Eve had also her own personal encounter with nature’s rhythms. We don’t know whether it happened while still in Paradise or already outside it, but one day Eve felt something in herself that she could not very well tell Adam about. The lunar cycle, the 28-day month, the glory of woman, the preparation for motherhood. Surprise and anguish and novelty and perplexity. No one could explain things to Eve, as God felt shy about it, in spite of having himself thought out the method, and Adam knew nothing at all about this as all men that were to succeed him in all times on earth. Woman’s secret. Life’s energy. Creation’s process. Eve had to change several time that day her fig-tree leaf. And she smiled to herself on her private discovery. She now knew her unique position on earth. She was the mother of humankind.
Out of the fifty years I lived in India, ten in my late youth I lead a rather original way of life. I asked for hospitality from house to house, knocking at unknown doors, staying one week with one family and next week with another, in Hindu, Jain, Parsee, Christian neighbourhoods, living, eating, sleeping as a wandering guest in the house where I lodged, going and coming daily on my cycle to teach mathematics at College as was my job. Maybe that was possible only in India given her tradition of respect for a religious person, her appreciation for a blessing as payment for services rendered, her practical cult of hospitality in all circumstances. Those years changed my life. And I learned a few things in them.
One of the things I had to learn in practice was that not all the days of the month are the same for a woman. It was the woman that cooked in those homes, but during her personal days she was free from domestic duties, and every husband had to do the cooking five days in a month. I soon came to know it, and I had to adjust my pilgrimage to the lunar cycles. However much I insisted to be treated as one more family member, my presence in a house in those humble neighbourhoods always involved certain extra work and trouble for the family, which they all undertook with unstinting generosity, but which I delicately tried to avoid. If on top of that the woman in the house would be on labour leave for five days, my stay in the house could prove more of a nuisance than of a blessing, so that I had to learn how to ask gentle questions and when to change my street in search of homes out of the path of the moon. Husbands did not make good cooks, and they preferred to invite me when the woman in the house could do the cooking.
But once I did have a very special experience that brought me closer to that half of humankind with which I, due to my clumsiness and my calling, had dealt very little till then. Once during my house-to-house pilgrimage I came to lodge with a family made up by the parents, a twelve year old daughter, and a five year old boy. The parents had to go away for the weekend, but there was no problem as the girl had learned from her mother and she would cook for herself, her brother and me on Saturday and Sunday. Saturday went by uneventfully. But on Sunday morning she was not coming out of her room. Her small brother was by then playing with his friends in the street, but I was growing increasingly uneasy as the morning wore off without any sign of the girl. Finally I went to her room, knocked gently on the door, and went in pronouncing her name softly. There she was, lying down on her mat on the floor where she had slept through the night, wearing still her nightie though fully awake, with her hair tousled and her lovely face shadowed by the grimace of the unknown malaise. I knelt by her side and asked her gently:
- What is wrong?
- Nothing.
- Are you sick?
- No, I’m not sick.
- Any pain?
- No, well, yes. But it’s not that. It’s nothing.
- Shall I call the doctor?
- No, no.
- But you’re not well. What can I do for you?
- Nothing. It’ll pass.
- Your parents are not at home and I’m in charge. Won’t you tell me?
- I tell you it’s nothing.
Of course it was nothing. And it was everything. The most important moment in a woman’s life. Always known and always expected, but always strange and always surprising. And I, fool that I am, quite unaware of it. Of course I knew the theory, but I’d never found myself before a young girl on her first date with nature. She also knew everything about it, but one thing is knowing it and quite another feeling it with the shock, the newness, the bewilderment, the innocence of the first time. How was I to imagine that to me, shy by nature and naïve before women, would come the chance to be close witness at the blushing dawn of woman’s creative power with a fairytale princess in her enchanted castle? I knew it when she finally told me:
- Please call the woman neighbour next door. She’ll help me.
- Of course, of course. I get you. She’ll help you. I’m calling her at once. And meanwhile, congratulations. I know what this means to you. And I feel happy to have been by your side at this moment. And now don’t worry. I’m coming back in a minute with our neighbour.
