Third, the social stratification of the caste system, fortified by class hierarchy based on wealth and societal status, bestows a feeling of relative deprivation on anyone who is not top of the pecking order. A wealthy businessman might feel he lacks the influence of a major politician. A working-class woman could feel she deserves a better job. A street beggar might feel that education could have got him money and more dignity. There are many social ladders of hierarchy in India—far more in number and rungs than any other country—and most of us are simultaneously positioned at different levels on several ladders. As a result, we are lower than someone else on one ladder or another. Often, we see the continuation of our own lives in our children, and the climb up these ladders continues through them.
An entire book can be written on the number of reasons Indians feel constantly deprived of resources. The approach to parenting in India has been severely affected by this, with parents hoping that their children will make up for what they lack, in terms of the evolution of social and/or economic status. We ask ourselves as parents: How can I ensure that my child has what I do not have? Can my child improve my own condition?
While the first question seems altruistic, the second question is considered selfish and unspeakable. A parent who sacrifices many years of his life to further the career of their child, and does not work hard enough towards their own, is regarded as morally superior to the parent who works at achieving his own personal ambition. This is odd, because by this logic, an industrialist who toils to produce a fortune and a man who robs a bank can be regarded as equally immoral, since they both have sought wealth for their selfish benefit. There is a demonization of selfishness that has created double standards and contradictions in relationships, including that between a parent and a child.
Working mothers suffer from the guilt and social stigma of being too selfish to not be with their children all day. In India the forces that make them feel so are at work even before a child is born.
Around the time I began writing this essay, I discovered I was pregnant. Elated at the news, I immediately went to a gynaecologist at a well-known clinic in the posh Khan Market area of central Delhi. The doctor was a pleasant, middle-aged woman dressed in a pastel cotton salwar kameez. Swinging out of her chair behind the desk, she briskly walked over to her ultrasound machine and asked me to lie down on the bed next to it. A quick check later, it was confirmed that a child was indeed in the making. Thereafter, she was chatty, obviously accustomed to naive first-time mothers-to-be like myself, and was ready to offer ample advice.
‘You must now restrict yourself to the bed. Just lie still and avoid movement,’ she said.
‘Lie in bed for the next seven months?!’ I asked, aghast. ‘What about travel? I have to be in Dubai and Paris for work next month!’
‘No, no, avoid air travel. No exercise. No sex. Eat bland food,’ she admonished. ‘Make these sacrifices for your baby.’
I sat there staring at her, devastated at the pronouncement and the prospect of the next few months. A few moments later, I felt even worse, guilty that I was thinking about lifestyle and work commitments instead of the well-being of my unborn child. But I had erroneously presumed that an experienced doctor’s advice must be based on scientific facts.
‘Do not eat papaya and pineapple,’ the doctor continued with her advice.
A few months later, at a jazz bar in one of Delhi’s luxury boutique hotels, I was stopped by a bouncer at the door.
‘Madam, no. You cannot enter,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘You are pregnant.’
‘Yes, so?’ I asked, surprised. ‘I have a few months to go before I deliver!’
‘Sorry, we can’t let you in—hotel policy,’ he said, holding me by my elbow and taking me aside.
‘Which law is this hotel policy based on?’ I asked. By now, the man had been joined by his colleague, both dressed in black pant suits with walkie-talkies in hand.
‘No, no policy, there is just loud music and a lot of movement inside. People are walking around, it is not safe for pregnant women,’ the second man said.
‘And who are you to decide what is safe for me?’ I asked. ‘A pregnant woman is capable of using her own judgement about what is best for her.’
‘I have heard pregnant women should not go to bars,’ said the first man. ‘You cannot enter, madam.’
Another two months later, in the last trimester of my pregnancy, I began to wonder and plan how I could best manage all the changes that would come with the baby. I decided to work till the end of my pregnancy, until the delivery, and thereafter take about three months of maternity leave. The Government of India had recently and generously extended the duration of paid maternity leave from three months to six. I wanted to be active, productive and financially secure as well as a good mother, and give my utmost to my firstborn. In all the previous organizations I worked at—none of them in India—I came across women who were pregnant, yet living a healthy, active and efficient work and social life until the last day of their pregnancy. That was how I had always aspired to be. Moreover, since age seventeen, I had earned my living and I wanted to continue doing that to fend for myself and ensure my baby’s comfort. I had checked that I was
