Category: Excerpts

Are women free to fly, or are they still tethered by family, marriage and expectations? In Busy Women, Shinjini Kumar explores ambition, work, migration and the quiet constraints shaping women’s lives today.

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Why Bother About Women?

Neena Gupta is an actress in art and mainstream cinema and a television producer and director. She gained a cult following in the nineties as a talented artist and a single mother; more recently, she made a stunning comeback in mainstream cinema and broke Instagram, saying it as it is. Neena told me once that a woman is like a cow tethered with a rope that keeps her within the perimeter of the family. The man, on the other hand, is like a bird, who can freely go anywhere.

It is not the kind of parable that I like to hear. Women younger than me like to hear it even less. You look at her and think: ‘What is she talking about? She has lived on her terms and is still doing it. She has got it all. Why would others not be able to do it?’ So, I want to prove her wrong. I want to prove that gender is not a barrier to a determined woman, and that she can do everything that a man can, including flying like a bird.

I am looking for the women who are indeed flying. And if ind them. But I also find the truth of Neena’s parable. Women’s lives are indeed circumscribed differently from those of men. For one thing, they rarely choose the space they get to live in. A small percentage of women, like me or Neena, leave their parental homes for education or work, and set up their own homes. For the large majority, leaving home is a given. But where they will end up for the rest of their lives is dependent on who they marry. Even if she finds education, work and money, decisions relating to her body, childbearing, career and asset ownership are often not her own. She may still be able to make a meaningful life for herself and her family, but the tether is firmly in place.

In more elite families, the frequent hypocrisy of raising daughters like a ‘papa ki pari’ (Dad’s fairy) and then giving them away with a dowry, while the business or property is inherited by the son(s) is a tiny bit less common than before, but certainly not gone away. The simple fact of marital dislocation has tremendous implications for the woman and the community. For the community, these implications are mostly positive. In a crude sense, it matches the free labour supply for household work, childbirth and eldercare with the demand. In more refined ways, there are extremely positive externalities to women becoming vectors of care and culture by being mobile. For the woman, they can be positive, disruptive or debilitating, depending on the combination of circumstances. T he question for me was whether the contribution of women within and outside home is being recognized and understood, or undermined and broad-brushed under age-old stereotypes?

This is an interesting but often overlooked fact. Men migrate for work. With rare exceptions, they follow professional opportunities and networks that are expected to help them in their quest of work, job, career, money. On the other hand, almost all women who move places, do so for marriage. Which means that they leave their networks and do not seize the professional opportunities best suited to them. Of course, they can get lucky. But more often than not, despite all the love and affection, they encounter a phase of darkness and confusion, before they begin to assess opportunities available to them in their new habitat.

This geographical constraint is accompanied by another unfortunate constraint, that of physical safety. The fact that women are not safe, for the most part, in most places and at most times, affects their lives in general and work life in particular. In addition, their life stages are very different from those experienced by their brothers and husbands. Even coming from the same backgrounds and families, women go through more disruption in work at early stages. Do all these constraints stop the women? Has greater access to education and skills allowed women to take advantage of opportunities in a growing economy? And what is this opportunity here and now after three decades of economic liberalization? Is the physical infrastructure generating advantage for Middle India and its residents, men and women? If so, what does it mean for migration and creation of many more urban centres with thriving urban culture across the country?

I started my travels with these questions and an open mind. Making my way through thirty cities over three years, I made friends, drank nimbu paani, ate dosas, wore sarees, took selfies, laughed, sweated, walked on pavements and promenades and collected personal histories of the soaring women, the tethered women and the women in between!

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In Munger ki Rani, Manisha Rani recounts her journey from a small village in Bihar – where the birth of a daughter was often met with disappointment – to becoming one of India’s most loved social media stars.

