We sat reluctantly in two uncomfortable chairs. But it was
the whole atmosphere that made us really uncomfortable. The head priest of the
‘faith based organisation’ sat at right angles to us. The room was large and
airy. The walls were full of pictures of the farm we had come to survey for our
agricultural practices study. The door opposite us sent in a regular stream of
devotees. They came in one by one, prostrated themselves at the feet of the
head of the institution, held his feet in their hands for a while and crept
away.
While they did so, the head priest, quite undisturbed by
this foot holding, lectured us – two women who had come to see his farm, on the
status of women. It took us a while to get used to the prostrations and he got
the head start – we were unable to respond to his starting salvoes like, “Women
are their own worst enemies”. And boldened by our silence he continued – he
told us that women had two primary roles in life ad they had to choose between
them. The choices were between the maternal and the sexual. He knew and was
saddened by the fact that the majority of women chose the sexual role. We
stared at him, speechless. And allowed him to continue. Thankfully, because if
we had interfered, we would have missed this gem -
He then told us about a mother of 3 children he had travelled
with in a train. This mother, instead of watching over her children, had handed
them over to her husband and maid and gone to sleep. “Sleep!” he exclaimed,
shaking his head. Ad then he looked at us and said, “The sexual role (he used
the beautiful vernacular word ‘kamayani’) impels women to neglect their
children and do such things like going to sleep.”
By now we had regained our powers of speech but that is a
different story. I remembered this incident because in many ways it marked a
turning point I my life. I was forced to acknowledge my conscience’s now faint
voice that I stood in grave danger of adhering to the head priest’s role model
of the maternal role of women. Did I
then want to give up that role and adopt the sexual role? No, I did not. I was realizing that doing any
one role to the exclusion of all other roles was impossible and extremely exhausting.
And I was also realizing that I wanted it all – a little bit of every role –
mother, companion, friend, worker, daughter, daughter in law, political person,
and yes, also that of a kamayani. And this realization was not a momentous one.
A few weeks ago, I had had a moment of epiphany. It was the
middle of the early morning chaos. My daughters were getting ready for school,
looking gorgeous as they always do. I was combing their hair, checking their
bags and instructing Rama, my wonderfully efficient housekeeper o the day’s plans
and giving my hair a last brush before I left home for work. As I looked into
the mirror, I found myself looking at a stranger. She was wearing a yellow
salwar set which didn’t fit, had a hairstyle that didn’t suit, wore shoes that
didn’t match. And she was drinking Horlicks. Yes, Horlicks. She looked harassed,
dowdy and virtuous. My conscience made one of its rare appearances, crying out
in pain, “MG!! Not yellow darling, and definitely not that shade!” For a moment
I had stared at that yellow suited stranger in horror. But the Rama marched in
checking on me – had I finished my Horlicks? The moment passed, I returned to
the present. But something had changed. A restlessness crept in and remained.
Rama looked at my unfinished Horlicks and gave me an odd look.
Life went on – that day and after that. But the restlessness
remained. My conscience took to nagging and complaining about yellow and its
impact on my children. Irritated, I shut it out and refused to listen. Of
course it wasn’t true. I was a good mother, I was. With two growing children what
did you expect? That I would look like Demi Moore? Or that I would have time to
chill out with a drink or two at Someplace Else? Never. My children needed all
my time. Their welfare was my foremost concern. So what if I wore floaters with
salwar suits, my children looked like angels. Sometimes, my conscience managed
to get in a word, but was quickly put into a box and put away.
But after this maternal-sexual role model conversation today,
my conscience emerged victorious. The danger was clear and imminent. My
conscience had not spoken to me since its comment on my yellow salwar suit, but
now it made a reappearance. It hung around in easy chairs, sipping tea,
smirking and saying, “Ha. I told you so.”
“Shoo.” I said, “Go away!”
“Calm down,” said my conscience, taunting me “Have some
Horlicks, darling.”
I have believed firmly that there is a time for everything I
your life – and that time is when you yourself are ready for it. It had worked
for me earlier and hopefully it would work for me now. I knew I would not
survive my present mothering role. And probably neither would my children. I
returned home from that tour a changed person. I don’t know what was a more
terrifying realization – that I had give up listening to my own voice? Or that
I was heading towards being a role model for people like this head priest. My
ego and conscience were hit hard.
And I prepared for change on a war footing. I started with
Horlicks to find that the wise Rama had already disposed off the bottle of
Horlicks. “I thought you didn’t need it anymore,” she said in her usual
taciturn manner and that was that. The haircut changed, the shoes were put
away, but I kept the yellow salwar suit to remind me how close I had come to
disaster.
I now promised myself to be the mother I myself wanted to
be. Stress and virtuousness had to go and so they went. Guilt went too. So did
sleepless nights. It wasn’t easy but well worth the trouble. Were my children
happier? You’ll have to ask them, but I think the answer would be yes. Am I
happier? The answer is definitely yes.
Is it easy? No. Do I have detractors? Yes. What answers do I
give them? Usually an enigmatic silence, sometimes a glare or a raised eyebrow.
And a hope that in spite of all the criticism I face for being a non
traditional mother, one day the time will come when I can hang about my
detractors in easy chairs, sipping a cup of tea, a smirk on my face and say,
“Ha. I told you so.”
Not a virtuous thing to wish for. But then, my brief and unsuccessful
stint with being virtuous is officially over.
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