"KITAAB" by Abha Sharma
Thumbnail photo by Aaron Burden, licensed under Public Domain and obtained from Unsplash.
kitaab
I did not hear the word ‘Ma’ from the lips of Abhishek, my first-born baby boy. My mother did. I had just returned from the laboratory and only remember the moment Mummy, her eyes shining, described it vividly to me. Of course, I shared her excitement.
Mummy always had a special kind of awe and joy every time she related the day’s happenings with Abhishek to me. “Oh, you missed it, Abha! An hour ago, Babua uttered ‘Na Na’. Only six months old and behold this mischievous one. Here I am, holding him for hours together trying to teach ‘Na Ni’ and he called out ‘Na Na’.”
I had missed out on many words voiced by my son throughout his first year. Did it sadden me? Upset me? Not particularly. I never worried, nor do I have any memory of regret on losing out on his gabbles.
Maybe, with substantial hearing loss in both ears, I could not envision what it meant to not grasp the exact nuances and uttered syllables from the mouth of a growing baby. In my mind, I perceived my baby well enough and I assumed my perception equal to what others heard. Unquestionably, Ba, Na, Da, Pa and Ma ring out differently. But to my ears, they were identical. Indistinguishable. Did I even comprehend the missed part? Perhaps, for all the many reasons prevailing in my life at that time, I was not mindful enough to be all ears for my son’s first year.
Abhishek was born whilst I was still at graduate school. At least eight months of bench work and laboratory experiments remained to be optimized and completed. A written thesis—the finale of a five-year study period—would require its own diligent review of literature, data analysis and extensive penning. Determinedly, I resolved not to worry about the future. Three months of post-maternity leave would be focused only on nurturing and bonding with my baby.
Conventionally, a new Indian mother stays confined at home for at least forty days of post-partum care and special rituals celebrating the birth of the baby. Considerably pampered, she resides mostly at her parents’ home benefitting from her own mother’s knowledgeable, attentive and loving care. I did the same. After the delivery at the hospital, my new-born and I spent our first forty days together with my parents at their home in Ghaziabad.
Retired folks, my parents were eagerly awaiting our visit. Mummy’s myriad emotions were powerful and all encompassing. For two months now, she had been preparing extensively. Traditions and customs were being rediscovered: grateful pujas offered to the Sun God, a post-delivery sixth day Chhathi ceremony for appeasing the Goddess of Destiny, and the tenth day Namkaran, naming ceremony for the baby. The ambience was joyful, if sometimes a little stressful, because it increased Mummy’s work load even as she seemed to relish it. Perhaps, it dispelled my post-natal apprehensions?
Sporadically, Mummy carried out the nazar utarna custom to cast-off evil eyes. Gathering a bunch of dried red chilies, she would extend her hands and swoosh them five times around the baby and me before tossing them as oblation into a lit bonfire in a nearby steel vessel. All through, Mummy muttered words to herself. A delightful Indian ritual, even if slightly disconcerting to gaze at the pretty chilies fired up in flames without their characteristic cough inducing whiff all around. Oh no!! Someone had viewed my baby with an evil intention!
Even though I required two hearing aids, I wore only one, a bulky, uncomfortable, old, pocket model tucked away in my blouse. It was enough. Only sometimes did I crank high the volume button.
Typically, I applied a kala tika, black round mark of kajal, an eye cosmetic salve, on the right corner of the baby’s forehead every day. Was that not enough? Maybe, I needed to apply kala tika on the underside of his little feet also to effectively banish all those vile looks.
Two days after we arrived in Ghaziabad, Mummy hired the local dai to come over and help care for me and my new born. A proficient and thoroughly professional elderly lady, she came daily around 10 am in the morning for the next thirty days to skillfully oil massage and bathe the baby. I also luxuriated in a similar customary practice followed by a rejuvenating spiced hot water bath. The massage energized and instilled an appetite in the new mother. The bath evaporated the agony of sleepless nights from staying up with the baby.
An array of exotically named foodstuff rich in ghee, dry fruits and spiced drinks are an additional feature of traditional post-natal care for an Indian mother. Devotedly, Mummy cooked several of these items, including sweet balls of healthful almonds-cashews-walnuts encrusted in edible gum. Exceptionally wholesome and nourishing, they were stored in a steel container and placed at my bedside. Happily, I devoured them throughout the day. The instructions were clear-cut and simple. “Try and eat at least 3-4 laddoos daily. These will nurture you like nothing else will. Sip carom seed water in tiny quantities. And sleep.”
