Look ma, your bubble burst

I am one of the gazillion mothers who manifested herself under the garb of the modern Indian women, handling a career (or something like it) living with in-laws and rarely losing her balance while losing hair as a mark of it.

Beneath all this enters a new human being who suddenly warms the cockles of my barren heart which is mostly dried up with the monotony of the corporate life that I so proudly flaunted most of the time.

The baby now with its innocent cooing and chuckling suddenly makes me want to be a social crusader to want to form a generation – damn you FB and Whatsapp that have not only become social networking apps but are becoming life coaches mostly for women and could well be called the stree mukti sanghatna from now on coz they do just that. Subtle lightning of that bra beneath your skin that suddenly enrages a volcano inside and all you want to do is wag your toungue out like maa kali.Unfortunately with so much passive aggression around for no reason, complications arise when suddenly the bra burning feminist (wannabe) wants to now just hold the baby’s fingers and then write poems wondering when did he grow up soo soon. Get your act together woman, time travels and maybe your brain doesn’t.

 We compartmentalise and overhype our life way too much , when we are working or pretending to work like rabid dogs with blinkers on and forget to enjoy life as a whole. Suddenly the baby with its deceptive innocent eyes makes us want to pause completely and just want to run behind it and watch it walk, eat talk and perhaps in a little knit world of its own become the baby einstein coz oh my he almost said gravity.
 We don’t mind giving up almost everything except Wi-Fi to have the privelege of watching this little einstein growing in front of us and few months into the process a halo looms large over our heads.The halo begins representing holiness and godly feelings at first but slowly transforms into self doubt, frustration, and takes the shape of the deflated tummy that the baby gave us as a return gift. Not that I was into washboard abs but atleast my abs moved along with me before , now they move almost a few minutes after I turn right.

Since I have to stick to this decision with the steel reform while I quake beneath, I slowly start exploring options of a comeback (second career) and the first options appearing are a rehash from all classes I loathed as a school girl. Crafts, drawing , cooking manifesting itself into entrepreneur, artist, or baker. Raised by a generation of parents who would promptly prostrate infront of any one who remotely says I was in IIT or IIM or engineer with an MBA or I have a Masters, from the University of Tanzania. Now the old school thought just doesn’t go away no matter how many whatsapp messages or FB posts I gulp down as part of my daily feel good diet. So now my pretentious self who somehow survived the engineering aftermath and got a job in a field completely different from my vocation, wants to stand solid on the ground and not do anything supposedly lower than my skills. I now almost wobble with the thought of choosing the second career, coz I have a huge list of what I can’t or won’t do up against what I can.

Being part of the tribe that always lingers in the middle, hindi may na ghar ka na ghat ka , I now am on the cliff like Howard Roark, only not as perceptive but itching to take the plunge coz for once I now want to taste failure.

My parents who are competetive by nature by no fault of theirs , like million others, never really teach their offsprings the importance of failure. Its the supposed dark area one musn’t enter at any cost. That unfortunately multiplies itself with each year of our existence and stands in our face at this peculiar juncture. We are so wary of failing since in our heads we cannot do no wrong that we want to land on ground safe and sound much before we take the actual plunge. Faced with a dilemma now at this point in my life and having no one to blame, the lazy me is forced to shake the inertia off and finally confront life because truly I’ve had enough of myself.

Despite loving myself beyond words, I still feel largely uncomforable in my own coz these thoughts loom like huge clouds over me. I want to make choices and enjoy the result of it, but more than anything else I want to live without feeling stuck in a chamber. I understand that physically now a matchbox may cost crores of rupees and even our 2 kidneys may not fetch us as much money to buy our living space, but we can atleast start living freely in our headspace. This constant need to confirm, is now beginning to break me. The constant need to be a multi tasker, good at everything, intellectual (duh!!) fit and yummy mommy bullshit is really all just a hog wash, like fooling our minds to believe the non sense.

Nobody’s gonna wanna read my epitaph except my partner if he outlives me, and my son if he feels like it, no expectations though. I don’t want to be a mother who launches a rocket while singing a lullaby to my baby and basically be viral on the internet even before it propells in space. The space I guess is overcrowded with  self gratifying parents who more than really watching the first step of their baby, want to record for posterity on FB for the lack of better creativity and get likes and comments from their brethren that makes them feel like they created a baby genius.

Me, I just want to be an ordinary mom, just like my own mom, who never shared gruelling details of how I was delivered and she seethed in pain. Who did not wail and howl when I got married to leave the beautiful world she created for me. She fought , argued, laughed danced along with me in every phase and made me realise what real mothers are made of. She enjoyed every moment even while she fought her daily life struggles, but never once pitied herself or sang praises about it. She did not sacrifice so much to make me feel obliged every single time, which is so refreshing because what did I know.

I too want my son to enjoy life,fall in mud, run like crazy, scream shout, eat like crazy, pee in is pants (ofcourse until a certain age), fart, enjoy playing with his friends, be irritated of me, take me for granted coz thats how organic motherhood is. I’ll plan on launching that rocket a little later or perhaps ride it right out of the park with the strands of my hair along with me.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s