So I thought and I thought and I realized something.
Men never grow up. They just move from simple toys to more sophisticated ones.
You read this here first.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
About Time
For those of you who actually read this, I apologize for the extended absence. However, I think by now you are pretty accustomed to my irregularities. Well, I thank you for persevering.
I recently visited my family in India for about one and a half months, and collected some of the most precious memories of my life. The visit was really cool in a lot of ways. I was able to celebrate my birthday with my own family after four long years. And when I saw the 2 kilo cake my mother had ordered for me, I was able to realize that some things never change. I might be older now, almost ready for marriage by their standards, but somewhere in their heart, I am still that little girl who used to cut cakes on her birthday.
My mother perhaps gave me the most memorable present this birthday. She told me the story of my birth. I mean, literally an account of how I refused to pop out. The year I was born my parents still lived in a run down apartment-like place above a district eye hospital where my father worked. Because my father couldn't get off from his job, my mother had to go to the general nursing home herself, accompanied by my aging grandmother on a rickshaw. I cannot even imagine what that must have been like. Going through the badly constructed, bumpy roads of my hometown, on a rickshaw, ON a rainy day, with constant, painful contractions that were making her cry. Puts in perspective the pains your mother goes through to bring you into this world, right?
She finally got to the hospital and was admitted by a doctor. She'd been having pains but I wasn't moving at all. So they gave her Oxytocin injections to increase the contractions and make them more powerful. My mother was screaming and crying in pain, with my grandmother holding her hand and my father pacing up and down outside her ward. I still wouldn't move. Five days passed but still no movement. My father was beginning to get worried. The doctor told him that my mother might need an operation, a Cesarean, but for that she will have to be moved to another, bigger city, since such operations could not be performed in my hometown due to lack of facilities. However, my mother was in no condition to be moved. Finally, a big, fat nurse had this idea that she will manually assist in pushing the baby from the outside. My mother watched horrified as the nurse got onto her bed, straddled across her and began pushing downwards from the top of the abdomen. It was pain beyond belief, my mother tells me. This went on for a few minutes, and then finally her child popped out of her uterus.
"You looked like a lizard!" said my mother. "We had thought that after all that trouble, I was going to give birth to a mini-giant."
"Gee, thanks Mummy. That makes me feel so good." I am special.
She told me that since that day she swore she wasn't going to have anymore children. I have two younger sisters.
I recently visited my family in India for about one and a half months, and collected some of the most precious memories of my life. The visit was really cool in a lot of ways. I was able to celebrate my birthday with my own family after four long years. And when I saw the 2 kilo cake my mother had ordered for me, I was able to realize that some things never change. I might be older now, almost ready for marriage by their standards, but somewhere in their heart, I am still that little girl who used to cut cakes on her birthday.
My mother perhaps gave me the most memorable present this birthday. She told me the story of my birth. I mean, literally an account of how I refused to pop out. The year I was born my parents still lived in a run down apartment-like place above a district eye hospital where my father worked. Because my father couldn't get off from his job, my mother had to go to the general nursing home herself, accompanied by my aging grandmother on a rickshaw. I cannot even imagine what that must have been like. Going through the badly constructed, bumpy roads of my hometown, on a rickshaw, ON a rainy day, with constant, painful contractions that were making her cry. Puts in perspective the pains your mother goes through to bring you into this world, right?
She finally got to the hospital and was admitted by a doctor. She'd been having pains but I wasn't moving at all. So they gave her Oxytocin injections to increase the contractions and make them more powerful. My mother was screaming and crying in pain, with my grandmother holding her hand and my father pacing up and down outside her ward. I still wouldn't move. Five days passed but still no movement. My father was beginning to get worried. The doctor told him that my mother might need an operation, a Cesarean, but for that she will have to be moved to another, bigger city, since such operations could not be performed in my hometown due to lack of facilities. However, my mother was in no condition to be moved. Finally, a big, fat nurse had this idea that she will manually assist in pushing the baby from the outside. My mother watched horrified as the nurse got onto her bed, straddled across her and began pushing downwards from the top of the abdomen. It was pain beyond belief, my mother tells me. This went on for a few minutes, and then finally her child popped out of her uterus.
"You looked like a lizard!" said my mother. "We had thought that after all that trouble, I was going to give birth to a mini-giant."
"Gee, thanks Mummy. That makes me feel so good." I am special.
She told me that since that day she swore she wasn't going to have anymore children. I have two younger sisters.
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