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‘Phir se ladki!?’ (Again another girl!?)
I was born in a village nestled in the rural district of Munger, Bihar, India, where age-old traditions and patriarchal conventions still reign supreme, and the birth of a daughter is generally welcomed with resignation. Slow-paced development, if any happens, has little impact on people’s lifestyles there. But in one poor home, a new story began to unfold—one of hope, defiance and the relentless pursuit of progress.

I am from a culture in which the birth of a girl is viewed as a financial burden. My parents, Ragini and Manoj, or Maa or Baba as I call them, already had a daughter. In a town where the community valued sons over daughters, the birth of another daughter was interpreted as a kind of curse. However, from the moment I was born my parents saw me as a beacon of light, a blessing in disguise. My mother recounts that when she cradled me in her arms after birth, she murmured to my father, ‘Our little Lakshmi has come to bless us,’ and Baba affectionately added, ‘She is our joy, not our burden.’ However, the town elders, mired in tradition, were not as welcoming. The whispers began almost immediately, as people speculated about my family’s future and the weight of the dowry obligations that my father would have to undertake. ‘Yeh to dahej nahi de payega,’ (He won’t be able to afford her dowry) was their verdict.

But Munger’s archaic habits did not overshadow my youth. Despite the murmurs and social pressure, Maa and Baba made a daring decision. They would provide me with formal educational opportunities and other possibilities that were mostly denied to girls in our community. They believed that a girl deserved to pursue her full potential, regardless of cultural expectations. My father was firm: ‘Our daughters will be educated. They will have options.’ Growing up, my mother constantly encouraged me, ‘You will learn, grow and choose your own path.’ As the years went by, the townsfolk watched all that went on in our family with a mix of curiosity and disapproval. While most girls my age were pulled out of school and prepared for early marriage, I continued my studies. My parents’ determination set them apart, making them a source of inspiration to some, but gossip to most.

‘She’s almost thirteen. Why isn’t she being prepared for marriage?’ asked one elder sceptically.

‘Education won’t help her in the kitchen,’ another scoffed.

Baghi aur Baghavat: The Rebel and the Rebellion

I thrived in school. My curiosity knew no bounds, and from very early on, I dreamt of a world beyond the confines of Munger. My parents’ firm support helped my ambitions grow, but the town elders’ expectations loomed large. In Munger, a girl’s destiny was often sealed by tradition and societal norms. As I approached my fourteenth birthday, the pressure really started to ramp up. I recall that almost everyone seemed to want me married off. You see, in my village, turning fourteen is a big deal—it’s when a lot of girls get married off, and their futures are decided by generational practices instead of what they wished for. People in the town began to question my parents going against tradition and choosing to keep me in school: ‘Ladki ki shadi nahi karni hai kya? Samaaj mein naak katvaoge kya?’ (Aren’t you going to get the girl married? Do you want to be shamed by society?)

‘Why waste money on education? She’ll just get married,’ another judgemental neighbour questioned.

Yet, my parents remained calm and composed. They were willing to face isolation, whispers and even outright disapproval for the sake of their daughter’s future. They believed in my potential and desired to give me a chance to pursue my dreams, no matter the cost.

‘Manisha deserves more than this town can offer. She deserves to choose,’ Maa asserted fiercely.

‘We will stand by her, against all odds,’ Baba added, resolute.

As I continued my studies, I became more and more aware of the sacrifices my parents were making. Their quiet rebellion against the deeply entrenched mores of Munger was both inspiring and a bit scary. I realized that my future was this delicate balance between my dreams and the harsh realities of our world.

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Some stories begin with grand gestures. In While We Wait by Durjoy Datta, the story starts in the most ordinary place, like an airport queue where two strangers strike up a conversation while waiting for the people they love.

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Raghav. 

I can feel the steam rising from people’s bodies around me. They are losing patience, their pulses quickening, their weight shifting from one foot to another. They are looking over their shoulder and hoping that the line in front of them moves quicker. People with hope. I hate that. I envy that. Hope should come from logic, not optimism. Which line have we ever been in moved quicker than we anticipated? I used to be like them. But that was before today. Hope’s nice, like a toy. But real life runs on being real. It’s in the phrase. I don’t know how I missed that for so long.

