About Zehra Naqvi

I am a woman, and a writer. That's what I am first and foremost. I was a full time journalist doing environment reporting, feature writing and editorials for a business paper. And then I landed a full time job as a mother. Right now, I'm a columnist and freelance journalist, including Associate Editor for one of India's leading online luxury magazines. This blog is just my way of sharing with the world a different take on motherhood, away from all the sugary, sachharine-dipped stuff people usually associate with it. If you think I suck, let me know it. And if you can actually empathise, do do do let me know that too!!

It takes a village to raise a Mother


Recently, on a mothers’ group, someone posted an anonymous post, and it was a very distressed mother from the looks of it.

The mother was extremely upset—to the point of hitting her child, locking him up in the room and letting him cry himself to sleep—and the reason was that he “preferred” her mom-in-law over her. He followed his grandma around wherever she went but he didn’t do the same for his mom. The kid even followed his grandfather—her father in law—but just didn’t seem to care about his mom. It made her so furious that she refused to breast feed her child that day. And then she also spoke about how she had left a high paying job for the kid and she is not back in shape after having had a baby.

At first look people would judge this mother, calling her horrible and irresponsible and all sorts of insensitive things. Almost everyone was on the ‘side’ of the baby, little realising that the mother and the baby are always on the same side. When one is angry and hurt, the other cannot remain happy.

This post was a cry for help. This lady needs a lot of love and tons of hand holding and hugging—and more importantly, empathy.

Having been there myself—hitting my son and unintentionally taking my frustrations out on him—I truly, deeply feel for mothers who are so distressed.

The problem in the above case, the way it appears to be, is that the lady in question has many frustrations piling up one upon another. She is hurt and upset by the fact that she had to let go of a successful career, and she probably has major differences with her in-laws, so the idea of her son—whom she considers a part of her soul, and for whom she made major sacrifices—preferring those people over her, people whom she probably dislikes intensely, makes her feel unloved and defeated.

The lady didn’t speak of her husband, but I’m guessing there’s a lot of frustration there as well. If the husband were supportive and affectionate, she would find the love that she craved from him and not feel quite so possessive of her son. The boy in question is merely 2 years old.

This mother is perhaps a quintessential example of distressed moms in our society, who suffer intensely on account of a lack of love and appreciation. Lack of love makes us lonely and angry. Lack of love makes us bitter.

In addition this is also a showcase of the problem that ails women by and large, even unconsciously: having to let go of all your dreams for the sake of motherhood, and then attaching all those unfinished goals and unfulfilled expectations with your child.

People expect the mother to be mature, grown up and sacrificing and able to handle every problem even at the cost of her own wellness. That is too much pressure on a young woman, especially a first time mother, and especially one who had to let go of a successful career. People forget that the world of parenting is as new to a young mother as the world of people is new to the baby. The child and mother are both growing together, both learning to navigate in and make sense of an unknown environment, facing stresses they never faced before, coping in a high pressure world. The new mother is almost as vulnerable as the newborn. She needs to be taken care of and soothed and loved as much as the little baby—and yet she is the one responsible for the rearing and nurturing and keeping alive of one whole human being, while no one pays the scantest attention to her needs.

Inevitably, her pent up frustration pours out on the child. And then the world shames the mother for being cruel to her child, the world shames her for being incompetent, the world shames her for not being “mother enough”.

What’s to be done in this scenario?

Let me hark back to the famous statement: it takes a village to raise a child.

Now let me twist it a bit: It takes a village to raise a mother.

What we are used to is the idea of insta-mothers served up in 9 months with garnish on top. Mothers, on the contrary, are created over years and years; they grow and evolve and learn on the job. A mother is a human being first. She is an individual first. She has her own needs and desires and dreams and problems and expecting them to put everything aside and just focus on being a mother is downright cruel. It takes a village to raise a mother because when everyone chips in to ease the burden on her, only then can she be a happy woman and, by consequence, a happy mother.

Unhappy women do not make happy mothers. How can they? You can only give what you have in the first place, and if you have no joy in your heart, how can you share it with others?

