A story I read years ago in a Sunday newspaper has stayed with me ever since, its unsettling details lingering in my mind. I'm not sure why I was so drawn to such narratives back then, but now I wonder if it would have been better to have never encountered them at all. Did they shape me, or simply reveal the harsh realities life can present? Regardless, their imprint remains.
The story revolved around a married, working woman who desperately yearned for a child. Her husband's health condition, however, made conception impossible. Her depression was palpable, even to her colleagues. One day, her boss, a seemingly considerate man, broached the sensitive topic. Hesitantly, she confided in him about her struggles. To her surprise, he invoked a Hindu belief that permits having a child outside of marriage if the partner is unable to conceive. He suggested, "You can have a kid with anyone." When she, perhaps impulsively, asked if he would help, he was taken aback but ultimately agreed. They devised a plan: she would give her husband homeopathic medicine, claiming it would aid conception. Their clandestine encounter in a hotel room led to a successful pregnancy. Her husband, blissfully unaware, attributed their good fortune to the medicine.
Yet, a profound incompleteness settled upon the woman. In her private world, she replayed the intimate moment with her boss, the one that brought her child into existence. They never spoke of it again, remaining colleagues who respected each other's boundaries. Still, the memory of that shared moment continued to haunt her, leaving her with an enduring sense of unfulfillment.
Echoes in Literature and Modern Solutions
A few months ago, I encountered a similar theme in an Amrita Pritam story. In her narrative, a woman conceives a child with her brother-in-law, raising the child with funds she earned or received from him. Despite her marriage, her affection for her brother-in-law persisted.
More recently, I watched a film about the first IVF procedure, though I only saw half of it. It struck me how thankfully, medical advancements like IVF now offer a path to parenthood, sparing women the need to seek out multiple partners to conceive. The desire to experience parenthood is a fundamental human need, and it should be accessible to all. While some cultures forbid IVF, our own scriptures offer a different perspective. The birth of the Kauravas—99 brothers and one sister—to mother Gandhari in a process akin to IVF, or Kunti and Madri conceiving children with different gods due to Pandu's inability to father, all suggest unconventional paths to procreation. Even Dhritarashtra, Pandu, and Vidura were born from Rishi Vedavyas, and Satyavati, Vedavyas's mother, conceived him with Rishi Parashar, not her husband Santanu.
The Unspoken Plight of Women
Despite these historical and mythological precedents, there's a glaring omission: nowhere do these narratives fully explore the emotional and personal toll on women who undertake such journeys simply to have a child. Our scriptures often prioritize societal norms and lineage over the individual needs of a woman. Why is it that a woman's fundamental desire for a complete and satisfying life, encompassing the experience of motherhood, seems to be overlooked? Conversely, if a woman is unable to conceive, the man can simply marry another woman, often taking care of both women. Why is this disparity so prevalent? Atleast he do not have to just have a kid.
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