Raj, my husband, also proved himself to be quite the handy father. He worked a 15-day rotation shift on the off-shore oil rig at Bombay High. When home, anxious to bond, he turned out to be innovatively vocal with our infant son. The ‘Daddy-come-home’ evening colic discomforts in our baby were cured by a soothing lullaby sung gently by Daddy himself. Throughout the day, together, we serenaded our son with lullabies created spontaneously. One lullaby a day became our daily mantra and the entire household echoed with it. Catchy nicknames coined on the spur of the moment lasted but a week. We could be calling our son Sonu, Betu or Raja. Mummy preferred Kanhaiya and Babua. Mostly, we favored Sonu.
A month passed. It was time to visit the in-laws. Since Raj was still at Bombay High, my father-in-law came over to Ghaziabad to pick us up. Together, we travelled by train to the city of Jodhpur, in Rajasthan. My husband’s family eagerly awaited and fussed over us.
The next day, my mother-in-law decided to refurbish the old paalna that once belonged to Raj. A wooden crib in the traditional red and golden colors, it would serve as the abode for Sonu’s daytime naps. A long rope swung on one side and fell on the floor. All I had to do was tug at it if Sonu so much as let out a cry. Gently and rhythmically, the crib rocked, the little one sanctioned to smile mysteriously in his deep sleep.
A sun-bathed, spacious courtyard centered my in-laws’ sprawling home. Together, my mother-in-law and I looped a make-shift bedsheet curtain on a cord across the open space in the courtyard. Behind it rested the old khatiya, a narrow, four-post short-legged, wooden bed, strung out with interweaved, brown ropes that slightly sagged in the center. Next, we covered it with a thin mattress and a clean bedsheet for all our mid-morning activities.
My main dilemma lay in the selection of the best oil for the massage. In India, the yellow mustard seed oil is traditionally recommended as the best oil for massaging a baby. Not convinced, I replaced it with the colorless Johnson’s baby brand and then the expensive Bertolli’s imported olive oil. A brightly colored tin, it cost us 80 Indian rupees. Every morning, I massaged Sonu with warm oil followed by an exercise routine. One-two and one-two, I stretched his tiny hands and legs across and above the pint-sized tummy in perfect tempo to my voice. Basking on the khatiya in the morning sunshine, Sonu babbled away happily, impervious to all.
That was our first chat of the day. Even though I required two hearing aids, I wore only one, a bulky, uncomfortable, old, pocket model tucked away in my blouse. It was enough. Only sometimes did I crank high the volume button. Sonu prattled and I listened. His “Johnson Baby” smile expressed it all, never mind what I might or might not have heard. In my mind, I heard it all.
At dusk, everyone in my husband’s family returned from their respective jobs and gathered in our bedroom to share stories about their day. Family prayers were chanted. Clothes, slung on the clothesline in the courtyard in the bright Jodhpur afternoon sunshine, were brought inside. I folded them into several piles. Two mounds of hand-made cloth nappies and comforting cotton blankets sat on a table next to my bedside for use at night. Occasionally, I repeated a second round of warm oil massage on the underside of Sonu’s feet. The well experienced dai had advised it and Sonu always seemed to revel in this special pre-bedtime treat. Sitting by the bedside, I chopped greens and waited patiently.
Any time now, he would begin the non-stop burbling of his second chat time with anyone who would listen to him. I always did. I never had to lean in towards him and never had to ask anyone to reprise his babble for me. Even if I did not hear or comprehend it all, it never mattered to me. As always, I heard my son and I heard it all. Period.
Gradually our short and cozy evening chats tapered off into the silence of nights. At three months, Sonu slept more soundly than he did earlier. A blessing indeed. Like every sleep-deprived, new mom, I had learned to survive with only a few hours of sleep. But, unlike every sleep-deprived mom, I had to sleep with the hearing-aid still in my ear. How I longed to, yet dared not, sleep without it. Of course, it often dislocated and slipped half-way out of the ear, the low-frequency sounds oozing out of the device, while I blissfully slept. What terrified me in the early morning was to find Sonu snug and peaceful in the crux of the blanket and my arm, just short of falling on the floor.
How did we get to this place? Each morning, new guilt plagued my mind afresh. Did I miss out on Sonu’s cries? How long were the cries? Had the hearing aid slipped out of the ear again at night? The ear canal itched. Perhaps, I had yanked the device out myself. Were the batteries low in power? I should have checked them, changed them. The anguish of short-term single parenting diminished only when Raj returned from his Bombay shifts.
