours, and from there stems our tendency to put people on pedestals and worship them. Worship no human, my son! Uphold only the principle of humanity above all else. Do not go looking for saviours. People must make efforts to save their own selves. But beyond that, try and save as many others as you can.
Always try to see things from different points of view, even though that perspective may clash with yours. Always try to understand and explore various opposing points of view, and only then make up your mind. And even then, be ready to listen and course-correct.
Happy New Year, little H. May you learn many, many new things this year, and may you grow into a man who is a paragon of knowledge, courage, compassion and fairness. Above all, fairness.
In my last post, I wrote about how the dream and desire of having my book published saved me and motivated me to have faith in the future. Have faith in life.
That dream is going to be a reality. Very, very soon.
My book, The Reluctant Mother: A Story No One Wants To Tellis being published by Hay House, which as you all know is a reputed international publisher.
So today, I am here to thank you all – every single one of you from the blogging community, and readers from outside the community- for staying by my side on this journey, for sharing my joys and sorrows, for reading and commenting here and letting me know that I wasn’t alone.
First and foremost, I want to thank Kathi Ostrom Gowsell, who was the first person to suggest, way back in 2013, that this story should be given the form of a book. We may live on separate continents, and may have never met each other, but I feel connected to you in a very special way, Kathi. Thank you for being you !
Other bloggers- mothers and fathers- other writers and readers, you have all been such a huge part of my journey.
I cannot tell you all, how much it has meant to me over the years, to read your comments here, and to get private messages from so many of you, asking me to keep writing, telling me that I was brave to write the truth fearlessly, and telling me how much my voice resonated with you, for it spoke of the stories of your lives too.
There are no words to describe my gratitude for the love you have all showered me with- especially those of you who told me that I was your voice- for I was speaking of the truth reflected in your lives too, but you couldn’t speak out because of all the judgements and restrictions the world heaps upon us all. I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for giving me the strength to speak this truth and take this dream to culmination.
The launch of the book has been delayed for a bit, owing to the pandemic, but do watch this space for the happy announcement, and I promise that you will be the first to see the cover as soon as it is launched !
Meanwhile, here is a picture of the first page of the book, of the final draft PDF version, and merely looking at the title on the page before me, fills me with gratitude and joy.
There is a word that I have taken from Paulo Coelho’s book, and quoted it in my own book. I shall just end this post with that word:
This post was written 4 months ago, atop the upper berth of a carriage in the Prayagraj Express, en route to Delhi from Allahabad. As one of the most tumultuous and bewildering years of my life comes to a close, I thought it appropriate to end it with this post that contains a letter to my sweet little H, the apple of my eye.
I was about to fall asleep on my train berth. I felt cold and drew my blanket over my head, and then idly wondered if I might suffocate and be found dead by morning. Passed away peacefully in my sleep.
That sounds like a nice way to die, peacefully in one’s sleep. Inside a blanket. On a nice little train berth, pleasantly air conditioned, rocking gently to and fro like a cradle, snuggled inside a soft sky blue blanket. I’ve loved sleeping in trains ever since I was a kid.
And as I thought this I wondered what I’d like to do if it were indeed my last night in this human form?
I’d had a lovely conversation without jhagda (quarreling) with my better half after quite a long time! Check.
I’d had a tears-of-happiness conversation with my sister in the evening. Check.
But little H!
His face swam before my eyes. Since he and his cousin little S were asleep together on the berth opposite mine, I hadn’t kissed him or hugged him before sleep as I always did.
And I suddenly knew what I wanted to do if it’s the last thing I did.
I wanted to write a letter to you, my son.
I think I’m just projecting myself over here, because I have always yearned to have something written by my father for me to read. I knew he was a man of letters. Of poetry. Of books and deep thoughts. I wish I could have had something with me that would help me know him better. Who he truly deeply was. His fears, his dreams, his worries, his passions. Every day of my life I keep wishing I knew him more.
But in spite of all my morbid death fantasies, I hope you never have to read this letter as my last to you.
