As youngsters, we were told that the number of children in a family was an entirely personal matter. Opening our eyes wide in shock and awe when we met a family of seven or eight children or showing any signs of being taken aback when we met an only child were frowned upon by our parents. Just as they did not ask a person’s age or earnings, religion or political leanings, we were not to make comments of the ‘Why?’ or ‘Why not?’ kind with respect to the sizes of our friends’ families or our parents’ friends’ families.

Possibly, our parents had been through the mill themselves with questions about how and why they’d had a third child in an age when ‘We two — our two’ was the slogan for the ideal family. We, too, had often heard words like ‘after-thought’ and ‘accident’ being bandied about jokingly when we were lined up to be introduced to adults. Of course, this didn’t affect the first two children. They took it for granted that they were loved, wanted and very special — and they glared resentfully at the little interloper who had wormed her way into their happy nest of Mom, Dad, son and daughter.

Given that I was that third child, I often wondered whether I was really wanted — especially when the older ones painted scenario after scenario of perfection and plenty until I had arrived on the scene and eaten my greedy way through everything meant for them. Mother always had a constantly laden table; but to me, it seemed that the ‘outside’ food sector conspired to make the third child feel like an unnecessary and unwanted accessory.

Buns, cupcakes, pies — and other goodies — were sold in fours or sixes or in dozens, slabs of chocolate had eight or 12 squares, apples and pears and other fruits were easily divided into four, and so on. Making anything into five equal shares took skill and diplomacy — but our parents became adept at it, quickly taking the smallest portions for themselves and making sure we three had equal helpings.

When we had families of our own, somehow we forgot all about that ‘We two — our two’ slogan that continued to be the norm in the country. Two of us went above two children — and I stayed below.

And, of course, never got to hear the end of it!

Family, friends, strangers — anyone and everyone who had an opinion — voiced it to me. For almost two decades after the arrival of the only “only child” on both sides of the family, and way beyond the reasonable age of procreation, I was treated to all kinds of suggestions, advice and directions that basically said one thing: “Have another child ...”

When nothing so fortuitous happened, other bogies raised their heads. There was the usual implication that an only child was ‘spoilt’ and thus every action and reaction with regard to that single little fellow was viewed and judged with coloured lenses and weighted scales — and discreet and not-so-discreet inquiries were made within and outside the family circle to build a case to prove or disprove preconceived notions.

When that didn’t seem to produce the required reproductive results, some even went so far as to question: “What mothering is there for you with only one child?” (Thus, does only a gaggle of children justify the title of ‘mother’?)

Naturally, all of this seemed to me to be uncalled for, given that, despite being the supposed non-mother of an only child, I had never had the time in my non-role to question anyone else’s personal choices ... and had mostly followed early imbibed parental guidelines of what could or should be probed.

Apparently, no such feeling of reserve governs some ‘leaders’ in India today ...

Cheryl Rao is a freelance journalist based in India.