Womb: The House of Stories

“Bas, har cheez mein meri ghalati hai, Maa toh hai hi badnaam…” (I am always at fault), my mother would comment as I made her my punching bag for every misery in my life.

“Why do we mothers have to take all the blame when it comes to our kids, Sanobar?” asked a friend of mine recently.

So why do some of us have this complex relationship of love and resentment with our mothers?

It took me sixteen years of parenting two emotionally mature kids, who never mince words, to understand why probably, women often bear the brunt of their children's frustrations:

a. They come from our womb. Technically, the umbilical cord connecting a baby and its mother is snipped at the birth of the child. Realistically, I doubt we ever lose the connection. This leads me to my second theory:

b. The womb, our first home, is the cradle that nurtures and protects us. So, when the womb carrier, our bearer of the sacred safe space, fails us in her line of duty, you naturally feel deceived.

This intricate dynamic is eloquently depicted in Fiona Vaz’s essay, ‘Well, it’s not ok’, where she expresses resentment towards her mother’s tendency to forgive easily:

“I felt like her forgiveness, freely offered, allowed my suffering.”

“Methi, kalaunjee, karhi patta, pyaaz aur zaitoon tel…” my now widowed mother lists the herbs in the homemade oil she prepared for herself and us on her recent visit.

The last time my mother indulged in self-care was perhaps three decades ago when I was a teenager.

Vivacious and attractive, my mother was perfect in everything she was and in everything she did - it was hard to grow under her shadow.

But, I saw through the mask early on. Kids just know.

My mother could never understand why her eldest child, her only daughter, was always raging and where did the rage come from?

Why was it so hard for her daughter to comply? Witnessing her daughter’s back-talk, my mother used love, religion, and force to “fix” her daughter’s temper. She worried that if her daughter did not comply, she would never be accepted.

It worked.

By the time I reached marriageable age, I had been 'fixed.'

Then one day, I became a mother to a child who called out my double standards and started to back-talk.

I used love, religion, and force to ‘fix’ my child. After all, the womb-bearing goddess was, sadly, just a mortal.

This time around though, she was glad she was a mortal.

It took two rebellious children and plenty of back-talk to recognize and address the dysfunctional patterns passed down through generations.

……

Spotting Concerta, a stimulant meant to regulate my impulsiveness, on my coffee table, my mother asks me about this new medication I’m taking every day.

“Tumhe kya hua?”

I want to tell her. Everything. I want us to talk.

But sensing her worry, I deflect her query by lying to her about it.

My mother's chronic need to maintain cleanliness and organization has historically clashed with my coping mechanism of procrastination and avoidance, especially when it comes to prayers - something that never aligned with my practicing Muslim mother's beliefs.

It’s been hard to manage the underlying current all these years.

I can muster the courage to write about my mental health issues on a public platform, but, I do not have the heart to tell my widowed mother that the daughter she thought she’d ‘fixed’, needed fixing.

Maa k haath

Working from home has allowed me the space to continue with the various therapies I need.

Lately, I find myself yearning to walk barefoot, to hold my growing children’s hands as I talk to them, to check on my husband if he’s slept well, and, to spend nearly an hour or more some days sitting on the floor and chatting with a stray cat in my neighborhood.

I crave to write all the time. And, I feel drawn to my prayers.

I look at my mother when she talks to me. I want to moisturize my mother’s hands and hug her a little longer, a little tighter.

…….

As I grabbed a bowl of the oil concoction my mother had crafted, I oiled my hair before offering to do the same for her.

“Haan laga do zara. Bahot araam milta hai.” We hadn’t engaged in this ritual for ages so I was a bit taken aback by her response.

“Amma mere liye aakhrot ka paani bhigo kar rakhti thin. Subah hum usko hothon pr lagatey the…” Lost in the stories of her childhood, of her mother - my grandmother - a woman who defied the cultural norms of her time, I feel a tug at my belly button.

Sundays are for Champis (a desi head massage)

Amma passed away when I was in university. She meant the world to my mother. She meant the world to me.

Youngest of three siblings, my mother lost her loving father when she wasn’t even 10. My grandmother raised her kids as a young, single parent in India. In our family, women didn’t have the privilege of being ‘weak’. Single women in our country, especially back then, couldn’t afford to let their guard down.

………

What if besides passing on nutrition to the baby, the umbilical cord also passes stories across generations?

What if our womb also carries our memories?

What if our urge for grounding is just Mother Nature calling us back to our roots?

Note: Multiple raw, messy versions of this essay were written in the safe and nurturing space run by

Natasha Badhwar

and

Raju Tai

over a span of two years.

It took my father’s death, some vigorous soul-searching, the resilience and hope of a fighter’s mind and body, a range of therapies and mental health counseling that helped me eventually deliver this essay in the dark and quiet of 3 AM.

Should you be keen to write with a compassionate writing group, I strongly recommend writing with Ochre Sky Stories. They honor your privacy as you explore your creative path at your own pace along with fellow writers who offer their heartfelt, unwavering support. There’s no rush, no pressure, no judgment. More importantly, you learn, that every story matters.