I hope and pray that I stay alive to write you more letters. Because I know what it’s like to have only half of me alive at all times—the other half conjured up only through memory and imagination.
I don’t know who exactly I’m writing this letter to. Grown up Hasan? Teenage Hasan? Child Hasan?
We can never really know who reads our letters once they’re out there, can we?
Little H, I don’t worry about you, because I see you’re a fine little man already. You’re thoughtful, sensitive, independent. You have the sprouts of universal love in you. You’re truthful and understand the meaning of justice and compassion.
You’ll grow up to be a fine man.
I don’t want to tell you who you should be. All I want is for you to be a good human being. What you do with your gifts is up to you.
And you have many gifts: you love animals and birds and insects and trees and flowers. The natural world excites you endlessly. You love automobiles and machinery – cars, trucks, planes, bikes and their functioning. You love listening to me recite my poetry to my mother although you don’t understand a word of it. You like flipping through my thick books and sometimes make me read from them to you, just because you want to share what Mamma was reading. You have many gifts dear heart. Life will show you the way and help you discover them as you grow and evolve.
What I do worry about is that there are too many patriarchal systems around you, woven in inextricable ways that undo all the tapestries of equity and gender justice that I try and weave around you.
I do know that I would be very unhappy if a son of mine grew up to be a man who does not think of women as his equals, as people who have the same rights as him, and who deserve the same opportunities as him, whatever differences there may be in physiology. Be the man who considers women and men as equals, my son, but also the man who understands the differences between sexes and the struggles emanating from them.
For it is important to stress that equality does not mean similarity.
Two people may be very different in skin colour, hair colour, eye colour, nose shape, mouth shape and so on, but they’re still entitled to being treated as equals- in opportunity, in law and in life. In humanity. People confuse equality with sameness. But being equal doesn’t mean being the same.
Equality is the right to being treated as equals despite all the diversity and differences that exists among human beings.
I would be very sad if you did not grow up to respect women. If you saw the privilege that you had as a man and felt smug and entitled about it- instead of feeling that this privilege came to you at a cost to someone else, and knowing that the onus was on you to correct this skewed reality. Knowing that the onus was on you to take enabling action, which allows someone else to flourish and thrive along with you.
Know this, my son: being born into privilege means it is a test you inherited, to see how much of that privilege you are willing to relinquish for the sake of equality and justice in society, in the world. This applies not just across genders, but across groups that are traditionally underprivileged- financially, religiously, socially.
What will matter most is how willing are you to speak out for and support those who are marginalised, whose voices are constantly being stifled and whose presence is constantly being crushed. Nothing would make me happier than seeing you stand up and speak for the oppressed.
When in doubt, always use this mantra—look at the power structure. Where is the centre of power? Who holds the most power? Only then will you begin to understand the lay of the land, only then will you be able to understand who is being oppressed. And if you find yourself in a position of power, remember, power is only given to you to help the maximum number of people you can. That and that alone is the correct use of power.
Always remember this: human beings are all fallible. Do not make demi-gods out of them, do not turn your heroes into people you worship. Always be ready to ask questions and be prepared for uncomfortable answers. Humans are always looking for saviours, and from there stems our tendency to put people on pedestals and worship them. Worship no human, my son! Uphold only the principle of humanity above all else. Do not go looking for saviours. People must make efforts to save their own selves. But beyond that, try and save as many others as you can.
Always try to see things from different points of view, even though that perspective may clash with yours. Always try to understand and explore various opposing points of view, and only then make up your mind. And even then, be ready to listen and course-correct.
And when you have made up your mind, my son – (let me say this with the help of a verse from the Quran) – “And when you have made up your mind, then put your trust in the Lord. Undoubtedly, the trustful are dear to the Lord.”
Happy New Year, little H. May you learn many, many new things this year, and may you grow into a man who is a paragon of knowledge, courage, compassion and fairness. Above all, fairness.
(This post is the second part of the series on body awareness and answering children’s questions about intimacy.)
A person I know, once told me that when he found out ‘how babies are made’ his first thought was to be horrified and think “Oh no! My parents could never have done such a thing!”
