The Fourth Born Forgives Her Mom

By Honey Bala

A beautiful woman, dejected by marrying against her will to a person she never liked because of a birthmark on his face and his low earning capability, harbors lifelong animosity towards him and towards life per se. Her strong desire to have a boy since her fi rst pregnancy drives her giving birth to fi ve girls until she
fi nally bears a boy as her sixth child. Considering having fi ve daughters from Indian context a curse in tight fi nancial circumstances makes her a sociopath, hard, loveless, cruel and apathetic towards her fi ve daughters breaking their tender hearts, rejecting their innocent demands and trading their priceless
childhood for money which surprisingly turns all the fi ves foes towards each other but compassionate, loving and caring towards her.
Over the years, her own idiosyncrasies take a toll on her health and sanity and she becomes a rare case of paranoid schizophrenic which makes her further savage towards herself and her daughters even when the latter are married and settled in their lives.
Th e extremely sensitive fourth born, self made millionaire girl fi nds out the cause of mother’s abnormal unloving behavior. Having found herself and mother being an integral part of an illusion that was created in higher realms by the consent of both at nonphysical level reveals her own true identity and that of her mother and of everybody else participating in this grand illusory feat called LIFE. Revered by none
other than the ultimate creator of LIFE for her courage, steadfastness and unfl agging tenacity to keep rising over obstacles and challenges sometimes sadly and sometimes humorously on her own without any conventional human guidance and support in form of parents, spouse or professionals, the fourth born forgives her mother and frees her of her longstanding physical, mental, and emotional trauma.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Dec 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781481798358

Honey Bala

Honey Bala is an Indian and a mother of two residing in New Delhi, India. She is a postgraduate in Pharmacy and worked for 14 years in Research and Development centers of Indian pharmaceutical companies and reached to the level of Associate Vice President when she decided to quit her job and become an entrepreneur. She has fi ve international research patents to her credit. Honey had a cherished desire to write poetry, stories and plays since early childhood. After she gave up her job in mid 2008, she felt the inner urge to write a book about a woman’s tough journey of life which starts from her abusive and agonizing birth, passing through unloved childhood, confusing adolescence, challenging adulthood till she reaches the deciding middle age when she determines to fi nd the root cause of her agony caused to her by the people responsible for bringing her in this world. For past two years, discovering “what is the real purpose of my life” has become the topmost priority for Honey. “Writing this book is the beginning of realization of the purpose of my life which has been elusive to me till now.” as she mentions the motive behind writing this book. Besides writing books, Honey is also keen to write screen plays and be associated with fi lm making sometime in her life.

Book preview

© 2011 Honey Bala. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 11/28/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-7105-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-9835-8 (e)

Cover drawing by Honey Bala.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

Endnotes

To all mothers who make their children’s life miserable for their own frustrations and unresolved inner conflicts

To all such children

To the all-knowing and remembering Supreme Being, we call him GOD

With love and gratitude

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

If I am to describe myself, my life, my experience of it and the people in it, in one word, I would say Unconventional. This book would not have been possible without the existence and support of my unconventional biological family and by contrast equally unconventional family of my in-laws. Hats off to them for their courage and enthusiasm in living their life as it is, being what they are with the Knowing that it’s the only way for them to be and to live. Though I have been inspired to write this book by the life experiences of many like me, it should be read as a work of fiction brought forth by my creative imagination. Someone has said The way you view your mother is the way you’ll view the world. I sincerely hope and believe that after reading my book, those who share a turbulent relationship with their mothers shall begin to, see their relationship with their mothers and, to view this world from a different perspective.

I thank to my two lovely daughters, Garima and Gauri (G & G, as I love to call them), who with their mere presence do a wonderful job of keeping my pendulum like mind centered in the present which, whenever I am a little off-guard, takes no time to wander and fall prey to two invaders named past and future, waiting each side of it, which are ever-ready to rob it off its treasure of being in present. It’s a joyous feeling to see part of my being brimming with life in two such beautiful forms as G & G.

During the course of inception of this book until the final stages of completion, I had certain experiences and insights, for which I am immensely grateful for the life which is bestowed upon me and all of us to enjoy the experience of being and to be present in the moment to access that Knowing.

