Earlier this week I was invited to attend the release of a book called ‘Janani – Mothers, Daughters, Motherhood’ edited by Rinki Bhattacharya. As I sat at a suburban branch of Crossword Bookstore, I wondered about whether such a book was relevant or necessary at a time when women of my generation are trying to dispel the so-called ‘aura’ around motherhood that has been preserved so carefully for centuries, stoked by stories of sacrifice, selflessness and servitude. Fortunately, the book offers space for diverse voices – some echoing my sentiments on the subject of motherhood, many insightful and touching individual testimonials. For instance, Shashi Deshpande’s essay on how she often wondered if she was fit to be a mother at all and how none of the popular myths she had heard about the ‘maternal instinct’ proved to be true. Or Deepa Gahlot’s contention that the desire to become a mother isn’t naturally built into the female psyche, and many women don’t really think about why they have babies.Perhaps the reason why Deshpande’s and Gahlot’s views appeal to me the most is because I have frequently questioned the forces that propelled me towards motherhood and how unprepared I actually was to take on the responsibility it entailed. It is ironic that I, who had a tempestuous relationship with my mother through all my growing years, felt compelled to have a child within two years of getting married. The decision was largely mine (the timing certainly was) and news of my conception was greeted with general euphoria. Nobody told me that it would be painful (physically and emotionally), irritating and even torturous at times.
Childbirth is a horrifying experience and let nobody try to eulogise it. Nine months of pregnancy and five hours of labour pains were enough to put me off every warped paean to motherhood I’d heard all my life. Yes, the experience of looking at my newborn’s tiny, wrinkled face was indescribable. But now, when I think back, I still cannot dispassionately determine how much of that joy was fuelled by a misplaced sense of achievement and the pride of creation. Nor did I know then that the euphoria would soon be dampened by the realisation that the infant I was tenderly nestling in my arms was already an individual in her own right whom I would have to gradually, painstakingly learn to let go of sooner than later. She didn’t belong to me, although she was born of me.
Her arrival brought several amendments in my life, some I willingly imposed on myself. Like the decision to quit my job as a programming consultant in a television channel and ‘take a break’ from my career. It was my belief that a newborn must have at least one parent around for the first couple of years of her life and although my husband tried to dissuade me from taking this drastic step, I was adamant. I wasn’t prepared to abandon my child to the care of maids or crèches and refused to saddle my 70-year-old mother-in-law with the task of tending yet another baby.
This decision was clearly driven by the childhood angst of missing my mother, who, unlike me, didn’t have the luxury of choice, and had to juggle her duties at home – cooking, cleaning, supervising our homework, managing temperamental maids, entertaining a steady flow of relatives and guests -- with a regular 9 to 5 job to supplement the family income. I spent most of my growing years resenting my mother for not being around and constantly sought comfort in other maternal figures – teachers, aunts, friends’ mothers etc. For a long time I didn’t understand this desperate need for attention. Perhaps it was born of the stereotype of the angelic, devoted, self-sacrificing mother who always put her child’s needs before her own. Today, if I try to imagine myself in my mother’s shoes, I don’t think I would have conducted myself any differently from the way she did. Only I would have been far more neglectful, irritable and discontented than she ever was.
Nor do I imagine, my daughter will be terribly appreciative of the upbringing I give her. It is impossible for me, or any other mother, to live up to her child’s expectations. More importantly, I don’t even want to try and become an ‘ideal’ mother. For, I am not prepared to compromise every other aspect of my life to chase the mirage of perfect motherhood. I know that I need to create my own private space, my time away from my family to pursue my own goals. I have done so, from time to time, leaving my daughter behind with her father for weeks on end. When I see my husband interact with our daughter, it strikes me how much more ‘maternal’ he is than I am – patient, compassionate and giving.
I grew up on a staple diet of Hindi film melodrama. Yet, the one film that I have intensely disliked for as long as I can remember is Mehboob Khan’s ‘Mother India’. While it is universally acknowledged as a classic, I see it as a male director’s vision of Indian womanhood – a dutiful daughter-in-law, devoted wife, sacrificing mother whose identity is entirely determined by her devotion to the men in her life and the values they represent. Radha doesn’t spend a single moment thinking about herself, her dreams, her individual needs, divorced from those of her husband, her sons, her village.
Perhaps books like ‘Janani’ and the works of other Indian writers provide a more authentic representation of the way women perceive their own roles as individuals trying to strike a balance between the subconscious stereotypes deeply embedded into a patriarchal society and their personal aspirations.
‘Janani – Mothers, Daughters Motherhood’ is edited by Rinki Bhattacharya and published by Sage Publications.
Deepa Gumaste