Does this sound somewhat familiar?
————————
Gratitude.
It’s one of the most important things in life. Gratitude towards Nature, towards the Universe, towards God—however you like to think of it. And one of the most significant things we must be grateful for is this body, this home for the spirit. A precious, sacred gift, which deserves to be treated as such.
Growing up with the feeling that some parts of the body are
shameful and ‘dirty’ creates associations of guilt and doubt, which has long
lasting effects right into adulthood. One of the most prominent effects of this is
negative body image— inability to accept one’s body in all its natural beauty,
the way that the creator crafted it. Skin colour, hair colour, height, build,
features—everything. Every person is unique, beautiful in their own special
way. Only when we understand the precious gift that our body is that we can
come to understand this.
The second deep seated effect is felt in the expression of romantic
love later on in life in the most intimate way possible.
The way that adolescents come to know of physical intimacy
and lovemaking plays a very crucial part in how their attitudes will shape out
in the future. I think I was lucky in this respect.
Around the time that I was 12-13, I chanced upon a book that
belonged to my literature-loving, extremely well-read aunt—my uncle’s wife. This
book was titled: ‘So You Want To Get Married?’ The year was 1999/2000.
I had been pottering around the house, going through the many
bookshelves, looking for something new to read since I had temporarily
exhausted my own book haul. It was then that I decided to rifle into my aunt’s
bookshelf which was actually not supposed to be accessed by me. I was not
supposed to be nosing around in my uncle and aunt’s room in their absence, but
as it happens, the forbidden is always exceedingly tempting and appealing. I
had had my eye on her bookshelf for a while, merely because the books she read
seemed new and fascinating. So as soon as I had the chance, I invaded it. I
still have no idea why I picked this particular book, because of course, at the
age of 13 I was not contemplating getting married at all!
I opened the book merely out of curiosity I think, and
flipped through some pages. I can’t remember if I read the entire book. Perhaps
not. But there are some portions that I will never forget as long as I shall
live.
“How many people think of God when they are making love?”
asked the book rather audaciously.
It went on to say that we do not think of divinity when we
are making love, because we associate physical intimacy with shame or at best a
‘guilty pleasure’. Either we think of it as something ‘dirty’ and thereby
unholy, or something associated with the pleasures of the flesh and thereby
‘worldly and materialistic’. The association of pleasure with guilt gets so
deeply ingrained that it prevents us from finding the sacred within.
On the contrary, there is no better way to experience
divinity than through love.
Later, when I delved into the Islamic understanding of
lovemaking, what I found was quite the same. Lovemaking with your sacred
partner is defined as an act of worship, an act of piety –bringing you closer
to God. In the end, though, the most important thing is ‘intention’. It is
what’s in your heart that matters. The way that you approach intimacy will
determine what it becomes.
“The way you make love
is the way God shall be with you,” said Maulana Jalal Ad-Din Mohammad,
better known as Rumi.
When two souls are so merged with each other, so in sync
with each other that every fibre of their being connects at a sacred level,
when what they share in that moment is not superficial but profound and
mystical, that is when it connects both of them to the higher self, the spirit
that pervades the entire cosmos. In this transcendental view of love, the
physical becomes so deeply fused with the emotional and the spiritual that it rips
apart the element of shame, moves far beyond mere reproductive function and
also beyond the shallow realm of ‘fun’ and ‘enjoyment’.
Let me reiterate. Pleasure, joy and fulfilment are different
from recreation and fun. The ocean is the same, but the surface scarcely
resembles the depths, in terms of all the treasures it holds within. Those who
are skimming the surface haven’t the faintest idea about the great wonders ensconced
in the depths.
About a year ago, I was having a conversation with a very learned and wise elderly person, a septuagenarian who reminds me always of my mother’s father. He and I were discussing religion. And this is what he said to me: “God can only truly be experienced through love.” And then he went on to say how important it is to let our children know that they were brought into this world through an act of love—love as ordained by God.
But how often do our children get to hear that? How often
does it happen that adolescents are introduced to the concept of physical
intimacy in such a mystical, spiritual and profound manner?
