'Things to teach your sons about women'

I remember reading an email (years ago) by a friend who said that people must all opt for the gender detection test during pregnancy and abort the foetus if it is male, to set off the female foeticide guilt, and I remember telling her (no, I did not tell her she was off her rocker, because I know she din't mean it as it seemed, and she's a very kind woman, thankyouverymuch), that I would be glad to have a son, so that I can hopeful make sure he's a sensitive and non-chauvinistic male.

Well, so I got one. And now CNN's telling me the 18 things that mothers must teach theirs sons about women, and while it's a very trendy (read superficial, but very feel-good) read, they have a couple of good points:

1. Pick your battles. - Oh SO true.

2. Walk on the outside (closer to the street) of your female companion.

3. Saying "You're being crazy" is never an appropriate response, unless you want her to go postal on you.

4. Cooking, cleaning, and taking care of kids are things men can actually do as well as women. - Ditto

5. Keep backup supplies of quality chocolate in the house for her to raid.

6. Buying tampons and other feminine products shouldn't embarrass you: everyone knows they're not for you.

7. Women like compliments and gifts.

8. Earning less than her shouldn't be emasculating. - You know this seems like the simplest thing, but its a complex so deeply hardwired into their brains that it almost seems like part of their DNA.

9. Be on time, even if she usually isn't.

10. Don't be a pouty puppy when shopping with her.

11. Find out what her favorite flower is. - Mine's Daisy. What's yours?

12. If you like her, then don't buy her shoes; it's bad luck. - Damn. Nino's Dad's bought me tons and tons and tons of shoes. Seriously, how difficult is it to say Red, Size 5, Heels everytime there's an occasion to celebrate? Nino's learning this one for sure ;)

13. Smiling and nodding aren't the same as listening.

14. It's OK to cry in front of her, but keep the blubbering to a minimum.

15. Personality goes a long way.

16. At some point she'll be more important than your mother.

17. You will never completely understand women.

18. Oh yeah, and no woman will ever be good enough for my baby! - no way
--

I'd add a couple more, but right now they'd be pretty morose, so instead why don't you tell me which ones work for you and which ones don't.

The original sin

I've sort of lived with a certain regret that I was unable to have a normal delivery, not because of medical reasons, but somehow because I was not strong enough to bear the pain, to let my body 'open' for Nino. Even though this may not technically be true, the mutterings of the elderly in my family has seeped into my sub-consciousness. I am suddenly this low-pain-threshold person, this softie, you know what I mean?

Almost everybody I know has had a normal delivery, with and without pain medication, and I've listened in detail to the different types of contractions, the focal points of pain and the sudden plop of relief or lack-of-pain, kind of like blank sound, when the baby eases out. But I've never heard of an orgasmic birth, having an orgasm or a series of orgasms while giving birth. It's a theory that 'natural birth proponents' talk about: a birthing process that has no pain medication, little or not grunting or screaming, lots of breathing and physical touch with the partner/father, and where contractions are acutally orgasms.

Amber Hartnell did not intend to have an orgasmic birth - it just happened. "Trying to have an orgasmic birth defeats the object," she says, "I just got into this ecstatic state where I had these peaks of orgasm. There were these rolling waves coming through me where I was laughing and crying. I didn't feel like I was having contractions. They were more like rushes. I did not actually experience pain, I experienced intense sensations."

"It was the most overwhelming pleasure I have ever felt in my life," Hartnell says.

First up, let me be honest that the idea is mildly offensive to me. Maybe I'm being a prude, but while sex can be and should be recreational, the process of pregnancy and creating a life and a soul transcends mere procreational needs. An orgasm seems so, trifle, considering what it is being associated with, somehow. One of my concerns during pregnancy was related to breastfeeding: how would it feel considering I'm very sensitive in that part of my anatomy? Breastfeeding was a delight: and I actually felt 'useful': if you can understand that. It was as if discovering the real purpose to having a particularly shaped body. It was in no way titillating, and the pleasure I derived from it was emotional, rather than physical, given how painful it can be sometimes.

