The not-so-sweet sound of the hormone harmonica.
It has happened before and I am not saying it won't happen again. No promises there. I will try to be vigilant about my mood swings but man! when it swings...its Pretty.Badly.Swung!

Don't believe me? Ask M. He may answer you if when he comes out of shock, shuts his hanging jaw and splashes cold water on his face. Yesterday evening, I left him like that, before turning over in bed and promptly falling asleep. But I am getting ahead of myself...

I am married to a man who hangs his clothes on pegs behind the door (i.e doesn't leave them on the floor), almost never leaves a wet towel on the bed, changes the toilet paper roll, pays bills on time, fills the ice trays, saves money for the future and is the champion of lazy cuddling. So far so good. ok. He is also a man who nearly has the door coming off the hinges from all the clothes hanging on it, he never agrees that the fans/sheets/curtains are dirty enough to be cleaned, seldom does his own laundry, never remembers to pick up clothes from the clothesline when he does, finds folding clothes before putting them in the closet "a gross waste of time", can use the same towel forever until it runs threadbare without thinking of putting it in the wash , habitually wipes his wet/dirty hands on his jeans/t-shirt and uses dirty socks for target practice as he sits on the bed, takes them off and aims for the laundry basket (he seldom makes the "basket" because he fails to notice the lid on it). Most of all, it doesn't help that he is a man of few words. Monosyllables are his thing and he uses them minimally.

On most days I try to focus on the first half of the last paragraph. On most days, I am also not hemorrhaging with hormones. Occasionally (once or twice a month) when I am, it causes confusion, tears and commotion. Usually in that order. Then its back to status quo.
 
Being pregnant means that I now, thanks to the overload, get to extrapolate all this and take my dissatisfaction up several notches. Yesterday, it seems (as later revealed) I mistook his stray off-hand minimalist comment about the mango I was going to put in my oatmeal to mean something entirely different than what it was intended to mean (or at least that's what he claimed when we decided to "talk" about it)

He: You're eating that?
I hear: You fat woman, you're going to eat that Mango?

Me (Aloud): Yes. Why?

He: Couldn't you find better... (implying, as later explained, the one I had was too ripe)
I hear: Can't you find something better to eat?

Me (Aloud and hissing): I will eat what I want to eat. ok! ok?


This was followed by several hours of stony silence on my part and him going on with his life like nothing had happened, which made me go from mere stony silence to steely resolve to never talk to the man or bear his child again. Ever. Never. Ever. I was swiftly falling into my favorite comfort cloud of self-pity. In my mind's eye pregnant women all over the world were being pampered, spoilt and more or less being treated like princesses while I had to deal with...well...whatever I was dealing with (Even at the time there wasn't much clarity on that). This lasted for a bit. I called my best friend and bitched and moaned. She knowing me like the back of her hand, calmed me, patted me on the head (metaphorically, we were on the phone remember). We went into one of those conversations where all sentences begin with either "Boys are just so..." or  "Men never...". I got off the phone, calmer, then I got a bit bored and did the usual surfing around the net looking for interesting stuff on food/art/pregnancy/decor/anything. That 's when I chanced on this article. The music surged to a crescendo, the waves of hormones slammed my brain like a tsunami. And oh boy! did I bawl!!! The blogger has written about her very very difficult and painful delivery. That was it! the flood gates of emotion and snot opened up until there was neither left in me anymore. Nose dry and eyes bleary- I was done. M walked in, jaw droppingly confused.

Just to clarify: The angry-cry-snot-feeling lighter stuff does not mean that I discount all the aggravation that dirty laundry brings me. It still makes me angry and probably will forever. I don't think I will be able to shake off the sheer jealousy of why I get bothered by crap that he doesn't even notice and why I , having had as carefree and worry-less a childhood as him, have had to grow up and take care of a house, while he gets to be taken care of. Its a whole other feminist argument I can write a thesis on. But then, I am also a sucker for the boy who pays the bills on time, worries about the quality of mangoes I eat and despite and usually right in the middle of my loudest angry argument, gives me the tightest hugs.