It is the imperative therefore, of the entire village—the new age village that includes not just spouse, in laws, parents, friends but also bosses, co-workers and flexible workplaces—to raise the child and also raise the mother. Raise her happiness levels, raise her self-esteem and her self-worth so she does not have to live her life bearing only the burden of sacrifices.

In the case mentioned above, the mother is plagued with extreme insecurity related to her child, she is stressed by feelings of rejection that arise from her child following his grandparent about, “preferring” them over her.

Herein lies another major problem that I’ve talked about on several previous occasions: making your child your only source of joy and love in life, attaching all your dreams to him/her. It has happened for decades in previous generations— when women were deprived of love from every other source, focusing solely on the child—and still happens when women give up all their dreams for motherhood.

The child was not born to fulfil your expectations or fill the gaps in your soul. Every child is born with a destiny of his/her own, with a purpose in life to be fulfilled by him/her alone. Your children will not remain attached to you forever, they will—and they need to—become independent and find their way in life and find other attachments and people to love. It is important for them to have healthy relationships not just with grandparents but also siblings, friends, classmates, teachers, girlfriends/boyfriends, spouses, co-workers and so on. With each new relationship their circle will get bigger and you will naturally have to share more and more. How then will you find the strength to let go?

It is extremely important, therefore, for a mother to have other people to bond with—spouse, siblings, friends, co-workers, neighbours. Other sources of love and joy in life. And also to keep following one’s own dreams, perhaps a little more slowly than before, perhaps with some breaks, but keep following them nevertheless—to keep a sense of purpose and direction in life. To have other sources of achievements and fulfilment than just ‘parenting’.  Not only does it ease the misery of your heart, it will greatly ease the debilitating burden of expectations upon your child.

Lastly, but most importantly, when you’re under extreme stress, get help. Get professional help from a therapist or counsellor, or at least approach your closest friends and confidantes. You mental wellness is paramount, and approaching a psychologist/counsellor does not mean you are ‘mad’, any more than approaching a doctor means that you are disabled for life. (No offence to differently abled people.) It merely means that you’re facing a health issue at a certain point in time, and proper care and treatment will lead you to wellness once again.

To the lady who was facing those issues, if you happen to be reading this, let me first hug you. One big, squishy hug to let you know you are not alone. We’ve all been there, and it’s terrible, but trust me you’ll come out of this, and both you and your baby will be happy. You are loved, my dear, especially by all of us mothers out here. One big solidarity bump.

But one word of advice to you—and to all those mothers reading this.

Mothers, please put yourself first.

Yes, you heard that right. The world will tell you to put your baby first, put your family first, and some people will go to the lengths of calling you selfish if you dare to voice your own desires and any kind of ambition for yourself.

Don’t pay any attention to them.

Tune them out like static and ugly sounds from a bad radio. Turn them off like that hollering news anchor on TV (you know who I mean). Shut them down like the gaping smelly mouth of a toilet seat.

The child does not come first. The Mother comes first.

Mothers, please learn to value your sanity, your happiness and your dreams as well. And most of all learn to focus on your health and wellness, because that is crucial to happiness.

Relatives and family members, stop pressurising the woman to sacrifice everything for her child. Stop putting a halo atop the heads of mothers and turning them into martyrs.

Stop worshipping the kind of mom for whom ‘nothing is more important than her child’.

Everything has its due importance in life. Friends, family, work, ambition, children and yes, the self. The mother must not be pressurised to give up all of them and keep just one.

And yes, I’ll say it again to you— the mother must come first. Before you think of what’s best for the child, think of what’s best for the mother. Because unless she is in the best state of mental, physical and emotional wellness, the child cannot thrive.

Think of it this way: the mother is most important for the child’s well-being, and if anything bad were to happen to her, who would be most affected? The child. If you would not be functioning one hundred per cent healthy and happy, who would be most affected? Your child. So, for the sake of your child, put yourself first. Treat your health, wellness and happiness as paramount. That’s what I always tell my mother. If you don’t take care of yourself, who’s going to be there for us? Who will we turn to whenever we are down and out?

