Blink and miss

This has been bubbling inside for quite long, so just need to get it out of my system.

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I am totally in awe of how much an average women’s body endures in its lifetime! Yes, men do undergo surgeries, but for most women child-birth is an inevitable part of life. Yes, human bodies in general are resilient things, but after I had a baby myself, I notice even more that a lot of women around me – my mother, my grandmother, my friends, my family – every single woman has a story of what her body has endured. Here’s an indicative list of things out of which many of us women have experienced/will experience.

• periods
• vaginal birth
• caesarean section
• hours of being in labour pain
• perineum tears
• abortion
• miscarriage
• stretchmarks
• breastfeeding

And still all women around us – friend and family, the daily labourers, the maids, even the yummy mummies – most of them survive/live through all of this physical pain.  Despite affecting roughly half the population, women’s health is taking so casually, at least in India. Families who would get a male member operated in the best of hospitals, opt for a smaller, less-equipped nursing home when it comes to women’s child birth. Not necessarily because they love their women less, but child birth and “gynac” problems are usually “lighter” as opposed to say a heart attack. Women’s  bodies might have been designed to endure all this, but does it make it any less painful/important. Probably because they are considered a part of a woman’s life. So common, so casual. The lady who comes to clean my house recently told me she has been enduring terrible vaginal pain and excessive bleeding for months! It did not occur to her or her family to visit a doctor. When we got her thoroughly checked, it turned out she had a large cyst in her ovary that needed surgery. I am not angry, because I know how much her husband/family loves her. But I am sad. And I am not even getting near the topic of the majority of women in this country who can’t even afford basic health care facilities.

Wonder why we even try to be “equal” to men, because our lives biologically are so different. And more than gender based quotas, more than trying to get men to respect us, us women need to take charge of our bodies.

I was away for 1 day on a work trip, leaving the kid behind for the first time overnight. After hajaar instructions to the maid and appa, and with infinite worries and a silent prayer I left. I tossed and turned in my hotel bed, missing the little monster hugging AND kicking me in sleep.

Apparently the kid and his dad had a ball of a time. So if you come and tell me on at that moment, “but babe you should be glad”, how do you expect that I’ll not bite your head off?

I am tired. Of waiting for hours together outside govt offices in long serpentine queues, under hot afternoon sun. I am tired of being on alert constantly, lest someone jump the queue. Because I know that if I drop my guard for a second, someone surely will jump the queue. I am tired of fighting with the queue-jumpers every day, putting up a hard brave face and holding back tears of frustration. Tired of modulating my voice from the fighting voice to pleading/begging voice in front of the govt officials. I have no time or energy for values or ego. I just want to get my work done. I am tired of taking a half day off. I am tired of being gentle and polite, because if I quit being gentle you’d have no where to hide.

I want to love my life in this country, but not right now, okay?

This is going to be very emotional and filled with angst, so please leave if you’re not in the mood.

So one fine day I realize my passport is missing. I found out that to apply for a duplicate one, I need an FIR amongst other things. The husband was travelling and I decided to wait for a day for him to be back, because you know ‘akeli ladki’ police station nahi jaati. But then time’s running out because I need to travel for work and I have barely enough time to get all this passport visa jhamela sorted in such short time.

So I decide to go to the police station by myself. I was never a damsel in distress types anyway. I never wait for someone else to come fight for me. I can and have stood up and fought for myself when required. I don’t remember ever expecting a boy or anyone to lift my luggage or pay for my coffee or stand in the queue for me. You lift your own bags, you open the doors for yourself. I have known no other way.

So I decided what’s the big deal, let me go register the damn complaint myself and get on with life. After running a couple of rounds at the police station, I manage to get the complaint registered. Not without questions about my ‘outsider sounding’ surname and some questions about my place of work. But by now I’m old enough to expect and ignore things like these when I don’t know the local language. All I care abt is the damned acknowledgement and I use ‘please’ and ’sir’ a lot’, but kaam to ho gaya.

Later in the evening I receive a call. Its from the police station. The policeman on the line’s calling me to the station urgently because bada saab wants to talk. I gather this from the few words of the local language that i understand. I am scared; but luckily the husband’s back and we rush to the police station. I secretly hope that probably someone’s found my passport and deposited it with them. But slowly i start fearing worse – about how much power these guys really have, about lechereous wolves under uniforms ,about encounters and illegal custody. I know its irrational, but its dark and late and i know nothing about the laws and rights as a citizen. I am barely able to fight my tears out of fear of all these sinister possibilities.

At the station no one’s telling us what exactly is wrong. We shuttle between desks in various corners. Finally the call the husband and ask him to go with them to another room, and ask me to wait at the reception with our kid. This is really the last straw and i’m shitting bricks wondering just what in heaven’s name is happening. He way we’ve been brought up, it is nerve wracking to be at the police station itself. The sight of the lockups and the goon gallery and the guns gives us the lossies.

So it turned out they were just expecting some kharcha pani. But i cant stop thinking what all they could’ve asked for and what could we have done? What if the husband wasn’t in town.

Felt so much more vulnerable as a woman. Who cares if you’re a star for your family. Who cares if you went to the best college in the country. After all, you are a woman – vulnerable and always need a male father/brothr/husbad/son to ’save and look after you’.

I love being a woman. But some times I wish I was a boy.