‘I don’t want to adult.’ It’s something you see said on social media virtually everyday by grown-ass adults who should most probably 'BE adulting'. But, as a ten-year-old girl who had just lost her mum, I wasn’t given that luxury. I had to grow up almost overnight.
Dirty uncles, cruel relatives, an almost constantly working father… the young me saw way too much of this adult world. The buffer that was mommy just cruelly snatched away. Unsupervised, our house quickly became a very attractive haunt for all my brothers' friends. And, of course, random people whose wives wouldn’t let them smoke or drink at home. It was a very trippy, a very bohemian vibe around our place. The music was good too. My friends used to envy this crazy cacophonic existence. But I hated it. I had made peace with it, because I had no choice. But I hated it. I wanted exactly what everyone else had. Two parents, a stable home and meals that could be taken for granted.
But as good survivors do, I adapted well. I quickly learned that obedience kept you off the radar, which in turn meant you got a lot of freedom. So I did well academically, passed out of school, college and got my dream job as a copywriter through sheer chutzpah, which I’d learnt in all my years of having to scheme my way into getting a simple thing like chutney before it ran out.
Basically, no agency wants a fresher. Interns are a pain. And a trainee on the rolls is the biggest pain of them all. So I, with no writing experience or flashy degree, was quite the untouchable. But at my third interview, I realised I had to do something drastic. So I offered to work for free. Just to absorb the agency vibe, I’d said. For a month. This was an offer to the Director of Rediffusion at the time, who seemed really tickled by it all. And to my luck, they were working on a pitch and my lines were used in the campaign, which the client approved! I had myself a job. And apparently a good solid future.
A genius stroke of luck saw me being taken as a junior writer and not a trainee, because they didn’t have budgets for two writers. So yes, luck favoured valiant me. And all the campaigns--Van Heusen to Taj to HMT watches--fell in my lap and it was pretty much the greatest fun time in my life. Everyone was proud of me. I’d even earned the respect of my hard-to-please brothers. I was earning good money. I was living the dream. But it really wasn’t my dream. At all.
My dream was to get married. Have someone firmly by my side, have children and dogs and a home and cook and clean (okay, maybe not clean) and just do regular stuff. Have a mundane ordinary life. But, I felt scared to admit it to anyone but myself. I felt shocked at my own choice.
Anyway, my dad was quite happy with my stream of thinking, and pretty quickly, just like that, I was married and working. Then, married with child and working. A couple of different agencies and countries later, I found myself back in India, still working. Then somewhere, somehow, my innate sense of being kicked in (coinciding with the gut-wrenching feeling of leaving a young child home with a maid for company through summer holidays), and I became a stay-at-home mom. My colleagues said they envied me. My bosses were most disappointed; they were going to make me creative director. It would have been great to retire as one, but…
This was yet another loss-of-a-mother moment for me. I found myself a bit vulnerable without it. The job, a career--though I didn’t wholly identify myself with it--was a protective cover. Slowly, I felt myself being left out of a lot of things. Friendships changed. Colleagues just dropped out of your life. Meeting old bosses who no longer needed you became painful reminders of your own ‘irrelevance’. Much junior colleagues with new exalted job titles…
We, as a society, tend to look down at stay-at-home moms, relegating them to the much-feared ‘aunty’ status. The ubiquitous visual of the nightie-with-dupatta wearing woman who hung around gossiping and bargaining with the tarkaari guy. But the more I was in this world, the more I respected her--this fictitious character who seemed real in everyone’s mindspace. It takes some level of guts to be someone like her. She’s unabashedly herself. I decided to be her. Embrace her. Value her sensibility. Not her sense of style though…
Thinking more about it reminded me of my own mum, my aunts, their friends… Almost all of them were stay-at-home mums. But kickass women. They were bright, knew world affairs as well as they knew their recipes, learnt and spoke different languages, respected everyone, kept their homes and hearts clutter-free, efficiently ran their homes, balancing budgets, efficiently managed teams--just like their working counter parts. Of course, most working women did all that too. And that was great. But the choice to stay at home, today, kind of means a lazy person. Or someone who would live off their husbands. A ‘kept’ woman. I’ve been told many times that now “it’s time to get a real life”. “Now, stop playing house-house.” “You’re too talented to stay at home.” All meant to compliment me, but really?
What is this pressure to do things? And does 'doing something' only mean a career? A salary?
I’ve mostly always done what I felt like doing. And mostly what makes me happy. Over the years, these questions have died down. And I feel the respect for my decisions reappearing. People always admire honesty. Even if it’s in the perceived losing team.
Following my heart as always, I’ve yet again deviated and written and published a book. It’s put me on another trajectory. I’m finding so many appreciating that as well. I’m no longer strictly a stay-at-home mother.
“The heart wants what it wants…” And that heart is the only thing that matters. If it stops beating, we die. Don’t we? So, as always, just follow your heart. That’s adulting.