i_pod
We had a baby and named her Journal. My mother wasn't pleased, she had hoped to call her Manisha. But the name didn't move me; there was none of the burn of childbirth, churning insides, the yearning to be myself and not this ballooning vessel. I turned the thing in my arms-- pink and crinkled and nameless. I wanted to call her Journey, because she had a known beginning, me, and already she had travelled away and become something I could not fathom. My husband was a man of letters, though, and liked to say fervently that we had written her into being. I thought the metaphor was trite, unreal, but didn't feel up to an argument. So it was settled: she was our first-born and we named her Journal.
My friends expressed concern. They thought I must be delirious from the pain, and they'd never approved of my husband anyway.
"You know, just because these celebrities keep all funny names doesn't mean everyone can get away with it. Poor child, at least think what they'll call her in school, no? And anyway, names should end on vowels, it sounds better."
I was resolute.
"What do you mean only celebrities, you don't think I'm a star?"
They still muttered, but under their breaths.
No she was not Journal Kapoor, Khan, Kapadia. But we loved her and she was our Journal.
She was a record of our days. I thought the first months were harrowing--my body was a poor aunt of its former self, my hair and palms and clothes reeked of the babied scent of milk. I lived in a special, slavish place between the squalor of the house and the squalling of the baby. It was a broken record I couldn't turn off; I was a Bad Mother. My husband, however, was a Good Father. He sprang awake when she cried at night, reminded me to burp her after I had fed her, softly sang to her in the mornings before he left for work. I loved her smallness, wonderment, but I also resented the gaping symbol of her-- she was Journal instead of Journey-- a precise measure of distance and days instead of the evolving revolving thing itself. I called her Jo and tried to forget.
She grew up, my Jo, to be a heartless chronicler of my faults. She was prettier, cleverer, a better person. My friends adored her, they said I'd brought her up so well. The truth was, I had brought her up on myself, and now I was depleted and she was transformed. No she was not the mirror I held up to myself or the lifeblood that replenished me. She was only my daughter, Journal-- a distilled, unrecognisable version of me.
My husband loves her more than anyone else, more than he ever loved me.
I love you Journal but you are such a painful reminder of what has been, of the yawning distances between us.
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My friends expressed concern. They thought I must be delirious from the pain, and they'd never approved of my husband anyway.
"You know, just because these celebrities keep all funny names doesn't mean everyone can get away with it. Poor child, at least think what they'll call her in school, no? And anyway, names should end on vowels, it sounds better."
I was resolute.
"What do you mean only celebrities, you don't think I'm a star?"
They still muttered, but under their breaths.
No she was not Journal Kapoor, Khan, Kapadia. But we loved her and she was our Journal.
She was a record of our days. I thought the first months were harrowing--my body was a poor aunt of its former self, my hair and palms and clothes reeked of the babied scent of milk. I lived in a special, slavish place between the squalor of the house and the squalling of the baby. It was a broken record I couldn't turn off; I was a Bad Mother. My husband, however, was a Good Father. He sprang awake when she cried at night, reminded me to burp her after I had fed her, softly sang to her in the mornings before he left for work. I loved her smallness, wonderment, but I also resented the gaping symbol of her-- she was Journal instead of Journey-- a precise measure of distance and days instead of the evolving revolving thing itself. I called her Jo and tried to forget.
She grew up, my Jo, to be a heartless chronicler of my faults. She was prettier, cleverer, a better person. My friends adored her, they said I'd brought her up so well. The truth was, I had brought her up on myself, and now I was depleted and she was transformed. No she was not the mirror I held up to myself or the lifeblood that replenished me. She was only my daughter, Journal-- a distilled, unrecognisable version of me.
My husband loves her more than anyone else, more than he ever loved me.
I love you Journal but you are such a painful reminder of what has been, of the yawning distances between us.
Poll Rate this entry