I took her hand between mine and pressed it gently. She gripped my hand, kept it long between her hands, looked up at me, and smiled her long, beautiful, charming smile. The crisis was over. I bent down, kissed her on her forehead, and went to call the neighbour. In those neighbourhoods all women know one-another and are ready to come to help at any moment. They got together and set things right between themselves. The parents came back in the evening. There was much conversation going on in a low voice between mother and daughter. I remained in my corner writing page after page in my daily homework as though I knew nothing. But the memory of that day would remain for ever in my soul. That girl had become a woman holding my hand. I reckon that day as one of the most beautiful days in my life. I have not forgotten it. And I know she has not forgotten it either. Isn’t it, Silu?
Women could help us men if they matter-of-factly would trust us with their days. And we men could help women if we would keep calendar count of women close to us, we would ask them about the incoming of their personal tides, would keep in mind their monthly sensitivity. Not that we are necessarily going to cook for them, but we certainly want to understand them, appreciate them, accompany them in the days nature makes them all the more women in the strength of their power and the shaking up of their organism.
And here comes a point. The problem with Eve, Silu, and every woman on earth, or rather the injustice meted out to them is that woman, through centuries and places and customs and rites has been declared “impure” in her days. This is a crime against womankind, and it is still committed in our days in open taboos or hidden prejudice. At the entrance of the beautiful Jain temple in Ranakpur, Rajasthan, with its 1.444 pillars, all exquisitely carved and all different, I read the explicit note in large letters: “Entrance forbidden to women in their period.” And Muslim mosques and Jewish synagogues also follow more or less openly the same prejudice. The notice makes uneasy the woman who feels obliged to bow down and obey or to risk a denial with the accompanying unease and the guilt complex for breaking the commandment in the House of God. Such outdated liturgies should be abolished where they still obtain. Before God all days are equal.
When living from house to house I used to tease women in their days telling them their alleged “impurity” was just the way to get a monthly holiday of five continuous days while the husband worked in the kitchen and on the floors. But the price is too heavy. Every woman deserves all help and understanding when her body asserts its mission on earth, without her been called impure for that. Equality between the sexes.
The moon keeps her rule over her month with her “bright fortnight” and “dark fortnight”, according to her brightness facing the earth. Auspicious and inauspicious dates distribute themselves along them, and they have to be scrupulously kept in mind for rites, celebrations, and solemnities. There is the story of the prince and princess who married, and after the wedding the bridegroom informed the bride that they would have to keep separate chambers during the dark fortnight of the month, as his guru had bound him with a vow to abstain from sex on those days for life. The princess, on hearing that, fainted straightaway. When she came to, the prince, somewhat surprised at her marital eagerness, made haste to reassure her that they always had the bright fortnight to make up for the loss, but then she sadly explained that her guru had forbidden her sex for the bright fortnight of the moon each month. That wiped out the calendar for them. They slept for life with a naked sword between them on their bed in reverence for the moon. The guru, of course, was the same for both, with a penchant for black humour it would seem. The moon can play us tricks.
We also understand the need of women in sports or in dance to keep track of their dates and to alter their rhythms in special occasions. I don’t think any woman runner in the Olympic Games is going to win the hundred-meter race with her tampon on. The dates of the competition are fixed without checking with the participants. Hormones will have to be persuaded and tides put off to get medals. The point is to realise that we are interfering with nature, that we do so in spite of ourselves, with respect and delicacy, asking permission from the body, getting back as soon as possible to its rhythms, re-establishing contact with nature as soon as possible and thanking her for her understanding. Gold medal.
Woman’s maternal cycle goes on with pregnancy, child-bearing, the count of the months, the visits to the gynaecologist, the last wait, the contractions, the birth, the care of the baby. And here comes another surprise, mostly silenced in society but often met with in reality, and this, too, took me some time to discover. Woman, always so close and always so far, so totally familiar and so full of mysteries for us to keep on unveiling in the most rewarding adventure for man on earth. A young couple in my acquaintance had their first child. A lovely little girl whom we all caressed, cradled, blessed with love and joy. We met from time to time, and after a while we gathered again in their home. I greeted them with my usual warmth, but soon I began to notice details that went on adding up till I began to worry. The woman was changed. Her formal joy had disappeared, she did not smile, she did not laugh as she used to do freely and openly, she had put on much weight, on her cheeks were dark irregular shadows of aged skin, she was years older and walked like an old woman. What had happened? I said nothing that day, but a few days later I met her husband and told him straightaway: “I’m worried about Kalpana.” There was no need for me to say more. He kept quiet for a moment, then looked down and said: “She has post-partum depression.” What was that? He explained. It does not always happen, but in some degree and after the first baby it is rather common. Child-bearing, birth, the first care of the newborn baby, the readjusting of the body, the sudden change in life habits throughout the day, it all requires such a continued effort of mind and body day and night that when the ascending cycle of the novelty and the enthusiasm breaks and drops, it can provoke such a sudden fall in strength, in hormones, in spirits, in mood that it can take the young mother to a depression that may last months and even require medical care.