That's why this whole theory about orgasmic birth is intriguing, for the lack of another word. It's not sado-masochistic as it seems - believers say this is not an instance of deriving pain through pleasure. Maybe what bothers me is that it sounds like there is an underlying expectation that birth should be pleasurable, that it is a choice between pain and pleasure. It questions my needs to screech, to feel fear, to rant about my gender and it's afflictions, to given in to my limitations as a human being: it lays yet another brick of guilt on top the many that entomb mothers.

But is it really such a loony thing? The Bhagwad Gita's Sundar Kand describes Devaki's labour in synonyms with nature, and her relief in Krishna's birth also, with similar simile that could be construed to mean that she felt absolute pleasure when he was born. There are many, including Osho, who believe there is a thin line between spiritual pleasure and sexual pleasure, and that an orgasm is close to meditation: its a split second where the mind is completely blank, devoid of any negative thoughts, immersed in pure pleasure that by its lack of negativity, becomes a positive source of energy. Several streams of medicine including Acupressure and Homeopathy believe that a child experiences physical, medical and spiritual side effects of his/her birthing: there are afflictions associated with how long the labour lasted, how the head was positioned, was it an easy plop or a major push-and-grunt affair. Does this then mean that having a pleasurable birth affects the child too?

What do you think: Before you classify this as a loony new trend that's taken Western imagination by storm, read the article and try and watch the video (it's a bit graphic for office/kid viewing). Have you experienced an orgasmic birth? Or a feeling similar to pleasure, that you're unable to tag as an orgasm? Does this disgust you, like it did me, when I first read it? Or is it one of those metaphysical cum spiritual things about motherhood and the gift of creating life that we're only meant understand when we are ready?

Genes versus Gender

So we were driving down to an exhibition gallery in the outskirts of the city, run by parents of Nino's friend at school. The path was dust-battered and bumpy, with lots of village nativity scenes thrown it for good measure. The perfect way to spend a Sunday evening.

Somewhere between a bump and the changing of the radio station, Nino goes, and I quote verbatim, 'Aww, mama, look, a baby buffalo. So sweet!'.

I'm about to agree when there's a screech of tyres and the normally reticent husband turns in his seat to give me a venomous stare.

'What?' I say.

'Look what you've made my son into,' he says. 'So sweet?'

'He could have said anything in the world. How tiny it is. How brown. How delicious it would be if we had it for food. But awww, how sweet?' Nino's Dad rants.

I'm tempted to reply, but am too shocked and humoured by the insinuation that I've turned my son into a 'not boy' kind of a boy. Good thing I din't tell him about what Nino said on Saturday, I thought.

--

On Saturday, a whole jhing bang of us travelled to my city, Gandhinagar, where a spring festival held amidst the valley banks of the barren Sabarmati showcased some of Gujarat's and India's tribal life and art.

There were a lot of tribal weapons on display, including the famed bow and arrow, slingbacks and some really fancy swords. Nino and Karanbhai were totally awed by all the fine display of swordsmanship and they both took turns at using a proper bow with iron-tipped arrows. Surprisingly, Nino hit bulls eye, and the old uncle who was manning the shop was mighty happy.

He'd persuaded Karanbhai to buy a nasty looking dagger (quite like the one Arnold Schwarzenegger carries in the eminently re-watchable Commando), a fake, not-sharp one with a maliciously curved blade, and Nino was adamant that he wanted one too.

I'm not one for buying them 'weapons' and I admonished both Karanbhai and the shopkeeper, but Nino was growing more vocal and I wanted to see the remaining half of the exhibition without a cranky child tugging at my already loose pants. So I gave in and bought it for Nino.

'Is it really sharp?' Nino asked me, the gleam of having being handed something forbidden shining through his beady eyes.

'Yes,' I said. 'It's sharp, and mighty and very dangerous.'

Karanbhai was already showing his 'moves' with the dagger and talking in his 'dhish, dhish, dhishum' language about the thieves he's going to beat up and the bad people, and all that ilk. The shopkeeper asked Nino what he would do with his dagger.

Nino swayed his dagger with a flourish of his hand, the kind that would have made his dad proud, and said, 'I'm going to chop some gajar.'

The sisterhood of the travelling word

They’re not mere words to me – their names and pseudonyms each carrying a face-less image of a person laced with intricacies. The ‘handles’ that we use to address each other are tightly woven with our ideas and opinions, conjuring up caricatures of our lives in tiny, rapid bursts of colour. Some are names I love. Some are denominated by cities. Some with their memories, some with colours, and some with the kind of humour that makes life seem sane. And would I seem like a sentimental fool if I said, I was, in a way that words refuse to reveal, blessed for them all?