A dear friend who had a baby recently told me that I must MUST get an epidural. As if I need any convincing. I am all for no pain for any gain. In fact I have willingly forsaken many a gain, in anticipation of minor pain. Another friend mentioned how a common friend benefited from the presence of a "healer" by her side when she was in labour. My endless research on (relatively) easy birthing lead me to a new discovery (for me...come on! who would know of this shit if they didn't have to!)-Try googling "Orgasmic Birth" and you'll find a bunch that claim they can make you feel...yes...orgasmic while delivering the seven pounder (why do I find it so hard to pass)

I say bring it all on. I want an epidural, a healer, a hypnotist, your mother's grand aunt...anyone ANYONE who can promise me a pain free delivery. I am willing to give everything a shot and preferably all at once. If I could teach my husband to administer an epidural, I would,  just so I can get one from the word go! I am willing to bribe the anesthesiologist,  I will get his nephew/niece/son/daughter a big break in a bollywood film.  I will hand out sex food coupons to be redeemed after baby's birth , to everyone who can help me get through this. I will give them out to whoever takes me to the hospital, opens the door, calls the elevator, gives me a shot of pain relief...ANYONE!
Just get me through this thing pain-free. ok?!

Pregnancy = Burping and feeling dizzy...at the same time.
Also feeling hungry and pukey at the same time.

We've had very few "Name" discussion so far and I hope to increase the intensity of these discussions soon because I don't want a crappy nickname stuck to the child while we look for a name. I saw a cartoon in today's paper (incidentally by one of my old classmates) that declared Monsoon 2011 as the "expected due date" for the "birth of the Lokpal Bill".

Me: Great! You know if its a boy we can name the kid Lokpal- to be born in Monsoon 2011.
M (as usual not dropping a beat): Sure.
Me (as usual hoping to rile him into a proper conversation): You know how people in your community have names that end in pal...Vedpal, Rampal, Jagpal...etc. It follows LOKPAL!!
M: (puts down his section of the newspaper) You know how we run an online business...
Me: Ya...
M: How about we call him Paypal?

Score 1 for M.

I have nothing against mothers. I have one of my own, and I love her to death.
Its the new fangled urban educated mommy-blogger types (I am not blind to irony, ok?) that get my hackles up. While its understandable that new moms may want to gush with awe and sound completely incredulously giddy about the fact that they have created something so beautiful inside of their belly. It IS indeed an overwhelming experience, more surreal than anything else you have or will experience, yet ...get a grip!  Lets attribute to it its due importance but not lose perspective!

The one refrain I hear, in person and on blogs, is about how being a mom has made them less selfish. How now when she sees war- crimes and child soldiers, she weeps like never before. How collective mommy hearts break when they think of the future of the earth and loss of humanity.  Now suddenly, when there is a fair (if distant ) possibility that their precious son will be a child soldier or that their daughter will be molested on the city streets or at a party (very likely), they want to protest? If I hear this "I-am-now-a-more-selfless-person" argument one more time, I will wipe that understanding smile off my face and scream! You have not become less selfish, you have become MORE so! If you hadn't shed a tear  thus far at the photo of a child's dead body after a bombing, if you hadn't paused to think about the growing scarcity of  water or clean air, if you hadn't questioned the impotent education system or despaired over the state of the world in general. If you waited until you had a personal stake in the future of the world, that's telling of selfishness, not the other way around. What's saddest is that this argument is made by some of the most giving, friendly and kind women I know. I want to grab them by the shoulders and shake them and remind them that they were not selfish bitches but perfectly normal, healthy, concerned individuals in their pre-momy days too!

My purely armchair psychological reading of this need to attribute a "higher" meaning to mommyhood comes from a deep  need for validation. For many urban mommies, especially those with college degrees, those who have had strong identities as working professionals and especially those (like me) who are first generation working women in their families , there remain unresolved conflicts over their decisions to become a parent. The emotional and biological tug that brought us to the thresh-hold of maternity is also the one that took  us away from everything that we built so far- often purely on our own merit and steam. By the rules of the the world in which we live, we are valued for  our contribution as  working professionals. We are cheered on as a person who expresses herself on the public stage without fear. Our individuality is appreciated, applauded and sometimes rewarded. Then as suddenly as the backdrop in a stage production, the scene changes. We are now in the same league as the "everywoman", modern yet primitive, struggling to feed the child, negotiating our tired bodies around their timetables. Suddenly there is no one cheering us on as we go, days and nights melting into one. The  tired old MBA cliche "paradigm shift" fits so aptly, its disturbing. There are no metrics to measure  success as a mother.  To our trained and structured minds, this is  scary. Its a new game but  one that no one set the rules for.  We do what we know best, use the rules we had learned earlier to play this new game...and that, we are smart enough to know, will not work either. So we do the next best thing. We take what we have, and give it a new spin. We distance ourselves from the stereotype of the self-absorbed mother, mired in domestic drab, we spit and shine and make ourselves a new image...one that's more "appealing", we shout from rooftops that we are not selfish- we are, as always, ready to take on the world.

