When I was 13, I announced I wasn’t ever going to have
babies. I could tell from my mother’s pained expression that I was being
difficult. She suggested, “Why don’t you wait till you’re older before
you make that decision?”
Just a few days earlier, I
had declared with the air of a haughty artist, “Aesthetically, ears are
ugly.” The only reason I remember moments like these are my poor
mother’s reactions. Throughout my growing years, aunts handed me
baby-cousins to look after during weddings and family gatherings. I was a
girl and ought to have an automatic desire to care for babies. But I
never felt maternal, no matter how hard I tried. I thought babies were
like ears. Most Indian families I know are besotted with marriage and
children. As soon as I turned 18, the nagging began, “When are you
getting married?” Then I dropped Rom, the bomb, on them, and after the
initial shock wore off, relatives nagged, “When are you having
children?” Nobody thought to ask if I wanted babies. I didn’t desire
them nor was I convinced there was a good reason to have them. I
imagined myself in my mother’s position, and immediately baulked at the
idea of bringing me up.
As an adult, I revelled in my
newfound freedom. I had spent more than a decade dreaming of it. Having
a child would put me under another kind of tyranny for at least 18 long
years, if I was lucky. And I would have to be a tyrant, too.
My
friends, however, wasted no time in making the transition from brides
to mothers. They sent euphoric emails with numerous pictures. Puzzled, I
asked Rom, “What’s the big deal? Anyone with ovaries can pop babies
out, right?” With a look of mock-horror, he signalled me to hush up
before imaginary neighbours overheard the blasphemy.
But
my attitude to baby animals was different. I watched Rom and the Croc
Bank staff fret over compatibility of reptile mates, the right
conditions for courtship, and eagerly anticipate eggs and babies. Once
they passed that gauntlet, they struggled to control humidity,
temperature, fungal infections, mortality, and finding the right prey
for the babies. If the babies survived past their first birthdays, there
was much-deserved celebration all around.
Many
parents feel insulted that I skipped motherhood. One matriarch tried
hard to divine the problem. Throughout the rest of our stay, she asked
about which fertility treatments we had sought. I tried to explain it
was a deliberate choice; I may as well have been speaking Martian
because I made no sense to her.
As is typical on
trains, after demanding to know what I did and was I married, a stranger
asked, “How many issues [children]?” “None.” “Why not?” “Because issues
don’t have fur.” I went back to reading my book, while he spluttered on
about how women are incomplete without babies. When I didn’t rise to
the bait, he demanded, “Who will look after you in your old age?” I shot
back, “And you have a pre-natal agreement with your children, right?”
A
few people wagered I would change my mind if a baby parachuted into my
life. I countered, “What if I don’t? Would you take the baby back?” Now I
was being rude, they concluded.
Many misinterpreted
my words as criticism of their choice to have children. No matter how I
couched my explanation, there was no way of treading softly. People saw
my rejection of baby-dom as a religious challenge. My child-freedom
also poses another kind of challenge. For genes to survive, organisms
have to reproduce. My poor genes watch helplessly as I happily and
without regret consign them to a reproductive dead-end.
Ever seen a bumper sticker “We two; ours none”?