And that’s what I say to all mothers out there: For the sake of your children at least, take care of your own self.

For you must always remember, you can only give what you have.

Mom n Child





Who’s watching your mess?


Our cosy little two-bedroom flat high up in a tower has an open kitchen, like most others in Delhi/NCR. Whatever goes on in there is visible to everyone else, including the guests.

To the visiting relatives from our respective native towns this is blasphemy.

“Oh! You have an open kitchen! I seriously can’t stand those,” says a visiting lady.

She is one of those relatives on my ‘nice’ list and if this statement had come from anyone but her, I’d have taken it as an insult. This being her though, I laugh amiably.

She continues. “Everyone gets to see the clutter inside the kitchen! It’s so awkward and uncomfortable.” I laugh a bit more, for I am genuinely amused. I’d have contradicted her, but I can’t do it out of the respect I have for her. I know what she means though.

Sajjad looks at me with a meaningful glance. He rarely ever contradicts relatives but every so often he will give me this fleeting glance to let me know he and I are on the same side.

I know he loves open kitchens as much as I do—even more, to be honest. Even better, he will often talk dreamily of us having a home with an island kitchen—you know, the kind with high stools arranged round an ‘island’ countertop right in the centre of the room. He’s had this dream for a long time now, and he will always come up to me holding a magazine or a newspaper supplement in his hand, pointing to an advertisement of a gorgeous designer home with an island kitchen that is to die for. The sheer enthusiasm with which he shows me these glossy pictures, the confidence with which he promises me that one day we’ll have such a kitchen is absolutely endearing. It makes me laugh. But he also knows it’s not a certain kind of home that makes me happy. It’s the people I’m sharing it with.

On the subject of kitchens, though, I’d take an open one any day. I’d take the oneness of the open kitchen that merges it with the rest of the house, bringing it within the fold of family space, as opposed to a restricted, sweaty space where women alone are segregated.

The kitchen in my flat opens into the lobby, with the dining table visible directly from the cooking space. This dining table is more of a watering hole for the family—a place to sit and chat or read or write. So when Sajjad sits there reading the newspaper, or doing nothing but waiting for food to be served, we can chit chat across the kitchen and the lobby and hold entire conversations as the food is cooked. Sometimes he might come and start cooking alongside me. Or when he’s cooking and I’m at the dining table reading a book or writing one of my articles, we still feel like we’re in the same room, close to each other, and cooking becomes a family activity. My son is the one who utilises the open kitchen to its fullest—dragging his little chair close to the counter and standing on it to investigate the recipe every time something is being cooked. He is a regular little chef in the making, and roots ardently for his dad every time he sees the big man cooking.

An open kitchen makes the culinary space gender-neutral and inclusive somehow, welcoming the entire family with its open arms. The closed kitchens I’ve seen all my life, both at my mother’s house and at my in-laws’ place seem somehow designed to keep the kitchen a private, sacrosanct area. My impressions of them alternate between two extremes: sometimes an exclusive club meant for dominance by a few, at other times a ghetto meant for an underprivileged minority.

I’d rather not be in either of those.

As for the mess on display that our relative complained of, I am reminded of a statement by Adil Ahmad, founder of The Palace Collection and one of India’s best interior designers, whom I interviewed last year. His office was a riot of colours and objects as I walked into it, and this is how he described it: “Contrived Clutter.” A meticulous kind of mayhem.

He told me he was put off by homes that looked like showrooms when you entered them—homes that had no personality of their own. What he liked instead, were spaces that were “well lived”, spaces that said you had been on a journey. And journeys, as we all know, aren’t just made by road, rail or air. The kitchen is the living example of culinary maps charted out and journeys undertaken every day.

So if you have guests over today, for instance, and the kitchen is full of sights and smells  that speak of the journey you undertook to create that magic loaded onto the dining table, what’s wrong if they get a glimpse of it?

I suppose it is again connected with the differences in perception between this generation and the previous one. For them, it was very important that the messes and the chaos be pushed behind a curtain, and only a perfect façade put on display. For people like me, life is beautiful regardless of the clutter, for that is an equal part of who we are.