I realised it last week, in a flash typical of clichés, when the husband asked me what I was doing as I frantically typed my previous post in the dead of the night. My loved ones were around me, and yet, I had to reach out to you, to share my pain, knowing somewhere, you’d understand. I’d found and realised the joy of female bonding after what seems like ages.

I grew up with a bunch of boys, and though all of them are dear to me, we shared a bond that had a time and a place and has refused to grow out of that teenage leg-pulling we still indulge in when we meet. I’ve several close girl-friends, and our friendships have evolved to adjust changing roles such as marriage and motherhood, separated as we are by distance. Lately, there’s always been something missing in the equation, a small, but open-gnawing gap in how we connect, and there are bits of my soul I’ve never been able to fuse fully with another in a long while. The closest friend of course, is Nino’s Dad, but there are as many pitfalls to marrying a friend as there are comfort areas.

Here, in this bit of my world, where I play strip-tease with my emotions, where I display the fears I usually cloak so well otherwise, where my ranting has a purpose, where you leave me equally moved, inspired and rolling on the floor with laughter, and where I have your listening eyes: I have found and devoured greedily the depth of your thoughts and the comfort of your words, the pleasure of your company. Thank you, for this unexpected gift, and for teaching me that the time to make a friend is never past.

Mr Roncon take a bow

I've never attached a lot of importance to my name. My identity of myself was always very distinct from it, maybe attached and coloured by it at times, but never truly defined by it.

My name today carries my maiden and Nino's Dad's surname. That's how Nino, who is currently in the phase where he refers to everyone in their 'full name', no doubt inspired by roll calls at school, calls me. Why? Perhaps because my father's name represented the culture I'd come to be familiar with while the husband's stood for a culture I was willing to accept. It's a odd thought coming from a person who has survived mix-breed parentage, because the fact that you grow up on the borders of two totally diverse cultures should be a life-long reminder that tags hurt, tags type-cast and tags build barriers.

My name now often attracts two distinct sets of attention: there are those, including the husband's sisters who 'appreciate' it and then there are those who seek to define it in terms that are usually enough to get any sane person's heart-rate high. Surprisingly, the husband and I have no take on it. Neither on the fact that I use my maiden-name passport or bank under two identities. There is so much more to me and my opinions than the name that you use to refer to me, that it honestly does not matter if I'm Acme, you know? As women, we tend to understand this more. The roles we play, sometimes define our existence and frame of mind so completely at times, that our multi-faceted personality is at peace with the one facet that is visible at that time.

I've seen fiercely independent and identity conscious friends simply change names after marriage and I've seen friends add in their maiden name years after having carried their husband's name. What sets them apart, is that either ways, it was a decision of choice, not a social/cultural/family diktat.

Which is why Sanjay Dutt's quote that 'girls who become part of a new family after marriage must assume their new surname and all the responsibilities that come with it', really ticked me off. This is what this man had to say about his sister, who still carries her maiden name, a fact, the actor says, 'maybe fashionable these days, but is dis-respectful to the person she married.'

Stopping short of calling Priya Dutt a fame hanger-on who uses her father's famous surname for her own benefits, Sanjay, who has recently entered the political fray, also manages to rubbish her identity - as someone's daughter, as a wife, a politician and a mother. It's alright that Sanjay uses his nomenclature heritage: his father's goodwill has managed to save him from conviction even.

What gives a son the right to use a particular name, while the same is denied to a daughter? This reformed junkie/gun-loving social deviant believes there's only one Mr and Mrs Dutt, and that's him and his latest wife Manyata, someone who carries as many dubious distinctions to her credit, as her latest husband. Not considering that she has changed names several times over to suit her divorce statuses and starry aspirations.

With his regressive views and criminal background, Sanjay seems the likely choice for Amar Singh and his party. And as for Priya's husband Owen Rancon, may his I-don't-give-a-damn-what-my-wife's-ration-card-says tribe increase.