This reminds me of an anecdote. A person I know once told me that when he came to know about ‘how babies are made’ his first thought was to be horrified and think “Oh no! My parents couldn’t have done such a thing! That’s so wrong!”
We’ve all somehow been conditioned in such a way that our first reaction to the idea of physical intimacy is to view it as ‘wrong’. Like an awful secret. And why does that happen? Because it involves parts of your body which, since childhood, have been associated with dirt and shame in your mind. So how could you ever associate something that involves those ‘awful, dirty’ parts of the body with any kind of spirituality and sacredness?
The idea of lovemaking as something filthy and shameful gets
further perpetuated if your introduction to it is through pornography. If ever
a beautiful thing in the world can get debased and brought down to the lowest
level, it is the disfigurement of lovemaking through pornography. And that is
why it is important for your children to get to know about lovemaking from you,
and not from porn.
Think again. The person whom I just quoted said that his
parents couldn’t ever ‘do such a thing’ because it’s wrong. Parents are
generally, in the eyes of the child, the embodiment of all that is sacred and
righteous in this world. If we were told about lovemaking by our parents, in a dignified
spiritual manner, we would never think of it as something ‘shameful’ or
‘wrong’.
My son’s only 7 right now, but the day isn’t far when he would ask me about the birds and the bees. I used to dread the day and wonder how I’d tackle it, but now I feel calm. Prepared. No, I am not going to sit him down and give him a talk. I will let him come to me with his questions—the way he always does, knowing that I would never shut him up. And when he comes, I won’t tell him just about reproduction, but about love. That every person on this earth was crafted through an act of love— love as ordained by God.
(While also hoping
fervently that the details have been covered by the biology teacher in school.
Give me a break, okay? I’m a MOM.)
Jokes apart, though, I really would tell him about the
sacredness and beauty that one experiences – while also, significantly,
emphasising that it is an expression of love meant only for adults. Just as there is an age for studying everything,
and you cannot cover your high school syllabus in third standard, or do your
PhD in high school, there is an age and a level for expressing love in a
certain manner as well.
And because I adhere to a certain belief system, I would
tell him that this expression of love must be reserved for the person whom he
decides to spend his entire life with – his sacred wedded partner. Not
necessarily because of sin, but because turning lovemaking into something
casual would completely hollow it of its beauty. Oneness and divinity through
love cannot be experienced if it is restricted to the shallow realm of ‘fun’. You
must delve into the depths and for that to manifest, you need to wait for that
one soul who shall be completely in sync with you.
(However, that brings
us to the important concept that marriage alone is no sanction for sex. It is
imperative to learn the importance of consent and mutual respect, of
understanding and caring for each other’s wishes and desires. And all this shall
be the subject of the next blog post.)
Perhaps my ideas are outmoded and old-fashioned. But then
the idea of spirituality and God is also outmoded in the eyes of many. You
don’t have to agree with me. All you have to do is hear me out. Ready? Thank
you.
So now that things are coming back to me as I write, I just remembered that I accidentally watched Shahrukh Khan’s ‘Maya Memsaab’ movie on TV, in the same year but just a few months before I came across that book of my aunt’s. The reason I was watching that movie was that I was a Shahrukh-obsessed 12 year old and little could I have known that a Shahrukh Khan movie might have ‘forbidden’ scenes in it. (And it was on TV in the late 1990s.) I still remember that neon-drenched, awfully cinematised, horrid scene from the movie, which shocked the bejesus out of me and for days I went around horrified, thinking, “No way on earth is this ever going to be something I do!”
And then a few months later, God sent me that book to read
(or so I’d like to believe) so I could see things in a magnificent, pristine
light. See what a difference it makes!
The child does not need to be told that there are parts of
him or her that are dirty. What the child needs instead, is to understand that
the body is sacred, beautiful—a gift from God. The reason we cover it is not
because we are ashamed of it, but because it is deeply personal and private
and, quite like the deepest of our feelings, we reveal it only in the presence
of special people instead of sharing it with strangers.
And yes, every child – or adolescent or teen – deserves to
believe in magic.
