Mommy by choice

I got married when I was barely 24. The right age to get married, as everyone told me. I was good and ready. I had been dating the to be spouse for six years, I had seen him at his best and his worst as he had seen me. I was financially independent, with a hot shot career as a feature writer with a publishing house. And it was time, I told myself, to plight my troth forever and ever.

Along with marriage, came a complete change of lifestyle for me. There was the adjusting to the rules and regulations of the home I’d married into, and then learning to juggle the demands of a full time job with the house, and very often dropping a ball or two. Life was a constant rush, work, home, deadlines, catching the ladies special local, making sure I swiped in on time at work, late night deadlines and page making. And then, grocery shopping, dealing with the last minute maid crisis that inevitably would happen on a busy day at work and more. There was also the freedom to pack up a duffel bag and drive off for a weekend whenever we chose, which was great fun. The years flew by. The polite enquiries began from family and friends. “Not trying for issue yet?”

The issue in question was taking his own time to happen, and to be quite honest I was quite happy that the stork had not come calling. I was busy, there was a hot shot career as a journalist that demanded long hours I was firmly entrenched it. There was always the next tempting job opportunity looming on the horizon. I had my baby a good eight years after I was married .By the time I was 30, I’d realised that it was now time to give in to the calls of the hormones going berserk within and have a baby. To cut a long story short, there was a very kind doctor who helped Mr Sperm meet Miss Egg and nine months later, I had one nos squalling brat in my arms.

The bottomline to this entire rambling spiel? I had my baby when I was good and ready to have one. I had done everything I had wanted to—jumped jobs, driven through the country with only a duffel bag for luggage, partied till the milkman came home in the morning with the milk bottles, found a career that made sense to me, something I could do with pleasure even if I wasn’t getting paid for it as long as I was having fun. I wanted to have a baby. I would have never imagined how strongly the hormones blindside you when they’re good and ready to procreate. Everywhere I looked there were babies. Everything I saw turned me into a puddle of mush. I was getting fake uterine contractions playing with friend’s babies.

I had my baby. And I became a mother.

I adored my baby to bits. I still do. I would throw myself in front of a speeding car, navigate a mountain pass barefoot, and do trigonometry voluntarily if needed for him. But I’m far from the ‘perfect’ mom. I’ve been known to be the worst cook in the universe and am crowned queen of the worst tiffin boxes ever. I travel a lot. I’m not always home when his examinations are on. I miss a lot of his PTMs. I mess up on project submission dates.

But my son knows, as I did about my mom, that there is a life that is very important to me, as important as he is to me. And that is my own. That when I work I am working and must only be called when blood is spilt. And that mom is not always around and he must fend for himself when she isn’t. I learnt it early, I was a latchkey kid. My mother worked, it was of economic compulsion after my father passed away. I learnt to be independent. I learnt that though she might not be around when I returned home from school, she did love me. And she had different ways of showing it. Cooking special things for me when she had a day off. Buying trinkets for me from the local train. Painstakingly combing and plaiting my hair into two plaits every morning.

I learnt from my mother to do what was important to me, along with my parenting. Parenting was part of my job definition, it still is. But it isn’t everything about me. My son recognises and understands this and I am glad he does.

Which is why this Titan Raga commercial resonated. Watch it here:


Storm in a C-Cup today: Of the Madonna Whore Complex

I wrote about the Madonna Whore dichotomy that women are viewed through in today’s Storm in a C-Cup.

“The founding father of psychoanalysis, Freud, called it the Madonna-Whore complex. Like the name suggests, it is a complex where a man can see a woman only in dichotomies, the virgin or the slut. It is when a man can have sexual congress, to use the delightful terminology of yore, only with women he perceives as ‘degraded’ (Whore) and cannot sexually desire a woman he considers ‘respectable’ (Madonna). Identified under the rubric of psychic impotence, Freud wrote: “Where such men love, they have no desire; and where they desire, they cannot love.”

Read the entire article here


Storm in a C-Cup this week: Are we ready for open marriages

It was the stuff of urban myth, discussed in whispers at kitty lunches. Swinging, it was called. There were more Chinese whispers about the couples’ getaways, where the holidays were more exchange parties than actual holidaying. Then there were the stories about couples, with one or both of them with relationships apart from their spouses, and accepting about it.

Today, swinging is called open marriage. Often defined as a marriage or relationship in which both partners agree that each may have sexual relations with others. There’s another kind, polyamory. There’s a tad but important difference between swinging and polyamory. While swinging is primarily about getting it off with someone other than your betrothed and not caring if you saw the other ever again, polyamory is more about emotions, and accepting that one could have feelings for more than one person.

