The Birth of Baby

The baby would not be born.

The mother did not believe in sacrifices or martyrdom.
The mother grew taller instead.

It was enough for now that one could enjoy the same sleeplessness of baby care all night long talking about pop spirituality. The mother had understood finally what it meant to be mindful. It was not an achievement to treat lightly. Conversation and its heart had to be carved from language that was always inadequate. Baby babble had no place in this complexity.

It was enough for now that the days were spent dreaming. Matching her nose with his lips. Her cheeks with his jaw. His hair but her texture. His height but her curves. And gender? Would the universe be contrary? Would they have a boy because they would love to have a girl?

The baby could, naturally, choose what it wanted to be when it was time to decide. Mindful as they were, this decision about identity would always be personal and left to the sole discretion of the baby.

The baby would be born independent. The baby would be born a personality already. The baby would be born amidst happy wishes from the families who had given up any dreams of newness and rejuvenation. The baby would assuage ancestors and aid rebirths.

The baby would grow up surrounded by books. The baby would learn solipsism. The baby would learn to present clever arguments (from her) with a solid backing of facts (from him). The baby would be utterly special and have dimples, surely.

The baby would not be born, though.

There was no time.
The world was in a hurry to be fucked over.

The father wanted to travel, to explore other bodies, different spaces.
The father hated convention although he was the most traditional of men deep where it all really mattered. The father was a rarity in that he was also a sensitive man and deeply respectful of men and women and their bodies and their desires. The father spoke gently, firmly, and in a quiet voice. The father had a warm, soothing touch. When the father hugged, it was as if the entire world was cloaked in the hug accepting and loving. The father could teach and talk patiently. The father was kind. The father was funny. He knew how to horse around and laugh loudly at himself and the world. The father lit up the world. The father was sunshine. The father would make a great parent.

The baby would not be born, though.

There was no time.
The mother’s eggs were depleting unfucked.

The mother also suffered from commitment issues. The mother could not see herself as a parent for all the rest of her life. After years, she finally adjusted to the thought of being yoked to a man, to people, to a family. As long as they didn’t make demands on her. As long as they let her read and sleep and keep her friends and clothes. As long as she was not expected to cook everyday. The mother was all about discovering herself and happiness. The mother was selfish and satisfied and completely unsuitable to be revered as a mother. The mother harboured secret ambitions of being a whore. The mother was after all a woman. The mother was the turbulent sea on a full moon night. The mother was powerful and giving. But she didn’t want to give up her life.

The baby would demand many tiny sacrifices.
It would start with him having to put aside more money as savings. Money he would have used to visit friends in his favourite city. It would start with him having to make hard decisions about his future. He was a man who liked living in the present. It would start with her not being able to smoke that cigarette on weekends and have that wine. It would start with her not being able to meet a man to discuss business because her stomach was bloated and she had flatulence which is so unladylike, especially in a business woman.

The mother could not have a baby because she already had one. Her work needled her, pushed her to perform, behave, sleep less. The work sat on her waist and held her across her neck choking her, claiming her, smothering her maternity. And if the baby were born, the baby would roll plumply around the bed and make cooing noises so that she would have to hoist it up on her bare thighs and sing old Hindi songs to it. The baby would watch her work and wail its importance indignantly. The baby would demand to be fed from fat, overflowing breasts that mother already suffered with. And then the baby would spit the milk onto manuscripts and ruin a day’s work as it laughed in gay abandon.

The baby would not be born in gay abandon. The baby would be born as a deliberation, almost as a deliverance.

It was best if the baby would not be born, though.

The baby would demand that the love between mother and father get trivial, common, base. The baby would maybe even demand that they have sex. The baby would watch gleefully as its strong father pinned its powerful mother against the wall and kissed her instead of merely asking her for time or a holiday.

And then the baby would be born.

It was best if the baby would not be born, though.

Then the baby could watch the parents go about their lives confused, hiding huge, gaping baby-sized holes in their bodies because they forgot what they did with each other and the baby when they could have done something about the baby and each other.

Mother would suddenly grow dimples then and colour her hair red. The father’s mole would darken and his frown lines would become more pronounced.

But the baby might also watch how the parents would wait sensibly for the universe to iron out all lies. The parents would understand the true nature of love (it defies explanation).

The parents would tell stories about the truth of their lives. They would deny convention, labels, and demonstrate through simple joys and powerful loving how life is to be experienced.

The baby would not need to be born then because the mother would have found her dreams and the father his happiness.

And that is when the baby will be born.