The Crying Game

It was a Saturday evening when my husband and I—portly, yet cool in my maternity dress—joined a peer group of mostly first-time parents in their late 20s and early 30s. Quite a few dads had made time. ‘‘We insist that fathers-to-be are involved in the entire process. In fact, we even encourage grandparents-to-be to come along,’’ said Ebrahim. That explained the benign older lady in the first row. We took our back bench position.

‘‘Why do we massage babies?’’ asked Ebrahim. We stared right back. Then a tiny voice volunteered, ‘‘It’s good for the baby’s growth.’’ ‘‘No! Don’t believe people who say it’s good for bone development. It is the feel-good factor, the same reason for the mother’s post-delivery massage,’’ she said, and was rewarded with murmurs of enlightenment.

Traditionally, a bai would have come home to maalish both mother and baby. The details involved in such an appointment would have included—at best—random questions about background, experience and her progeny. But that apparently is the old way. According to Ebrahim: ‘‘Do a lot of checking around. You wouldn’t want the baby to catch anything, would you?’’ ‘‘What do we do?’’ I whispered to Kunal. ‘‘Check out the bai’s home, and then figure out if we want to hire her?’’ he countered.

The second session provided some food for thought. When do you introduce solids into a baby’s diet? Obviously after the teeth appear, my smart husband mumbled. The correct answer: After four months, start the baby on rice and dal water, nachani paste and rice kheer (cow’s milk, with a little sugar). Later, add spoon-mashed peas, potatoes, moong dal khichri and fruits. Don’t purée anything in a mixer and do not try to force-feed.

A happy, well-coordinated mother sitting in the front passenger seat with a gurgling, well-fed baby on her lap. They wave at an asphyxiating crowd in a bus. That was my dream. ‘‘How can you think of putting the baby between you and danger?’’ asked Ebrahim. We felled our heads in shame. Invest in a car seat, we were corrected. In case of whiplash, it minimises the chances of damaging a baby’s neck and head.

Then came the exercises. I clasped my palms in front of my chest and using them as breast support, did a few minutes of deep breathing. No clue how that helped the baby, but it felt good.

Finally, it was time for the one thing I’m bound to lack in the coming months, even years—relaxation. Us mothers plonked down and stretched our legs. The dads were instructed to gently move their hands up and down our legs and growing tummies. Kunal obeyed and since it was an exercise, he had no option but to press my feet as well. The joys of motherhood.

Apparently, the next class is on labour. I think I’ll give it a miss and wait for the real pain.