If you’ve grown up in the nineties, you’d know that I ripped off the title of this post from Buzz Lightyear’s immensely memorable line: “To Infinity and Beyond!”
For the mother of a little boy, sanity is a lot like
infinity. Undefined, blurred at the margins… always tantalisingly calling out …
and always a little beyond reach.
It’s something you’re always aspiring for, never able to
attain. Except that as your child grows older, it feels less unattainable.
The kid is almost 7 now, and lately I’ve been feeling a lot saner. For over five long years we’ve had daily—and I mean daily—battles over brushing teeth (both morning and evening) and washing face with baby soap or face wash or anything other than water. Every single day for almost 6 years, 365 days a year, my mornings began with battle cries and tiny foot stomps and failed negotiations and failed reasoning and explanations and in general every day started off with a black mood. Insanity and more insanity.
And now, two episodes happened that suddenly made our
mornings amazingly smooth, because kiddo meekly goes and brushes his teeth
without even being told to, and washes his face carefully with baby soap. No
battles whatsoever. Zero. Zilch. Whew!
What happened? Two awful things. Kid got a terrible skin
infection with sores on the face and had to take antibiotics along with local
application of ointments, and was told by the doctor that he hadn’t been
keeping his face clean enough. I glanced at him, half agonised at his
predicament and half I-told-you-so. The infection went away soon, thanks
heavens, but it left something important in its wake: a lesson.
The second thing was a cavity in one of the teeth, and no,
I’m a very strict mom when it comes to chocolates and junk food. Nevertheless,
the dentist informed him gently that he’d probably missed brushing his teeth
quite a few times, which is when the bacteria attacked. And this was true. He
would miss the night brushing quite often simply because I used to be exhausted
with the constant fighting and give in. Thankfully, these are just his milk
teeth and will be replaced by the permanent set anyway, and a filling is all it
took. But as with the other case, what was left behind was more important. The
lesson.
(I was actually apprehensive writing about this bit, because
I would immediately be judged for being a bad mom or a neglectful one. However,
now that I look back at my childhood, I got measles around the age of 6 and I too
had a cavity by the age of 7—despite not being the candy chewing kid at all—and
no, my mom wasn’t a neglectful one at all. More of the constantly anxious,
helicopter variety of parent. Do I think she didn’t do a good enough job of
bringing me up? Do any of us ever think our moms didn’t do a swell job of raising
us? My point exactly. Every mother is doing her best.)
So just like that, within a month, two of my daily battles
were won.
But the battles were won at a cost to the child (and
therefore to the mother as well). The child had to suffer—and I use the word
suffer in a loose, relative sense because suffering for a child is completely
different from ‘suffering’ as it’s meant for adults. The smallest grief to a
child becomes as great as ‘suffering’, simply because his capacity to take it
is far less. Compared to what he can hold, the pain is far greater. And that is
why, as we grow older, our sufferings increase in size— because our capacity to
take them also multiplies, bit by tiny bit of pain.
From what Khalil Gibran said, that should also mean a
proportionate increase in our capacity to hold joy: “The deeper that sorrow
carves into your being, the more joy you can hold.” But that strangely doesn’t
occur, does it? The child seems to have a much greater capacity for joy than
the adult. Perhaps… perhaps that happens because we begin to shut ourselves off
to joy, for fear of the pain that comes alongside. Perhaps. Who knows?
Pain is a good teacher. It helps you understand things far
easier than all the logic and science and reasoning in the world. That, at
least, is what I’ve concluded, having watched my son transform almost
overnight.
So yes, I’m a saner mom now. And every day when little H snuggles in my arms at night, (yes, he still sleeps in our bed and yes, I’m a total sucker) I feel fortunate and overflowing with love. It’s a simple, uncomplicated feeling. One that I’m astonished to feel, given the sort of conflicted mom I’ve always been. It makes me see how the world goes on and on about the ‘bliss of motherhood’. Just took me longer to experience it. A WHOLE lot longer.
Or maybe, it was just pain carving into my being, enabling
me to hold a lot more joy.