Messes are to be celebrated. They speak of a full life—a chaotic one, perhaps, but a real life. One that is filled with sounds of laughter and shrieks of glee— as opposed to the silence of a morgue. Celebrations, reunions are punctuated with noise and revelry. Loneliness is silent.

What’s a little mess on display compared to all of that shared joy?

Waiting for the story?

So what happens next? 

All you lovely folks out there who’ve been waiting for the story of The Reluctant Reproductionist to continue, please don’t worry. You’ll get to read the rest of the tale. Just bear with me awhile, and I promise you’ll get the whole story straight from the horse’s mouth. Meanwhile, I hope you enjoy being my companions on these other little trips through life!


Little philosopher: Talking of death with my 5-year-old


Reading about Stephen Hawking’s death reminded me, for some reason, about my 5 year old’s obsession with death. This originated when he attended a funeral with me about 6 months ago, the funeral of a very young mother who left behind two kids quite close to my son’s age. It originated from him watching her still body and everyone else crying around it. It is far, far too early for him to be watching this spectacle. My mom never let me go to funerals and the first funeral I attended was after my marriage. I still remember how crushed I felt at seeing the silent face in the shroud, even though the lady was not closely related to me. For a 5 year old, the spectacle must have a profound impact.

Since then he often asks me whether I will die and whether he will, too. Importantly, the questions on death are always about him and me, never anyone else. And I tell him, yes, we will. Everyone dies. But I soften the blow by saying that we won’t die until we live to be a hundred years. I will be a hundred at least before I die, and you will be a hundred or more before you do ! He is satisfied for the time being, but the next day he will talk of death again– his and mine.
I hear him out patiently and answer his questions again. Questions on the body, questions on the spirit, questions on graves and questions on the afterlife. And one day, his baby-sitter who lives with us could bear it no more.

“Kyun karte rehte ho aisi batein?” She interjected restlessly, clearly distressed. Why do you keep saying such things?

And I was struck by how I, despite being his mother, never stopped him and never felt disturbed by his talks of our deaths. Talking and thinking of death has been a way of life with me. I am not perturbed by this, I do not consider it an ill omen and I do not feel afraid. I can talk calmly about death. Because I have been dealing with it since I was 9.

And yet it is sometimes surprising to me that my son can talk about it at 5.

In all of these 5 years, for the first time I realised what I enjoy the most with my boy. Quiet, heart to heart talks on topics far too philosophical for 5 year olds.
And I remember then, that I used to call him ‘little philosopher’ , for the expression on his face when he was 5 days old.

Chapter 45: The ‘Happily Married’ Divorcee

{Disclaimer: This post contains extreme views that you might be gravely offended by. Enter at your own risk.}

Chapter 45

May 15, 2014

Every time the thought of killing myself comes to me, I ask myself these questions. Who would be the one most affected by my death? No, not my child—my mother. Children seldom love their mothers as much as mothers love their offspring. She’d already lived half her life grieving her love’s untimely demise. I couldn’t gift her another lifetime of grief.

And then, I tell myself, there’s always an alternative to ending your life: End the source of your misery. If it’s a relationship that makes you feel helpless, end it.

Yes, I did just say that. Divorce is one of the f-words of our small town culture, especially if mentioned by a woman. But what is the point of being in a relationship that foists all of its disadvantages upon you without manifesting the delightful advantages? It makes you deal with unmanageable kids, endless parenting duties, heckling relatives and everything else that comes with marriage, but it provides no love, no care, no moments of laughter and tenderness, no moments of passion and lovemaking, no moments of exploring the world together, no moments of pouring your heart out to each other. It’s a travesty of a marriage that provides no companionship.

Why would I let myself be encumbered with a marriage that had become a farce of itself?

Marriage isn’t something beautiful on its own, beauty in life and in death. It isn’t a rose, beautiful in withering—fragrance inseparable from dried petals that grace the coffee table in a pot-pourri. Marriage is a living animal of flesh and blood, a human being. Beauty and innocence and trust, when it’s born; healthy and strong and purposeful when nurtured, slowly growing strong enough to withstand the inevitable blows and cuffs of life.  But withering makes it ugly. Neglect and abuse deform it— like the perishable human self. And when it dies, it becomes a rotting, decaying carcass. No matter how much you love someone, you can’t keep their corpse with you forever.