Three months of mommy maternity leave ended. The laboratory beckoned. Raj arrived and together the three of us returned to Delhi. We were lucky. My parents planned to relocate to their home in Dehra Dun, yet Mummy offered to come help care for Sonu at our tiny rented apartment in Delhi. Her visits would conveniently alternate with my husband’s rotation schedule to Bombay. Additionally, Mummy requested Bahadur to help us out through this special time in our lives.
A Nepali by birth, Bahadur had immigrated to India with a distant relative and struggled to earn his livelihood by washing dishes in restaurants and roadside dhabbas, the ramshackle eateries next to petrol stations serving cheap, local cuisines like momos and stir-fried Chinese noodles. A chance encounter with a school-staff member brought the thirteen-year-old to my mother’s house. Bahadur had been helping her out for almost three years now with household chores. Mummy trusted and considered him family.
Bahadur agreed and moved in with us. Nothing could distract him from the child. The slightest murmur from Sonu and he would be there by his side. Recalling how back in his home village, Nepali women carried babies and toddlers on their backs whilst briskly going about their daily chores, Bahadur invented his own baby carrier contraption. He double folded a strong sheet and strapped it crosswise across his own chest. Next, he tucked his ‘Bhallu’ safely onto his back.
Gradually, we developed a working routine for our changing family dynamics in a modest one-bedroom apartment in the Andrews Ganj housing complex. The grandparents visited us from Dehra Dun fortnightly, taking an eight-hour long bus trip in rickety buses on twisting roads. Sometimes there were issues back home that required his time and attention, and Daddy returned the next day by himself. Raj continued his 15-day offshore job, travelling from New Delhi to Bombay High and back by train.
When home, Raj delighted in doing a myriad of things for his growing son. Daily, he juiced an orange for Sonu, washed and folded his nappies and blankets, massaged oil and showered with him in our tiny bathroom. “A few more months and Mamma will be done,” Raj often cooed, taking Sonu to the back verandah whilst I prepared to leave for work.
Indescribable, the firm and determined mien gleamed on my one-year olds’ face standing by its side, firmly clutching a full-sized kitchen knife in hand.
With Bahadur becoming quite the baby-expert, I could easily work a solid eight hours in the laboratory. Instead, I preferred to come home to spend the lunch hour with Sonu. Purchased for a measly hundred rupees, Raj’s second-hand bicycle served me well. No more waiting for and travelling in crowded and creepy buses. Four-lane roads abound the New Delhi metropolis, except I dared not ride on those treacherous highways. Instead, each day, I explored a 20-to-30-minute route for the least crowded by-lanes amidst numerous housing colonies.
One day, I returned home early. Waiting for Bahadur to open the apartment door, I peeped in through the keyhole. Sonu appeared in full view in the narrow corridor, on all fours, crawling away from the door. The bell rang. Sonu stopped in his tracks. His head turned sharply. He turned a complete 180 degrees. The next moment, scrambling speedily, he reached the door ahead of Bahadur, the anticipation shining in his eyes. Forever imprinted in my mind and heart, I feasted on the treasured view and looked forward to it, each time I returned from work. The sight was always worth the twice a day commute on the bike.
Sonu’s first birthday approached in October. Sadly, only Sonu, Bahadur and I were going to be home. Mummy had to leave for an urgent issue two days prior to the birthday; Raj would not arrive from Bombay until three days after. Bahadur and I agreed to hold off the celebrations.
The special day arrived on a nice, warm sunny Sunday. My heart disagreed with the previous plan. Surely, the actual birth date necessitated rejoicing too? Bahadur agreed. We would celebrate with just the three of us. Nonetheless, I wanted a cake, streamers and balloons: the works. How could a birthday, especially a child’s birthday, be celebrated without them?
A quick search through my purse revealed only a few paise and three rupees. Bahadur had his own hidden savings. Excitedly, he fetched it out and bought some cheap birthday décor from the nearby store. Soon enough, we had red, blue, green and orange streamers serenading a birthday message for Sonu on the unadorned walls of our living room. Colorful balloons were painstakingly blown by mouth and hung in bunches onto the bare backs of our four plastic chairs. Meanwhile, my amateur efforts at baking were rewarded. The cake baked a beautiful golden brown. Things were getting festive, and Sonu knew it.