I want to tell everyone in the line that it’s going to take as long as it does. You’re just bitter, everyone will tell me. But I’m also happy. Can I be both bitter and happy?

‘Hey? Can you move ahead?’

I step forward. I want to tell her that we moved one tiny step, and that no one has moved away from the counter. We are still the same number of people in this line, but I’m still doing what Megha says I have started doing a lot—misplacing my frustration.

‘One more step,’ says the girl in a dark grey T-shirt two sizes too big, and a pair of jeans that are way too balloony, and over her shoulder is a backpack bursting at its seams.

This time I want to tell her off, but before I can say anything, her phone beeps and she begins to text. Phones are a great way to cut a conversation you don’t want to have. And common sense says she shouldn’t have a conversation with me. She’s 5’1” and I’m 5’10”, and the way we’ve broken the world, those numbers alone are reason enough for a girl to think twice before speaking to a man, even in a public space.

So I don’t move.

She looks up from her phone.

‘If you move up,’ she says, ‘there’s a fan there.’ She points to the one hanging precariously over the signboard that says, ‘Visitor’s Tickets, Delhi Airport’. She continues brightly, ‘The sooner you get there, the quicker you can stop sweating.’

She points to the rivulets of sweat pouring down my forehead and sweat patches forming under my arms. Fucking embarrassing. But I usually don’t stink. That’s because I already know I sweat like a pig and invest heavily in deodorants. But maybe she can detect a stink. She looks the kind—petite with a sensitive nose. I step away from her, move closer to the man ahead of me, and take a deo out from my backpack.

I’m about to spray it when she says, ‘My fiancé has the same perfume. I could smell it on you.’

‘So I’m not stinking?’

‘Why would you think that?’

She’s on her phone again. The line moves and now I’m right below the fan and the air is cool and I get what she meant. The line moves once more, but I’m still looking at her, still thinking if I should spray the perfume or not, when the cashier slaps the cool marble ledge and calls out to me. ‘Haanji?’

When I turn back to face him, he looks at me with irritation and outstretched hands. ‘Cash, 200 rupees. No UPI.’

‘But I only—’ ‘Only cash. Did you not hear? Next.’

‘I will pay,’ says the girl from behind me. ‘Two tickets, please.’

Before I can say anything, the girl has opened her bag, fetched two notes and paid. Tickets in our hands, we are politely shoved out of the line by the people behind us.

‘If you can give me your UPI details—’ She cuts me with a smile.

‘You can buy me a chai inside. Or a water. Whatever is 200 rupees. Or whoever you’re meeting can pay me back. Whatever suits you.’

‘Sure,’ I say to the girl who has somehow helped me twice in a matter of minutes. ‘Thank you for the . . . fan thing? And for helping me pay.’

‘You call that help? Are we calling basic decency help now?’

She’s walking away from me now, and I follow her. I feel like I should be talking to her, to make up for the stubbornness of not moving two minutes ago.

‘Who have you come to receive?’ I ask her.

Her face is suddenly even brighter. ‘My fiancé.’

Fiancé. The word warms my heart. So weird that a word can hold so much power. I’m thinking of Megha now. Her opened boxes in our new apartment. Those framed pictures of ours which we will put up together in the evening because she doesn’t trust me with their positioning.

‘You?’ she asks. ‘Fiancée too,’ I answer, savouring the word.

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Along with a newborn comes a flood of advice – not all of it always helpful. In Bacchon Ki Doctor, Dr. Madhavi Bharadwaj offers honest insight into what’s normal and what’s not.

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Breastfeeding: The First Food

Physiology
During one of my workshops for expectant mothers, I asked my participants to name their biggest fear about childbirth and the post-partum period. To my surprise, it was not labour pain or the fear of normal or caesarean birth, but the fear of breastfeeding, and the fear is real.

