So...we are still in 2007. Life is about to change forever...
Ours is a one
billion plus population that is not bursting at the seams. It has already
burst, though no one appears to have noticed it. It is a culture in which
people have absolutely no qualms in asking completely random strangers any or
all of the following:
Do you have children? And
God forbid if your answer is no, then
When are planning to
have one? OR
Is there something wrong? I know of very good
doctor. You should go to him/her.
Given this
background, we are surprisingly shy, superstitious and secretive about
announcing the pregnancy to the world when it finally happens!
Though couples
these days are more open about announcing that they are pregnant, (honestly, is
it illegal?) the three month milestone is still widely followed and buying
clothes till the brat arrives, still taboo. And there exist very many allusions
and metaphors for referring to the actual pregnancy.
There is the all-famous
Bengali one… “notun khobor” (New news). I seriously haven’t figured this one
out. Surely news is always new and surely, new news can refer to a vast
plethora of things from chemical warfare and oil wars to the more mundane divorce and marital scandals
and for me…errr, where has the newest restaurant opened. (I admit it sounds a
wee bit shallow, but food is an all-consuming passion, and I better be on
the-first-to-know list!)
But here was my
mother dialling every relative in questions once the sacrosanct three month
milestone has been crossed, saying, “Aye-je, Tulir (yessssss Tuli is my Bong
pet name, didn’t you know it!) notun khobor aache.” (Tuli has “new” news, i.e.,
she is going to have a baby) I wanted to point out it wasn’t really “notun
khobor”, since it was already three months past, but decided not to act extra
testy and hormonally annoying in my pregnant state!
Naturally,
people were thrilled. My parents, typically more reticent, were worriedly
happy, aware as they were of my generally complicated medical history. Amit’s
parents were ecstatic, awaiting their first grand-child.
But the classic
response was from my child-hood friend Rima who has known me since our
bespectacled, neatly plaited, “good girl days” in Fort Convent. She was one of
the first people I called to tell about the pregnancy, and after the initial
“Congratulations, I am so happy for you,” there was a longish, uncomfortable
silence. Dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, she said, “But whose
is it?”
“What do you
mean, whose is it?,” I shrieked indignantly on the phone, my moral
righteousness all ruffled.
“No, it’s just
that Amit has been in the U.S. for a while…and so,” she trailed off,
sheepishly.
“My god, Rima. I
see I don’t score very highly on your List of Honourable People,” I said, quite
tickled.
And today, as I
stare into a pair of distinctly Bengali
shaped eyes, looking at me however, with a stubborn, smouldering look, which I
have encountered ever so often before, I smile. DNA mixes and works in
mysterious ways...
…and while at
times, you look and see a refreshed version of yourself, at other times, you
see a glimpse of your co-creator. And in this miracle of the known with the
new, you remember the One who is responsible for life. For creation. And for
the incredible perfection of it all.
Our Very Own Frankenstein, sorry err, Creation!
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