N Ghatak writes about her 'brown little baby' who brightened up her life
My husband and I saw our daughter for the first time when she was a little less than a month old. She was fast asleep and her only reaction to being brought out in the sun, from the relative darkness of the nursery, was to quickly pucker up her mouth, ready for a feed. When I took her in my arms she pressed her head a little closer to my shoulder as though seeking warmth in the Delhi chill.
We brought her home exactly a month later. It was a sunny afternoon but Gia was again fast asleep. She slept through the little service at the chapel and the tearful farewell that the Sisters of Nirmal Shishu Bhawan bade her as they repeatedly told us about her sleeping and feeding patterns. During the journey home, she slept in my mother's lap, dressed in a white and blue crocheted frock. I still remember the twilight sun was like a halo round her face and we could not tear our eyes away. Not a very wise thing, especially for my husband, since he was driving through dense evening traffic!
The empty shell of our house grew alive with the sounds of Gia's growing up — tunes of long-forgotten lullabies, tinkling of silver rattles, desperate pleas as that extra spoon of stewed apple was pressed into her unwilling mouth. She was a happy baby. Very soon, my lipsticks were coloured goo, every inch of writing paper scribbled upon and the only purpose of a CD was to be rolled as wheels.
It was at this point of time that we decided to take her for a vacation. My first brush with reality was at the immigration counter. The gentleman at the desk raised his bushy eyebrows and asked, "Is your daughter adopted? You are fair and she is dark?" I hurriedly escaped after muttering, "Is that any concern of yours as long as our papers are in order?" I was livid at him for bursting my bubble of happiness, taking away my pride at being a mother.
But afterwards such questions became quite commonplace. I was regularly stopped while pushing the pram by over-enthusiastic 'aunties' who advised me to bathe Gia in milk, feed her haldi, massage her with a paste of atta, malai, etc. to bring her complexion to a "socially acceptable" degree of fairness. At first my reaction was to give my advisor a huge dressing down and watch with relish as her face crumbled and philanthropic zeal diminished. As for Gia, her face would grow tense and she would clutch my hand as she darted glances at me and then at the subject of my wrath.
THE TIMES OF INDIA