The unsaid pressure to do the best for your baby and the shoulds and woulds around breastfeeding and parenting in general put a lot of subconscious stress on the mother. Sometimes, the lack of knowledge and right guidance at the right time results in failures during breastfeeding. So, it becomes very important for a new mom to prepare herself with the right knowledge and then let nature take its course. Now, let us get our hands on some useful information about breastfeeding.

Even before the birth of a baby, a mother’s body is preparing for milk production and feeding.

Breast Size: As pregnancy proceeds, the size of the breasts increase as the glandular tissue matures to start producing milk. Breasts become soft as fibrofatty tissue increases too. They become sensitive under hormonal (oestrogen and progesterone) influence. Sometimes, mothers feel a tingling sensation, which is perfectly normal. Tenderness, heaviness or soreness felt by some to-be moms is fine too.

The nipple-areola complex enlarges and darkens under hormonal influence. Montgomery’s tubercles will appear on the areola. These are responsible for producing pheromones to attract a newborn towards the breast, and they have antibacterial properties. The nipple is sensitive and full of nerve endings. Suckling of nipples will send messages to the brain to produce both prolactin and oxytocin hormones, which are responsible for milk production and let-down, respectively. Some to-be mums may experience colostrum, a yellowish liquid secreted by the nipples, starting from the end of the second trimester itself. Some may experience it only after the birth of the baby. Both situations are perfectly normal.

Once the little one is born, both the baby’s and the mother’s natural instinct would be towards breastfeeding. A mother prepares customized food inside her body for the baby, but does breastfeeding come as naturally to mothers as they say? No! Breastfeeding is a skill that a new mother gradually learns with her newborn. It may take days or even weeks in order for breastfeeding to begin.

‘When the doctor was the patient’

Sharing a story straight out of my life. The memory is fresh in my mind, as if it happened yesterday. It was my second day after delivering my younger one via caesarean section. I was exhausted with pain and putting my baby to my breast every two hours. Yes, I am a paediatrician, but my baby was not. Like all babies, I knew my little one would also take her time learning to open her mouth wide open and properly latch on. During the morning rounds, a nurse came into the room, checked my vitals and, without preamble, pinched my nipples to check my milk output. I was still reeling from the shock of this physical assault when she announced that I have no milk and told my husband to get a formula ka dabba. I still find it hard to express my anguish and frustration in words. This is a common occurrence in hospitals and households where mothers are constantly told that their milk is not enough and they need to give their baby formula.

What they forget to inform the mother and the family is that it is perfectly normal to not have much milk in the first week post childbirth. Sometimes, milk takes a while coming in. In the meantime, stay stress-free and continue latching your baby to your breasts before topping up with formula. It is a complex crosstalk between hormones and the mother’s physical and mental health that determines the milk output. So let’s see some facts.

Crosstalk between hormones

For successful breastfeeding, the two most important hormones needed are prolactin and oxytocin. During pregnancy, prolactin secretion gradually increases and leads to the development of glandular tissue in the mother’s breast in preparation for the production of milk soon. Due to the presence of high oestrogen and progesterone during pregnancy, milk production by prolactin is blocked. But as soon as the baby is delivered, oestrogen and progesterone markedly drop, and prolactin is free to start milk production. That is why it takes three to five days post-delivery for milk to flow.

Nipples are full of nerve endings. This stimulation sends signals to the brain, where the anterior pituitary produces the hormone prolactin and posterior pituitary produces the hormone oxytocin. The sooner the baby latches on to the mother after birth, the sooner the breastfeeding hormone cycle is triggered in the mother’s body. The more the baby suckles, the more signals reach the brain, and the feeding hormones and cycle get consolidated. That is why even if you feel there is no milk, keep latching your baby on to your breast to establish the milk production soon.

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