Why should the corpse of a marriage remain?

A successful marriage isn’t one that lasted for so many decades, as our grandmothers have lectured us forever. It isn’t one that trudged on unhappily, with one partner oblivious of the agony of the other. A successful marriage is one where the love lasts. A loveless marriage is no marriage at all. It is a bitter separation cloaked in the hypocrisy of dutifulness.

The irony of my situation then, is almost laughable. To want to end a marriage that was beloved, cared for and cherished like a chubby little pampered child.

Only, where was the marriage now? Where was that man now? Meeting him periodically for exactly 6 days after 5 months. Is that a marriage? Bringing up a baby alone—with your mother or your mother in law for help. Is that a marriage? Staying with your parents/in-laws and working on your job. Is that a marriage?

What does it mean to be married? Is marriage an institution for producing kids and bringing them up? But a single woman can bring up kids too— you could go for adoption like Sushmita Sen, or you could just get someone to donate their sperm.

No woman wishes to be encumbered with a virtually partner-less marriage. Marriage is partnership. It is friendship. It is a pledge of love.

It’s the brick and mortar of the walls you live in. Would you still call it a home if you could live in it for just two weeks in a year? Would you still be owning a home if for the rest of the entire year you’d be sleeping out on the pavement?

Homeless homeowner. Partnerless marriage.


On the subject of divorce, we’re rather fond of patting our backs. We look at the higher divorce rates in other countries, and we flaunt our 50-year long marriages with all the pride of the champion. Not all 50-year-long marriages really are marriages, though.

Divorce is terrible. It’s terrible for a sacred bond to have to be broken. Most of all, the reason why most elders would talk you out of divorce is to protect the children from being subjected to the hurts of a broken home. When the parents live together, the child gets the nurturing that’s his/her right. They live in a happy, balanced home and they learn the correct dynamics of a healthy, respectful man-woman relationship. A divorce breaks that connection; it breaks the home into jagged shards of itself. Even then, families do come together on events like birthdays and festivals. At least once, maybe twice a year.

But then how is that any different from one of those marriages where the husband is settled abroad, and the wife takes care of the kids—living either with her own parents or those of her husband—and the man comes to visit his family just about once a year—or even less? How does that not qualify for a broken home? The son, the daughter, meets the father just once, twice in the span of 12 months— 365 days. They are left wanting for attention—there’s neither that fatherly love nor the fatherly discipline for the rest of those fatherless days. How then does it qualify to be better than a divorce?

Only on paper, only in your mind.

Only in the lessons we’ve been taught about our purpose in life being to serve quietly and never demand.

Only in being able to escape the word ‘divorcee’ that would stick to you like a crown of thorns for the rest of your life. But in truth, your plight is worse.

There ain’t no divorcee like a ‘happily married’ divorcee.



(Postscript: There are various circumstances—such as those of a member of the Armed Forces, for instance, where the distance between families becomes unavoidable. The difference between those cases and this is that when you marry such a person, you make an informed decision; you make a choice knowing full well its consequences. But that is only when you’ve made an informed choice, not merely out of societal norms. )


Chapter 44 (ii) Levels of Life: The Meltdown (Part II)


May 12, 2014

I am quietly sitting in the verandah, eating a bowl of home-set curd. My mom’s special home-set curd is one of my top ten favourite foods on earth. And suddenly Hasan comes pattering to my seat, spies the pot of boiled milk sitting on the table, to be cooled before putting in the fridge, and with all the naughtiness of a one-year-old, smacks the entire pot to the ground.

It’s nothing, really. Children do these things all the time. A potful of spilt milk actually means little, except for our belief that all food and drink is sacred sustenance from Allah and must never be wasted. I’m mostly unperturbed and ask the maid to mop it up.

And then who should come barging in but Grandma Bazooka.

