“You know if the mother is young, the child has a long life. This is fact.”



“I’ve heard the younger you get pregnant, the higher the chance of a male child. You should think about it.”

“Chalo, have your child now. Finish the responsibility. Then you’ll be totally free in your forties. Plan ahead na?”

The plot would thicken when I was around children at family gatherings.

“See, you’re so good with children. Why don’t you want your own? You like them so much. I just don’t understand.”

As if being able to keep a child occupied for a span of time was the only qualification I needed to be a good mother. Maybe I would be. But what if I still didn’t want to?

Parenthood is so deeply ingrained in our concept of adulthood that all opposing views are attributed to temporary madness. If you’re an adult, you ought to be married. If you’re married, you ought to have children (or at least attempt it). And it’s completely normal for everyone – parents, in-laws, neighbours – to dole out free advice on the whys and hows of procreation, a deeply personal process.

Being constantly reminded of my “ticking biological clock” made me feel like I needed to get on board with motherhood in order to feel complete. Honestly, though, my life didn’t feel incomplete without a baby and I knew my husband felt the same way. So why did I still feel flawed? I know now that I was harbouring some shame. The pressure to nurture a product of my own DNA was real, and I just didn’t want it.

We are so deeply obsessed with procreation that we’ve perfected the art of couching nosiness in concern and love for the Big Fat Indian Family. We’ve legitimised intrusiveness about a woman’s reproductive choices. Over time, it can make even the most self-assured and confident woman succumb to the fear of isolation that’s attached to a child-free life.