Shruti has unearthed the notes she took when she gave birth to her daughter in Pune, 22.11.1980, with midwife Vanya.
The setting of the scene is a small private clinic on the other side of town, 5 km from where P. and I have taken up domicile in this tropical country.
I come in and see the room and panic: this is where I have to give birth to my child, this badly-lit and dirty labour room? My breathing is heavy, the contractions are every 3 minutes. Where is the herbal tea I asked for at least 20 minutes ago? Nobody seems to care.
The Indian midwife says the doctor has gone out to a party; my own midwife, Scottish, also living in Poona since the beginning of this year, says, “Focus on your breathing,” and “You are in transition. The baby wants to come out now; keep panting and soon you can push…”
Why does this have to be so difficult? Didn’t I ask for a room specially set up for me to be able to give birth naturally?
No, there hadn’t been time. It’s all come too early; no towel or nappy has been bought yet. There had been an unusual thunderstorm at the end of November 1980, just after Diwali, the festival of light and new beginnings, noisily demonstrated by shooting off fireworks and loud Bollywood music… The rain had started coming down and the roof was open – a wonderful feature of our Malaysian-style bamboo hut. All our belongings were threatened.
So, with my huge 34 weeks’ pregnancy belly I started to climb up the ladder to the upstairs platform where the ‘bedroom’ was, to shelter against the fierce wind and rain, pulling the woven palm-leaf cover over the hut. Hanging from the top bamboo poles like a monkey, I breathed and thought, F***, damn, why now?
Then, Oh, this is okay. I can do it, never mind nobody being around to help….
P., my partner and the father of the baby, was in a meditation group, the Enlightenment Intensive, seeking his ‘enlightenment’. Oh well, fine, if he has to do so much catching up to do on his self development or spiritual wellbeing, so be it! I can manage, I am a strong woman! I had by this time lived for 2 years in India, working, dancing and celebrating around our beloved Guru. And now this, a baby to be born, in what for Western people would be an unusual environment – and added to this, the hostility from the Ashram because of a policy of ‘no reproduction here’. Oh, I can do it. All is well prepared.
In fact there were five other expecting mums around; we had all joined in quiet rebellion against the status quo, and supported each other. N., my closest friend, had already had hers, at home with husband and a doctor friend. All well, baby S. was 2 weeks old. I had not asked the mother what it had really been like….
The hut is strong, expertly-built by a Malaysian builder. We have completed it with tatami-style floors, soft furnishings made from Indian saris. Pillows, mattresses, kitchenware all are here, to live in moderate luxury in the back garden of a slightly dilapidated Indian mansion. We are not alone: there are at least a dozen others who have done the same thing: built their home in a tropical garden. But now I am alone. Where is everybody? And shouting a few swear words I call for help – and that’s when it happens: a sting. Then a searing pain through my lower belly. Oh, it must be a urinary tract infection, or what? Not uncommon to catch something in this climate.
After the hut is protected from the elements, I get on my bike and cycle to the Ashram medical centre. It’s just round the big block. A beautiful ride through the park, which dates back to Victorian times when the English Colonials took refuge, during summer monsoon, from the diseased Bombay plains onto the high Poona plateau, surrounded by beautiful hills. Our medical centre is also located in one of these incredibly serene settings of Maharashtra splendour: a property with a huge garden which the Ashram bought to house many of their small businesses: a soap factory, a restaurant and bar for the Westerners, rooms for groups and sessions. (All of this for growth, as this is what Poona is about: spiritual and psychological development, away from the pernicious influences of Western society, from where most of us come.)
I arrive just at closing time. Vanya, the nurse, is alone there and she says, “It’s too late to have a check-up.”
“But I have a pain, badly. And it’s important to get it sorted before the baby is due!”
Vanya confides that she is a midwife by profession back home in Scotland. Then she kindly suggests it would be a good idea to see if the baby is OK.