Arrey! All the milk! The whole bhagona ! Ye larki ek minute bhi apna bachha nahi dekh sakti!” (This chit of a girl can’t mind her child for even a single minute!)

Like I said, rants such as these are commonplace in Indian homes. They’re not meant unkindly, and you learn to ignore them.

But not this time.

The hollering continues. My mind goes numb.

Each sound, each sentence passes dully through my brain like a buzz of background sounds. White noise rings in my ears. And then one by one, every vein in my brain snaps, gushing blood in the insides of my skull.

My lips don’t move. My eyes don’t cloud over. I see everything move in slow motion.

My hand hurls down the bowl of curd with all the force it can muster, spilling the curd all over the floor.

WIthout a word I get up, put on my abaya, grab my purse and laptop, and leave. Leave my hollering child and hollering grandma behind.

There is no place I want to go to. No friends left in Aligarh. No refuge.

Soon I find myself facing a popular Café. I get in there, switch on my laptop and get a coffee. And then another. And then a third. Shut down my laptop again. Go out on the road. And walk. Just walk. Several kilometres at a stretch.

The other half of the day I walked all over town,” I write later to a close friend. “I’m not a walker. I never walk. Hardly ever. I prefer being driven around. But I had so much rage that day…. I walked and walked and walked….”

It is then that I see it: the name plate on the metal gates of a beautiful house.

Dr P, Psychologist/Counsellor.

And I know. This is what I have to do. This is what I need.

I can’t end up killing myself. Or my son.

I go right up to the door.

Locked. Just my luck.

I walk around some more, unsure of where to go. Home doesn’t seem home anymore.

And then I see the sun casting heavily slanting rays, and realise I haven’t offered my namaz.

Faith is such a funny thing. Some people kill for it. How accursed they are! Because faith is meant to save you.

“Namaz saved me,” I write in my email to the friend.  “I suppose faith saves one from doing a lot of horrible stuff… However, I find no peace in prayers these days. I just pray because I can’t stop believing in God. It’s not a habit. It’s because I know.”

I go back home then, to offer namaz. But cry all through the evening, deep into the night. My eyes hurt for a long time.

Every day I make an agenda to keep myself from destroying myself. That’s not an exaggeration. A hundred times I sit and imagine different ways of killing me. Though I know I won’t. (Faith, again). Some days are better, some are worse. Some days I wake up angry. Some days I wake up crying.”

And then I tell her. “I guess I liked Levels of Life so much for two reasons: one, I can feel the self-centred dark grief in there, the same grief that consumes now. That makes me contemplate suicide all the time. He didn’t do it, though. And neither will I.

But I like it because I can understand how it feels to be lonely and hollow all the time.”

To be in the darkest levels of life.

Chapter 44: Levels of Life: The Meltdown (Part I)

“You put together two people who have not been put together before. Sometimes it is like that first attempt to harness a hydrogen balloon to a fire balloon: do you prefer crash and burn, or burn and crash?

But sometimes it works, and something new is made, and the world is changed. Then, at some point, sooner or later, for this reason or that, one of them is taken away. And what is taken away is greater than the sum of what was there. This may not be mathematically possible; but it is emotionally possible.” 

Julian Barnes, Levels of Life

The Meltdown Part I

May 8, 2014

There are separations, other than death, that might sometimes induce the same kind of grief.

Before we move deeper into this post, let me give my non-Indian readers a little perspective on the (now virtually defunct) proverb “spare the rod and spoil the child.” Though now you might gasp in horror at this, culturally, we’re inclined to not spare the rod at all. I’m quite sure most of us have been slapped, smacked and spanked as kids, and I can say this with deep certitude—hand on heart—that we weren’t even scarred on the skin, let alone scarred for life. Each one of us remembers the spankings more as a joke from the past, like the mischiefs that you fondly recall. And no one hates their parents—absolutely no one, nor do we harbour the slightest resentment against them. If anything, we remember being mollycoddled too much, with all the favourite desserts and picnics and hugs and family banter. The spanking and slapping is part of these memories, if I can ever make you understand.

