The Bangalore Moms - Jourdain 4

Author's Note: The west has its soccer moms and the more mother-sucking, micro-parenting stereotype, the Jewish mother. But closer home, the Mother India association’s Nirupa Roy award for best all round performance goes to a new breed of Indian child bearers.  

In the nooks and crannies of India where we come from, mothers are still maa, or baa, or amma or for the anglophile ‘forwards’, mummy at most. Using ‘Mom’ to beckon our mothers still sounds frosty at best and derogatory at worst. After all even in movies (at least a few years ago),’mawwm’ was still reserved for the nalayak aulaads, full of terrible vices which in the movie, either get them killed or lose a limb or two before being reformed by the hero. But here in the land of the IT revolution where children converse in English so fluently that it puts your sitcom and Hollywood flicks’ acquired tongue to shame, things are different. ‘Mom’ is firmly established. The age of the mataji is over. No more is she relegated to the background, only to give blessings to her son when he proclaims emphatically “maa main paas ho gaya”. Enter the supermom- the Bangalore mom.

The genetic origin of the B-mom is not so much different from the rest. The mutation of their mother-genome occurs when they marry the maata-pita ka raaj-dulara, 6 figure salaried IT dude and get Bangalored. It takes a few months, but the transformation is remarkable.

Enter the sharmili bahu, bagged by the frust IT engineer guy, who after numerous failed attempts to hit on his female co-workers and ogling at pics of false apsaras on fakebook, settles for a good-ol’ arranged  marriage, in a final attempt to vent his………(uhmm) steam.

“Aaj sham, friends ka get together hai. Taiyaar ho jaana” proclaims the newly installed groom. The bahu reaches for her best pair of salwaar-kameez. The groom moans inside, disappointed. But says nothing. The friends come. The bahu ogles in disbelief at their wives who wear T-shirts and Levis, sipping Breezers and Cola, their kids at daycare for the evening. “Such freedom, such vigour. I have to get myself one of those,” the groom muses. The bahu catches his hungry expression. She’s saddened, but filled with resolve, “I will become, I shall overcome.”  Thus begins the transformation.

But hang on, why call her the B-mom and not the B-wife. Well because being a mom is still integral to her being and the child an integral part of her marriage. The frustration of not being hip from the root-up and of her imperfect diction of the King’s tongue manifest themselves into an almost Mogambo like treatment of her children. “Mom, I passed” doesn’t elicit the same response either. “That means you got only thirty-three percent. Wait till your father gets here!” replies the B-mom. “No computer for a month.” 

In the true tradition of  this city, childcare gets outsourced to hapless thirteen year old nannies. A cost-cutting logistic solution imported from the hometown. The B-mom is free to pursue her new found interests. Mills and Boons and Danielle Steel novels adorn her book shelves. And in the evening, she has Salsa classes and aerobics to tame her torso. Even more interesting and intense are the meetings between two such supermoms which often become games of one-upmanship with their kids’ achievements pitted against each other.   

I am not being judgemental. This is what my eyes saw and my old school brain processed. And while this B-mom effect keeps bringing forth more pretty young newlywed damsels with greatly improved fashion sense, I am not complaining. (I am also a frust IT-engineer guy)

"The hand that rocks the cradle, rules the world," goes the saying. Well for generations, there was lots of rocking the cradle and lullaby wailing, without the reigns ever being handed over. Not anymore. The B-moms  rule!!