For the longest time I didn't look pregnant. Not that I am one of those enviably svelte babes who dont put on an extra pound. Not at all! Its just that I always had a bit of a paunch :) and that made the new baby blend in better. No one noticed and I got away from unnecessary advice (almost got away that is!) See! Everything has its uses...even that extra kilo and a half on the belly. Except this one time, at our very first visit to the hospital-

The day after the little pee-strip brandished two pink lines, I was (understandably) nervous. I have a healthy hatred for hospitals and a mortal fear of Gynecologists. In the last one year I've had plenty occasion to be at the hospital, thanks to dad and dad-in-law taking turns falling sick. This had somewhat dulled my loathing and I had even worked up a grudging respect for the institution. Gynecologist is a whole other matter though. My only interaction with a gynae in India had been after a general physical annual three years ago at Delhi's famous Apollo Hospital. To cut a rather infuriating and long story short, the Gyne there, having found nothing wrong with my insides proceeded to give me a long and insulting lecture on why I should be having babies. To her there was nothing more shameful than a woman married for so long with no babies to show for it! She also promptly gave me a business card for her private clinic in Noida, should I decide to get some sense in my head and pro-assoonaspossible-create. Why I sat and heard the hogwash and got insulted by the B*&^*% is a whole other psychological study in my latent issues with authority figures, but I steered clear of Gynaes since.

My search for a Gynecologist this time meant that I called the nearest big private hospital (the one tried, tested and approved by the dads) and asked for the credentials of doctors. After being told by the receptionist, that they don't know or maintain records of the qualifications of their doctors(!!), I did the next logical thing and asked for the Head of the Department. Fortunately got an appointment for the next day and showed up with M in tow.

After payment and other formalities, I was directed to the Nurse's room next to the Doctor's OPD room. A young nurse from the north-east, busy and officious, grabbed the appointment sheet from my hands and directed me to take off my shoes and stand on the weighing scale. When I am nervous, I smile a lot and become more friendly than I normally am. In other words, when I am feeling vulnerable, I make myself even more vulnerable by seeming more approachable. Warped, I know.

Nurse: How many month you have?

Me (coyly): Dont know. I ..well...er... just found out.

Nurse:(Points to my tond) NOOO NOO you muss have 5-6 month!

Me: No no. This I always have.

Nurse: Ok. Fuss baby?

Me:(coyly) Yes

Nurse: (pointing to tond) No NO.. This - from fuss baby?

Me: No baby.

Nurse: You no pregnant! (big eyes!)

In the months that followed many such funnies struck me in the gut. Same place, where I carried a few extra kilos, just for fun.

After many an exaggerated eye roll at mommy blogs for many years, here I am sheepishly arguing with myself about how I need to take notes so that someday I (and he/she) will read them.

I regret not taking notes when I first went to the US. There was so much that was new, that soon lost its sheen and became mundane. What little of the awe inspiring newness I remember makes for a good laugh now, if not more. So in the spirit of starting out on this new adventure (actually more than half-way through it already) , in hopes of dining off of some of this absurdity and in anticipation of bellyful laughs twenty years from now, I shall try and keep some notes.

The Rest House

The Daranghati Rest House appears suddenly and cinematically at the top of the hill. It's roof is rusted tin and its outer-walls a pale yellow. Shayam Lal, the chowkidaar, takes the keys out from his leather jacket, two sizes too big for his slight frame. We enter, not hoping for a Hilton but praying desperately for a clean bed and loo.