Required reading

It doesn't help that we raise younger siblings, carry someone half our weight on our tiny hips, making sure more morsels are in their mouths rather than ours. It doesn't help that we help, we clean, we cook, we clean, we serve and we clean, and yet the work never seems to get done. It doesn't help that our history is a collective memory of fathers who couldn't be pleased, mothers who never showed affection, uncles with dangerous intents, hungers, blood, fear and abandonment. It doesn't help that we give birth to life and then choose to stamp it out as well.

"Women, according to the UN population agency UNFPA, make up 60% of the billion poorest people on the planet and two-thirds of the 960 million adults who cannot read, while 70% of the 130 million children who are not in school are girls."

In a searing ode to Africa's women, the author says, 'Even in the direst of circumstances, beset by poverty and ill-health, women hold families together, get children to school, work in the fields to grow food they can sell in the market for a subsistence income. Their lives are heroic but unsung.' It's a battle of life for women there: birth, childhood diseases, civil war, poverty and destitution.

Not so far away, here, in India, it's a similar story as well. We seem them everyday - Champaben, Gitaben, Jana tai, Ganga didi, Asha. Flowerly, lyrical names to lives that have been pure misery. Walking kilometers for water. Dropping out of school to support younger siblings. Hand-me-downs from the mistress of the house, taken back home, lovingly, to be shared with two other sisters. 'Get up'. 'Eat'. 'Don't run'. 'Say hello'. English staccatos that resound from a tongue that has learnt to mouth words she will never be able to choose to learn. Pubescent dreams shattered by a neighbour's probing curiosity. Working in a dozen houses, cleaning plates laden with food on a stomach that's rarely felt full. Marital bliss that is limited to the few new clothes and nice bangles: when a husband turns into just one more mouth to feed.

Gender Bender

One of the most beautiful aspects of my relationship with my husband when we were dating, was that there was no gender aspect. He cooked for me, I got rid of the pigeons/lizards in the room, I am not a baby-person, he gushes over kids he sees on the street, etc. He was the shy one and I was all for sexual chemistry and experimentation. There were no gender-defined roles that we 'had to' or 'started to' play.

I remember distinctly the first time I'd 'felt like a particular gender' - the day my budding breasts got mauled in the bus. Till then the fact that I'm female had played no role in my life, other than ticking a particular box while filling forms. When pregnancy happened, things started to change even more. Nino was an unplanned child - and I had hoped to depend a lot on my husband's parenting skills when we decide to go ahead and have Nino. But biologically, differences were seeping in. Not just the physical changes, but even later, when it suddenly became a 'given' that I would spend more time with Nino, doing his chores. Not that I minded it - but it gave me an uncomfortable feeling that my family, including my husband - who by the way is the least chauvinistic person (not just male) that I know - were closet chauvinists in a way. Today, there is a vast chasm between my parenting responsibilities and his. A lot of this is self-brought-upon thanks to my relentless guilt syndrome - but quite a bit is also socially defined.

I'd never planned to marry - and I'd never planned to have children. Both happened in a way that I'd little control over. And in spite of being armed with a list of what-I-won't-do, I've found being a mother, a very fulfilling experience. I'm not perfect, but Nino makes me a better person. He gives a sort of purpose to me and my choices - but I'm not entirely sure if that is a good thing. I am not very good at hypothesis, and it would be difficult for me to say what life would have been like without having a child. But I would not have regretted it, either ways.

Now there's this research that says that only babies can make women truly happy.
"Money, promotions, the corner office, social status, and political power are what make men happy (as long as they win, of course, but then dropping out is by definition a defeat). Spending time with their children is what makes women happy," says Satoshi Kanazawa.

Using 'science' and 'genes' as weapons against 'feminists, liberals and the like', psychologist Kanazawa says we're happiest when we play the pre-defined roles that society - or to use his exact language, 'evolution' - has set out for us. Which means a work-from-home-daddy will never truly be happy. And which means that a successful career woman, who manages to juggle work and parenting well, but is a blooper in the kitchen, will be unhappy at the end of the day.

The author hopes to raise generations to be herd-thinkers, and warns individuals who think differently from society, to be ready to be 'not happy'.