Without any maligning intentions towards How to be enlightened and How to make people enlightened techniques based spiritual groups-turned-business centers running and flourishing in India or anywhere else, I believe if there exists anything like enlightenment or anyone like enlightened then everyone in this world is enlightened. It’s just that we don’t know that we are. It’s just that we don’t remember that we are. It’s just a matter of divine timing that we get to know and remember that we are.

And the way to access and realize that knowing and remembering being in us, whom we call as GOD, the divine self, the creator or by several other names, is to be fully present and participate consciously in our daily life experiences. I am accessing and realizing it that way. In the light of that, I thank to all those people, circumstances, experiences and the five elements of nature which constitute the above three directly or indirectly for setting the stage for me and others to know and remember. And finally, I humbly bow to that knowing and remembering being present in all human and other living beings. We, the Hindus, have a beautiful way to honor and greet this being; Ñamaste.

Honey Bala

New Delhi, India

Prologue

1972

Few days after the fall equinox, one night around 9.00, my mom, then 29, felt the delivery pain while I was in her womb. My father rushed to call Dhanwanti, the midwife, staying three lanes away from my house.

*     *     *

Except my two elder sisters who were born in a government hospital, rests of us were home deliveries as mom would often call us. Before my birth, my parents had three daughters aged seven, five and three. Like all her previous labor pains, mom was enduring this one too hoping it to be her last and, eventually the much awaited successful attempt of having a male child in the family to be the heir, the sole reason for her conceiving every two years. She was adamant in her decision to keep trying unless she would have a boy or unless her physiology, because of menopause or otherwise, would force her to give up. Unbeknown to her, I was going to be yet another such unsuccessful attempt. She was undergoing one more time the same wasteful cycle of nine months of waiting in anticipation of having the good thing as she fondly called it and desperately yearned to have it before turning thirty five. But my mom had brought forth five bad things when she was thirty five. She finally had her most cherished good thing, my brother, two years later. Though she was a bit off target yet but once her mission was accomplished, she did undergo one or two consensual abortions soon after my brother was born, when she conceived accidentally. After that she gave up her gestating job for good, or it was stopped naturally, only she would know.

*     *     *

Mom tightened her jaws, clenched her fists and applied full force on her lower body to throw me out of her system. The midwife was panicked. She might not have seen this earlier in those 165 deliveries she had done prior to this one in her 40 years of midwifery practice. I came out enveloped in intact birth sac.

What is it? Boy or that bad thing again?" My mom asked Dhanwanti while crying in pain. Like always, she was utmost concerned with newborn’s sex and not about its wellness.

Dhanwanti could see my head inside the sac. She said to my mom The baby is in the sac. Saying that, she tore the sac apart with her bare hands. Huge amount of amniotic fluid gushed forth. As soon as she cut the umbilical cord, I started crying. My mom yelled at midwife Dhanwanti! Why don’t you tell what (sex) is born? Dhanwanti said nonchalantly The fourth girl is born. Hearing that, mom cried in agony and hurled abusive words on my little wet and blood spotted being which by that time Dhanwanti started to clean. She consoled my mom saying "Shanti! Have patience. She is born in the sac. She will be extremely fortunate.

GOD shall give you the boy when he will be willing."

*     *     *

While narrating my birth account to me when I grew up, mom told me that there was a belief with our ancestors that a child born covered in birth sac, which was quite rare, was considered blessed and GOD’s chosen one. Such a child would bring luck for himself (or herself) and also for others. And I actually brought luck in the family as she told further to me. Few months after my birth, my parents bought some 100 yard-piece of land in Delhi and started building their first house on it, starting from one room which had a sill and stone roof. Prior to it they had stayed in different rented houses along with my three elder sisters. The very first memory I had of my existence in this world was of a man, perhaps my father or one of the laborers hired for construction, holding me in his arms trying to make me sit on an under construction wall of the first room they were building on that piece of land. Construction of her first own house after my birth was the only lucky incident that mom could associate my birth with.

