When He killed The Daughter Inside Me, He Killed The Father Inside Him Too
I am a proud mother of three sons, and a guilty mother of a daughter. Guilty, because I couldn’t conceive her as a son. Had I conceived her as a son, she could have seen the brightest ray of the sun, and I could have beheld its gleaming reflection through her eyes. I detest those who propagate education for the well-being of women, and condemn poverty as the root cause of their persecution in this country. These factors were never central to any explanation of misogyny. The main reason behind such behavior is rooted in an individual’s mentality, his upbringing. Two decades ago, we were among the wealthiest families in the neighborhood, not to mention the glossy degrees adoring our walls. Those were the days when studying abroad wasn’t as common and my husband was the only one in town to boast a PHD from some European university. My in-laws were Zamindars during the British Raj. Though the republic government abolished the affiliations, the affectations survived through.
I was consumed with contentment, exhilaration rushing through my nerves. It was a girl, the first daughter of this generation. Actually first in three generations, this clan had been denied a daughter since ages, I was about to bring the blessing back, at least that is how I perceived it. But my husband’s voice didn’t echo my elation. My father-in-law’s face was casting discontentment too. My mother-in-law was quiet.
“There are complications. The blood pressure is alarming. We will have to take you for another check up tomorrow.”
“Oh! I feel fine. May be I am too excited that’s why the pressure…” I tried to reason the unfavorable diagnosis.
“How educated are you?” My father-in-law darted the sore question. I chose to stay quiet. My silence was less humiliating than my response. I was married off when in class 8. I knew I was no match to my foreign returned PHD husband.
“Shekhar will take you to the doctor tomorrow.” The verdict was pronounced, my explanations were unsolicited.
At the clinic, when I woke up to consciousness, I put my conscience to sleep forever. My body felt lighter, my heart was heavy. I had never attended a biology class, but what mother doesn’t feel the hollow inside her when the child dies a premature death in her womb? Even a deer in the wild fights the predators to protect her fawn, I surrendered by allowing the doctor to push the injection into me. But what could I do when the predators were those whom I mistook for ‘preservers’ – her father, her grandfather? And I was an ignorant mother, deceived into her child’s slaughter.
I have since mothered three sons, jewels, as people identify them. The family gushes over them with all kinds of unreasonable engagements but they never had a taste for such extravaganzas. Right from their early years they have stayed at bay from their father. As a baby, the eldest one lost all his calm when his father held him, the twins too followed his footprints. They would excuse themselves from sharing the dining table with their father, remained indifferent towards all of his pricey gifts and got their report cards signed by this under-graduate mother. My heart broke every time I saw my husband longing for his sons’ affection but the boys seemed to have born with an innate aversion for him. Staying true to his endeavors, he asked the eldest one, “What do you want for your 13th birthday?”
“I want to go to a boarding school.” he replied. The twins characteristically followed their big brother. Higher studies in one western country, job in another, they never found the way back to their nest. The youngest one is about to become a father, it’s a daughter. I spend hours staring at the ultrasound image he has sent, wondering if the one inside me looked the same. I keep it secured, under my pillow.
“Are they planning to get married?” his father asked, I still act as a bridge between the parallels.
“No, they say it’s not a requisite in America. And returning is not an option for them.” My husband’s face dropped. “If we had a daughter, we would’ve married her to someone in Kolkata itself. She could be around.” He said pulling out the ultrasound image, gazing at it through the emptiness in his weary eyes.
Next week the twins will turn 27. Its a cruel coincident because I will always reckon it as a week that marked my daughter’s death, some 30 years ago.
(This confession was made to Avantika Debnath. If you have a confession you can share it too, Won’t reveal your identity)
Representational pic used from Yahoo
