The First Rebellion – I
Was the rebellious streak an acquired personality trait? The first rebellion might tell something about it.
I think I was entitled to a lot more pampering and quicker meeting of demands than I got as a child, given that I was born after sixteen years of my parents’ marriage and also after — and arguably as a consequence of — a lot of prayers and all the things people do to entice, cajole and bribe different deities and other granters of divine favours. Yet I got a much stricter upbringing, principally by my mother, than late-born single children usually (and rightfully, I suppose) receive.
In my parents’ defense, come to think of it, they probably did not expect to be “blessed” (I insist) with a kid like me. Maybe they should have been more particular in their prayers about the kind of kid they were hoping and praying for rather than lazily assuming all divine conferrals to be blessings. Gods can be pranksters, too. But probably my parents didn’t realize that before I happened to them, just like, growing up, I remained oblivious to all the entitlements owed and denied to me.
But seriously speaking, I have no complaints. And although I can’t exactly speak for my parents, I doubt I was a major disappointment except in respect of a few things, one of which was filial obedience, which was one thing my mother was never tired of underscoring the importance of to me. “Bachchon ko farmabardaar (Urdu for “obedient”, “dutiful”, “pliant”) hona chahiye,” she would often say, pointing to every act of obedience of other children even when the same children could be disobedient at different times. Her counter: “Doosron ki achchaiyan dekhni chahiye. Burai apni dekhni hoti hai.” Very well. Didn’t have a comeback to that.
But I wasn’t completely disobedient either, which even my mother would grudgingly concede every now and then. I was just a bit selective about it. But that’s not obedience now, is it? Obedience, by definition, admits of no choices whereas I insisted on being persuaded and convinced, reserving unreservedly at all times the right to decide each call for obedience on its own merits. Since my mother prized obedience so much, she wondered why I acted on my own judgment rather than the word of the elders. And my mother was a mighty believer of the power of nurture and the effect of company. So it was either upbringing or company that had to take the blame for my disobedient bend. And my “First Rebellion”, in addition to other similar incidents, casts a much helpful light on what lay — and lies — at the root of my disobedient conduct.
Disobedience in children is the same as rebellion in adolescents and non-conformism in full-grown adults because when children disobey, especially when it’s for a reason, they are essentially rebelling against the order of the day, or — to put it differently — refusing to conform to the prevalent norms and values. None of it — disobedience, rebellion or non-conformism — is acceptable save when it is for a sound reason, and is tolerable, without a sound reason, only and only if it does not harm, annoy or inconvenience others. That’s why parents and other well-meaning elders worry so much about disobedience in children. It worried my mother just the same. But she described me more often as obstinate than disobedient.
“Ye ziddi bahut hai. Nahi manega to nahin manega. Aur hamesha se aisa hi hai.” She was right in that it was not an acquired trait because the first time I demonstrated obstinacy was when I was an infant deriving all nutrition solely from mother’s milk. But as children grow, mother’s milk proves insufficient and has to be supplemented with milk obtained from other sources, which is when nippled bottles come into play and gradually substitute mother’s milk until the child is old enough to drink from a glass, taking solid food alongside. That’s standard child-rearing protocol. But as it happened, I hurled a spanner in the works when I declined to allow the first transition.
My mother and her distant cousin (my maasi/mausi) narrated their struggle with me during that phase in great detail on numerous occasions, which is how the entire family knows of it. First, they placed the nylon nipple of the milk bottle in my mouth, which I had no problem with. But the moment the milk was released, I moved my head and dislodged the bottle. Next, they held my mouth and placed the bottle back. I tried to move my head but maasi held it in place. I moved the head and pushed the bottle out with my tongue. Then they tried placing the nipple between my lips and making me hold the bottle with my little hands, which I did. But did not suck on it. They squeezed the bottle to release the milk. I threw the bottle aside. No deal, clever women.
They tried over and over and I repeatedly rejected them with ever-deepening frowns and louder protest wails. Soon, I was surviving only on the fast-depleting supply of mother’s milk. Desperate to feed and nourish me, they tried holding my mouth firmly and squeezing the bottle hard to push the milk down my throat. My cheeks ballooned but I still didn’t let it down the throat. Instead, I forced the milk through the corners of my mouth and shook my head with all the might I could muster, forcing the bottle off my face and sending all the milk in my mouth gushing at my oppressors with a deafening cry of protest, throwing arms and legs all over in anger and frustration.
…to be continued