The rest house was built in 1914, though the small wood inscription says 1913 1914, no dash in between. It also says that the structure is 2x2, which could be a reference to the two bathrooms attached to the two rooms or to the two smaller rooms attached to the bigger ones. The Rest House has a kitchen, approximately the size that you would find in a good sized New Delhi apartment. Attached to the kitchen is a small dining room, overlooking the back of the house. The rest-house must have been comfortable, cozy and also pretty, until it fell into the hands of the Public Works Department, post-Independence. There are broad-sweeps of that architectural affliction native to India and specialized in by the goverment functionaries called, "Sarkaariyat". It seems like there were many enthusiastic upkeep projects that came and went like the winds in these parts- hasty and destructive. The wide balcony spans the width of the house and is framed by an iron grill that seems very seventies in its design. Now rusted orange circles with chipped white paint remain. It looks like there was also glass at some point shielding one from the cold , but not anymore. There are instead pelmets made of plywood with hooks for curtain-rods. Curtains, pelmets and iron grills were perhaps the first fast assault of sarkaariyat. Both rooms have working fire-places, a blessing after 5:00 P.M for most of the year, I am told by Shayam Lal. One of the the rooms is designated a living room and the other a bed-room. The floor boards are bare in the living-room. In the bed-room they are also broken. "There were carpets here in old days. All across the two rooms", says Shayam Lal with a flourish of his hands. The living room houses an incongruous mix of two standard issue cheap plastic chairs, a round plastic table and two beautiful lounging leather and wood chairs, the only remaining furniture from 1914. Shayam Lal, tells me that these were lying derelict and were restored recently with a re-inforced back made of "taat" or used gunny sacks. I ask him about the rest of the furniture. He says, it was all stolen one by one- some by the villagers, some by the sahabs. In the bedroom there are two rudimentary "takhats" joined together to make a double-bed. This is the only furniture here. "These beds you see", Shayam Lal says, "I got made two years ago. I spent my own money. Rs. 1500/- for both." "The PWD should have paid for it", I comment. "The officer sahab told me to get it made and said that he would reimburse me later. Then he got transferred to some other place. I went to the head office in Sarahan to ask for the payment...but you know how it is!". The broken floor boards have left gaping holes and mindless visitors have thrown trash in them. Some of the window panes are broken. "One time we had some students here. They broke a lot of the glass." I ask if he has reported this and asked for the windows to be fixed. Shayam Lal does not reply. I get my answer. The walls have smears. Places where achievements were noted, romances declared, anger at the world spitted out. Someone, I am guessing Shayam Lal, has painstakingly rubbed it off the walls.

The bathroom in comparison is sparkling clean. The white tiles on the floor and walls are again just plain white, not a design or detail to take it away from sarkariness. The faucets and shower head are new and shining. There is a brand new Crompton Greaves water heater mounted on the wall, some of its plastic wrapping still sticking to it. Something is amiss and I soon find out what. There is no running water in the rest-house. "Never has been", says Shayam Lal. "Not even when they put this geyser up on the wall?" I ask. "Never means never. This bathroom was renovated last year...or was it the year before?" Shayam Lal is trying to zone in on the date but its hard to keep track of days here in Daranghati, 12 kilometers from last village, Mashnoo (Population 990, said the board there). "It was a beautiful bathroom earlier." Shayam Lal continues, "Right here, a tub so big that an entire man could lie down in it". I could see it with my minds eye, the bath-tub, the sloping roof, the tiny back door with the glass window, the curtains, the view of the hills in the back. I am worried now about my time here though. I ask him what we should do for water while we are here. "There is a "chashma", a spring on the other side of this hillock, a little ways down. I can fetch you water from there. Luckily we got three feet of snow and some rain this year, so there's water in there. Its been getting less and less every year though." We come back into the bedroom. I look up at the high ceiling. Its beautiful. I guess neither the government workers nor juvenile delinquents could reach the ceiling. The wood is warm and shining. Perfectly preserved.

We go back into the kitchen (also tiled white with brand new water heater, sink and faucet). There are a few plates and a cardboard box of chilli powder lying there. Nothing else. Shayam Lal has met many curious people like me. "We had a gas cylinder and stove here, but people would use it indiscriminately, dirty up the kitchen and leave it all for me to clean. Also, once the cylinder finished, I would have to go back to Sarahan to file a requisition, then the gas agency asks for Rs. 50 extra to haul it up here. It was too much of a hassle, so now I cook up there in the hut on a wood chulha". We walk through the kitchen into the back of the house. This is also the servant's entrance. A little up on the hillock is Shayam Lal's kitchen and further off a few other bigger similar looking structures. "Who lives there?" I ask. "Those? Those are the old servant quarters and beyond them the stables for Gora Sahab's horses." No one lives there but the roofs have been changed from slates to tin. The walls are still made of slate-stone.

Our tour is done. Shayam Lal asks us if we have brought supplies. "I would be happy to make you dinner but I don't have anything right now." I tell him not to worry on account of us. We have bread, butter and Maggi noodles. He scoffs at me. "Maggi? Bread? You plan to eat that for the next few days? You call that 'khana'? Tonight you eat Maggi and tomorrow I will send a local guy with you. Drive down to the village on the other side and get some atta, chawal, daal and sabzi. I will make you real food."

The claws of Sarkariness haven't reached his heart. I am grateful.