“Why don’t you just give me a few pills to sort out my cystitis?” I do not want to have to submit to this ordeal. “And anyway, I have a midwife, arranged ages ago. She sees me every week to prepare for the impending birth…” (Though I do not know where she is at the moment….)
Vanya gets me on the table; says that this is not to be told to anybody, because it is not standard procedure to help pregnant women at the Ashram. Our guru had long ago declared that having babies is not the way forward; there are too many souls on this planet already and personal growth happens better if we just commune with grown-ups. So the fact that she helps me now, is just that she wants to do her own conscience justice… as she can see that I am not well.
During the check-up, while Vanya is palpating with her fingers, my waters break, and she says that I am dilated, the cervix is opening. Contractions are coming every 8 minutes.
It is amazing, the world seems to become peaceful all of a sudden. I want to stay here and relax and feel good in this serene building close to the sanctuary where guru B. lives…. Yes, I so much do want to stay here. The old Victorian halls feel cool and earthy, and there is space, and nobody else is around. Would be lovely to have the baby here.
It is not to be.
I cycle back home, after Vanya has reassured me she will call a taxi that will take me from our hut to a clinic she knows, run by a well-trusted friend of our Guru, on the other side of town. No phone call is possible to book a room, no other provision for me to get there safely. Also, I have no idea how far away this clinic is.
Meanwhile, the contractions have become stronger. This really is it! I am giving birth! It’s hard to believe. I have to get off the bike several times when the contractions take over. I see the sunset slow and red, the storm has passed a while ago, and a lovely feeling of being one with existence comes over me… until two little boys, laughing and pointing at me, bring me back. I need to get home, time is pressing; there’s a baby on the way. Oh dear!
At home I pack a few things, all the time debating if I really should go… Surely I could still do this at home? I shout aloud, again and again, and this time a friend, M. from next door, comes over. I hold his hand. He gives me a hug and says I should do all the swearing I need to do and he’ll be there for me. But where is P.?
When I tell M. that my boyfriend is doing a group, he decides to go and fetch him. For maybe the first time I realize that, Yes, this baby is the product of both of us and, yes, P. should be here! Of course, he is the father, and we have done all this together so far, but why do I hesitate to want him to be here?
Things have not been all well with us recently. He did agree to have a baby with me despite the fact that he already had two boys with another woman. He has been lovely and supportive in my pregnancy; after all we travelled all the way from England to Ceylon, with first a holiday by the sea, and then, on trains, boat and buses, we came to Poona, the enclave of spiritual enlightenment.
Yet, there has been the minor factor of an old boyfriend popping up again – I had been drawn to him for spiritual nourishment…. This man was like a soft and open wave riding me toward orgasm. P. knew about my affair and tolerated it to an extent that surprised me very much.
So here I am waiting for my partner, the father of the baby, to come and join me. It is getting harder to cope with the searing pains of labour now….
My mother always told me how hard it had been to give birth to me: 35 hours of struggle. Only a cup of coffee, finally delivered by my aunt, hard to get hold of during those difficult post-war years, got me out of there!
This is not what I bargained for when I decided to conceive this little soul, not this kind of pain! Why is the prelude to birth so joyful, and how can it be that the hormones cover up all fears and worries before the onset of labour? Certainly now it is all agony!
A., another friend, had told me that it was easy to help his lady give birth. She got through it in 3 hours… back home in England.
P. finally arrives home, confused and slightly ungrounded. We hug, and yes, he suggests we go to the clinic, to be on safe ground. Home birth, much as it was intended and prepared for, was not safe for a 6 weeks’ premature birthing. My head says, “Yes, of course we have to be careful.” But my heart and guts ache at the thought of giving up all the dreams and fantasies of doing it the natural way. I feel weak and dependant and not quite in charge as I had intended. (As it happened it did go quite naturally anyway, because the doctor did not turn up until after the birth, and the only Indian midwife was not allowed to give any pain-relief.)
