Are we (our) mothers?

Kopal
Kopal
Sep 7, 2018 · 3 min read

Today, at 32 years of age, I feel like having kids. There’s a time keeping device in my uterus which seems to be ringing an alarm. There’s a hormonal surge which makes me tear up at random videos online. There seems to be a conspiracy of procreation.

And I think, what will I achieve by making life? You need to be terribly conceited to think that making an entire new human being is, at best, a settlement. But I do think that. I look around and wonder, we don’t really need more humans, do we? There seem to be more than enough to see this planet through to its grave without me adding another massive carbon footprint to it. I think, what will my particular set of genes add to it? And then, post another surge, I think, look how cute kids are.

It’s a weird feeling — to be so driven for something you don’t have to work for. All my middle class, aspirational life, I have thought — if you work hard enough, you will get what you dream of. And now I’m dreaming of something that every species on this planet gets effortlessly — offspring. I am by no means trying to make light of an endeavour that some people fail at, but tonight I’m thinking of the norm, rather than the exception. It seems so terribly easy an act. A couple of pumps, no prophylactic and you’re done. That is all there is to creating a new life.

Sit back and imagine that. Millions of years of evolution — a fish crawled out of the water, climbed trees and developed a brain which made it the best out of all of god’s creatures — and you can make it with less than two minutes of concentrated effort. Is that the kind of responsibility you’re okay with taking on?

I feel my ovaries tug at me as I write this — like they would make me realise the meaning of life by sheer force of gender. In a country liberated just yesterday from antiquated laws, I’m still feeling bound by the ways of nature. And I think — what is freedom, really? You can make all the laws you want, to foster equality, but it will still be the step-child of nature. I can be a woman in my own right, with my own feelings and wants and my own sense of being but at the end of the day — I’m still a woman with a womb.

I feel like I have been cheated. I was told this is my life, and now I realise that my life is just a means to an end. To another life.

I am being betrayed by myself. I am being told what I need. By myself. It’s classic poetic injustice. It’s a wonder women survive, with this daily betrayal. With this daily torture. And I imagine our mothers, with the lack of choice. My mother had me when she was 22. Ten years younger than I am now. And I imagine her without me. I see a woman who could do whatever she wanted, but she chose me. Is that a choice I can make? I only wish I could be strong enough, because I know am not now.

Kopal

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Kopal

Watch out for the pointy end.