[Sure enough, the contractions started at 2 a.m. on the first of May, and my daughter arrived into this world later that morning. Giving birth may not be as taxing today as it once was, but no modern technology can help with the discomfort, the euphoria, and sometimes both that come immediately after having a baby. When you feel like crying for no apparent reason, it’s your mother who understands. When your breast milk is running low, it’s your mother who offers up Indian remedies. When it comes to eating, it’s your mother who prepares every meal, and when your energy is lacking, it’s your mother who takes over while you rest.]
By Shivani Vora
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| The author with her mother, grandmother and 2 1/2-month old daughter. |
My family moved to New Jersey from New Delhi when I was 7 years old, and I have always considered myself a modern Indian American woman.
My parents pushed me to study, rather than learn how to make traditional Indian food. Instead of focusing on finding me a suitable husband, they wanted me to find a career which would make me independent.
Nonetheless, soon after we moved to America, I quickly did all I could to shun my roots, including refusing to eat the daal and rotis I once relished and rejecting the Hindi I regularly spoke. I had no Indian friends, forgot what holidays like Diwali meant and refused to have classmates over because I was embarrassed by the distinct smell in our kitchen, a result of my mom’s daily ritual of making curries and subzis.
It wasn’t until I met my husband Mahir, who is from Mumbai and very in touch with his upbringing, that I began to stop being ashamed of where I came from and even became proud of it.
And, when I became pregnant with our daughter Meenakshi, I went even further. I fully embraced one of the most old-fashioned Indian traditions there is: the belief that after giving birth, a daughter belongs home with her mother.
Indian women may be married for decades with several kids, but their home is still the place where they grew up, not where they live with their husband. After childbirth, the belief is, no one can take care of you, nurture you back to health and understand what you’re going through like your mother.
So, after they have a baby, Indian women often return to their home – not just for a few days or a week, but for six weeks.
My daughter wasn’t due until May 11th, but my mother had declared early on in my pregnancy that Meenakshi would arrive on May 1st. “You’ll go into labor in the middle of the night on April 30th,” she said with the confidence of a soothsayer.
My mother, Kiran Mahendroo, was born in Jakarta, Indonesia (her father was posted there for a few years), but grew up in New Delhi. She worked as a teacher, but I was always convinced she could have a side job as a psychic: Her ability to make predictions on my life had a near perfect score, and I had no doubt that that this forecast was no exception.
Sure enough, the contractions started at 2 a.m. on the first of May, and my daughter arrived into this world later that morning. Giving birth may not be as taxing today as it once was, but no modern technology can help with the discomfort, the euphoria, and sometimes both that come immediately after having a baby. When you feel like crying for no apparent reason, it’s your mother who understands. When your breast milk is running low, it’s your mother who offers up Indian remedies. When it comes to eating, it’s your mother who prepares every meal, and when your energy is lacking, it’s your mother who takes over while you rest.
After six weeks of motherly care, you return to your husband fully revived, a new baby in your arms. During that time, your husband goes to work as usual and visits on weekends.
During my pregnancy, I read several “Western” books and articles that dispensed advice on the post-delivery period: Prepare and freeze meals ahead of time so you don’t have to worry about cooking. Rest when the baby rests otherwise you may not get a chance. Ask a friend or family member to watch the baby for an hour so you can get a manicure or your hair done.
The tips were practical, but I felt lonely reading them. They revolved around making new mothers independent quickly, and assumed they would be going through the process primarily alone. I, on the other hand, opted to take pride in my dependency.
My husband Mahir took Meenakshi and I “home” to my parents house in Ridgewood, New Jersey, straight from the hospital. She had her own room complete with a crib, changing table and toys, and I had my room intact from my teenage years, complete with my white furniture set and bookshelf filled with the junky novels I used to love to read.
We quickly settled into a rhythm. I spent my days stuck to the oversize couch in our light-filled family room, greeting visitors and nursing, and in between the gentle wailings of a newborn and the cooing over her from family and friends, my mother nourished me.
Every morning, she stood at the kitchen counter and juiced carrots, ginger, celery and apples into a slightly sweet drink that would boost my energy. She fed me pinnis, round Indian sweets packed with ghee and wheat flour, to boost my milk supply. She prepared my every meal from oversize salads for lunch to my favorite subzis and sharp fish curries for dinner.
