Proof of Identity

When I was in the 7th STD, I turned in (what I thought was a brilliant) essay on my ambition. I wanted to be a housewife. With three children and two dogs, reigning serenely over a house that was drenched in sunlight and stuffed with books. Oh and I also wanted to write.

My essay was not received the way the others were. Even as I type this, I'm still seething at the way our English teacher took my composition book to other classrooms to laugh at my expense.

But I'm wandering off the point of this post.

My point is, I've always wanted the life I have now. No more worrying about deadlines, a husband who is more than everything I dared dream of, and a wonderful baby boy. I finally did it. I should be thrilled.

So why am I feeling all blurry around the edges?

Maybe it has to do with the way I cannot recognize this new woman who gapes back at me from the mirror. Who has gone in the space of one year from seemingly-anorexic to definitely-wannabe- fertility goddess.

Perhaps it has to do with the stage whisper that I overheard. The one about how I pissed away my education "for nothing, to be nothing".

Or the way my heart crashes near my swollen ankles every time my husband reassures me that he really doesn't care what I look like. When did that go from being comforting to downright scary?

But what brought it home was the way the pen pusher at the local village office laughed at my attempts to change my maiden name today. Apparently they don't let you do that because husbands can and do change, while you can only have one set of parents all your life. So my husband and son have the same surname, I don't. What the hell!

I spent over an hour convincing said pen pusher that I have every right to take on my husband's name. I even waved a page from Femina that gave details on just how to go about it. No go. I'm allowed one name, one identity all my life. I'm always somebody's daughter, they couldn't care less that I'm also a wife and mother.

After a whole morning spent running from one government office to another clutching a file full of 'identity proofs', I staggered home sweaty and exhausted. And screeching at me through the window was my 8 month old son. This was the first time I had spent hours away from him, and his tiny heart was broken. He squealed till I walked into the living room and then he flew out of his grandmother's arms straight into mine, puking in delight down my neck. And after I was done apologizing profusely for sneaking out, we were back to our favorite game - trying to teach him to say Amma. As always, he stared at me as I said "Ammmmmmaaaa" and then dissolved in helpless laughter as if it was the funniest thing he's heard all week. And it probably was.

There we were, rolling on the toy-strewn bed, laughing, squealing, cuddling. Was I really feeling low only a few minutes ago?

I'm his Amma, the best he's ever known. And I intend to do my darned best to stay that way.