Monk Baby - #DigitalAMAwithRoshan

In many ways, the absence of signs is also a sign. For a few hours after my birth, my eyes and ears remained shut. Only recurring smiles in response to nothing, betrayed me. The doctor assured my mother that this wasn't cause for worry. It wasn't uncommon among new-borns, at least for the first half-hour. An hour passed by. I remained a deaf and blind spectator. A little monk in his birthday suit, deep in meditation and oblivious to the machinations of his future gripping his present. Anxiety hit as another hour passed. As all young families can attest to, my parent's hopes and aspirations were now intertwined with my own fate. Were my hopes and aspirations intertwined with a fate of impairment?

The mood in the moments after I plonked out of mother had been one of laughter and talkativeness. It had switched to one of muffled nervousness. One after another, members of our extended family waltzed in with the customary – "He's got his Amma's face", "He's got his Daddy's ears", "He's got an artist's fingers" ... until they realised this peanut didn't care for small talk. Or any talk at all, like any self-respecting peanut worth his shell. A burgeoning wave collected the sea of swirling emotion and approached the shore. A few brave elders breached the subject of me being "differently-abled" with my parents. One elder in all his cold and frazzled wisdom (or senility) suggested that they prepare for the worst.

Spoiler: I wasn't going to die this early in my story.

(That comes later.)

At this point, even the doctors and nurses were left perplexed. The birth had gone well, yet this peculiar creature seemed lost in its own mind. A nurse tickled my foot, the doctor tapped my nose, my mother tugged my ear ... but I didn't stir from my thoughts. One nurse – as my mother recalled – described my demeanour as "serene."

"Serene."

Not a word the policemen of this hellhole would use to describe me, thirty-three years later.

One side of my family wanted medical intervention to revive me. Another expected divine intervention to save me. My grandmother observed both sides from her seat on the fence. Having sensed the rising panic in the air, she ambled towards me. She was frail but compensated with obsidian eyes that pierced the hardest men. The crowd cleared.

A few words were said. A swift gesture was made. And a jar of the sweetest honey was called for. It arrived in minutes.  She dipped a spoon in for a dollop and gave my tiny mouth a taste. I savoured all of it, hooking onto the spoon like a blood-hungry leech. As she withdrew the spoon, my meditation ended. Worldly pleasures awaited the little monk. The sights and sounds that rushed in were greeted with a welcoming chuckle. I had dipped a toe into the shallow end of the hedonistic pool. The depths awaited. 

Spiritual gratification could wait. I was still young.