I suppose things will get easier from here onwards. But who knows?
I may yet be carved further. For the moment though, I’ll just keep moving ahead
steadfastly like Buzz Lightyear, believing I can reach the unreachable.
Fairy tales have never had it as bad as they do in recent times. But they’ve never got it quite as good either.
They’ve been receiving a bad rap for promoting stereotypes among little girls—persisting in upholding the idea of the damsel in distress, waiting for a prince to rescue her— and with good reason. For times have changed and the stories we tell our children need to change as well. The good part, though, is that instead of discarding them altogether, writers, especially young writers, are reclaiming the fairytale. The fantasy, the magic, even the love— transforming and adapting to a new world.
One such reclamation is ‘New Age Fairy Tales’, a book of short stories published by The Write Place, written and illustrated by teenage author Ariana Gupta. The book comes accompanied with a jigsaw puzzle too, featuring all the heroines from the cover. All of 16, Ariana has not just adapted the timeless tales of The Little Mermaid, Snow White, Beauty and the Beast, Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty, to the world she lives in and the world she wishes to see, but has also given them a distinctly Indian flavour—with the dauntless heroines sporting sarees and lehengas and bindis!
And Ariana has the freshest take on all these fairytales; certainly not your usual predictable fare. So for instance, Cinderella is not the poor orphan forced to do housework day and night, but the career girl forced by her boss to do double the work at half the pay her male colleagues are given! What’s worse, her contribution is never acknowledged and her unique ideas for the company get appropriated by the boss. So, how does Cinderella get to the grand official ‘ball’ where the new owner would be chosen, and present her ideas as her own? That’s for you to find out!
Then there’s Snow White who takes colourism head on. Instead of merely doing a binary retake and pitting Black against White, the author transforms Snow White into a breathtakingly unique creature altogether, with a face that’s a multi-hued shimmering canvas of all the shades of skin there can be! Now that’s a real fairy tale.
Most importantly, though, the book also reclaims other female characters from the stories. The witch in The Little Mermaid, for instance, instead of being a conniving creature, becomes an advisor and a guide, helping the Mermaid understand how love does not ask you to give up your selfhood. The Evil Queen in Snow White isn’t evil at all, but a caring step-mother. Despite that, her love is typically rooted in tradition, making her the very portrait of an Indian mother—forever trying to find cures for her daughter’s unique skin, forever trying to make her fair!
The stories are refreshing and delightful, not just for children but also the mothers out there. They make you chuckle and nod, and they take you by surprise.
And lest you think the men are all missing, there are positive male characters as well. And that’s important, for our society is unfortunately going through a bit of ‘feminism fatigue’. People look askance at gender rights advocates, and conversations are beginning to reflect alarm and concern at ‘men being alienated’. So people begin to predict what a ‘New age’ fairy tale would perhaps look like—wiping out the men from the scene and vilifying them, which would just be sexism in another form, truth be told. But that’s not the case here.
Prince Charming helps Cinderella in her ultimate goal, but the goal isn’t merely marriage, and one doesn’t necessarily need to be in love to help out a friend in need. A very important message for children, there.
Beauty’s Beast doesn’t morph into a handsome Prince but she loves him nonetheless, for his beautiful mind and for being supportive of her scientific research, for being a person with a golden heart who does not see her merely as a superficial ‘Beauty’ but stands by the love of his life in her intellectual pursuits. Now that’s the kind of love story I would want not just my daughter to read, but my son as well. So that he knows that being handsome is not enough (or even necessary) to be a good partner for someone, unless you are kind and smart and supportive and caring as well. And also, that the person who loves you will not love you for something as superficial as your looks.
While on the subject of sons, though, there is one flaw in the book that needs correcting—and I speak from experience as the mother of a young child. As you turn the cover of the book and come to the very first page, here’s what you find written: “For Little Girls With Big Dreams.”
My 6-year-old son, whom I am doing my best to bring up with an understanding of gender equality and respect for all humanity, was quite excited to see the book when I tore off the envelope that enclosed it. He opened it eagerly because he loves a good story and has not been taught to be prejudiced against things that are apparently “girls’ stuff.” But then he turned the page and saw that it was meant to be a book for “little girls with big dreams.” And he put it back down.