Read the rest of the column here

For the Juggernaut blog: The unrequited love story of Kadambari Devi and Rabindranath Tagore


On 21 April 1884, Kadambari Devi, Rabindranath Tagore’s sister-in-law, committed suicide with an overdose of opium — four months after the poet-laureate married Mrinalini Devi. Kadambari Devi played an extraordinary part in young Tagore’s life, inspiring him to write many poems, but their relationship has been shrouded in secrecy. What is known, however, is that Tagore was distraught after her death. ‘She, my Queen, has died and my world has shut against the door of its inner apartment of beauty which gives on the real taste of freedom,’ he wrote in a letter

Here, author Kiran Manral writes about the relationship that could have been, had it had different circumstances:


I must confess that I am a complete sucker for love stories. I love the thrust and parry of the initial attraction, the declaration of love, the rush of emotional catharsis that reading them give me. But unrequited love stories, they’re different. They conjure up all the repressed emotions of being rejected, of heartbreak, of losing out to the prettier girl, of the break ups that didn’t make sense when you think about them years down the line, or the persistent beat of the ‘What if…” that lingers on in a ghostly chamber of the heart. We all love a love story. But we love an unrequited love story even more.

There is a quaint pull to a love story that has no happy ending, where the lovers, drawn together by the dictats of their hearts are forced apart thanks to dictats of circumstance and society. The bitter aftertaste of the What Might Have Been tinges the story long after The End has been read, a niggling disquiet in one’s mind, a wanting to rearrange circumstance and happenings to make the fates conspire.

When researching the love stories for the series of True Love Stories, the little known story of Kadambari broke my heart. Kadambari Devi, the wife of Rabindranath Tagore’s older brother Jyotirindranath Tagore, is a figure wreathed in shadow and mystery. We don’t know much about her. All we have to go by are the sketchy details put down about her by the poet laureate himself, and the grainy sepia prints that searches on the internet throw up. In these, her face is pensive, looking aside, unwilling to make eye contact with the camera. She’s dressed in a dark saree, draped in the fashionable style of the times, edged with lace, worn with a full sleeved blouse. Drop earrings in her ears, a slight curl along her hairline, evidence of feminine vanity at play. Yet there is a sadness in her expression, or perhaps is it my gaze that attributes a sadness to her?

Read the entire post here

Storm in a C-Cup today: Bringing back the pillow talk

“Like most married couples who’ve passed their sell by date, the spouse and I have reached a comfortable bed time routine where we both pray that we fall off to sleep before the other does, so we aren’t inflicted with a sleepless night thanks to the other’s snoring.

Pillow talk, as you might guess, has long been dead and buried. Resuscitating it would need more than the kiss of life. Were we the only ones? Were other couples our age getting giggly and talking x-rated stuff with their long time spouses and partners while the dirtiest our pillow talk ever went was when we discussed bills and EMIs?

Do you talk dirty with your husband, I asked a friend, also in a marriage which recently crossed the two decade mark. She looked at me kindly. “The last dirty talk we had was when the kitchen drain clogged up on a weekend and there was no plumber. That was one hell of a filthy conversation.”

Read the rest of the column here

Storm in a C-Cup today: Coming out late

“A study conducted by the University of Utah found that as women got older, their sexual preferences were more likely to get ‘unlabelled’. Interestingly, a comprehensive study of female sexuality done in 2010, found an increase in the number of ‘Late blooming lesbians’, namely women who’ve switched their sexuality post 30.

We’ve had recent celebrity cases of late blooming lesbians. In September 2016, author Elizabeth Gilbert (of the international best-selling memoir Eat Pray Love, in which she famously wrote about going off to discover herself after a miserable divorce, and finding love with a hot Brazilian man) announced that she was ending her marriage because she was in love with her long time best friend, who just happened to be female. As she wrote in her 2006 best-seller, “It’s still two human beings trying to get along, so it’s going to be complicated. And love is always complicated.”

She has a predecessor in the literary world. Writer Virginia Woolf had been married for a while when she fell in love and began an affair with Vita Sackville-West, also middle-aged, married and a writer. There’s also actress Portia De Rossi who was married to a man before she fell in love with and married talk show host Ellen DeGeneres in 2008.”

Read the rest of the column here

“A hell of a story and it packs a punch…” Switcheroo reviewed by Inderpreet Uppal

This is of hell of a story and it packs a punch! It is a perfect short read with a good mix of spice and surprise. It is a story of a woman, Dimple Bhalla looking for herself, the eternal struggle of women to stop time, to keep their looks, their beauty and just be alluring forever. She is rich, beautiful and middle-aged, a perfect setting for some introspection.

In this story, the author has managed to keep the suspense of what has actually happened and keep the story moving smoothly as well. A few places drew chuckles from me due to the apt description of what we women do. Just pick it and read on the Juggernaut App, I am finding some good books there.

Another thing, the title of the story gets so clear after you have read the story and it is perfect!! Just say it slow and think in the typical way Mrs Bhalla would!! 😉

Kiran manages to have the writing and style like her previous book All Abroad – graceful. I found SWITCH-E-ROO by Kiran Manral to be the perfect story for a fast, uplifting mood change especially when short on time.


Read the original here