Meanwhile, Vanya arrives at our hut to announce that no proper taxi can be found anywhere, so she has organized for us a ‘modern’ rickshaw, one that is supposed to have soft suspension and a quiet motor. It isn’t really what it promises to be. After a hell of a ride along bumpy Poona roads, with the rush-hour traffic at its height at 6pm, and with me hanging on for dear life, or rather wishing for it to end… we arrive at Shree Clinic, on the outskirts of the other side of the city.
It is about 7pm and contractions have slowed due to the travel strains and relocation issues. Nothing seems right all of a sudden. Vanya reminds me again and again that I need to concentrate on my breathing, never mind the surroundings. But, walking around, I cannot help noticing the tiny, ill-looking baby in a cot which reminds me of a cardboard box, and a filthy one. There is a light bulb hanging over the cot, the nurse says it is to warm the premature baby…. Oh my god, is this what awaits my kid? No! I scream silently. Not mine! I want a room to give birth in and everything ‘normal’, Western style! Much energy is then dissipated, fighting for my issues, not accepting the facts, and not getting on with the birthing.
Vanya’s voice becomes more strict; I feel her patronizing and pushy. I crouch on the floor, but get up again because the blood stains and dirt put me off. So eventually I get on to the birthing table and try to do as I am told.
I remember thinking, Good that my dress is red; the blood will not show so much.
Birthing pains are fierce by now and still I spend too much energy on what could have been or what should have been…. In labour, a lot of women experience a moment of wanting to give up, or find themselves loudly stating that they never even wanted a baby.
My partner and my midwife do all they can to encourage and guide, but during transition it becomes too much. Never having had antenatal classes, I don’t do well on the shallow breathing, but instead push and scream until I hear someone say, “The baby seems stuck.”
Vanya looks me in the eye and says, “Hold, pant, be patient.”
It all seems a mockery to me, being on this narrow table, without being able to move. I try to hold and pant in dog position. All seems in vain and the pain is indescribable, fierce, a raging wound within, no thought of a child coming through, only Me, poor me, and nothing is okay for me!
At that moment the door opens and A., my Australian midwife, arrives with two friends. She had been found and alerted by my neighbours in the hut. A wave of love and concern and compassion comes in with them and I relax so much I faint.
Out of blackness I emerge, travelling at lightning speed. I fly toward light and warmth and a man in a white gown. And all is well and beautiful. I have a Darshan, a close encounter, a meeting and melting with B., the man, my Guru, whom of all human beings I most love.
When I awake my baby girl is there, Vanya holding her. Apparently P. had not been able to stand there and follow the operation going on with the forceps. He felt very sick and unable to watch.
All three midwives had managed to get her out in time. I never quite heard or understood the details, except that a lot of blood was shed. Also, that the doctor had arrived at that moment, the point of birth, and was able to deal with the situation, and later with the stitches and the after-birth.
Now, looking at my baby girl, I am amazed; she has a long, slim head, a shape I have seen somewhere before, Oh yes, it must have been in Egyptian Art books: ‘Nofretete’ – the Egyptian Queen. She is okay, breathing normally, and makes little sounds. She weighs enough for a 6 weeks’ premature baby, and does not need intensive care, no incubator or any other medical care.
My own midwife takes over from Vanya, helping me with breastfeeding and caring for a baby in a tropical climate. The baby sleeps on top of our chests at night. This cuts off your deep sleep a lot, so it was great to take it in turns. P. turns out to be a very good dad. We move into a hotel for a few weeks, because unexpected rains have come (in December!) and it is cold at night. It’s the time when Vimalkirti dies, January 1981 – and there is that amazing send-off at the ghats by the river.
One soul leaves… another has arrived.
Vanya was still around and happy to have been assisting, but we no longer had contact then. And soon we had to leave for England. I did not see her again until 1984, in the Medina Commune – at Soma’s birthday, when this picture was taken.
In recent years I enquired around about Vanya, but only heard that she had moved back to Scotland.
She left her body in March 2023.
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