I remember my father always kept a cane atop his almirah, and the cane was named ‘S.S. Verma’ short for Samjhavan Singh Verma.  Loosely translated to Mr Make-it-clear Jones. The cane never got an opportunity to be taken down—it was more of a psychological rod than a physical one—the mere mention of it was enough to get me to behave! Almost a decade later when we happened to get hold of it, there was much oohing and aahing between me and my sister, like we just discovered an old haunted relic.

But times have changed now, and everyone strictly reprimands you for beating children—even the older generation who dished it out with aplomb in their day. But even their dishing had been sparse and far between, and girls were hardly at the receiving end. The boys bore most of the ‘rod’, and never violently or frequently.

Nothing like the violence that had grabbed hold of me now.

My son was just about 19 months old and I had begun hitting him.

Shaking him. Slapping. My mother used to whisk him away immediately when these violent fits came upon me. “She will kill him!” She used to wail and lament—a tad dramatically. And what I really wanted to do was kill myself.

I wanted to be killed for slapping my 19 month old baby. I wanted to scream in agony, to scratch my own hands. I hated myself. If this had been another country, perhaps I would be behind bars. Which would be quite justified. I was turning into a potential danger to my own offspring.

At my in laws place: Late into the night, I’m trying in vain to talk to Sajjad on the phone — our calls are always so few and far between– but Hasan just won’t let me, grabbing the phone or making a fuss. I yank him up and almost dump him down in his walker, in the other room. He is shocked for a second and then starts wailing. Sajjad’s mom rushes to pick him up and soothe him.

In my mother’s house: I am trying to write—my refuge from the world— and Hasan is playing happily, toys all strewn around the floor. Grandma Bazooka barges in.

Now Grandma Bazooka is an Amazonian Woman species— the kind of person who’s the best ally to have in a war. She’s the best person to have your back, to bite down anyone who tries to chew you off. Her sense of justice, straight as an arrow, causes her to draw out her quiver every time she so much as whiffs any kind of unfairness—particularly to her loved ones.

The downside of this battle-readiness, of course, is the excess emphasis on discipline and things being just right all the time, like a military general.

Which means that she enters the room hollering.

“Oh this girl is useless! She can’t handle anything! She can’t handle her own child! All the toys are strewn round the floor! Why can’t you keep the room clean for heaven’s sake!”

This isn’t really a big deal. Yelling at your kids and grandkids is a routine occurrence in Indian homes—we all take it for granted and nobody bats an eyelid. Nobody who’s in their normal frame of mind, that is. And that’s not me right now.

I fly into a rage and shake the child, and shake him, and shake him. “Why! Why why why can’t you stop throwing toys around! Why!!” I yell and shake with anger. My mom rushes in from the other room and sweeps him away from my wrath.

I hide my face in my knees, rocking back and forth, sobbing uncontrollably.

At night in my bed: Hasan went to sleep at 8 pm. Relief, right? Exactly at 9pm, he wakes up. Fresh as a daisy. At 11 pm my eyes are heavy with sleep, and he is pushing his little fingers all the way up my nose, poking them into my eyes, doing his best to keep me awake. I am dying of exhaustion, having been at his beck and call all day. I sing him a lullaby, desperate to be free. Doesn’t work. I pat him again and again on the back, trying to induce sleep. I try and try and try for another half-hour. Nothing.

And then I imagine smashing his head into the wall.

And I slap him.

For some reason, this works like a charm. He cries at first and then nods off.

And then I lie awake in bed, watching the revolving blades of the fan. Round and round and round and round. And I see me.

Hair strewn over the face, neck in a looped rope, feet dangling limp.

I see myself hanging from the fan, eyes blank and bulging with the stare of death. Round and round and round and round and round.

I cannot sleep.

Daytime on my rooftop: Trees sway around in the cool breeze, and I’m here to breathe deep and relax. Nature is always such a refuge. And I look down casually from the third floor.

I see me there, down below.

I see my body, skull cracked open. Fallen from the top, plastered on the earth.

Blood oozing in a puddle.

Slowly I turn, and heavily climb down.

There is no refuge.