More important than the physical nourishment, however, was the emotional one. Mahir instantly loved Meenakshi. My first feelings, on the other hand, weren’t love but rather relief that my labor had gone off smoothly and that I was no longer pregnant.
I was envious of his feelings, and desperate to have them, as well. This is where my mother pulled me up the most. I finally confessed the inner workings of my heart, in tears, at our intricately carved wooden kitchen table – I was paralyzed with fears that I didn’t feel a mad gush of love for the life I had produced and that I never would. Her matter-of-fact approach saved me from what I believe could have turned into post-partum depression. “You know beta, not every mother feels this gush. In fact, fewer do than you might think,” she said.
She told me to stop trying so hard to love Meenakshi, and instead just accept my feelings without torment. “Soon,” she promised. “The love and connection will come naturally.”
Her dose of pragmatism made me feel my shameful thoughts were not only acceptable, they were also normal.
As I stayed in my cocoon in our northern New Jersey suburb, my friends and acquaintances reacted to my time with my mother with both puzzlement and longing. One friend who visited us with her 6-month old daughter quipped about her challenges after she gave birth, dealing with a colicky newborn in a one-bedroom apartment. Another, who also had an infant, was disturbed by the idea that Mahir wasn’t getting to spend enough time with his new daughter.
I didn’t stay the whole six weeks. After a month of juice, pinnis, Indian meals and dozens of talks about my new role, my guilt and fear turned into certainty and even excitement.
Being modern and American has always been integral to me, but during this emotionally vulnerable time, it was a longstanding Indian practice which was my greatest source of comfort and strength.
YEMENIS SAYTHEY HAVE BIGGER PROBLEMS THAN AL QAEDA
[“Awlaki’s life or death doesn’t matter for Yemenis,” said Nadwa al-Dawsari, who works for a nonprofit organization in Sana
By Laura Kasinof
Many Yemenis had not even heard that Mr. Awlaki had been killed, even by
Friday night. And most had only a faint sense of why the United States
“I don’t know why he was important, except that he was a terrorist,”
said Belal Masood, who works in a restaurant in Sana
Another man, Walid Seneb, who was sitting on a street curb with three
friends on Friday night, said, “We don’t like these terrorists who make
problems for us. Mr. Seneb was the only one of the four men who had heard of
the cleric’s death.
“But right now there are worse problems,” he said. “Our national crisis
is the biggest problem. There is no water, electricity, everything from the
government stopped.”
After eight months of antigovernment protests that began during the Arab
spring, Yemen Sana
“Awlaki’s life or death doesn’t matter for Yemenis,” said Nadwa
al-Dawsari, who works for a nonprofit organization in Sana
But a major concern for some, especially among Yemenis in the
opposition, is that the Saleh family provided information to the United States
Although the Obama administration has been working diplomatically to
find a way to ease Mr. Saleh from office, his family controls the security
apparatus responsible for counterterrorism activities. They know that Mr.
Awlaki’s death was coveted by the United States
“Now he is going to show the people he can kill al Qaeda,” Nader
al-Qershi, a youth organizer at Sana Yemen
“Why does Ali Abdullah Saleh kill him at this time? He has a lot of
information about these people in Al Qaeda. The protesters at the university
are happy about this action, but we just want to know why it happened at this
time.”
It was widely assumed in Yemen that Mr. Saleh’s government must have
been aware of Mr. Awlaki’s whereabouts long ago, but was reluctant to hand over
that information to the Americans or kill Mr. Awlaki, because he is from a
powerful tribe in southern Yemen that might seek retribution if he was killed.
Then why was Mr. Awlaki tracked down on Friday? Some Yeminis thought
they knew. “Saleh wanted to show the world that he is a hero against Al Qaeda,”
said Hussein Mohammed, who runs a small hotel in Sana
But Mr. Mohammed, like many people here, did not think that Mr. Awlaki’s
death would alter the political dynamic in their country. He said it was not al
Qaeda, but the struggle among Yemen
Tribesmen loyal to Mr. Saleh’s main political rival, Hamid al-Ahmar,
have engaged in almost daily street warfare with the government’s security
forces in a northern district of Sana over the past few weeks. The sound of
artillery fire echoing through the capital has become commonplace.
“They struck Anwar al-Awlaki, why don’t the Americans strike Ali
Abdullah Saleh and Hamid al-Ahmar?” Mr. Mohammed asked.
