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| Rent-a-baby |
| Tishani Doshi / Chennai Aug 07, 2010, 00:26 IST |
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Tishani Doshi marvels at how a baby can get a woman respectability in the eyes of the world.
Some time ago, my sister, who was visiting from the US, asked me to babysit her one-year-old while she went shopping, and I, being an obliging sister, agreed. The plan for my nephew was to put him in a pram and walk him over to my friend’s house for lunch. As I made my way through the colony, a series of strange things happened.
Cars that normally came screeching around the corners, veered carefully away. Men who leered from street corners suddenly threw kindly uncle glances in my direction. At my friend’s house a motley gathering of people, amidst lots of oohs and coos, proclaimed that it was ‘time’ now for one of my own.
For the duration of this episode my nephew remained happily oblivious, while I was awestruck at all the effects of baby-adoration. There was a newfound lilt in my hips where baby sat comfortably nestled, there was radiance in my skin from all his reflected rays, and of course, there was the pure utilitarian virtue of it — I was being useful, helping my sister and directly contributing to the joyful development of baby.
As I walked back to my apartment, I thought about the ramifications of a rent-a-baby scheme; an experiment which would target women like myself (30-plus, unmarried, and ambivalent about whether or not they will go forth and multiply). The plan wouldn’t involve money. It would work as a barter system, where in exchange for a few hours of peace, mothers could give their babies to a trusted party, and the trusted party could enjoy fleeting moments of maternal joy and an enhanced social reputation (without the pain and responsibility of child-birth).
Seriously. The instant status that a baby brings a woman is powerful. Just appearing in public with a child that seems to have been spawned by you pushes you into the category of “fulfilled,” ramping up your respectability ratings. And it’s not just with the near and dear, even complete strangers on the street give you verbal and non-verbal signs of approval, for what is, in essence, a by-product of sex. Odd, isn’t it?
Or perhaps not. Human beings respond to babies in ways that are both genetic and learned. Somehow, being around babies, even if they belong to other people, seems to reinforce one’s own sense of the cycle of life. Instead of making people feel the press of their own mortality (which would be the obvious reaction), they feel gladdened to be in the presence of something that is going to be on the planet long after they are gone.
For my part, I’ve always been interested in a different kind of creation — the kind that can be done in solitude, that doesn’t discriminate between men and women, and doesn’t require any aftercare once it’s been born into the world. I don’t expect my aunts to chip in and buy me a gold jewellery set for any of my creations, nor do I expect deferential treatment from people on the street. Really. I’ve resigned myself to the artist’s life of self-doubt and self-examination.
As a woman, I’ll have to deal (for a few more years, at least) with societal demands to procreate. On good days, I’ll remind myself that procreation is mere coupling, and that it pales in comparison to the ability to create beauty of the likes of an Anish Kapoor sculpture, a Goya painting, an Akhmatova poem. I’ll tell myself that art is the most precious thing human beings have. On bad days, there will be rent-a-baby.
Tishani Doshi is a Chennai-based writer
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