Indian Labor Problems

 Indian Labor Problems — An Historical Account

by Ravibala Shenoy

I was born in India, a nation that bears the world’s first rank for population and my grandmother herself had seven children, so it was surprising that I had no notion of what it meant to have a child. When my husband and I were expecting our first child, we were living in Europe.

Collier’s Encyclopedia enumerated all the dangers in wait for the unborn: radiation, drugs (even aspirin), dogs and especially cats—and the last thing I heard of was potatoes! The restrictions in diet did not prevent my weight from shooting up.

“Do you think I am expecting twins, doctor?”

“No, you eat too much.”

With no one in whom to confide the fears of a first pregnancy except an equally inexperienced husband, fears became magnified, and I decided to have the baby in India.

I whispered to the gynecologist’s assistant.

“Is it safe for me to fly to Mumbai in the seventh month?”

“Well, you’re brave,” she replied.

In those days concern about flight hijackings and terrorist attacks was not uncommon, but I was not afraid, I trusted the advice given on a greeting card: “The more you weigh, the harder you are to kidnap. Stay safe, eat cake!”

“But one hears of babies being born on the plane.” The nurse continued.

All the way home I tried to figure out if this was exciting or terrifying. Was it exciting to have the stewardess cutting the umbilical cord with the plastic cutlery on board—thirty thousand feet in the air midway over the Arabian Sea?

Meanwhile, I boned up about childbirth by reading five books about childbirth, notably Dr. Grantley Dick Read’s Childbirth Without Fear and the Official Lamaze Guide. I fussed over 100 grams of liver, spinach and drank four glasses of milk every day.

“I have come,” I announced to my parents in Mumbai after an absence of two and a half years. Their reactions were off-putting.

“But it’s too early! We’re delighted, but look here, having a baby is no sickness. Everyone has babies!” (As if to prove this, the maid was pregnant too and went about her domestic duties cheerfully, fetching heavy loads of grain on her head from the government ration shop. Her husband carried the ration card. Division of labor.

The maid drank huge cups of black tea, licked bilious green ice candy and caught the flu half a dozen times.

I, on the other hand, did my breathing exercises with great ceremony, underlined passages from Childbirth Without Fear, and recounted to my mother the name of every bone in the pelvis. When some new wave film depicted the honest anguish of a woman in the second stage of labor, I stamped my foot in irritation. “Such stereotyped ideas! Haven’t they heard of Dr. Grantley Dick Read?”

My gynecologist was widely regarded as the cheapest and the best. With the intuition based on long experience, he felt my abdomen and said, “The head is in the right position. She’s due any day now.”

“Who’s worried? As Dr. Grantley Dick Read says…”

There was a special ceremony for the wellbeing of the mother and the unborn child. I received a saree and presents from friends and relatives.

When the first “pains”—no, contractions—began, like a swarm of ants on my abdomen, I was overflowing with joy. “Isn’t it thrilling? Labor has started!” According to Dr. Read, such an attitude is commendable. I forthwith snapped shut the two suitcases for the hospital.

“But isn’t it too early?” my mother asked.

“Mother,” I said testily. “I have been careful about my diet; I have done my breathing exercises. With these modern methods, there is no pain—it’s like coffee out of a vending machine.”

The matron at the hospital, the one with dyed hair and heavily penciled eyebrows, grimaced. Her crimson mouth drooped as she said, “My, you look too comfortable to be having a baby!”

Another Mrs. Gamp.

Yeats said, “That one must labor to be beautiful.”  I looked unbeautiful, writhing, shrieking, panting, sweating, racked by convulsions that sent me skittering across the ward. Labor continued into the silent hours of the night. It seemed like a lifetime, then almost the end of my life.

“Matron, do you think I will survive this?” I gasped.

The baby arrived—the natural way, without gas or analgesics. And when I beheld the puny monster that the doctor held upside down all the pain was forgotten. After all, it was my very own precious, puny monster baby girl.

What the books hadn’t prepared me for was the postnatal period. The fatigue, the stitches. I couldn’t even sneeze, the cramps in the abdomen. I’d rather have the baby again than what comes after. Would I ever again walk upright? I felt totally abandoned. Dr. Grantley Dick Read never said anything about stitches.

At home, the old guard took over. I had a belt around my abdomen so tightly I couldn’t breathe.  (All to the good, I was to discover later.) I had oil massages to improve circulation. All day I was admonished:

“Be careful of your teeth.”

“Don’t expose yourself to the wind.”

“That spicy, fatty food is bad for you,” as I bit into a banana fritter.

I put one last word for Dr. G.D. Read. Now Benjamin Spock had joined the fray. “Neither have traced any connection between a mother’s diet and her milk.”

“Nonsense!” thundered my grandmother. “Do you know that when our cow ate the bitter grass from over the hill, her milk tasted bitter?”

I gave up. Who was I to censure superior wisdom? As I have said before, my grandmother brought seven children to this earth. It was like a high school sprints champion challenging Usain Bolt.

The maid’s baby was one pound bigger. It arrived without gas or sedatives. Labor lasted two hours.

The hundred grams of liver, one egg, four glasses of milk have alas thickened my waistline. Since the delivery, I have been permanently on “girth control.”