*     *     *

Most of the time, I kept thinking; Fortunate! Me! For myself and for others! How? When? And where? It took me half of my age and a great amount of turmoil, challenges and tribulations life put forth me and led me to that night… . .

When I was told by… . .

That how fortunate I was

I was indeed very fortunate.

Chapter 1

Shantipriya (meaning Peace Lover in Hindi) was her name. The most unsuitable name given to a person I always found hard to believe as my mom. Her physical, emotional and mental operating systems were not designed to function in a peaceful manner. She could be anything but the peace lover. Throughout her life, any kind of peace eluded her altogether. She was never at peace with herself, with her name, with other living beings around her (her husband, kids, in-laws, neighbors) and not even with the GOD whom she adored, worshipped and abused at her convenience. Once I teased my mom saying that instead of Shantipriya, the name Arazakta (extreme disorder and chaos in Hindi) would have suited her more. Other time, I teased her saying that while making her, something irritated GOD and he got worked up. Hence he muddled and messed up everything he was then creating and that creation came out to be my mom. Seeing her and having realized his mistake, GOD regretted and destroyed the mould forever he used to create my mom, not to repeat this mistake ever. Unable to tolerate the sarcasm used by her 12-year old, both the times mom gave me hard blows with her fist on my back. It was her instant trademark act of violence; clenching her fist tightly, spreading her eyes wide, spitting abuses and running to hit the one arguing with her. Many a times she used the same act of violence on my father, during their fixed once-a-week-fight (sometimes twice) who instead of hitting her back often tried to protect himself from her assault by the shield of his raised hands abusing her incessantly with the choicest cuss words and throwing everything he would lay his hands on while protecting himself from her ferocity. After 15 or 20 minutes of their weakly fight, my father would always light a cigarette and my mother would always watch TV. All of us six also would always occupy ourselves here and there

in our five-room-one-and-a-half-storied house.

*     *     *

Three of senior most members in my family were look-alikes of popular Hindi film actors. The rest of us were like look-alikes of junior artists as we would jokingly call ourselves seeing the eldest trio of our family. Mom was beautiful though she had a broad nose but it was a well fit on her broad face. She resembled closely with a Hindi film actress who remained active for many years; mostly playing the roles of a harassed but loving and compassionate mother of almost all of film industry’s leading stars. In most of the movies she had a raaz (secret) in her heart which she would divulge only at the climax of the movie which led to eternal meeting of two lost brothers or that of estranged father (her filmy husband) and/or their son/s. My mom was proud of this comparison of her looks with that actress. Many a times she would mention it herself to people conversing with her when they would casually initiate a discussion on Hindi films during the conversation.

She would never go to beauty parlors. The only makeup she would ever do was applying a bindi¹on her forehead. She would apply lipstick only when she was to attend any function in the family or neighborhood, which was quite rare as she would mostly avoid attending such functions. I remembered, her only red lipstick lasted for nearly seven years after which she had to throw it in the trash as its wax became rancid.

She had a habit of washing her hair with curd and whey milk that too with the rotten one kept in the open for days. We didn’t have a refrigerator and an air cooler at home. My father bought them much later approximately the time when I passed out school. Before that in peak scorching summers of Delhi, we would buy ice bricks daily from the market, make a variety of cold drinks at home and consume them immediately as there was no cold storage facility at home. For the perishable food items, mom would cook them in quantities sufficient for consumption on the same day or the same night. Any leftover perishable dinner item (mostly curd, rice or curries) would be placed in a bucket half filled with water on the terrace where all of us would sleep in summers. Most of the times, this food preserving method made the leftover food worth eating at least the very next morning. But sometimes during the extreme summers even the nights would be hot resulting in decomposition of leftover food. Mom used to throw the rotten vegetable curries and rice but she always kept the rotten curd for her hair application (to make it soft and shiny as she would tell us), much to our irritation, because after applying it she would never have a proper hair wash hence it would smell bad for days making us breathless and wary of going near her. We would plead her to take a thorough hair wash with a soap to make her smell at least normal for the relief of others as she would never feel uncomfortable with her bad odor and in fact would give us a crude confrontation Who told you to come near me? Stay away if you don’t like it whenever we would complain her of the bad odor emanating from her head. She would never buy shampoos telling us it was expensive and so thin that it could not clean the hair properly. Instead, she would use laundry soap to wash our hair and her own. I read in my eighth standard science books that laundry soap contained high amount of alkali salts to clean stubborn dust and dirt adhered to cloths hence could be harmful to the skin. Henceforth I learned that alkaline soaps were actually meant to wash the clothes but in no case for washing the hair. Surprisingly all of us had long, hip-length hair and washing our hair with laundry soap never harmed it.