Hollywood actress Brooke Shields can tell the story better than I could, and can make us realise, with her sincerity and her charm, the importance of this situation and its frequency, in a greater or lesser degree, when a Hollywood star can tell her story without wincing. She suffered from it to an extreme degree.
Medical analyses had shown she could not have children the normal way. She had recourse to in vitro fertilisation with her (second) husband. She became pregnant. She had problems that led to a natural abortion. That broke her. They tried again in the same way, and she had a lovely baby girl. But, against all anticipation, the mother could not feel any love or attraction towards her child.
“Maybe the fact that I’d had such a hard time getting pregnant was nature’s way of telling me I shouldn’t have had kids. My Catholic guilt complex got the better of me and I came to believe that my current state was my punishment for trying to play God and for letting science interfere with what was so obviously not supposed to happen. It was not God’s will that I should have children, and I’d gone against it. All thoughts that came to my mind were negative. My life is over. I’ll never feel connected to my daughter. I shouldn’t have a baby. I am a horrible mother. I made a terrible mistake. I can’t do this. I’m so alone in how I feel. I am the only person in the world who won’t ever be happy or in love with her child. I hate myself and I hate life. My daughter will never love me. I felt so sad.
Friends and relatives took turns to look after my daughter in the next room while I sulked miserably in my room. On one particular day, while my mom was on duty looking after the child, I dragged myself out of bed to sit at the dining room table with her. She looked at me with a mixture of concern and frustration.
- You wanted this baby so badly, and you always get everything you want, so try to be happy. You are so lucky, my love, and I know you will be feeling better very soon. It’s only been a little while. Give yourself a break. You are always so impatient. She’s so beautiful and so lovable.
- She doesn’t love me. I know it.
- Of course she does. You’re her mother.
- That doesn’t make any difference. I don’t feel any connection to her.
- Now, Brookie, don’t talk like that. Please!
- I can’t help it. I don’t want to be here. I am so unhappy, and it will never get better. I hate myself. I am so sad, I’m just so sad. This is horrible. I just want to die. This morning I made Chris cry.
- You made your husband cry?
- Yes, I made him cry. Get out! Get out now, or I’ll jump out of the fucking window!
Now it was my mother’s turn to stare. My tolerance had worn thin, and a mother is an easy target. She sat in stunned silence. Perhaps she thought that if she was still enough, this nightmare would pass. She didn’t leave, and I was relieved by her decision not to. I felt hard for her, but I was like a caged animal, ready to charge while cowering in the corner. I didn’t know where to turn.”
(Brooke Shields, Down Came the Rain, Hyperion, New York 2005, p. 95, 98, 75)
She underwent medical treatment, took medicines, began little by little to feel attracted to her daughter, got cured, fell in love with her daughter, felt great. It took her another nine months slowly to get well. And then the love was as great as the test had been. To efface the pain of her crisis I’ll quote a scene of her reconciliation:
“I was giving her a bath in the tub, both of us together inside. We splashed and laughed and played with toys in the water. We made a mess, and there was water everywhere, but I didn’t care. I felt so carefree, and I was giddy with laughter. Her little naked body felt so smooth against my own, and at one point she tiredly collapsed on my chest with an actual sigh. She did. I had felt so long a stranger to her, even afraid of her and how she would judge me, but now all I saw was a tiny baby girl who had a playful soul. We loved each other and needed each other. I eased her into her crib, spread over her the little satin and flannel blanket with an elephant on one corner, and she went straight to sleep. That night I, too, slept like a baby.” (p. 211)
As I closed down the book a thought came to me. What will Rowan [the child’s name] think when she grows up and reads what her mother wrote when she was born? It will help her to love her more. Just as it helps all of us to know what our mothers go through when they bring us into his world, to learn about their phases and their crises, to respect their cycles, to treasure their presence, to love their mission on earth. Hollywood, for once, has taught us something worth knowing.