“This is a book only for girls,” he said. I tried to convince him otherwise, by pointing out the other books that had male protagonists in them, but were read by girls as well—Harry Potter being an excellent example. I didn’t succeed too much, though. And learnt something myself in the process.
Stories with girls and women need not be positioned and marketed as only for girls and women—in the same way that stories with boys are not positioned only for boys. Fairy tales are for children, regardless of their gender. Boys need to know about girls and girls need to know about boys. Men need to understand women and women need to understand men. And if we don’t read about and listen to each other’s perspectives, how do we begin to understand each other?
The entire point of reclaiming the fairy tale is to spin a new narrative and set in motion the process of building a more balanced world. A world where both genders can thrive, where all colours are beautiful, and where a relationship isn’t a competition of dominance, but a picture of all-embracing love.
Today you came to me and showed me how to remove the cheese slice from the wrapping without breaking it. Because you like the entire square intact.
Little Hasan, you’re growing up.
Every day, I watch you grow up in tiny, imperceptible ways. I notice the change in your tone, in your manner of speaking. How you assert your opinion, instead of just throwing a tantrum. I notice how you want more details, more logical answers to questions. I see you rising like the sun and I’m filled with wonder. Awe.
I could never perhaps, be the kind of mother I wanted to be. I could never be the happiest mom on earth, the doting mother, the sacrificing mother. Perhaps I’d never be the woman who gets everything done on time, in the most patient manner. I was perhaps never cut out to be a mother at all.
But the older you grow, the more I wonder at motherhood. It makes me feel things I’ve never felt before. Because I see you develop into yourself, develop more fully into a human being.
For it is not enough to be born human; we must grow into one as well.
You’re growing into a human now, a human who has been given to me— to love to protect, to nurture. But never to control.
Dear boy, this is what I want to tell you, whenever you read this.
I wish to be the mother who learns from you. Never the mother who is irked by ‘young upstarts telling her how to do things better’. I wish to be the mother who is contradicted by you. Never the mother who cannot stand ‘being talked back to’. I want to be the mother who sees the world in a new light, and the light is shown by you.
I want you to be your own person, little boy. I want you to be you.
Just as I want me to be me, as well.
I have always guarded my independence and my identity, my dreams and my aspirations, and never wished to dissolve entirely into the role of mother or wife. And that is why, I think, I cannot look upon you only as my son. You are your own person. An individual. A human. And it fills me with awe and wonder. Beyond being my son, you are someone who has two eyes, two ears, a nose, two hands, two feet—and a brain and heart. All distinct from mine. Why should you see, hear, smell, touch, think and feel the way I do?
I do not wish to see you develop into an image or shadow of me. Why should you? God made you into a distinct individual, with your own destiny. There was a time, little boy, when all I wanted was to be who my father wanted me to be. He was the one who was most proud of me, the one who most pushed me to achieve. And then, somewhere along the journey, I realised that my dreams are my own. I have a path to follow, a destination to reach. And that doesn’t belong to my father; it belongs to me. That was when I cut loose from the dream of being an officer of the law, like him. That was when I went on to explore who it was that I actually wanted to be.
I am my own person. A person who takes her own decisions and becomes who she wants to be. I am not my father’s shadow, and I’m sure he would never want me to be a shadow at all—anybody’s. We were all put on this earth with our own distinct minds and hearts and senses, to reach out to our destinations and fulfil our destiny.
And that, dear one, is why I hope you’ll show me new facets of the world through your eyes. Filling me with even more awe, for the human that you become.
The umbilical cord is severed at birth, my son. Because that is the end of you being an extension of me.
wITH MY CURRENT JOB ROLE FINISHING UP IVE DECIDED TO DO A ROAD TRIP FROM SYDNEY DOWN TO the coast of VICTORIA AND ONTO SOUTH AUSTRALIA. wILL BE POSTING IN COLOUR
Zehra Naqvi 