*     *     *

My father was another close resemblance to a very famous sophisticated and suave actor of Hindi movies who played very touching and meaningful character and lead roles in Hindi films. But there was something about his personality which my mom, hated and blatantly insulted him for it throughout their married life. His short height and a bluish black big birth mark on his right cheek. He was 5'1" and thin built.

In late nineteen fifties when he just passed out school, he got selected for the job of clerk in a government undertaking. He took it and could never study further. My father was mostly a reserved and content man. He had no intentions of making it big in life, neither for himself nor for his family. He had no ambitions. Having taken that job he secured himself of all the efforts, adventures, and risks he would have taken to earn more had he not had that secure job of lower divisional clerk. His salary was meager which was the reason that superseded the previous two reasons my mom hated my father forever for. Their regular verbal and physical fights were over the monetary issues. Mom always cursed father for his lowly job that she found insufficient to feed eight mouths, to cloth eight bodies and to provide basic education to six children. My father feeling low, insulted, harassed for consistent on-his-face derogatory comments of my mom over his physical and financial stature and his comparison with other men in our neighborhood, immersed himself in smoking, liquor consuming, paan (beetle) chewing and in reading cheap porn magazines.

My father was an avid reader. He learned English language on his own by purchasing and reading several English books. His knowledge and use of English grammar was impeccable. He was proud of it. To turn my mother away during the day on holidays and in the evenings during weekdays after returning from work, he would keep himself busy in reading all sorts of magazines and newspapers while eating breakfast, lunch, dinner and in taking several naps in between the meals. At night he would long her to be close to him but mom’s bad temper; her even worse smelling hair would often turn his mood off.

*     *     *

My father never hugged, kissed or showed affection to any of his children as far as I knew and saw him since my earliest childhood days when I began to know him as my father. I never touched his face though I tempted many times to feel his unshaved and shaved face to feel the difference of before and after shaving. I also tempted to touch the bluish black patch on his face to feel the reason of my mom’s hatred for him but never dared do so. It was a general knowing that he was our father and we were his children without any display of mutual love or affection. He rarely brought anything like toys or dresses for us and not even once surprised us with gifts. He hardly talked to us. Most of the times, he would keep looking down or faraway in our presence if we happened to sit in the same bedroom where his favorite place on the earth to relax and enjoy, the bed, was kept. He never offered to help us in studies. At the most he did sometimes enquire about our school grades. Though he never spared us of his abusive language whenever his sleep was disturbed because of noises created by us unintentionally, be it falling down of utensils from someone’s hands, my rattling laughter over something funny or mom’s shrills. He disliked all these and could not tolerate waking up alarmingly hearing such noises.

*     *     *

Since mom herself was most unsuitably named by my nani (maternal grand mom), so we were by her. Lovely, Rosy, Pinky, Sweetie, Puppy and Sunny, my brother (in that order of birth).

Lovely, the eldest one was not lovely. She always maintained a mourning face like a very popular Hindi film actress of black and white era, known amongst masses as Tragedy Queen. But Lovely was beautiful amongst all of us. It was another belief with our elders that, first born would always be more beautiful than the following ones. It was true indeed. When she was in good moods and laughed heartily she resembled with another very popular Hindi Film actress known as Dream Girl. Like latter, Lovely had a fascination for making curls of her temporal hair. Since mom never visited a beauty parlor, she did not allow us to go either. Therefore we would use whatever items of make up available at home at that period of time. To enhance her beauty, every alternate day Lovely would make curls on both sides of her face by heating an iron rode on the kerosene oil stove to make it red hot, waiting it to be slightly cooler and roll her temporal hair over it. Lovely had most dense, bouncy and longest hair amongst girls in our family. It was just an inch short of touching her knees. She would take nearly an hour to disentangle it after the weekly laundry-soap-hairwash on Sundays since shampoos and conditioners were banned in my house. But once disentangled, it was pleasing to see her long, straight, dense and dark hair covering three fourth of her five-foot-nothing stature. Many people asked her the secret of her long tresses; she would proudly tell them that it was because of washing it with the laundry soap. Hearing that, they would be amazed, bemused and amused as well and made funny comments about it. To avoid embarrassment, Lovely then started washing her hair with Lux bathing soap and later with Kesh Nikhar a popular hair washing soap which was much advertised on television at that time. Then onwards divulging the secret of her beautiful long hair to others was no longer embarrassing for her.