There is much that is wrong with this article - and much that infuriates me, but I will admit that I've made plenty of 'gender' decisions based either on social dictates or guilt induced from only seeing a world that functions in a particular way. And by the end of it, I'm sure Kanazawa's a little fuddled himself:

"Teach boys and girls that they are different, not the same, and that it’s okay (nay, wonderful) to be different. One is not right and the other is not wrong. Stop telling girls that they are inferior versions of boys, as feminists have done for the last half century, or, as has more recently been the case, stop telling boys that they are inferior versions of girls."

"Live as you feel like, not as you think you should live like. Your feelings are seldom wrong, because you are designed to feel certain way by millions of years of evolution."

Does this mean that because I've not a single motherly/nurturing bone in my body, I qualify for the wrong gender? And that all my professional and personal achievements including being a mother, aside, the fact that I'm a miserable cook should, rightfully, make me miserable? And the fact that I do derive the greatest joy from being with Nino make his generalisations true?

I've plenty of friends who don't have kids - either due to medical reasons, or because they've chosen not to, or because maybe they're not ready to be parents yet. And barring those who have not been able to conceive because of medical reasons (and especially because they want kids badly), none of these women are unhappy. In fact, a few of them are the caring/nurturing kind - the kind you attach a visual image of a couple of kids with, but the lack of a offspring has not driven them to question their biological existence or definition.

But maybe, just maybe, this generalisation may be a good thing:
"Men are happier with money, while women find greater joy in friendships and relationships with their children, co-workers and bosses, a new global survey reveals," Reuters said.

"The online survey of 28,153 people in more than 51 countries by global marketing and information firm Nielsen found that as the world grapples with a recession and financial markets remain volatile, many people are reminding themselves that money can't buy happiness."

Reminds me of this really silly quotation I once read:' When women are bored, they go shopping. When men are bored, they invade countries.'

This study puts all my theories of nurture against nature to dust : but at the least, it make us women sound noble. And because we're so different from the guys when it comes to what makes us happy, I will now conclude that women are happier marrying women.

Of Ganpati and Oedipus

A few weeks ago, in the process of trying to distract Nino from shoving his boiled egg below the high chair, I embarked upon telling him a story. Not just any story, but one from the Hindu mythology, about my favourite pot-bellied God, Ganesh/Ganpati. The story was originally about how Ganpati got his elephant-head, but as I relived the tale, I realised it was ghastly and gory - Two and a half year old Nino could not have expected to understand why Ganpati's dad (Lord Shiva) was so angry with him, that he cut his head off... so I just twisted the tale around to Ganpati standing guard as Goddess Parvati bathed and the happy reunion between the three of them, and Lord Shiva playfully pulling up Ganpati and asking him to be respectful to his father, and all elders. phew. I doubt if back then, in our childhood, grannies or mums worried about how violently we would veiw these stories. Even though I admire the Hindu philosophy for its ability to pull up and question everything and everyone, a lot of its moral tales revolve around skirmishes and violence. Not something I want my mixed heritage son to view as the overall image of my culture.

I was reminded of Ganpati's tale a few days back in an absolutely unexpected way. I rushed home, one hour early, gleefully like children playing traunt at school. Surprised Nino with a big hoop and then told him I'm taking him to the local snake park. Just that minute (isn't it always) I had to pee - and I just said, without thinking, baby, mama's gotta pee, don't let anyone enter the room. (we have a lot of workers at home currently, and I'd left the room door unlocked) - as I plonked down on the pot. 'I'm right here, mama,' he said. 'Standing guard, with my stick. I won't let anyone come in.' And right then I knew, he meant it. Even his dad would not have been able to get into the room.

I've always wondered, and so have multitudes of women before me, what exactly it is with men and their mothers. One of my boyfriends hated his mother so much - his choices in women were the antithesis of what she was. So many girlfriends bemoan how their mother-in-laws plot and connive to get the son's attention, to prove the metaphorical umbilical cord is still strong. The sons who always compare the wives cooking to their mothers. The mothers who still dote upon their sons, pushing their faults under layers of affection, each behaving like an emotional ostritch - if you can't see it, it did not happen. and I wondered about this even more becuase I come from a family of daughters - we have one cousin brother among nearly ten sisters. I remember asking my mother-in-law this, as her dearly-loved daughters ribbed her about loving her son the most. And she said, simply, 'You'll know when you have a son.'

