A reverie unfolds: Touch your tongue to the inside of the cheek gently feeling the buccinators; this is one of the rarest ways of making the other feel the inexplicably insurmountable joys of the expression- it kicked! Relentlessly being in the anticipation of the crimson stain and sometimes not awaiting it, to making hushed calls to the chemist in close proximity and ordering the test kits, reminiscing the litmus test in school, mirror-phase, coming to terms with the PV test and all the exploring of the boundaries of modesty---heralds the eukaryotic zygote.

The ease of secrecy, the trying-hard not to eat-out strife, wearing all the skimpy clothes for one last time, shoving all the heels for future use, morning sickness, anxiously popping pills, devising ever-new ways to break the news to the inner-circle, elated at the first appearance of the bump, when the signboard ‘maternity wear’ meets the eye, and when social inquisitiveness reaches its epitome and all you have to answer it with is, “Yes I am pregnant and due in March!”---The initial trimester.

Coaxing the doctor to ensure he does a normal delivery to attending pre-natals, scans, check-ups and binging on age-old grandmothers’ tips that lead you on a trip to being in a state of no return ‘overweightedness’, the frantic buying of banana pillows and what-not for that comfort while snoozing, when the gait resembles a duck-walk, the arrival of the stretch marks, itching and the endless trials of Vitamin E enriched oils, film-induced cravings emerge, hair turns out to be scant or thickens, skin glows or pigments, the mind and body go bonkers and refuse to work in tandem,  looking at the extent of the bulge is an exercise in speculation, of whether it be a girl or a boy, twins, triplets or a malnourished baby and the hearing of moralistic stories and viewing of idealistic photographs hung on the wall continues---in anticipation of the labour.

Described as an equivalent of a catastrophe way beyond what a body can sustain, with its peculiarities differing for each individual and implausible to fathom, it arrives at the most unprecedented hour, waxing and waning of the cramps, the panic-stricken journey from a god-forsaken place to the maternity home, the footstep of the swearing doctor who loses his sleep most of the times, the pleading, the screams, the scratches, the frenzy, the impending decision of a C-section or normal, the arousal of a mixed bag of feelings---the end of an arduous journey…?

Refusal to ask the femininity or masculinity of the infant, being in the half-wake stage feeling the sudden lightness in the lower abdomen even in the spinal anesthesia mode, trying to take a sneak peek at the hurriedly stitching up doctors leaving the attendee wondering about the neatness, the forgotten medical instrument in the body, the hope that it remains a scar-less stitch, the worry that the baby is not pinched too hard and to be able to hear it too, to be caressed with utmost affection and nimbleness, shifting from the OT to the special ward in a daze, trying to speak up and be shown your piece of art and heart but the impending lethargy to call out or be entrusted with the responsibility of raising the child forever, those few moments before you take charge, the wish to just be, to enact dizziness and yet be aware of the surroundings, the fear of the baby being mishandled, the final holding of the baby in the arms and making a show of simultaneous overflow of maternal love and bond‘ing’---Birthing.

Latching, inability to sit up, the revenge of the nine months of no bleeding to an effusive scarlet gush, adjusting one’s sleep time with the baby’s and waking up umpteen times to ensure bums remain dry from pee, the advent of the masseuse, the heaving bosom and the sobbing child, the excruciating tying of the remnant-body, the encounter with the inevitable shape of the drooping mass with the darkened contours---the infamous post-partum depression.

Vaccinations and its momentary but monumental pain and grief, onslaught of differentiation between colours, the invaluable dimpled smile, revisiting birth-growth cycle, achieving milestones, outgoing into the land of laws, end of the longest holiday ever sanctioned, withdrawal symptoms, caught up in the web of rearing and housekeeping, endless advices and taunts, grappling with the bloated self, recovering from the strain, the introduction of semi-solids, the throw-ups, making new rules and changing them on and off, just a thought that passes by: to resume life and work as usual, abstinence from the self and the other, trying to wean but to no avail, looking up lose weight regimes, shadowed into the realm of the indoors, patience is a virtue: but who is even giving brownie points (?)---this is it.

It is all vented out in the manner of phases and flashes. This phase of a woman’s life that parallels rebirth. An entire trajectory of being and becoming. There are moments in which all is forgotten in a whisker, looking at the first walk, such a banal leap yet so momentous. The only agency here is of getting to name your own creation and honing those talents as you wish.. The feeling of pushing together all the varied thoughts in one breath, saying it all and barring none, bearing it all and caring nil, sharing it all and sympathizing zero, trying to move on but, “nobody moves”. This certainly is the best kept secret of an entire union of women all over the World. The most gruesome, emotional and sordid narration of a small dream that shattered the entire base and the whole of the superstructure. Accepting/Resigning to the fate/state? No pain, no gain? Consolation or Amnesia? The need to float the SOS message in an enclosed drifter casket or an openly-flaunting propaganda-bearing glass bottle across seven seas. Ever wondered, why the need to reclaim the Body? The child beckons…Won’t it ever be, or will it…?