*     *     *

Rosy, the second and Pinky the third, were neither rosy nor pinky respectively. Both were dusky and there was no hint or tint of rose or pink on their faces or anywhere else on their bodies.

Rosy was dusky, innocent looking and tallest amongst all of us. She was 5’1’’. She was of reserved nature and mostly kept herself busy in household work after school. When she was not doing any household work, she was busy getting her hair massaged with warm coconut or mustard oil either by mom or by any of us. From a young age, she had had headaches of unknown nature and for unknown reason. Visiting a doctor for check up for such trivialities as headache was not considered necessary in my family. She would take a pain killer very often. But sometimes when her headache wouldn’t subside after taking the pain killers she would apply oil on her hair and get a good 20-minute massage from my mom. Over a period of time headache or no headache, she made it a habit to keep her hair oiled and continued doing so for years.

Pinky, the immediate elder to me was petite being the shortest one in the family. She had the silkiest hair in our family. Her two frontal teeth were protuberant because of which she couldn’t close her mouth and it was always more than half open like a thirsty crow. She had a habit of giggling with the slightest provocation and was easy going.

And there here I was, Sweetie, the 4th born. Most people including myself would not understand my frequent expression of bitterness towards the life per se from a very young age. Though strangely, I had a certain quality of names of all of my sisters in my persona but not of my own name. My cheeks were rosy and pink. I was considered lovely, having fairest skin amongst all, mostly running around in my one and a half storied house like a puppy, but sweet? No. From childhood, I had a very strong tendency to lash people with my sharp tongue for their hypocrisy, for not walking their talk, or for being ingenuous. I grew up being straightforward, forthright, and honest in speaking my mind and openly expressing my opinion without caring about the result of my brashness.

I was not beautiful by any normal standard of beauty; a below average height, uneven tooth line, a not-so-perfect nose and two small eyes.

As per my mom’s perception of physical beauty of girls, there are four kinds

1.   The ones who are naturally beautiful and look great without any make up. And when they are made up, it’s actually the value of make up or accessories which they don get enhanced by their sheer beauty. Lovely fell in this group.

2.   The ones who are not so gifted and have average looks but look stunning when they wear make up and other accessories. Rosy was like that.

3.   The ones who look good with their below average looks but look ugly when made up and don jewellery. Pinky and Puppy belonged to this group.

4.   The ones who look good with their below average looks but look great, royal and elegant when made up even slightly and dressed aesthetically.

I fell in the fourth category.

Surprisingly, since early childhood, whatever dresses and accessories I put on, it looked great on my body. Be it a cheap pair of earrings, a changed hair style or a couple of stylishly sewn frocks by mom when she was in good mood (which was rare); they all enhanced the beauty of my being. We, all the girls in the family, were short. Except Lovely and Rosy, none of the younger three could reach 5’. When the elder two started earning, they bought several pairs of heels for themselves which they shared with me a couple of times. I looked taller and smarter in heels. Before we did not enter in sibling rivalry and jealousy (It was till the time when all of us were in school), my two elder sisters who were better looking than me found pleasure in dressing and making me up the way the girls would dress up their dolls, using whatever artificial ornaments available at home and mom’s only red lipstick, as a mean of entertainment when mom was away from home. I was considered one of the few smart girls in my class. Many of my school friends and classmates often appreciated my elegance. They would often say that I looked great when mom would braid my hair in style whenever I had