Now that I have a son, do I know 'it'? I don' t know. I know that he loves me to bits, that he runs to me when he's happy/sad/hurt/hungry/sleepy/curious. I know it's not because I'm there all the time - my husband and I both work pretty much the same number of hours, so we get to see him each evening around the same time. But I do know that I've never had a bigger fan - or someone who adores me so much. And as he pets me, compliments me, hugs me and cries for me in his sleep, I can see how this need of his, can be a heady shot, brining a joy that can turn into a need by itself. I now understand how this need-begets-need can grow and take root, and refuse to let you grow and change - like all those mums who still find it difficult to realign their love for the kid with the man who is their son.

Sometimes, Nino's Dad feels a bit leftout from the showering of love that Nino gives me. As he playfully sulks, I rib him, 'You'll know when you have a daughter.'

Any thoughts? Mothers of sons, wives of sons - and fathers, even?

'Mama, make me your daughter'

Nino loves to dress up like a girl. He begs and pleads anyone and everyone to drape him with my scarves, wear my danglers propped up on his ears and lots of silver bangles. Then he wears my shoes and says, 'Come to Mama'.
The first couple of times everyone thought it was cute - he actually does make a pretty 'girl' - and I loved decking him up. But gender play works only one way, and I learnt that the hard way over the weekend.

Nino and I went on a play date on Saturday with his new friends from the montessori playschool he's recently started. The aim of the playdate - with a pool and toys - was to get the children familiar with each other - and offer the mothers a chance to get to know their fellow parents better. Boys are outnumbered in the group, 3 to 6, and at the playdate there were only 2 present - Nino and the hostess's son. Nino loves shoes - everybody's especially small footwear that's more his size. He chanced upon the slip-ons of a classmate, a girl, and slipped them on and then preened on how the shiny mettalic straps looked. As he showed them off to me, I casually mentioned how he liked to make-believe that he's my little Nina.
The mothers all looked at each other and giggled. A few called out to Nino, asking him about his 'girl' footwear and wondering aloud if he needed to borrow a skirt. - It was all good natured humour - till one of the mothers said her daughter loves to wear jeans and plays 'dadda' all the time. This time the gender play was appreciated - as if playing a male has more educative and emotive value than playing a woman. I was left a little shocked myself, and not because it was Nino in question, but because this was coming from a group of seemingly educated, modern women.

My husband's family has this annoying habit of classifying actions into 'girl' things and 'boy' things - if you cry/whine, you're a girl. If you're not sitting 'correctly', you're sitting like a boy.
My mother-in-law gets very upset when Nino dresses up - and she says it's because it might tempt him to, in her exact words, 'grow up effeminated'. Sometimes I want to tell her, it's not just a girl that he wants to play - he's playing me. Is that such a bad/taboo thing?

And while we may encourage our daughters to 'wear the pants' in the house, we most definitely don't want our boys to wear the skirts. It's not just the fear of homosexuality that pervades our choices - any behaviour that does not confirm to prevailing gender standards is frowned upon. If he's a boy - he has to have all the manly qualities that define that standard. All those and only those. And while it applies to girls as well, I belive we're starting to make some space for our daughters. The sons, unfortunately, will still have to measure up to the balls/cars/speed/violence/sports genre. They will continue to have 'Cars' parties and get a block-building set even when they want a doll or a kitchen set. What you're seen choosing often translates into who you are.

Nino loves some of the male gender trappings (such as balls and cars and racing his animals) - but he's also got a few surprises up his sleeve. He's a very loving kid who loves even more to express that - through hugs or words. He's eager to mother every little baby he meets and once went around for months telling everyone he's got a little baby in his belly (after a close friend of ours got pregnant). And he's very observant when it comes to clothes or jewellery - and also art in the form of sculptures and paintings. He often helps me pick my earrings - and I must say, he has good taste.

My husband and I often wondered how we would react if we had children with different sexual leanings than ours - this was before we had Nino - and both of us agreed that it would be okay. And while we've never rasied this topic since Nino was born, both of us are very protective of him when he's playing 'Nina' around other people. I don't want to guess work Nino's make-believe time and make future predictions - but I do know that I want him to be able to be whatever he wants, without the guilt of having 'disappointed' his parents attached to it.