Around noon, I opened the entrance door to our apartment. Even the mellowed sunshine of a late October morning appeared celebratory. There, in the narrow corridor, I set the table with the freshly baked cake on a plate. Downstairs, a scooter with unexpected visitors arrived. My sister Gita and her husband surprised us bearing birthday gifts for Sonu.
“Happy Birthday, Sonu!” reverberated loudly from the four of us and Sonu cut his first cake. Indescribable, the firm and determined mien gleamed on my one-year olds’ face standing by its side, firmly clutching a full-sized kitchen knife in hand.
Post-birthday, exactly two months were left until 31st December, the deadline for submitting my Ph.D. dissertation. Fortunately, the doctoral committee had granted the green signal; I had begun to write earnestly. Even so waves of anxiety swept me, and were carried across roads and hills to my father in Dehra Dun. Daddy did not wait. Armed with his faithful, ancient typewriter, he arrived at my apartment. He set up shop on a compact wooden table and claimed one of the cane chairs for himself: his workplace for the next three weeks of December. Daddy typed sheets and sheets of all the drafts, whatever they were, rough or fair.
In the meantime, Bahadur and Mummy had complete charge of Sonu and the kitchen. Where did the groceries come from? What should be prepared for lunch? I had no idea. Every single breakfast, lunch and dinner cooked devotedly by Bahadur signaled a fun-break for me and my son. Mummy would approach quietly with Sonu and a plate of hot food. Fifteen minutes of precious feed, play and cuddle time ensued between us and ended, without a single murmur from him. At least, my hearing aid did not perceive any complaints.
Cold, dark and gloomy, Delhi winters have freezing, chilly winds. My supervisor arrived from Bangalore. Every morning, for fifteen plus days, I set out for his residence in a distant part of the city. Raj accompanied me. He waited patiently outside the house whilst I spent two to three hours discussing the written draft, each time certain it would be the final version. After all, I had been working on this for a complete one month now. We returned home together to give Daddy more pages to type.
Kitaab is the Hindi word for book. For almost a week the living room echoed with kitaab.
Gradually, it became clear that pleasing my supervisor would be an extremely hard, if not impossible, task. Every day, he changed his mind. It was not only the contents but the order of contents that entailed a long and lengthy discussion. A few days later, he wanted the old version and expressed bewilderment at our approach. Some days, we reshuffled the entire manuscript. Front to back and back to front. Even as I was writing the last bibliography section, we would return to the Introduction chapter and start all over in the next meeting. We truly were nowhere near the end.
One day, I was working on the bibliography chapter. Written drafts, marked in red and blue, competed with books and journals for chair-space in the living room. Besides rearrangement, my supervisor desired new references to be added to the list. Others, not favored were red-marked and deleted.
Those were the days before the internet. At my request, Raj would bicycle off to the library for the tedious task of re-checking references I needed to word correctly and completely in the thesis. Invariably, the next day, a new request for a different citation necessitated another trip to the library.
Kitaab is the Hindi word for book. For almost a week the living room echoed with kitaab. “Oh…I need this kitaab.” “Finally, I found the kitaab.” “I need to get this reference rightly worded. Bring me the kitaab, please.” “Where could the kitaab be?”
Late that afternoon, Mummy insisted I needed a break to eat some lunch and play with Sonu. We needed our cuddle-together time. With a heavy heart, I pondered, “How many more days for the curfew to end? How many more sunny mornings in the nearby children’s park were to be missed?” Despite staying home all day, I barely held my baby, maybe only for some 15 minutes thrice a day. Aching to hold him, I held out my hands.
Exuberantly, Sonu climbed into my waiting arms. A moment later, he exclaimed, “Kitaab!”
Stunned, I stared at my thirteen-and-a-half-month-old son in disbelief. Kitaab?
Did he actually voice kitaab? The first and only word I might have correctly and distinctly comprehended from my son thus far? Yes. In fact, I categorically alone had heard it.
Abha Sharma is a research scientist at the Department of Bioengineering at the University of Washington, Seattle. A self-taught lip reader, she struggled to hear since childhood and was diagnosed with bi-lateral moderate to profound sensorineural hearing loss only in her early teenage years. Staunch support from her parents, especially her father, enabled her to achieve a strong academic background and a Ph. D in Biophysics from All India Institute of Medical Sciences in India. Abha is married to Rajendra. Her passions include dancing, writing, painting, cooking, exploring alternative therapies and spending time with her two children and their families.