The First Rebellion – II
Was the rebellious streak an acquired personality trait or a natural disposition? The first rebellion might tell something about it.
Before the mummy-mausi team decided to force-feed the stubborn child, they had tried a gentler approach. Recalling the ordeal, my mother and mausi told that In the first attempt, my mother had placed the nipple of the bottle in my mouth and squeezed it, filling my mouth with milk. My cheeks bulged and she removed the bottle, hoping I would eventually take in the milk in a big swallow. Instead, I did a big spill the moment the bottle was removed and bared my gums in a big, amused smile of celebration, like it were a game I had won. They were amused and laughed. I joined in with a joyous squeal like a happy baby seal.
But since the quantity of mother’s milk available was fast dwindling, they tried again, hoping for a different result, and got the same. When I repeatedly rejected the bottle, mausi came up with the idea of holding my mouth shut after squeezing the milk in, forcing me to swallow. After all, the little child could hold his breath only for so long and would have to swallow at some point. It had to be a tormenting experience for the child and even though they thought it necessary because I was not getting enough milk otherwise, my mother couldn’t sufficiently steel her heart to do it herself. So my mother stood by while mausi tried the trick.
They thought it was just a matter of starting and after the first time, I would be fine with the substitution of mother’s milk with the other milk. But I held my ground and breath much longer and way more doggedly than they had expected. Cheeks ballooned as the milk filled my mouth. The face went red and tears welled up in my eyes as I held my breath by sheer force of will while mausi kept her palm firmly on my mouth, preventing me from powering the milk out. When it became too difficult for me to hold my breath any longer, and before my mother could intervene, I clenched my fists and thrashed around violently with all the might of my little body to successfully dislodge the bottle from my mouth. The thick, white gush of milk hit mausi flush in the face. But this time what followed was not a gummy smile but an angry wail of resounding protest.
Although impelled by necessity to nourish me, my mother and mausi felt very sad and guilty for having put me through the torturous struggle. To make it worse, I made my anger unmistakably known by refusing to be picked up by mausi for a few days. Every time she came forward to pick me up, I would frown at my characteristic, disapproving frown, hold my palms out and start pushing her away, the frown deepening and a gurgling growl welling in my throat. So for a few days I could only be picked up by my mother. When I grew up, Mausi told me how sad it made her to be so angrily rejected by the child she had taken care of since his birth. Although my disapproval of her lasted only a week or so, it was still hurtful. Understandably.
However, they didn’t have the heart to try the bottle on me again, but the problem remained. Sunita Didi (Baby Didi, I called her), the eldest daughter of my mother’s only real sister and sibling (Chhoti Amma to me), chanced upon a short-term solution — honey. It just so happened that one day my mother was bathing and Baby Didi was attending to me (leaving me unattended was always risky). I started crying and didn’t even want to play. Since the milk bottle was out of question, she got some honey in a spoon, dipped her finger into it and offered it to me. I held on to her finger, sucking (“What’s the yummy stuff, big sis?”). That’s how honey became her go-to when I cried. She called it my preferred bribe (rishwat). “Rishwatkhor chana bator,” she would chant, offering me honey and pulling my cheeks while I went nom-nom on her honey-dipped finger. To this day I have no clue what the line means.
My mother was glad that at least some other food than mother’s milk had met my approval. But honey was no replacement. So they tried supplemental milk again. This time, when I was in a playful mood, my mother propped me up against a pillow, held a tiny glass of milk to my lips, made me hold it with both of my chubby hands and tilted it a little bit, slowly and carefully, supporting the bottom of the glass with two fingers. I drank. From then on, I would drink milk from the glass though I never quite liked it. But I had bypassed the bottle entirely and moved on to drinking straight from the glass as long as it was in my hands.
From my general disposition, my mother had theorised that it was perhaps not about the bottle or the glass, but simply about choice and agency. As time passed and I grew, the theory proved accurate, as it became increasingly apparent that I could consent to authority but instinctively resisted imposition. No authority — parental, societal or any other — could choose or decide for me without my consent. To resist authoritarian imposition was as much part of my basic nature as it was a principle I believed in. The Fifth Rebellion was, thus, about the exact same principle as the First.
Concluded.
